THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY 217 IrU 1373 I : s BRACEBRIDGE HALL OR THE HUMORISTS. A MEDLEY. BY GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. “ Under this cloud I walk, Gentlemen ; pardon my rude assault. I am a traveller, who, having survived most of the terrestrial angles of this globe, am hither arrived, to peruse this little spot.” — Christ- mas Ordinary. THE AUTHOR’S REVISED EDITION. COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. PHILADELPHIA : J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 1873. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 18C5, by George P. Putnam, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the Southern D is trier of New York IRVING’S BRACEBRIDGE HALL PEOPLE’S EDITION. "rj JD RACEBMBGE HALL BY WASHINGTON IRVING. PHILADELPHIA J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO, m mm OF THE BlVaiiSTr CfOLKSIS CONTENTS. The Hall .... Tiie Busy Man . 18 Family Servants . . 25 The Widow 34 The Lovers .... . 39 Family Relics . 44 An Old Soldier . . 51 The Widow’s Retinue 56 Ready-Money Jack . 61 Bachelors .... • 69 Wives . 74 Story-Telling . 82 The Stout Gentleman . 84— Forest Trees 99 A Literary Antiquary . 107 The Farm-House 114 Horsemanship . 120 Love Symptoms . 126 Falconry .... . 130 Hawking .... 136 St. Mark’s Eve . 144 Gentility .... 156 Fortune-Telling . 161 Love-Charms 168 The Library .... , 174 The Student of Salamanca . 177 English Country Gentlemen • . . 276 A Bachelor’s Conffssion . . 286 English Gravity . . . , . , 291 618920 VI CONTEXTS. PAG! Gypsies 299 May-Day Customs 305 Village Worthies .... . 311 The Schoolmaster , 315 The School ....... 322 A Village Politician 320 The Rookery 332 May-Day 341 The Manuscript 354 V^Annette Deiarbre . . ; . , . . 357"* Travelling 387 Popular Superstitions 395 The Culprit 406 Family Misfortunes 415 Lovers’ Troubles 420 The Historian 427 The Haunted House ...... 430 VDolph Heyliger 435***- The Storm-Ship 487 The Wedding 524 P Author’s Farewell . ...... 536 THE AUTHOR. ORTHY READER : — On again taking pen in hand, I would fain make a few observations at the outset, by way of be- speaking a right understanding. The vol- umes which I have already published have met with a reception far beyond my most sanguine expecta- tions. I would willingly attribute this to their in- trinsic merits ; but, in spite of the vanity of author- ship, I cannot but be sensible that their success has, in a great measure, been owing to a less flattering cause. It has been a matter of marvel, to my Euro- pean readers, that a man from the wilds of America should express himself in tolerable English. I was looked upon as something new and strange in litera- ture ; a kind of demi-savage, with a feather in his hand instead of on his head ; and there was a curi- osity to hear what such a being had to say about civilized society. This novelty is now at an end, and of course the feeling of indulgence which it produced. I must now expect to bear the scrutiny of sterner criticisms, and to be measured by the same standard as con- temporary writers ; and the very favor shown to my previous writings will cause these to be treated with the greatest rigor, as there is nothing for which the world is apt to punish a man more severely than for having been over-praised On this head, therefore, 8 THE AUTHOR . I wish to forestall the censoriousness of the reader ; and I entreat he will not think the worse of me for the many injudicious things that may have been said in my commendation. I am aware that I often travel over beaten ground, and treat of subjects that have already been discussed by abler pens. Indeed, various authors have been mentioned as my models, to whom I should feel flat- tered if I thought I bore the slightest resemblance ; but in truth I write after no model that I am con- scious of, and I write with no idea of imitation or competition. In venturing occasionally on topics that have already been almost exhausted by English authors, I do it, not with the presumption of chal- lenging a comparison, but with the hope that some new interest may be given to such topics, when dis- cussed by the pen of a stranger. If, therefore, I should sometimes be found dwell- ing with fondness on subjects trite and commonplace with the reader, I beg the circumstances under which I write may be kept in recollection. Having been born and brought up in a new country, yet educated from infancy in the literature of an old one, my mind was early filled with historical and poetical associations, connected with places, and manners, and customs of Europe, but which could rarely be applied to those of my own country. To a mind thus peculiarly prepared, the most ordinary objects and scenes, on arriving in Europe, are full of strange matter and interesting novelty. England is as clas- sic ground to an American, as Italy is to an English- man ; and old London teems with as much historical association as mighty Home. Indeed, it is difficult to describe the whimsical medley of ideas that throng upon his mind on land- ing among English scenes. He for the first time THE AUTHOR . 9 gees a world about which he has been reading and thinking in every stage of his existence. The recol- lected ideas of infancy, youth, and manhood, of the nursery, the school, and the study, come swarming at once upon him : and his attention is distracted between great and little objects, each of which, per- haps, awakens an equally delightful train of remem- brances. But what more especially attracts his notice, are those peculiarities which distinguish an old country and an old state of society from a new one. I have never yet grown familiar enough with the crumbling monuments of past ages, to blunt the intense inter- est with which I at first beheld them. Accustomed always to scenes where history was, in a manner, anticipation ; where everything in art was new and progressive, and pointed to the future rather than to the past ; where, in short, the works of man gave no ideas but those of young existence and prospec- tive improvement ; there was something inexpressibly touching in the sight of enormous piles of architec- ture, gray with antiquity, and sinking to decay. I cannot describe the mute but deep-felt enthusiasm with which I have contemplated a vast monastic ruin, like Tintern Abbey, buried in the bosom of a quiet valley, and shut up from the world, as though it had existed merely for itself ; or a warrior pile, like Conway Castle, standing in stern loneliness on its rocky height, a mere hollow yet threatening phantom of departed power. They spread a grand, and melancholy, and, to me, an unusual charm over the landscape ; I for the first time beheld signs of national old age, and empire's decay, and proofs of the transient and perishing glories of art, amidst the ever-springing and reviving fertility of nature. But, in fact, to me everything was full of matter , 10 THE AUTHOR . the footsteps of history were everywhere to be traced and poetry had breathed over and sanctified the land, I experienced the delightful freshness of feeling of a child to whom everything is new. I pictured to my- self a set of inhabitants and a mode of life for every habitation that I saw, from the aristocratical man- sion, amidst the lordly repose of stately groves and solitary parks, to the straw-thatched cottage, with its scanty garden and its cherished woodbine. I thought I never could be sated with the sweetness and freshness of a country so completely carpeted with verdure ; where every air breathed of the balmy pasture, and the honeysuckled hedge. I was continually coming upon some little document of poetry in the blossomed hawthorn, the daisy, the cowslip, the primrose, or some other simple object that has received a supernatural value from the muse. The first time that I heard the song of the nightin- gale, I was intoxicated more by the delicious crowd of remembered associations than by the melody of its notes ; and I shall never forget the thrill of ec- stasy with which I first saw the lark rise, almost from beneath my feet, and wing its musical flight up into the morning sky. In this way I traversed England, ‘a grown-up child, delighted by every object, great and small ; and betraying a wondering ignorance, and simple enjoyment, that provoked many a stare and a smile from my wiser and more experienced fellow-travel- lers. Such too was the odd confusion of associations that kept breaking upon me as I first approached London. One of my earliest wishes had been to see this great metropolis. I had read so much about own TEE BUSY MAN. 19 taste, so that it is a perfect epitome of an old bachelor’s notions of convenience and arrangement. The furniture is made up of odd pieces from all parts of the house, chosen on account of their suit- ing his notions, or fitting some corner of his apart- ment ; and he is very eloquent in praise of an ancient elbow-chair, from which he takes occasion to digress into a censure on modern chairs, as having degenerated from the dignity and comfort of high-backed antiquity. Adjoining to his room is a small cabinet, which he calls his study. Here are some hanging shelves, of his own construction, on which are several old works on hawking, hunting, and far- riery, and a collection or two of poems and songs of the reign of Elizabeth, which he studies out of compliment to the Squire ; together with the Novelist’s Magazine, the Sporting Magazine, the Racing Calendar, a volume or two of the New- gate Calendar, a book of peerage, and another of heraldry. His sporting dresses hang on pegs in a small closet ; and about the walls of his apartment are hooks to hold his fishing-tackle, whips, spurs, and a favorite fowling-piece, curiously wrought and inlaid, which he inherits from his grandfather. He has, also, a couple of old single-keyed flutes, and a fiddle which he has repeatedly patched and mended himself, affirming it to be a veritable Cremona ; though I have never heard him ex- tract a single note from it that was not enough to make one’s blood run cold. From this little nest his fiddle will often be 20 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. heard, in the stillness of mid-day, drowsily sawing some long-forgotten tune ; for he prides himself on having a choice collection of good old Eng- lish music, and will scarcely have anything to do with modern composers. The time, however, at which his musical powers are of most use, is now and then of an evening, when he plays for the children to dance in the hall ; and he passes among them and the servants for a perfect Orpheus. His chamber also bears evidence of his vari- ous avocations : there are half-copied sheets of music ; designs for needle- work ; sketches of landscapes, very indifferently executed ; a camera lucida ; a magic lantern, for which he is endeav- oring to paint glasses ; in a word, it is the cabi- net of a man of many accomplishments, who knows a little of everything, and does nothing well. After I had spent some time in his apartment, admiring the ingenuity of his small inventions, he took me about the establishment, to visit the stables, dog-kennel, and other dependencies, in which he appeared like a general visiting the dif- ferent quarters of his camp ; as the Squire leaves the control of all these matters to him, when he is at the Hall. He inquired into the state of the horses ; examined their feet ; prescribed a drench for one, and bleeding for another ; and then took me to look at his own horse, on the merits of which he dwelt with great prolixity, and which, I noticed, had the best stall in the stable. After this I was taken to a new toy of his and the Squire’s, which he termed the falconry, where THE BUSY MAN. 21 there were several unhappy birds in durance, com- pleting their education. Among the number was a fine falcon, which Master Simon had in espe- cial training, and he told me that he would show me, in a few days, some rare sport of the good old-fashioned kind. In the course of our round, I noticed that the grooms, gamekeeper, whippers- in, and other retainers, seemed all to be on some- what of a familiar footing with Master Simon, and fond of having a joke with him, though it was evident they had great deference for his opinion in matters relating to their functions. There was one exception, however, in a testy old huntsman, as hot as a pepper-corn ; a meagre, wiry old fellow, in a threadbare velvet jockey- cap, and a pair of leather breeches, that, from much wear, shone as though they had been ja- panned. He was very contradictory and pragmat- ical, and apt, as I thought, to differ from Master Simon now and then, out of mere captiousness. This was particularly the case with respect to the treatment of the hawk, which the old man seemed to have under his peculiar care, and, ac- cording to Master Simon, was in a fair way to ruin : the latter had a vast deal to say about casting , and imping , and gleaming , and enseaming , and giving the hawk the rangle , which I saw was all heathen Greek to old Christy ; but he main- tained his point notwithstanding, and seemed to hold all this technical lore in utter disrespect. I was surprised at the good-humor with which Master Simon bore his contradictions, till he ex- plained the matter to me afterwards. Old 22 BRACE-BRIDGE HALL. Christy is the most ancient servant in thb place, having lived among dogs and horses the greater part of a century, and been in the service of Mr Bracebridge’s father. He knows the pedigree of every horse on the place, and has bestrode the great-great-grandsires of most of them. He can give a circumstantial detail of every fox-hunt for the last sixty or seventy years, and has a history for every stag’s head about the house, and every hunting-trophy nailed to the door of the dog kennel. All the present race have grown up under his eye, and humor him in his old age. He once attended the Squire to Oxford, when he was student there, and enlightened the whole univer- sity with his hunting-lore. All this is enough to make the old man opinionated, since he finds, on all these matters of first-rate importance, he knows more than the rest of the world. Indeed, Master Simon had been his pupil, and acknowledges that he derived his first knowledge in hunting rrom the instructions of Christy ; and I much question whether the old man does not still look upon him as rather a greenhorn. On our return homewards, as we were crossing the lawn in front of the house, we heard the por- ter’s bell ring at the lodge, and shortly afterwards a kind of cavalcade advanced slowly up the ave- nue. At sight of it my companion paused, con- sidered it for a moment, and then, making a sud- den exclamation, hurried away to meet it. As it approached I discovered a fair, fresh - looking elderly lady, dressed in an old-fashioned xiding- THE BUSY MAN. 28 habit, with a broad-brimmed white beaver hat such as may be seen in Sir Joshua Reynolds’s paintings. She rode a sleek white pony, and was followed by a footman in rich livery, mounted on an over-fed hunter. At a "little distance in the rear came an ancient cumbrous chafiot drawn by two very corpulent horses, driven by as corpu- lent a coachman, beside whom sat a page dressed in a fanciful ‘green livery. Inside of the chariot was a starched prim personage, with a look some- what between a lady’s companion and a lady’s maid, and two pampered curs, that showed their ugly faces, and barked out of each window. There was a general turning out of the garn son to receive this new-comer. The Squire as- sisted her to alight, and saluted her affectionately ; the fair Julia flew into her arms, and they em- braced with the romantic fervor of boarding- school friends : she was escorted into the house by Julia’s lover, towards whom she showed dis- tinguished favor ; and a line of the old servants, who had collected in the Hall, bowed most pro- foundly as she passed. I observed that Master Simon was most assid- uous and devout in his attentions upon this old lady. He walked by the side of her pony up the avenue ; and, while she was receiving the salutations of the rest of the family, he took occa- sion to notice the fat coachman ; to pat the sleek carriage-horses, and, above all, to say a sivil word to my lady’s gentlewoman, the prim, sour-looking vestal in the chariot. I had no more of his company for the rest of 24 BRA CEBRIDGE UALL. the morning. He was swept off in the vortex that followed in the wake of this lady. Once indeed he paused for a moment, as he was hurry- ing on some errand of the good lady’s, to let me know that this was Lady Lilly craft, a sister of the Squire’s, of large fortune, which the captain would inherit, and that her estate lay in one of the best sporting counties in all England. FAMILY SERVANTS. Verily old servants are the vouchers of worthy housekeeping. They are like rats in a mansion, or mites in a cheese, bespeaking the antiquity and fatness of their abode. SKjfjffliN my casual anecdotes of the Hall, I gguj may often be tempted to dwell upon cir- cumstances of a trite and ordinary na- ture, from their appearing to me illustrative of genuine national character. It seems to me to be the study of the Squire to adhere, as much as possible, to what he considers the old landmarks of English manners. His servants all understand his ways, and for the most part have been accus- tomed to them from infancy ; so that, upon the whole, his household presents one of the few toh erable specimens that can now be met with, of the establishment of an English country gentle- man of the old school. By the by, the servants are not the least char- acteristic part of the household : the housekeeper, for instance, has been born and brought up at the Hall, and has never been twenty miles from it ; yet she has a stately air that would not disgrace a lady that had figured at the court of Queen Elizabeth. 26 BRA CEBR1DGE HALL. I am half inclined to think she has caught it fiom living so much among the old family pic- tures. It may, however, be owing to a conscious- ness of her importance in the sphere in which she has always moved ; for she is greatly re- spected in the neighboring village, and among the farmers’ wives, and has high authority in the household, ruling over the servants with quiet but undisputed sway. She is a thin old lady, with blue eyes and pointed nose and chin. Her dress is always the same as to fashion. She wears a small, well- starched ruff, a laced stomacher, full petticoats, and a gown festooned and open in front, which, on particular occasions, is of ancient silk, the legacy of some former dame of the family, or an inheritance from her mother, who was house- keeper before her. I have a reverence for these old garments, as I make no doubt they have figured about these apartments in days long past, when they have set off the charms of some peer- less family beauty ; and I have sometimes looked from the old housekeeper to the neighboring por traits, to see whether I could not recognize her antiquated brocade in the dress of some one of those long-waisted dames that smile on me from the walls. Her hair, which is quite white, is frizzed out in front, and she wears over it a small cap, nicely plaited, and brought down under the chin. Her manners are simple and primitive, heightened a little by a proper dignity of station. The Hall is her world, and the history of the FAMILY SERVANTS. 27 family the only history she knows, excepting that which she has read in the Bible. She can give a biography of every portrait in the picture gal- lery, and is a complete family chronicle. She is treated with great consideration by the Squire. Indeed, Master Simon tells me that there is a traditional anecdote current among the servants, of the Squire’s having been seen kissing her in the picture gallery, when they were both young. As, however, nothing further was ever noticed between them, the circumstance caused no great scandal ; only she was observed to take to reading Pamela shortly afterwards, and refused the hand of the village innkeeper, whom she had previously smiled on. - The old butler, who was formerly rbotman, and a rejected admirer of hers, used to tcil the anec- dote now and then, at those little cabals which will occasionally take place among the most orderly servants, arising from the common pro- pensity of the governed to talk against adminis- tration ; but he has left it off, of late years, since he has risen into place, and shakes his head re- bukingly when it is mentioned. It is certain that the old lady will, to this day, dwell upon the looks of the Squire when hv was a young man at college ; and she maintains that none of his sons can compare with tneir father when he was of their age, and was dreu&ed out in his full suit of scarlet, with his hair ^aped and powdered, and his three-cornered hat. She has an orphan niece, a pretty, soft-hearted baggage, named Phoebe Wilkins, wyio has been 28 • BRA CEBRIDGE HALL. transplanted to the Hall within a year or two, and been nearly spoiled for any condition of life. She is a kind of attendant and companion of the fair Julia’s ; and from loitering about the young lady’s apartments, reading scraps of novels, and inheriting second-hand finery, has become some- thing between a waiting-maid and a slipshod fine lady. She is considered a kind of heiress among the servants, as she will inherit all her aunt’s prop- erty ; which, if report be true, must be a round sum of good golden guineas, the accumulated wealth of two housekeepers’ savings ; not to mention the hereditary wardrobe, and the many little valuables and knick-knacks treasured up in the housekeepers’ room. Indeed, the old house- keeper has the reputation among the servants and the villagers of being passing rich ; and there is a japanned chest of drawers and a large iron- bound coffer in her room, which are supposed, by the housemaids, to hold treasures of wealth. The old lady is a great friend of Master Simon, who, indeed, pays a little court to her, as to a person high in authority; and they have many discussions on points of family history, in which, notwithstanding his extensive information and pride of knowledge, he commonly admits her superior accuracy. He seldom returns to the Hall, after one of his visits to the other branches of the family, without bringing Mrs. Wilkins some remembrance from the ladies of the house where he has been staying. Indeed, all the children of the house look up FAMILY SERVANTS. 29 to the old lady with habitual respect and attach- ment, and she seems almost to consider them aa her own, from their having grown up under her eye. The Oxonian, however, is her favorite, probably from being the youngest, though he is the most mischievous, and has been apt to play tricks upon her from boyhood. I cannot help mentioning one little ceremony, which, I believe, is peculiar to the Hall. After the cloth is removed at dinner, the old house- keeper sails into the room, and stands behind the Squire’s chair, when he fills her a glass of wine with his own hands, in which she drinks the health of tiie company in a truly respectful yet dignified manner, and then retires. The Squire received the custom from his father, and has always continued it. There is a peculiar character about the servants of old English families, that reside principally in the country. They have a quiet, orderly, re- spectful mode of doing their duties. They are always neat in their persons, and appropriately, and, if I may use the phrase, technically dressed ; they move about the house without hurry or noise ; there is nothing of the bustle of employ- ment, or the voice of command ; nothing of that obtrusive housewifery which amounts to a tor- ment. You are not persecuted by the process of making you comfortable ; yet everything is done, and is done well. The work of the house is per- formed as if by magic, but it is the magic of system. Nothing is done by fits and starts, nor it awkward seasons ; the whole goes on like 30 BRA CEBRJDGE HALL . well-oiled clock-work, where there is no noise nor jarring in its operations. English servants, in general, are not treated with great indulgence, nor rewarded by many commendations ; for the English are laconic and reserved toward their domestics ; but an approv- ing nod and a kind word from master or mistress goes as far here as an excess of praise or indul- gence elsewhere. Neither do servants often ex- hibit any animated marks of affection to their employers ; yet, though quiet, they are strong in their attachments ; and the reciprocal regard of masters and servants, though not ardently ex- pressed, is powerful and lasting in old English families. The title of “ an old family servant ” carries with it a thousand kind associations, in all parts of the world ; and there is no claim upon the home- bred charities of the heart more irresistible than that of having been “ born in the house.” It is common to see gray-headed domestics of this kind attached to an English family of the “ old school,” who continue in it to the day of their death, in the enjoyment of steady, unaffected kindness, and the performance of faithful, unof- licious duty. I think such instances of attach- ment speak well for both master and servant, and the frequency of them speaks well for national character. These observations, however, hold good only with families of the description I have men- tioned, and with such as are somewhat retired, and pass the greater part of their time in the FAMILY SERVANTS. 31 country. As to the powdered menials that throng the halls of fashionable town residences, they equally reflect the character of the estab- lishments to which they belong ; and I know no more complete epitome of dissolute heartlessness, and pampered inutility. But the good “ old family servant,” — the one who has always been linked, in idea, with the home of our heart ; who has led us to school in the days of prattling childhood ; who has been the confidant of our boyish cares, and schemes, and enterprises ; who has hailed us as we came home at vacations, and been the promoter of all our holiday sports ; who, when we, in wandering manhood, have left the paternal roof, and only return thither at intervals, will welcome us with a joy inferior only to that of our parents ; who, now grown gray and infirm with age, still totters about the house of our fathers, in fond and faith- ful servitude ; who claims us, in a manner, as his own ; and hastens with querulous eagerness to anticipate his fellow-domestics in waiting upon us at table ; and who, when we retire a* night to the chamber that still goes by our name, will linger about the room to have one more kind look, and one more pleasant word about times that are past, — who does not experience towards such a being a feeling of almost filial affec- tion ? I have met with several instances of epitaphs on the grave-stones of such valuable domestics, recorded with the simple truth of natural feel- ing. I have two before me at this moment ; one 32 BliACEBRIDGE BALL. copied from a tombstone of a church in Warwick- shire : “ Here lieth the body of Joseph Batte, con fidential servant to George Birch, Esq., of Ham- stead Hall. His grateful friend and master caused this inscription to be written in memory of his discretion, fidelity, diligence, and continence. He died (a bachelor) aged 84, having lived 44 years in the same family.” The other was taken from a tombstone in Eltham church-yard : “ Here lie the remains of Mr. James Tappy, who departed this life on the 8th of September, 1818, aged 84, after a faithful service of 60 years in one family ; by each individual of which he lived respected, and died lamented by the sole survivor.” Few monuments, even of the illustrious, have given me the glow about the heart that I felt while copying this honest epitaph in the church- yard of Eltham. I sympathized with this “ sole survivor ” of a family mourning over the grave of the faithful follower of his race, who had been, no doubt, a living memento of times and friends that had passed away ; and in considering this record of long and devoted service, I call to mind the touching speech of Old Adam, in u As You Like It,” when tottering after the youthful son of* his ancient master : “ Master, go on, and I will follow thee To the last gasp, with love and loyalty.” Note — I cannot but mention a tablet which I have seen somewhere in the chapel of Windsor Castle, put up by the FAMILY SERVANTS. 33 late king to the memory of a family servant, who had been a faithful attendant of his lamented daughter, the Princess Amelia. George III. possessed much of the strong, domestic feeling of the old English country gentleman ; and it is an incident curious in monumental history, and creditable to the human heart, a monarch erecting a monument in honor of the humble virtues of a menial. 3 THE WIDOW. She was so charitable and pitious She would weep if that she saw a mous Caught in a trap, if it were dead or bled : Of small hounds had she, that she fed With rost flesh, milke, and wastel bread, But sore wept she if any of them were dead, Or if man smote them with a yard smart. Chaucer OTWITHSTANDING the whimsical parade made by Lady Lilly craft on her arrival, she has none of the petty state- liness that I had imagined ; but, on the contrary, a degree of nature, and simple-heartedness, if I may use the phrase, that mingles well with her old-fashioned manners and harmless ostentation. She dresses in rich silks, with long waist; she rouges considerably, and her hair, which is nearly white, is frizzed out, and put up with pins. Her face is pitted with the small-pox, but the delicacy of her features shows that she may once have been beautiful ; and she has a very fair and well- shaped hand and arm, of which, if I mistake not, the good lady is still a little vain. I have had the curiosity to gather a few par- ticulars concerning her. She was a great belle in town between thirty and forty years since, and THE WIDOW. 35 reigned for two seasons with all the insolence oi beauty, refusing several excellent offers ; when, unfortunately, she was robbed of her charms and her lovers by an attack of the small-pox. She retired immediately into the country, where she some time after inherited an estate, and married a baronet, a former admirer, whose passion had suddenly revived ; u having,” as he said, “ always loved her mind rather than her person.” The baronet did not enjoy her mind and for tune above six months, and had scarcely grown very tired of her, when he broke his neck in a fox-chase, and left her free, rich, and disconsolate. She has remained on her estate in the country ever since, and has never shown any desire to return to town, and revisit the scene of her early triumphs and fatal malady. All her favorite rec- ollections, however, revert to that short period of her youthful beauty. She has no idea of town but as it was at that time ; and continually for- gets that the place and people must have changed materially in the course of nearly half a century. She will often speak of the toasts of those days as if still reigning ; and, until very recently, used to talk with delight of the royal family, and the beauty of the young princes and princesses. She cannot be brought to think of the present king otherwise than as an elegant young man, rather wild, but who danced a minuet divinely ; and before he came to the crown, would often mention him as the “ sweet young prince.” She talks also of the walks in Kensington Garden, where the gentlemen appeared in gold- i56 Bit A CBBlilDGE HALL. laced coats and cocked hats, and the ladies in hoops, and swept so proudly along the grassy avenues ; and she thinks the ladies let themselves sadly down in their dignity, when they gave up cushioned head-dresses, and high -heeled shoes She has much to say too of the officers who were in the train of her admirers ; and speaks famil- iarly of many wild young blades, who are now, perhaps, hobbling about watering - places with crutches and gouty shoes. Whether the taste the good lady had of matri- mony discouraged her or not, I cannot say ; but though her merits and her riches have attracted many suitors, she has never been tempted to venture again into the happy state. This is singular, too, for she seems of a most soft and susceptible heart ; is always talking of love and connubial felicity, and is a great stickler for old- fashioned gallantry, devoted attentions, and eternal constancy, on the part of the gentlemen. She lives, however, after her own taste. Her house, I am told, must have been built and furnished about the time of Sir Charles Grandison : every- thing about it is somewhat formal and stately; but has been softened down into a degree of voluptuousness, characteristic of an old lady, very tender-hearted and romantic, and who loves her ease. The cushions of the great arm-chairs* and wide sofas, almost bury you when you sit down on them. Flowers of the most rare and delicate kind are placed about the rooms and on little ja- panned stands ; and sweet bags lie about the ta- bles and mantelpieces. The house is full of pet THE WIDOW . 37 dogs, Angola cats, and singing-birds, who are as carefully waited upon as she is herself. She is dainty in ber living, and a little of an epicure, living on white meats, and little ladylike dishes, though her servants have substantial old English fare, as their looks bear witness. Indeed, they are so indulged that they are all spoiled ; and when they lose their present place, they wili be fit for no other. Her ladyship is one of those easy-tempered beings, that are always doomed to be much liked, but ill served by their domestics, and cheated by all the world. Much of her time is passed in reading novels, of which she has a most extensive library, and a constant supply from the publishers in town Her erudition in this line of literature is immense ; she has kept pace with the press for half a cen- tury. Her mind is stuffed with love-tales of all kinds, from the stately amours of the old books of chivalry, down to the last blue-covered ro- mance, reeking from the press ; though she evi- dently gives the preference to those that came out in the days of her youth, and when she was first in love. She maintains that there are no novels written nowadays equal to Pamela and Sir Charles Grandison ; and she places the Castle of Otranto at the head of all romances. She does a vast deal of good in her neighbor- hood, and is imposed upon by every beggar in the county. She is the benefactress of a village adjoining her estate, and takes an especial inter- est in all its love - affairs. She knows of every courtship that is going on ; every lovelorn damsel 38 BRA CEBR1DGE HALL. is sure to find a patient listener and a sage adviser in her ladyship. She takes great pains to recon- cile all love-quarrels ; and should any faithless swain persist in his inconstancy, he is sure to draw on himself the good lady’s violent indigna- tion, I have learned these particulars partly from Frank Bracebridge, and partly from Master Simon. I am now able to account for the assiduous atten- tion of the latter to her ladyship. Her house is one of his favorite resorts, where he is a very important personage. He makes her a visit of business once a year, when he looks into all her affairs ; which, as she is no manager, are apt to get into confusion. He examines the books of the overseer, and shoots about the estate, which, he says, is well stocked with game, notwithstand- ing that it is poached by all the vagabonds in the neighborhood. It is thought, as I before hinted, that the cap- tain will inherit the greater part of her property, having always been her chief favorite : for, in fact, she is partial to a red coat. She has now come to the Hall to be present at his nuptials, having a great disposition to interest herself in all matters of love and matrimony. THE LOVERS. Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away ; for lo the winter if past, the rain is over and gone ; the flowers appear on the earth, the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle Is heard in the land. — Song of Solomon. 0 a man who is little of a philosopher, and a bachelor to boot ; and who, by dint of some experience in the follies of life, begins to look with a learned eye upon the ways of man, and eke of woman ; to such a man, I say, there is something very entertaining in noticing the conduct of a pair of young lovers. It may not be as grave and scientific a study as the loves of the plants, but it is certainly as in- teresting. I have therefore derived much pleasure, since my arrival at the Hall, from observing the fair Julia and her lover. She has all the delightful, blushing consciousness of an artless girl, inexpe- rienced in coquetry, who has made her first con- quest; while the captain regards her with that mixture of fondness and exultation with which a youthful lover is apt to contemplate so beauteous »i prize. I observed them yesterday in the garden, ad- vancing along one of the retired walks. The 10 BRA CEB It ID GE I1ALL. sun was shining with delicious warmth, making great masses of bright verdure, and deep blue shade. The cuckoo, that “ harbinger of spring,” was faintly heard from a distance ; the thrush piped from the hawthorn ; and the yellow butter- flies sported, and toyed, and coquetted in the air. The fair Julia was leaning on her lover’s arm, listening to his conversation, with her eyes cast down, a soft blush on her cheek, and a quiet smile on her lips, while in the hand that hung negligently by her side was a bunch of flow- ers. In this way they were sauntering slowly along ; and when I considered them, and the scene in which they were moving, I could not but think it a thousand pities that the season should ever change, or that young people should ever grow older, or that blossoms should give way to fruit, or that lovers should ever get married. From what I have gathered of family anecdote, I understand that the fair Julia is the daughter of a favorite college friend of the Squire ; who, after leaving Oxford, had entered the army, and served for many years in India, where he was mortally wounded in a skirmish with the natives. In his last moments he had, with a faltering pen, recommended his wife and daughter to the kind- ness of his early friend. The widow and her child returned to England helpless and almost hopeless. When Mr. Brace- bridge received accounts of their situation, he hastened to their relief. He reached them just in THE LOVERS. 41 time to soothe the last moments of the mother who was dying of a oonsumption, and to make her happy in the assurance that her child should never want a protector. The good Squire returned with his prattling charge to his stronghold, where lie has brought her up with a tenderness truly paternal. As he lias taken some pains to superintend her educa- tion, and form her taste, she has grown up with many of his notions, and considers him the wisest as well as the best of men. Much of her time, too, has been passed with Lady Lillycraft, who has instructed her in the manners of the old school, and enriched her mind with all kinds of novels and romances. Indeed, her ladyship has had a great hand in promoting the match between Julia and the captain, having had them together at her country seat the moment she found there was an attachment growing up between them ; the good lady being never so happy as when she has a pair of turtles cooing about her. I have been pleased to see the fondness with which the fair Julia is regarded by the old ser- vants at the Hall.- She has been a pet with them from childhood, and every one seems to lay some claim to her education ; so that it is no wonder she should be extremely accomplished. The gar- dener taught her to rear flowers, of which she is extremely fond. Old Christy, the pragmatical huntsman, softens when she approaches ; and as she sits lightly and gracefully in her saddle, claims he merit of having taught her to ride ; while the housekeeper, who almost looks upon her as 42 BRA CE BRIDGE HALL. a daughter, intimates that she first gave her an insight into the mysteries of the toilet, having been dressing-maid in her young days to the late Mrs. Bracebridge. I am inclined to credit this last claim, as I have noticed that the dress of the young lady had an air of the old school, though managed with native taste, and that her hair was put up very much in the style of Sir Peter Lely’s portraits in the picture gallery. Her very musical attainments partake of this old-fashioned character, and most of her songs are such as are not at the present day to be found on the piano of a modern performer. I have, how- ever, seen so much of modern fashions, modern accomplishments, and modern fine ladies, that I relish this tinge of antiquated style in so young and lovely a girl ; and I have had as much pleas- ure in hearing her warble one of the old songs of Herrick, or Carew, or Suckling, adapted to some simple old melody, as from listening to a lady amateur sky-lark it up and down through the finest bravura of Rossini or Mozart. We have very pretty music in the evenings, occasionally, between her and the captain, assisted sometimes by Master Simon, who scrapes, dubi- ously, on his violin ; being very apt to get out and to halt a note or two in the rear. Sometimes he even thrums a little on the piano, and takes a part in a trio, in which his voice can generally be distinguished by a certain quavering tone, and an occasional false note. I was praising the fair Julia’s performance to tiim after one of her songs, when I found he took THE LOVERS. 43 to himself the whole credit of having formed her musical taste, assuring me that she was very apt , and, indeed, summing up her whole character in his knowing way, by adding, that u she was a very nice girl, and had no nonsense about her.” FAMILY RELICS. My Infelice’s face, her brow, her eye, The dimple on her cheek : and such sweet skill Hath from the cunning workman’s pencil flown, These lips look fresh and lively as her own. False colors last after the true be dead. Of all the roses grafted on her cheeks, Of all the graces dancing in her eyes, Of all the music set upon her tongue.. Of all that was past woman’s excellence In her white bosom ; look, a painted board Circumscribes all ! Dekker. N old English family mansion is a fertile subject for study. It abounds with il- lustrations of former times, and traces of the tastes, and humors, and manners, of succes- sive generations. The alterations and additions, in different styles of architecture ; the furniture, plate, pictures, hangings ; the warlike and sport- ing implements of different ages and fancies ; all furnish food for curious and amusing speculation. As the Squire is very careful in collecting and preserving all family relics, the Hall is full of remembrances of the kind. Li looking about the establishment, I can picture to myself the charac- ters and habits that have prevailed at different eras of the family history. I have mentioned on a former occasion the armor of the crusaders FAMILY H EL ICS. 45 which hangs up in the Hall. There are also sev- eral jackboots, with enormously thick soles and high heels, which belonged to a set of cavaliers, who tilled the Hall with the din and stir of arms during the time of the Covenanters. A number of enormous drinking-vessels of antique fashion, with huge Venice glasses, and green hock-glasses, with the Apostles in relief on them, remain as monuments of a generation or two of hard livers, who led a life of roaring revelry, and first intro- duced the gout into the family. I shall pass over several more such indications of temporary tastes of the Squire’s predecessors ; but I cannot forbear to notice a pair of antlers in the great hall, which is one of the trophies of a hard-riding squire of former times, who was the Nimrod of these parts. There are many tradi- tions of his wonderful feats in hunting still exist- ing, which are related by old Christy, the hunts- man, who gets exceedingly nettled if they are in the least doubted. Indeed, there is a frightful chasm, a few miles from the Hall, which goes by the name of the Squire’s Leap, from his having cleared it in the ardor of the chase ; there can be no doubt of the fact, for old Christy shows the very dints of the horse’s hoofs on the rocks on each side of the chasm. Master Simon holds the memory of this Squire in great veneration, and has a number of ex- traordinary stories to tell concerning him, which he repeats at all hunting-dinners ; and I am told that they wax more and more marvellous the older they grow. He has also a pair of Rippon 46 BRA CEBR ID G E FI ALL. spurs which belonged to this mighty hunter of yore, and which he only wears on particular oc- casions. The place, however, which abounds most with mementos of past times, is the picture gallery ; and there is something strangely pleasing, though melancholy, in considering the long rows of por- traits which compose the greater part of the col- lection. They furnish a kind of narrative of the lives of the family worthies which I am enabled to read with the assistance of the venerable house- keeper, who is the family chronicler, prompted occasionally by Master Simon. There is the progress of a fine lady, for instance, through a variety of portraits. One represents her as a lit- tle girl, with a long waist and hoop, holding a kitten in her arms, and ogling the spectator out of the corners of her eyes, as if she could not turn her head. In another we find her in the fresh- ness of youthful beauty, when she was a cele- brated belle, and so hard-hearted as to cause sev- eral unfortunate gentlemen to run desperate and write bad poetry. In another she is depicted as a stately dame, in the maturity of her charms ; next to the portrait of her husband, a gallant- colonel in full-bottomed wig and gold-laced hat, who was killed abroad ; and, finally, her monument is in the church, the spire of which may be seen from the window, where her effigy is carved in marble, and represents her as a venerable dame of seventy-six. In like manner I have followed some of the family great men through a series of pictures, FAMILY RELICS. 47 from early boyhood to the robe of dignity, or truncheon of command, and so on by degrees, un- til they were garnered up in the common repos- itory, the neighboring church. There is one group that particularly interested me. It consisted of four sisters of nearly the same age, who flourished about a century since, and, if I may judge from their portraits, were extremely beautiful. I can imagine what a scene of gayety and romance this old mansion must have been, when they were in the heyday of their charms ; when they passed like beautiful vis- ions through its halls, or stepped daintily to mu- sic in the revels and dances of the cedar gallery ; or printed, with delicate feet, the velvet verdure of these lawns. How must they have been look- ed up to with mingled love, and pride, and rev- erence, by the old family servants ; and followed with almost painful admiration by the aching eyes of rival admirers ! How must melody, and song, and tender serenade, have breathed about these courts, and their echoes whispered to the loitering tread of lovers ! How must these very turrets have made the hearts of the young galliards thrill as they first discerned them from afar, rising from among the trees, and pictured to themselves the beauties casketed like gems within these walls ! Indeed, I have discovered about the place several faint records of this reign of love and romance, when the Hall was a kind of Court of Beauty. Several of the old romances in the library have marginal notes expressing sympathy and approbation, where there are long speeches extol- 48 BRA CE BR IDG L 17 ALL. Ling ladies’ charms, or protesting eternal fidelity, or bewailing the cruelty of some tyrannical fair one. The interviews, and declarations, and part- ing scenes of tender lovers, also bear evidence of having been frequently read, and are scored and marked with notes of admiration, and have initials written on the margins ; most of which annotations have the day of the month and year annexed to them. Several of the windows, too, have scraps of poetry engraved on them with dia- monds, taken from the writings of the fair Mrs. Philips, the once celebrated Orinda. Some of these seem to have been inscribed by lovers ; and others, in a delicate and unsteady hand, and a little inaccurate in the, spelling, have evidently been written by the young ladies themselves, or by female friends, who have been on visits to the Hall. Mrs. Philips seems to have been their fa- vorite author, and they have distributed the names, of her heroes and heroines among their circle of intimacy. Sometimes, in a male hand, the verse bewails the cruelty of beauty, and the sufferings of constant love ; while in a female hand it pru- dishly confines itself to lamenting the parting of female friends. The bow-window of my bed- room, which has, doubtless, been inhabited by one of these beauties, has several of these inscrip- tions. I have one at this moment before my eyes, called “ Camilla parting with Leonora ” : “ How perished is the joy that ’a past, The present how unsteady ! What comfort can be great and last, Whei this is gone already? ” FAMILY RELICS. 49 Arid close by it is another, written, perhaps, by some adventurous lover, who had stolen into the lady’s chamber during her absence. 41 THEODOSIUS TO CAMILLA. I’d rather in your favor live Than in a lasting name ; And much a greater rate would give For happiness than fame. Theodosius, 1700.” When I look at these faint records of gallan- try and tenderness ; when I contemplate the fad- ing portraits of these beautiful girls, and think too that they have long since bloomed, reigned, grown old, died, and passed away, and with them all their graces, their triumphs, their rivalries, their admirers ; the whole empire of love and pleasure in which they ruled — u all dead, all buried, all forgotten,” I find a cloud of melancholy stealing over the present gayeties around me. I was gaz- ing, in a musing mood, this very morning, at the portrait of the lady whose husband was killed abroad, when the fair Julia entered the gallery, leaning on the arm of the captain. The sun shone through the row of windows on her as she passed along, and she seemed to beam out each time into brightness, and relapse into. shade, until the door at the. bottom of the gallery closed after her. I felt a sadness of heart at the idea, that this was an emblem of her lot : a few more years of sunshine and shade, and all tills life, and love- liness, and enjoyment will have ceased, and noth- ing be left to commemorate this beautiful being 4 50 BRA CEBRJDGE HALL. but one more perishable portrait ; to awaken, perhaps, the trite speculations of some future loi- terer, like myself, when I and my scribblings shall have lived through our brief existence, and been forgotten. AN OLD SOLDIER. I’ve worn some leather out abroad ; let out a heathen soul or two ; fed this good sword with the black blood of pagan Christians ; con- verted a few infidels with it. — But let that pass. — The Ordinary. Hall was thrown into some little agitation, a few days since, by the ar- rival of General Harbottle. He had been expected for several days, and looked for, rather impatiently, by several of the family. Master Simon assured me that I would like the general hugely, for he was a blade of the old school, and an excellent table-companion. Lady Lillycraft, also, appeared to be somewhat fluttered on the morning of the general’s arrival, for he had been one of her early admirers ; and she rec- ollected him only as a dashing young ensign, just come upon the town. She actually spent an hour longer at her toilette, and made her appear- ance with her hair uncommonly frizzed and pow- dered, and an additional quantity of rouge. She was evidently a little surprised and shocked, therefore, at finding the lithe dashing ensign transformed into a corpulent old general, with a double chin ; though it was a perfect picture to .witness their salutations, the graciousness of her profound courtesy, and the air of the old school 52 BRA CEB It IDG E HALL . with which the general took off his hat, swayed it gently in his hand, and bowed his powdered head. All this bustle and anticipation has caused me to study the general with a little more attention than, perhaps, I should otherwise have done ; and the few days that he has already passed at th° Hall have enabled me, I think, to furnish a toler- able likeness of him to the reader. He is, as Master Simon observed, a soldier of the old school, with powdered head, side-locks, and pigtail. His face is shaped like the stern of a Dutch man-of-war, narrow at top, and wide at bottom, with full rosy cheeks and a double chin ; so that, to use the cant of the day, his organs of eating may -be said to be powerfully developed. The general, though a veteran, has seen very little active service, except the taking of Sering- apatam, which forms an era in his history. He wears a large emerald in his bosom, and a dia- mond on his finger, which he got on that occa- sion, and whoever is unlucky enough to notice either, is sure to involve himself in the whole history of the siege. To judge from the gen- eral's conversation, the taking of Seringapatam is the most important affair that has occurred for the last century. On the approach of w T arlike times on the Conti- nent, he was rapidly promoted to get him out of the way of younger officers of merit ; until, hav- ing been hoisted to the rank of general, he was quietly laid on the shelf. Since that time his # campaigns have been principally confined to wa- AN OLD SOLDIER. 53 tering-places ; where he drinks the waters for a slight touch of the liver which he got in India , and plays whist with old dowagers, with whom he has flirted in his younger days. Indeed, he talks of all the fine women of the last half cen- tury, and, according to hints which he now and then drops, has enjoyed the particular smiles of many of them. He has seen considerable garrison duty, and can speak of almost every place famous for good quarters, and where the inhabitants give good din- ners. He is a diner-out of first-rate currency, when in town ; being invited to one place be- cause he has been seen at another. In the same way he is invited about the country-seats, and can describe half the seats in the kingdom, from actual observation ; nor is any one better versed in court gossip, and the pedigrees and intermar- riages of the nobility. As the general is an old bachelor, and an old beau, and there are several ladies at the Hall, especially his quondam flame Lady Lillycraft, he is put rather upon his gallantry. He commonly passes some time, therefore, at his toilette, and takes the field at a late hour every morning, with his hair dressed out and powdered, and a rose in his button-hole. After he has breakfasted, he walks up and down the terrace in the sunshine, humming an air, and hemming between every stave, carrying one hand behind his back, and with the other touching his cane to the ground, and then raising it up to his shoulder. Should he, in these morning promenades, meet any of the 54 BRA CEDRIDGE HALL. elder ladies of the family, as lie frequently does Lady Lillycraft, his hat is immediately in his hand, and it is enough to remind one of those courtly groups of ladies and gentlemen, in old prints of Windsor Terrace, or Kensington Garden. He talks frequently about u the service, 1 ” and is fond of humming the old song, u Why, soldiers, why. Should we be melancholy, boys ? Why, soldiers, why, Whose business ’t is to die! ” 1 cannot discover, however, that the general has ever run any great risk of dying, excepting from an apoplexy or an indigestion. He criticises all the battles on the Continent, and discusses the merits of the commanders, but never fails to bring the conversation, ultimately, to Tippoo Saib and Seringapatam. I am told that the general was a perfect champion at drawing-rooms, parades, and watering-places, during the late war, and was looked to with hope and confidence by many an old lady, when laboring under the terror of Bona- parte’s invasion. He is thoroughly loyal, and attends punctually on levees when in town. He has treasured up many remarkable sayings of the late king, par- ticularly one which the king made to him on a field-day, complimenting him on the excellence of his horse. He extols the whole royal family, but especially the present king, whom he pronounces the most perfect gentleman and best whist-player in Europe. The general swears rather more than is the fashion at the present day ; but it was the AN OLD SOLDIER . 55 mode in the old school. He is, however, very strict in religious matters, and a stanch church- man. He repeats the responses very loudly in church, and is empliatical in praying for the king and royal family. At table his royalty waxes very fervent with his second bottle, and the song of “ God save the King ” puts him into a perfect ecstasy. He is amazingly well contented with the present state of things, and apt to get a little impatient at any talk about national ruin and agricultural distress. He says he has travelled about the country as much as any man, and has met with nothing but prosperity ; and to confess the truth, a great part of his time is spent in visiting from one country- seat to another, and riding about the parks of his friends. “ They talk of public distress,” said the general this day to me, at dinner, as he smacked a glass of rich burgundy, and cast his eyes about the ample board ; “ they talk of public distress, but where do we find it, sir? I see none. I see no reason any one has to complain. Take my word for it, sir, this talk about public distress is all humbug ! ” THE WIDOW’S RETINUE. Little dogs and all ! Leas. N giving an account of the arrival of Lady Lillycraft at the Hall, I ought to have mentioned the entertainment which I derived from witnessing the unpacking of her carriage, and the disposing of her retinue. There is something extremely amusing to me in the number of factitious wants, the loads of imagi- nary conveniences, but real incumbrances, with which the luxurious are apt to burden them- selves. I like to watch the whimsical stir and display about one of these petty progresses. The number of robustious footmen and retainers of all kinds bustling about, with looks of infinite gravity and importance, to do almost nothing. The number of heavy trunks, and parcels, and bandboxes belonging to my lady ; and the solici- tude exhibited about some humble, odd-looking box, by my lady’s maid ; the cushions piled in the carriage to make a soft seat still softer, and to prevent the dreaded possibility of a jolt ; the smelling-bottles, the cordials, the baskets of bis- cuit and fruit ; the new publications ; all pro- vided to guard against hunger, fatigue, or ennui .* THE WIDOW'S retinue:. 57 the led horses to vary the mode of travelling and all this preparation and parade to move, per haps, some very good-for-nothing personage about a little space of . earth ! I do not mean to apply the latter part of these observations to Lady Lillyeraft, for whose simple kind-heartedness I have a very great respect, and who is really a most amiable and worthy being. I cannot refrain, however, from mentioning some of the motley retinue she has brought with her ; and which, indeed, bespeak the overflowing kind- ness of her nature, which requires her to be sur- rounded with objects on which to lavish it. In the first place, her ladyship has a pampered coachman, with a red face, and cheeks that hang down like dew-laps. He evidently domineers over her a little with respect to the fat horses ; and only drives out when he thinks proper, and when he thinks it will be “ good for the cattle.” She has a favorite page to attend upon her person : a handsome boy of about twelve years of age, but a mischievous varlet, very much spoiled, and in a fair way to be good for nothing. He is dressed in green, with a profusion of gold cord and gilt buttons about his clothes. She always has one or two attendants of the kind, who are replaced by others as soon as they grow to fourteen years of age. She has brought two dogs with her, also, out of a number of pets which she maintains at home. One is a fat span- iel called Zephyr — though heaven defend me from such a zephyr ! He is fed out of all shape and comfort ; his eyes are nearly strained out of 58 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. his head ; he wheezes with corpulency, and can* not walk without great difficulty. The other is a little, old, gray muzzled curmudgeon, with an un- happy eye, that kindles like a coal if you only look at him ; his nose turns up ; his mouth is drawn into wrinkles, so as to show his teeth ; in short, he has altogether the look of a dog far gone in misanthropy, and totally sick of the world. When he walks, he has his tail curled up so tight that it seems to lift his feet from the ground ; and he seldom makes use of more than three legs at a time, keeping the other drawn up as a re- serve. This last wretch is called Beauty. These dogs are full of elegant ailments un- known to vulgar dogs ; and are petted and nursed by Lady Lillycraft with the tenderest kindness. They are pampered and fed with delicacies by their fellow-minion, the page ; but their stomachs are often weak and out of order, so that they cannot eat ; though I have now and then seen the page give them a mischievous pinch, or thwack over the head, when his mistress was not by. They have cushions for their express use, on which they lie before the fire, and yet are apt to shiver and moan if there is the least draught of air. When any one enters the room, they make a tyrannical barking that is absolutely deafening. They are insolent to all the other dogs of the establishment. There is a noble stag-hound, a great favorite of the Squire’s, who is a privileged visitor to the parlor ; but tjie moment he makes his appearance, these intruders fly at him with furious rage ; and I have admired the sovereign THE WIDOW'S RETINUE. 5 r J indifference and contempt with which he seems to look down upon his puny assailants. When her ladyship drives out, these dogs are generally carried with her to take the air ; when they look out of each window of the carriage, and bark at all vulgar pedestrian dogs. These dogs are a continual source of misery to the household: as they are always in the way, they every now and then get their toes trod on, and then there is a yelping on their part, and a loud lamentation on the part of their mistress, that fill the room with clamor and confusion. Lastly, there is her ladyship’s waiting-gentle- woman, Mrs. Hannah, a prim, pragmatical old maid ; one of the most intolerable and intolerant virgins that ever lived. She has kept her vir- tue by her until it has turned sour, and now every word and look smacks of verjuice. She is the very opposite to her mistress, for one hates, and the other loves, all mankind. How they first came together I cannot imagine ; but they have lived together for many years ; and the abi- gail’s temper being tart and encroaching, and her ladyship’s easy and yielding, the former has got the complete upperhand, and tyrannizes over the good lady in secret. Lady Lillycraft now and then complains of it, in great confidence, to her friends, but hushes up the subject immediately, if Mrs. Hannah makes her appearance. Indeed, she has been so accus- tomed to be attended by her, that she thinks she could not do without her ; though one great study of her life is to keep Mrs. Hannah in good humor by little presents and kindnesses. 60 B R A CEBU I DUE 11ALL . Master Simon has a most devout abhorrence mingled with awe, for this arcient spinster. He told me the other day, in a whisper, that she was a cursed brimstone, — in fact, he added another epithet, which I would not repeat for the world. I have remarked, however, that he is always ex tremely civil to her when they meet. \ READY-MONEY JACK. My purse, it is my privy wyfe, This song I dare both syng and say, It keepeth men from grievous stryfe When every man for hymself shall pay As I ryde in ryche array For gold and silver men wyll me floryshe ; By thys matter I dare well saye, Ever gramercy myne owne purse. Book op Hunting. N the skirts of the neighboring village there lives a kind of small potentate, who, for aught I know, is a representa- tive of one of the most ancient legitimate lines of the present day ; for the empire over which he reigns has belonged to his family time out of mind. His territories comprise a considerable number of good fat acres ; and his seat of power is in an old farm-house, where he enjoys, unmo- lested, the stout oaken chair of his ancestors. The personage to whom I allude is a sturdy old yeoman of the name of John Tibbets, or rather Ready-Money Jack Tibbets, as he is called throughout the neighborhood. The first place where he attracted my attention was in the church-yard on Sunday; where he Bat on a tombstone after the service, with his 62 BRACEBRIDGE HAIL. hat a little on one side, holding forth to a small circle of auditors ; and, as I presumed, expound ing the law and the prophets ; until, on drawing a little nearer, I found he was only expatiating on the merits of a brown horse. He presented so faithful a picture of a substantial English yeo- man, such as he is often described in books, height- ened, indeed, by some little finery peculiar to himself, that I could not but take note of his whole appearance. He was between fifty and sixty, of a strong, muscular frame, and at least six feet high, with a physiognomy as grave as a lion’s, and set off with short, curling, iron-gray locks. His shirt-collar was turned down, and displayed a neck covered with the same short, curling, gray hair ; and he wore a colored silk neck-cloth, tied very loosely, and tucked in at the bosom, with a green paste brooch on the knot. His coat was of dark-green cloth, with silver buttons, on each of which was engraved a stag, with his own name, John Tib- bets, underneath. He had an inner waistcoat of figured chintz, between which and his coat was another of scarlet cloth, unbuttoned. His breeches were also left unbuttoned at the knees, not from any slovenliness, but to show a broad pair of scarlet garters. His stockings were blue, with white clocks ; he wore large silver shoe-buckles ; a broad paste buckle in his hatband ; his sleeve- buttons were gold seven-shilling pieces ; and he had two or three guineas hanging as ornaments to his watch-chain. On making some inquiries about him, I gath- R1CADY-MUNEY JACK 63 ered, that he was descended from a line of farmers that had always lived on the same spot, and owned the same property ; and that half of the church- yard was taken up with the tombstones of his race, He has all his life been an important character in the place. When a youngster he was one of the most roaring blades of the neighborhood. No one could match him at wrestling, pitching the bar, cudgel play, and other athletic exercises. Like the renowned Pinner of Wakefield, he was the village champion ; carried off the prize at all the fairs, and threw his gauntlet at the country round. Even to this day the old people talk of his prowess, and undervalue, in comparison, all heroes of the green that have succeeded him ; nay, they say, that if Peady-Money Jack were to take the field even now, there is no one could stand before him. .When Jack’s father died, the neighbors shook their heads, and predicted that young hopeful would soon make way with the old homestead ; but Jack falsified all their predictions. The mo- ment he succeeded to the paternal farm, he assumed a new character : took a wife ; attended resolutely to his affairs, and became an industrious, thrifty farmer. With the family property he inherited a set of old family maxims, to which he steadily adhered. Pie saw to everything himself ; put his own hand to the plough ; worked hard ; ate heartily ; slept soundly ; paid for everything in cash down ; and never danced except he could do it to the music of his own money in both pockets. He has never been without a hundred or two 64 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. pounds in gold by him, and never allows a debt to stand unpaid. This has gained him hij« cur- rent name, of which, by the by, he is a tittle proud ; and has caused him to be looked upon as a very wealthy man by all the village. Notwithstanding his thrift, however, hn has never denied himself the amusements of liir/, but has taken a share in every passing pleasure. It is his maxim, that “ he that works hard can af- ford to play.” He is, therefore, an attendant at all the country fairs and wakes, and has Signal- ized himself by feats of strength and prowess on every village green in the shire. He often makes his appearance at horse-races, and sports his half- guinea, and even his guinea at a time ; keeps a good horse for his own riding, and to this day is fond of following the hounds, and is generally in at the death. He keeps up the rustic revels, and hospitalities too, for which his. paternal farm-house has always been noted ; has plenty of good cheer and dancing at harvest-home, and, above all, keeps the “ merry night,” * as it is termed, at Christ- mas. With all his love of amusement, however, Jack is by no means a boisterous jovial companion. He is seldom known to laugh even in the midst of his gayety ; but maintains the same grave, lion-like demeanor. He is very slow at compre- * Merry Night. A rustic merry making in a farm-house about Christmas, common in some parts of Yorkshire. There is abundance of homely fare, tea, cakes, fruit, and ale; various feats of agility, amusing games, romping, dancing, and kiss- ing withal. They commonly break up at midnight. READY-MONEY JACK. 65 Lending a joke ; and is apt to sit puzzling at it, with a perplexed look, while the rest of the com- pany is in a roar. This gravity has, perhaps, grown on him with the growing weight of his character ; for he is gradually rising into patri- archal dignity in his native place. Though he no longer takes an active part in athletic sports, he always presides at them, and is appealed to on all occasions as umpire. He maintains the peace on the village green at holiday games, and quells all brawls and quarrels by collaring the parties and shaking them heartily, if refractory. No one ever pretends to raise a hand against him, or to contend against his decisions ; the young men have grown up in habitual awe of his prowess, and in implicit deference to him as the champion and lord of the green. He is a regular frequenter of the village inn, the landlady having been a sweetheart of his in early life, and he having always continued on kind terms with her. He seldom, however, drinks any- thing but a draught of ale ; smokes his pipe, and pays his reckoning before leaving the tap-room. Here he “ gives his little senate laws ” ; decides bets, which are very generally referred to him ; determines upon the characters and qualities of horses ; and, indeed, plays now and then the part of a judge, in settling petty disputes between neighbors, which otherwise might have been nursed by country attorneys into tolerable law-suits. Jack is very candid and impartial in his decisions, but he has not a head to carry a long argument, and is very apt to get perplexed and out of pa- 6G BRACEBlilDijE HALL. tience if there is much pleading. He generally breaks through the argument with a strong voice, and brings matters to a summary conclusion by pronouncing what he calls the “ upshot of the business,” or, in other words, “ the long and the short of the matter.” Jack made a journey to London a great many years since, which has furnished him with topics of conversation ever since. He saw the old king on the terrace at Windsor, who stopped, and pointed him out to one of the princesses, being probably struck with Jack’s truly yeomanlike ap- pearance. This is a favorite anecdote with him, and has no doubt had a great effect in making him a most loyal subject ever since, in spite of taxes and poors’ rates. He was also at Bartholo- mew fair, where he had half the buttons cut off his coat ; and a gang of pickpockets, attracted by his external show of gold and silver, made a reg- ular attempt to hustle him as he was gazing at a show ; but for once they caught a tartar, for Jack enacted as great wonders among the gang as Samson did among the Philistines. One of his neighbors, who had accompanied him to town, and was with him at the fair, brought back an account of his exploits, which raised the pride of the whole village ; who considered their cham- pion as having subdued all London, and eclipsed the achievements of Friar Tuck, or even the re- nowned Robin Hood himself. Of late years the old fellow has begun to take the world easily ; he works less, and indulges in greater leisure, his son having grown up. and sue- READ Y-M ONE Y JA CK. 67 seeded to him both in the labors of the farm and the exploits of the green. Like all sons of distinguished men, however, his father’s renown is a disadvantage to him, for he can never come up to public expectation. Though a fine active fellow of three-and-twenty, and quite the “ cock of the walk,” yet the old people declare he is nothing like what Ready-Money Jack was at his time of life. The youngster himself acknowledges his inferiority, and has a wonderful opinion of the old man, who indeed taught him ail his athletic accomplishments, and holds such a sway over him, that, I am told, even to this day, he would have no hesitation to take him in hands, if he rebelled against paternal government. The Squire holds Jack in very high esteem, and shows him to all his visitors, as a specimen of old English “ heart of oak.” He frequently calls at his house, and tastes some of his home-brewed, which is excellent. He made Jack a present of old Tusser’s “ Hundred Points of good Ilusband- rie,” which has furnished him with reading ever since, and is his text-book and manual in all agri- cultural and domestic concerns. He has made dog’s ears at the most favorite passages, and knows many of the poetical maxims by heart. Tibbets, though not a man to be daunted or fluttered by high acquaintances, and though he cherishes a sturdy independence of mind and man- ner, yet is evidently gratified by the attentions of the Squire, whom he has known from boyhood, and pronounces “ a true gentleman every inch of him.” He is, also, on excellent terms with Mas* 68 BRACEBR1DGE HALL, ter Simon, who is a kind of privy counsellor to the family ; but his great favorite is the Oxonian, whom he taught to wrestle and play at quarter- staff when a boy, and considers the most promift Lug young gentleman in the whole county. BACHELORS. The Bachelor most joyfully In pleasant plight doth pass his dales Goodfellowship and companie He doth maintain and keep alwaies.- Evan’s Old Ballads. HERE is no character in the comedy of human life more difficult to play well than that of an old Bachelor. When a single gentleman, therefore, arrives at that criti- cal period when he begins to consider it an imper- tinent question to be asked his age, I would ad- vise him to look well to his ways. This period, it is true, is much later with some men than with others ; I have witnessed more than once the meeting of two wrinkled old lads of this kind, who had not seen each for several years, and have been amused by the amicable exchange of compliments on each other’s appearance that takes place on such occasions. There is always one invariable observation : “ Why, bless my soul ! you look younger than when last I saw you ! ” Whenever a man’s friends begin to compliment him about looking young, he may be sure that they think he is growing old. I am led to make these remarks by the conduct 70 BRACBBRIDGE HALL. of Master Simon and the general, who have be- come great cronies. As the former is the young- est by many years, he is regarded as quite a youthful blade by the general, who, moreover, looks upon him as a man of great wit and pro- digious acquirements. I have already hinted that Master Simon is a family beau, and consid- ered rather a young fellow by all the elderly la- dies of the connection ; for an old bachelor, in an old family connection, is something like an actor in a regular dramatic corps, who seems to “ flour- ish in immortal youth,” and will continue to play the Romeos and Rangers for half a century to- gether. Master Simon, too, is a little of the chameleon, and takes a different hue with every different companion : he is very attentive and officious, and somewhat sentimental, with Lady Lillycraft ; cop- ies out little namby-pamby ditties and love-songs for her, and draws quivers, and doves, and darts, and Cupids to be worked on the corners of her pocket-handkerchiefs. He indulges, however, in very considerable latitude with the other married ladies of the family; and has many sly pleasant- ries to whisper to them, that provoke an equivo- cal laugh and a tap of the fan. But when he gets among young company, such as Frank Brace- bridge, the Oxonian, and the general, he is apt to put on the mad wag, and to talk in a very bache- lor-like strain about the sex. In this he has been encouraged by the exam- ple of the general, whom he looks up to as a man that has seen the world. The general, in fact, BACHELORS . 71 tells shocking stories after dinner, when the la dies have retired, which he gives as some of the choice things that are served up at the Mulli- gatawney club — a knot of boon companions in London. He also repeats the fat jokes of old Major Pendergast, the wit of the club, and which, though the gentleman can hardly repeat them for laughing, always make Mr. Bracebridge look grave, he having a great antipathy to an indecent jest. In a word, the general is a complete instance of the declension in gay life, by which a young man of pleasure is apt to cool down into an ob- scene old gentleman. I saw him and Master Simon, an evening or two since, conversing with a buxom milkmaid in a meadow ; and from their elbowing each other now and then, and the generals shaking his shoul- ders, blowing up his cheeks, and breaking out into a short fit of irrepressible laughter, I had no doubt they were playing the mischief with the girl. As I looked at them through a hedge, I could not but think they would have made a tolerable group for a modern picture of Susannah and the two elders. It is true, the girl seemed in no wise alarmed at the force of the enemy ; and I question, had either of them been alone, whether she would not have been more than they would have ventured to encounter. Such veteran rois- ters are daring wags when together, and will put any female to the blush with their jokes ; but they are as quiet as lambs when they fall singly into the clutches of a fine woman. In spite of the generals years, he evidently is 72 BRA CEB R ID GE HALL. a little vain of his person, and ambitious of con- quests. I have observed him on Sunday in church, eying the country girls most suspicic/js- ly ; and have seen him leer upon them with a downright amorous look, even when he has been gallanting Lady Lilly craft, with great ceremony, through the church-yard; The general, in fact, is a veteran in the service of Cupid rather than of Mars, having signalized himself in all the gar- rison towns and country quarters, and seen ser- vice in every ball-room of England. Not a cel- ebrated beauty but he has laid siege to ; and if his word may be taken in a matter wherein no man is apt to be over-veracious, it is incredible the success he has had with the fair. At present he is like a worn-out warrior, retired from ser- vice, but who still cocks his beaver with a mili- tary air, and talks stoutly of fighting whenevei he comes within the smell of gunpowder. I have heard him speak his mind very freely over his bottle, about the folly of the captain in taking a wife ; as he thinks a young soldier should care for nothing but his “ bottle and kind landlady .” But, in fact, he says, the service on the Continent has had a sad effect upon the young men ; they have been ruined by light wines and French quadrilles. “ They ’ve nothing,” he says, “ of the spirit of the old service. There are none of your six-bottle men left, that were the souls t)f a mess-dinner, and used to play the very deuce among the women.” As to a bachelor, the general affirms that he is a free and easy man, with no baggage to take BACHELORS. 73 care of but his portmanteau ; but a married man, with his wife hanging on his arm, always puts him in mind of a chamber-candlestick, with its extinguisher hitched to it. I should not mind all this if it were merely confined to the general ; but I fear he will be the ruin of my friend, Mas- ter Simon, who already begins to echo his here- sies, and to talk in the style of a gentleman that has seen life, and lived upon the town. Indeed, the general seems to have taken Master Simon in hand, and talks of showing him the lions when he comes to town, and of introducing him to a knot of choice spirits at the Mulligatawney club ; which, I understand, is composed of old nabobs, officers in the Company’s employ, and other “ men of Ind,” that have seen service i n the East, and returned home burnt out with curry, and touched with the liver-complaint. They have their reg- ular club, where they eat Mulligatawney soup, smoke the hookah, talk about Tippoo Saib, Ser- ingapatam, and tiger-hunting ; and are tediously agreeable in each other’s company. WIVES. Believe me, man, there is no greater blisse Than is the quiet joy of loving wife ; Which whoso wants, half of himselfe doth misse ; Friend without change, playfellow without strife ; Food without fulnesse, counsaile without pride. Is this sweet doubling of our single life. Sir P. Sidney. HERE is so much talk about matrimony going on around me, in consequence of the approaching event for which we mbled at the Hall, that I confess I find my thoughts singularly exercised on the subject. Indeed, all the bachelors of the establishment seem to be passing through a kind of fiery ordeal ; for Lady Lillycraft is one of those tender, romance- read dames of the old school, whose mind is filled with flames and darts, and who breathe nothing but constancy and wedlock. She is forever im- mersed in the concerns of the heart, and, to use a poetical phrase, is perfectly surrounded by u the purple light of love.” The very general seems to feel the influence of this sentimental atmosphere, to melt as he approaches her ladyship, and, for the time, to forget all his heresies about matri- mony and the sex. The good lady is generally surrounded by little WIVES. 75 documents of her prevalent taste : novels of a tender nature; richly-bound little books of poe- try, that are filled with sonnets and love-tales, and perfumed with rose-leaves ; and she has al- ways an album at hand, for which she claims the contributions of all her friends. On looking over this last repository the other day, I found a series of poetical extracts, in the Squire’s hand- writing, which might have been intended as mat- rimonial hints to his ward. I was so much struck with several of them, that I took the liberty of copying them out. They are from the old play of Thomas Davenport, published in 1661, entitled 46 The City Night-Cap ” ; in which is drawn out and exemplified, in the part of Abstemia, the character of a patient and faithful wife, which I think might vie with that of the renowned Gri- selda. I have often thought it a pity that plays and novels should always end at the wedding, and should not give us another act, and another vol- ume, to let us know how the hero and heroine conducted themselves when married. Their main object seems to be merely to instruct young ladies how to get husbands, but not how to keep them: now this last, I speak it with all due diffidence, appears to me to be a desideratum in modern married life. It is appalling to those who have not yet adventured into the holy state, to see how soon the flame of romantic love burns out, or rather is quenched in matrimony ; and how de- plorably the passionate poetic lover declines into the phlegmatic, prosaic husband. I am inclined 76 BRA CEBRJDGE HALL. to attribute this very much to the defect just men- tioned in the plays and novels, which form so im- portant a branch of study of our young ladies, and which teach them how to be heroines, but leave them totally at a loss when they come to be wives. The play from which the quotations before me were made, however, is an exception to this remark ; and I cannot refuse myself the pleasure of adducing some of them for the benefit of the reader, and for the honor of an old writer, who has bravely attempted to awaken dramatic interest in favor of a woman, even after she was married ! The following is a commendation of Abstemia to her husband Lorenzo : “ She ’s modest, but not sullen, and loves silence ; Not that she wants apt words, (for when she speaks, She inflames love with wonder,) but because She calls wise silence the soul’s harmony. She ’s truly chaste ; yet such a foe to coyness, The poorest call her courteous ; and which is excellent. (Though fair and young) she shuns to expose herself To the opinion of strange eyes. She either seldom Or never walks abroad in your company. And then with such sweet bashfulness, as if She were venturing on crack’d ice, and takes delight To step into the print your foot hath made, And will follow you whole fields ; so she will drive Tediousness out of time with her sweet character.’* Notwithstanding all this excellence, Abstemia had the misfortune to incur the unmerited jeal ousy of her husband. Instead, however, of re- senting his harsh treatment with clamorous up- braidings, and with the stormy violence of high* WIVES. 77 windy virtue, by which the sparks of anger are so often blown into a flame, she endures it with the meekness of conscious, but patient virtue ; and makes the following beautiful appeal to a friend who has witnessed her long-suffering • “ Hast thou not seen me Bear all his injuries, as the ocean suffers The angry bark to plough thorough her bosom. And yet is presently so smooth, the eye Cannot perceive where the wide wound was made? 99 Lorenzo, being wrought on by false representa- tions, at length repudiates her. To the last, how- ever, she maintains her patient sweetness, and her love for him, in spite of his cruelty. She de- plores his error, even more than his unkindness ; and laments the delusion which has turned his very affection into a source of bitterness. There is a moving pathos in her parting address to Lo- renzo after their divorce : “ Farewell, Lorenzo, Whom my soul doth love: if you e’er marry, May you meet a good wife, so good that you May not suspect her, nor may she be worthy Of your suspicion : and if you hear hereafter That I am dead, inquire but my last words, And you shall know that to the last I loved you. And when you walk forth with your second choice Into the pleasant fields, and by chance talk of me, Imagine that you see me, lean and pale, Strewing your path with flowers But may she never live to pay my debts: If but in thought she wrong you, may she die In tlis conception of the injury. Fray make me wealthy with one kiss: farewell, sir: Let it not grieve you when you shall remember That 1 was innocent: nor this forget, 7b Bit A CEBRIDGk HALL. Though innocence here suffer sigh, and groan, She walks but thorow thorns to find a throne.” In a short time Lorenzo discovers his error, and the innocence of his injured wife. In the transports of his repentance he calls to mind all her feminine excellence; her gentle, uncomplain- ing, womanly fortitude under wrongs and sor- rows : “ Oh Abstemia ! II ow lovely thou lookest now ! now thou appearest Chaster than is the morning’s modesty That rises with a blush, over whose bosom The western wind creeps softly; now I remember How, when she sat at table, her obedient eye W ould dwell on mine, as if it were not well, Unless it look’d where I look’d: oh how proud She was, when she could cross herself to please me ! But where now is this fair soul ? Like a silver cloud She hath wept herself, I fear, into the dead sea, And will be found no more.” It is but doing right by the reader, if interested in the fate of Abstemia by the preceding extracts, to say, that she was restored to the arms and affections of her husband, rendered fonder than ever, by that disposition in every good heart to atone for past injustice, by an overflowing meas- ure of returning kindness : “ Thou wealth worth more than kingdoms ; I am now Confirmed past all suspicion ; thou art far Sweeter in thy sincere truth than a sacrifice Deck’d up for death with garlands. The Indian winds That blow from off the coast, and cneer the sailor With the sweet savor of their spices, want The delight flows in thoe.” \V1 VES. 79 I have been more affected and interested by this little dramatic picture than by many a pop- ular love-tale ; though, as I said before, I do not think it likely either Abstemia or patient Grizzle stands much chance of being taken for a model. Still I like to see poetry now and then extending its views beyond the wedding-day, and teaching a lady how to make herself attractive even after marriage. There is no great need of enforcing on an unmarried lady the necessity of being agreeable ; nor is there any great art requisite in a youthful beauty to enable her to please. Na- ture has multiplied attractions around her. Youth is in itself attractive. The freshness of budding beauty needs no foreign aid to set it off ; it pleases merely because it is fresh, and budding, and beautiful. But it is for the married state that a woman needs the most instruction, and in which she should be most on her guard to main- tain her powers of pleasing. No woman can ex- pect to be to her husband all that he fancied her when he was a lover. Men are always doomed to be duped, not so much by the arts of the sex as by their own imaginations. They are always wooing goddesses, and marrying mere mortals. A. woman should therefore ascertain what was the charm which rendered her so fascinating when a girl, and endeavor to keep it up when she has become a wife. One great thing undoubt- edly was, the chariness of herself and her con- duct, which an unmarried female always ob- serves. She should maintain the same niceness and reserve in her person and habits, and en- 80 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. deavor still to preserve a freshness and virgin delicacy in the eye of her husband. She should remember that the province of woman is to be wooed, not to woo ; to be caressed, not to caress. Man is an ungrateful being in love ; bounty loses instead of winning him. The secret of a wom- an’s power does not consist so much in giving as in withholding. A woman may give up too much even to her husband. It is to a thousand little delicacies of conduct that she must trust to keep alive passion, and to protect herself from that dangerous familiarity, that thorough acquaintance with every weakness and imperfection incident to matrimony. By these means she may still main- tain her power, though she has surrendered her person, and may continue the romance of love even beyond the honey-moon. “ She that hath a wise husband,” says Jeremy Taylor, “ must entice him to an eternal dearnesse by the veil of modesty, and the grave robes of chastity, the ornament of meeknesse, and the jewels of faith and charity. She must have no painting but blushings ; her brightness must be purity, and she must shine round about with sweetnesses and friendship ; and she shall be pleasant while she lives, and desired when she dies.” I have wandered into a rambling series of remarks on a trite subject, and a dangerous one for a bachelor to meddle with. That I may not, however, appear to confine my observations en- tirely to the wife, I will conclude with another quotation from Jeremy Taylor, in which the WIVES. 81 dutie» of Dotn parties are mentioned ; while I would recommend his sermon on the marriage ring to all those who, wiser than myself, are about entering the happy state of wedlock. “ There is scarce any matter of duty but it concerns them both alike, and is only distinguished by names, and hath its variety by circumstances and little accidents : and what in one is called love, in the other is called reverence ; and what in the wife is obedience, the same in the man is duty. He provides, and she dispenses ; he gives commandments, and she rules by them ; he rules her by authority, and she rules him by love ; she ought by all means to please him, and he must by no means displease her.” 6 STORY-TELLING. FAVORITE evening pastime at the Hall, and one which the worthy Squire is fond of promoting, is story-telling, “ a good old-fashioned fireside amusement,” as he terms it. Indeed, I believe he promotes it chiefly because it was one of the choice recreations in those days of yore when ladies and gentlemen were not much in the habit of reading. Be this as it may, he will often, at supper-table, when conversation flags, call on some one or other of the company for a story, as it was formerly the custom to call for a song ; and it is edifying to see the exemplary patience, and even satisfaction, with which the good old gentleman will sit and listen to some hackneyed tale that he has heard for at least a hundred times. In this way one evening the current of anec- dotes and stories ran upon mysterious personages that have figured at different times, and filled the world with doubts and conjecture ; such as the Wandering Jew, the Man with the Iron Mask, who tormented the curiosity of all Europe ; the Invisible Girl, and last, though not least, the Pig- faced Lady. At length one of the company was called upon STORY-TELLING. 83 who had the most unpromising physiognomy for a story-teller that ever I had seen. He was a thin, pale, weazen -faced man, extremely nervous, who had sat at one corner of the table, shrunk up, as it were, into himself, and almost swallowed up in the cape of his coat, as a turtle in its shell. The very demand seemed to throw him into a nervous agitation, yet he did not refuse. He emerged his head out of his shell, made a few odd grimaces and gesticulations, before he could get his muscles into order, or his voice under command, and then offered to give some account of a mysterious personage whom he had recently encountered in the course of his travels, and one whom he thought fully entitled of being classed with the Man with the Iron Mask. I was so much struck with his extraordina- ry narrative, that I have written it out to the best of my recollection, for the amusement of the reader. I think it has in it all the elements of that mysterious and romantic narrative so greedily sought after at the present day THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. A STAGE-OOACH ROMANCE. I ’ll cross it though it blast me ! Hamlet. f|T was a rainy Sunday in the gloomy month of November. I had been de- tained, in the course of a journey, by a slight indisposition, from which I was recover- ing ; but was still feverish, and obliged to keep within doors all day, in an inn of the small town of Derby. A wet Sunday in a country inn ! — whoever has had the luck to experience one can alone judge of my situation. The rain pattered against the casements ; the bells tolled for church with a melancholy sound. I went to the win- dows in quest of something to amuse the eye ; but it seemed as if I had been placed completely out of the reach of all amusement. The windows of my bedroom looked out among tiled roofs and stacks of chimneys, while those of my sitting-room commanded a full view of the stable-yard. I know of nothing more calculated to make a man sick of this world than a stable-yard on a rainy day. The place was littered with wet straw that had been kicked about by travellers and stable* THE STOUT GENTLEMAN . 85 boys. In one corner . was a stagnant pool of water, surrounding an island of muck ; there were several half-drowned fowls crowded together under a cart, among which was a miserable, crest- fallen cock, drenched out of all life and spirit ; his drooping tail matted, as it were, into a single feather, along which the water trickled from his back ; near the cart was a half-dozing cow, chew- ing the cud, and standing patiently to be rained on, with wreaths of vapor rising from her reek- ing hide ; a wall-eyed horse, tired of the loneliness of the stable, was poking his spectral head out of a window, with the rain dripping on it from the eaves ; an unhappy cur, chained to a dog- house hard by, uttered something, every now and then, between a bark and a yelp ; a drab of a kitchen-wench tramped backwards and forwards through the yard in pattens, looking as sulky as the weather itself ; everything, in short, was com- fortless and forlorn, excepting a crew of hardened ducks, assembled like boon companions round a puddle, and making a riotous noise over their liquor. I was lonely and listless, and wanted amuse- ment. My room soon became insupportable. I abandoned it, and sought what is technically called the travellers’-room. This is a public room set apart at most inns for the accommoda- tion of a class of wayfarers called travellers, 01 riders ; a kind of commercial knights-errant, who are incessantly scouring the kingdom in gigs, on horseback, or by coach. They are the only suc- cessors that I know of at the present day to tho 1 j 36 BRACEBRIDGE II ALL. knights- errant of yore. They lead the same kind of roving, adventurous life, only changing the lance for a driving-whip, the buckler for a pattern-card, and the coat of mail for an upper Benjamin. Instead of vindicating the charms of peerless beauty, they rove about, spreading the fame and standing of some substantial tradesman, or manufacturer, and are ready at any time tc bargain in his name ; it being the fashion nowa- days to trade, instead of fight, with one another. As the room of the hostel, in the good old fight- ing-times, would be hung round at night with the armor of way-worn warriors, such as coats of mail, falchions, and yawning helmets, so the travellers’-room is garnished with the harnessing of their successors, with box-coats, whips of all kinds, spurs, gaiters, and oil-cloth covered hats. I was in hopes of finding some of these wor- thies to talk with, but was disappointed. There were, indeed, two or three in the room ; but I could make nothing of them. One was just fin- ishing his breakfast, quarrelling with his bread and butter, and huffing the waiter ; another but- toned on a pair of gaiters, with many execrations at Boots for not having cleaned his shoes well ; a third sat drumming on the table with his fin- gers and looking at the rain as it streamed down the window-glass ; they all appeared infected by the weather, and disappeared, one after the other, without exchanging a word. I sauntered to the window, and stood gazing at the people, picking their way to church, with petticoats hoisted midleg high, and dripping um- THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. 87 brellas. * The bell ceased to toll, and the streets became silent. I then amused myself with watch- ing the daughters of a tradesman opposite ; who, being confined to the house for fear of wetting their Sunday finery, played off their charms at the front windows, to fascinate the chance ten- ants of the inn. They at length were summoned away by a vigilant vinegar-faced mother, and I had nothing further from without to amuse me. What was I to do to pass away the long-lived day ? I was sadly nervous and lonely ; and everything about an inn seems calculated to make a dull day ten times duller. Old newspapers, smelling of beer and tobacco-smoke, and which I had already read half a dozen times. Good- for-nothing books, that were worse than rainy weather. I bored myself to death with an old volume of the Lady’s Magazine. I read all the commonplace names of ambitious travellers scrawl- ed on the panes of glass ; the eternal families of the Smiths, and the Browns, and the Jacksons, and the Johnsons, and all the other sons ; and I deciphered several scraps of fatiguing inn-win- dow poetry which I have met with in all parts of the world. The day continued lowering and gloomy ; the slovenly, ragged, spongy cloud drifted heavily along ; there was no variety even in the rain : it was one dull, continued, monotonous patter — • patter — patter, excepting that now and then I was enlivened by the idea of a brisk shower, from the rattling of the drops upon a passing umbrella. 88 ' BRA CEBRID GE HALL .. It was quite refreshing (if I may be allowed a hackneyed phrase of the day) when, in the course of the morning, a horn blew, and a stage-coach whirled through the street, with outside passen gers stuck all over it, cowering under cotton um- brellas, and seethed together, and reeking with (lie steams of wet box-coats and upper Benjamins, The sound brought out from their lurking- places a crew of vagabond boys, and vagabond dogs, and the carroty-headed hostler, and that nondescript animal ycleped Boots, and all the other vagabond race that infest the purlieus of an inn ; but the bustle was transient ; the coach again whirled on its way ; and boy and dog, and hostler and Boots, all slunk back again to their holes ; the street again became silent, and the rain continued to rain on. In fact, there was no hope of its clearing up ; the barometer pointed to rainy weather ; mine hostess’s tortoise-shell cat sat by the fire washing her face, and rubbing her paws over her ears ; and, on referring to the Al- manac, I found a direful prediction stretching from the top of the page to the bottom through the whole month, “ expect — much — rain — about — this — time ! ” I was dreadfully hipped. The hours seemed as if they would never creep by. The very tick- ing of the clock became irksome. At length the stillness of the house was interrupted by the ring- ing of a bell. Shortly after I heard the voice of a waiter at the bar : “ The stout gentleman in No. 18 wants his breakfast. Tea and bread and butter, with ham and eggs ; the eggs not to be too much done.” THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. 39 In such a situation as mine, every incident is of importance. Here was a subject of specula- tion presented to my mind, and ample exercise for my imagination. I am prone to paint pic- tures to myself, and on this occasion I had some materials to work upon. Had the guest up-stairs been mentioned as Mr. Smith, or Mr. Brown, or Mr. Jackson, or Mr. Johnson, or merely as “ the gentleman in No. 13,” it would have been a per- fect blank to me. I should have thought nothing of it ; but “ The stout gentleman ! ” — the very name had something in it of the picturesque. It at once gave the size ; it embodied the personage to my mind’s eye, and my fancy did the rest. He was stout, or, as some term it, lusty ; in all probability, therefore, he was advanced in life, some people expanding as they grow old. By his breakfasting rather late, and in his own room, he must be a man accustomed to live at his ease, and above the necessity of early rising ; no doubt a round, rosy, lusty old gentleman. There was another violent ringing. The stout gentleman was impatient for his breakfast. He was evidently a man of importance ; “ well to do in the world ; ” accustomed to be promptly waited upon ; of a keen appetite, and a little cross when hungry ; “ perhaps,” thought I, “ he may be some London Alderman ; or who knows but he may be a Member of Parliament ? ” The breakfast was sent up, and there was a short interval of silence ; he was, doubtless, mak- ing the tea. Presently there was a violent ringing ; and before it could be answered, another ringing 90 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. still more violent. “ Bless me ! what a choleric old gentleman ! ” The waiter came down in a huff. The butter was rancid, the eggs were overdone, the ham was too salt ; — the stout gentleman was evidently nice in his eating ; one of those who eat and growl, and keep the waiter on the trot, and live in a state militant with the house- hold. The hostess got into a fume. I should ob- serve that she was a brisk, coquettish woman ; a little of a shrew, and something of a slammerkin, but very pretty withal ; with a nincompoop for a husband, as shrews are apt to have. She rated the servants roundly for their negligence in send- ing up so bad a breakfast, but said not a word against the stout gentleman ; by which I clearly perceived that he must be a man of consequence, entitled to make a noise and to give trouble at a country inn. Other eggs, and ham, and bread and butter were sent up. They appeared to be more graciously received ; at least there was no further complaint. I had not made . many turns about the travel- lers’ - room, when there was another ringing. Shortly afterwards there was a stir and an in- quest about the house. The stout gentleman wanted the Times or the Chronicle newspaper, i set him down, therefore, for a Whig ; or rather, from his being so absolute and lordly where he had a chance, I suspected him of being a Radical. Runt, I had heard, was a large man ; “ who knows,” thought I, “but it is Hunt himself!” My curiosity began t ^ be awakened. I in THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. 91 quired of the waiter who was this stout gentle- man that was making all this stir ; but I could get no information : nobody seemed to know his name. The landlords of bustling inns seldom trouble their heads about the names or occupa- tions of their transient guests. The color of a coat, the shape or size of the person, is enough to suggest a travelling name. It is either the tall gentleman, or the short gentleman, or the gentleman in black, or the gentleman in snuff- color; or, as in the present instance, the stout gentleman. A designation of the kind once hit on, answers every purpose, and saves all further inquiry. Rain — rain — rain ! pitiless, ceaseless rain ! No such thing as putting a foot out of doors, and no occupation nor amusement within. By and by I heard some one walking overhead. It was in the stout gentleman’s room. He evidently was a large man by the heaviness of his tread ; and an old man from his wearing such creaking soles. “ He is doubtless,” thought I, “ some rich old square-toes of regular habits, and is now tak- ing exercise after breakfast.” I now read all the advertisements of coaches and hotels that were stuck about the mantelpiece. The Lady’s Magazine had become an abomina- tion to me ; it was as tedious as the day itself. I wandered out, not knowing what to do, and ascended again to my room. I had not been there long, when there was a squall from a neigh- boring bedroom. A door opened and slammed 7iolently ; a chamber-maid, that I had remarked 92 Bit A CK Bit IDG E HALL. for having a ruddy, good-liumored face, went down stairs in a violent flurry. The stout gentle- man had been rude to her ! This sent a whole host of my deductions to the deuce in a moment. This unknown personage could not be an old gentleman ; for old gentlemen are not apt to be so obstreperous to chamber-maids. He could not be a young gentleman ; for young gentlemen are not apt to inspire such indignation , He must be a middle-aged man, and confounded ugly into the bargain, or the girl would not have taken the matter in such terrible dudgeon. I con- fess I was sorely puzzled. In a few minutes I heard the voice of my landlady. I caught a glance of her as she came tramping up-stairs, — her face glowing, her cap flaring, her tongue wagging the whole way. “ She ’d have no such doings in her house, she ’d warrant. If gentlemen did spend money freely, it was no rule. She ’d have no servant-maids of hers treated in that way, when they were about their work, that ’s what she would n’t.” As I hate squabbles, particularly with women, and above all with pretty women, I slunk back into my room, and partly closed the door ; but my curiosity was too much excited not to lis- ten. The landlady marched intrepidly to the enemy’s citadel, and entered it with a storm : the door closed after her. I heard her voice in high windy clamor for a moment or two. Then it gradually subsided, like a gust of wind in a gar- ret ; then there was a laugh ; then I heard noth- ing more. THE STOUT GENTLEMAN . 93 After a little while my landlady came out with An odd smile on her face, adjusting her cap, which was a little on one side. As she went down stairs, 1 heard the landlord ask her what was the matter ; she said, “ Nothing at all, only the girl ’s a fool” — I was more than ever perplexed what to make of this unaccountable personage, who could put a good-natured chamber-maid in a pas- sion, and send away a termagant landlady in smiles. He could not be so old, nor cross, nor ugly either. I had to go to work at his picture again, and to paint him entirely different. I now set him down for one of those stout gentlemen that are frequently met with swaggering about the doors of country inns. Moist, merry fellows, in Belcher handkerchiefs, whose bulk is a little assisted by malt-liquors. Men who have seen the world, and been sworn at Highgate ; who are used to tavern- life ; up to all the tricks of tapsters, and knowing in the ways of sinful publicans. Free-livers on a small scale ; who are prodigal within the com- pass of a guinea ; who call all the waiters by name, tousle the maids, gossip with the landlady at the bar, and prose over a pint of port, or a glass of negus, after dinner. The morning wore away in forming these and similar surmises. As fast as I wove one system of belief, some movement of the unknown would completely overturn it, and throw all my thoughts again into confusion. Such are the solitary oper- ations of a feverish mind. I was, as I have said, extremely nervous ; and the continual meditation 94 B RA CEBR flJGL HA LL . on the concerns of this invisible personage began to have its effect : — I was getting a fit of the fidgets. Dinner-time came. I hoped the stout gentle- man might dine in the travellers’-room, and that I might at length get a view of his person ; but no — he had dinner served in his own room. What could be the meaning of this solitude and mystery ? He could not be a radical ; there was something too aristocratical in thus keeping him- self apart from the rest of the world, and con- demning himself to his own dull company through- out a rainy day. And then, too, he lived too well for a discontented politician. He seemed to ex- patiate on a variety of dishes, and to sit over his wine like a jolly friend of good living. Indeed, my doubts on this head were soon at an end ; for he could not have finished his first bottle before I could faintly hear him humming a tune ; and on listening I found it to be “ God save the King.” ’T was plain, then, he was no radical, but a faithful subject ; one who grew loyal over his bot- tle, and was ready to stand by king and constitu- tion, when he could stand by nothing else. But who could he be ? My conjectures began to run wild. Was he not some personage of distinction travelling incog. ? “ God knows ! ” said I, at my wit’s end ; “ it may be one of the royal family for aught I know, for they are all stout gentle- men ! ” The weather continued rainy. The mysterious unknown kept his room, and, as far as I could judge, his chair for I did not hear him move THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. 95 In the mean time, as the day advanced, the trav- ellers’-room began to be frequented. Some, who had just arrived, came in buttoned up in box- coats ; others came home who had been dispersed about the town ; some took their dinners, and some their tea. Had I been in a different mood, I should have found entertainment in studying this peculiar class of men. There were two espe- cially, who were regular wags of the road, and up to all the standing jokes of travellers. They had a thousand sly things to say to the waiting-maid, whom they called Louisa, and Ethelinda, and a dozen other fine names, changing the name every time, and chuckling amazingly at their own wag- gery. My mind, however, had been completely engrossed by the stout gentleman. He had kept my fancy in chase during a long day, and it was not now to be diverted from the scent. The evening gradually wore away. The trav- ellers read the papers two or three times over. Some drew round the fire and told long stories about their horses, about their adventures, their overturns, and breakings-down. They discussed the credit of different merchants and different inns ; and the two wags told several choice anec- dotes of pretty chamber-maids and kind land- ladies. All this passed as they were quietly taking what they called their night-caps, that is to say, strong glasses of brandy and water and sugar, or some other mixture of the kind ; after which they one after another rang for Boots ” and the chamber-maid, and walked off to bed in old shoes cut down into marvellously uncomfortable slippers. 96 BRACEBRIDGE ALALL. There was now only one man left: a short- legged, long-bodied, plethoric fellow, with a very large, sandy head. He sat by himself, with a glass of port-wine negus, and a spoon ; sipping and stir- ring, and meditating and sipping, until nothing was left but the spoon. He gradually fell asleep bolt upright in his chair, with the empty glass standing before him ; and the candle seemed to fall asleep too, for the wick grew long, and black, and cabbaged at the end, and dimmed the little light that remained in the chamber. The gloom that now prevailed was contagious. Around hung the shapeless, and almost spectral, box-coats of departed travellers, long since buried in deep sleep. I only heard the ticking of the clock, with the deep-drawn breathings of the sleeping topers, and the drippings of the rain, drop — drop — drop, from the eaves of the house. The church-bells chimed midnight. All at once the stout gentleman began to walk overhead, pacing slowly backwards and forwards. There was something extremely awful in all this, especially to one in my state of nerves. These ghastly great-coats, these guttural breathings, and the creaking footsteps of this mysterious being. His steps grew fainter and fainter, and at length died away. I could bear it no longer. I was wound up to the desperation of a hero of romance. “ Be lie who or what he may,” said I to myself, u I ’ll have a sight of him ! ” I seized a chamber- can- dle, and hurried up to No. 13. The door stood ajar. I hesitated — I entered : the room was deserted. There stood a large, broad-bottomed THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. 97 elbow-chair at a table, on which was an empty tumbler, and a “ Times,” newspaper, and the room smelt powerfully of Stilton cheese. The mysterious stranger had evidently but just retired. I turned off, sorc ] y disappointed, to my room, which had been changed to the front of the house. As I went along the corridor, I saw a large pair of boots, with dirty, waxed tops, stand- ing at the door of a bedchamber. They doubt- less belonged to the unknown ; but it would not do to disturb so redoubtable a personage in his den : he might discharge a pistol, or something worse, at my head. I went to bed, therefore, and lay awake half the night in a terribly nervous state ; and even when I fell asleep, I was still haunted in my dreams by the idea of the stout gentleman and his wax-topped boots. I slept rather late the next morning, and was awakened by some stir and bustle in the house, which I could not at first comprehend ; until get- ting more awake, I found there was a mail- coach starting from the door. Suddenly there was a cry from below, “ The gentleman has for- got his umbrella ! Look for the gentleman’s um- brella in No. 13 !” I heard an immediate scam- pering of a chamber-maid along the passage, and a shrill reply as she ran, “ Here it is ! here ’s the gentleman’s umbrella ! ” The mysterious stranger then was on the point of setting off. This* was the only chance I should ever have of knowing him. I sprang out of bed, scrambled to the window, snatched aside the cur- tains, and just caught a glimpse of the rear of a 98 BRACEBR1DGE HALL. person getting in at the coach-door. The skirts of a brown coat parted behind, and gave me a full view of the broad disk of a pair of drab breeches. The door closed — “ all right ! ” was the word — the coach whirled off ; — and that was all I ever Baw of the stout gentleman ! FOREST TREES. “ A living gallery of aged trees.’' NE of the favorite themes of boasting with the Squire is the noble trees on his estate, which, in truth, has some of the finest I have seen in England. There is some- thing august and solemn in the great avenues of stately oaks that gather their branches together high in air, and seem to reduce the pedestrians beneath them to mere pigmies. “ An avenue of oaks or elms,” the Squire observes, “ is the true colonnade that should lead to a gentleman’s house. As to stone and marble, any one can rear them at once, they are the work of the day ; but com- mend me to the colonnades which have grown old and great with the family, and tell by their grandeur how long the family has endured.” The Squire has great reverence for certain venerable trees, gray with moss, which he con- siders as the ancient nobility of his domain. There is the ruin of an enormous oak, which has been so much battered by time and tempest, that 6carce anything is left ; though he says Christy recollects when, in his boyhpod, it was healthy and flourishing, until it was struck by lightning. 100 BRA Ch BRIDGE IIALL. It is now a mere trunk, with one twisted bough stretching up into the air, leaving a green branch at the end of it. This sturdy wreck is much valued by the Squire ; he calls it his standard- bearer, and compares it to a veteran warrior beaten down in battle, but bearing up his banner to the last. He has actually had a fence built round it, to protect it as much as possible from further injury. It is with great difficulty he can ever be brought to have any tree cut down on his estate. To some he looks with reverence, as having been planted by his ancestors ; to others with a kind of paternal affection, as having been planted by himself ; and he feels a degree of awe in bring- ing down, with a few strokes of the axe, what it has cost centuries to build up. I confess I cannot but sympathize, in some degree, with the good Squire on the subject. Though brought up in a country overrun with forests, where trees are apt to be considered mere incumbrances, and to be laid low without hesitation or remorse, yet I could never see a fine tree hewn down without concern. The poets, who are naturally lovers of trees, as they are of everything that is beautiful, have artfully awakened great interest in their favor, by representing them as the habitations of sylvan deities ; insomuch that every great tree had its tutelar genius, or a nymph, whose existence was limited to its duration. Evelyn, in his “ Sylva,” makes several pleasing and fancilul allusions to this superstition. “ As the fall,” says he, “ of a very aged oak, giving a crack like thunder, has FOREST TREES. 101 often been heard at many miles’ distance ; con- strained though I often am to fell them with re- luctance, I do not at any time remember to have heard the groans of those nymphs (grieving to be dispossessed of their ancient habitations) with- out some emotion and pity.” And again, in al- luding to a violent storm that had devastated the woodlands, he says, “ Me thinks I still hear, sure I am that I still feel, the dismal groans of our forests : the late dreadful hurricane having sub- verted so many thousands of goodly oaks, pros- trating the trees, laying them in ghastly postures, like whole regiments fallen in battle by the sword of the conqueror, and crushing k\\ that grew be- neath them. The public accounts,” he adds, “ reckon no less than three thousand brave oaks in one part only of the forest of Dean blown down.” I have paused more than once in the wilder- ness of America, to contemplate the traces of some blast of wind, which seemed to have rushed down from the clouds, and ripped its way through the bosom of the woodlands ; rooting up, shivering, and splintering the stoutest trees, and leaving a long track of desolation. There was something awful in the vast havoc made among these gigan- tic plants ; and in considering their magnificent remains, so rudely torn and mangled, and hurled down to perish prematurely on their native soil, 1 * was conscious of a strong movement of the sym- pathy so feelingly expressed by Evelyn. I recol- lect, also, hearing a traveller of poetical temper- ament expressing the kind of horror which he 102 BRA CEBRIDGE BALL. felt on beholding, on the banks of the Missouri, an oak of prodigious size, which had been, in a manner, overpowered by an enormous wild grape- vine. The vine had clasped its huge folds round the trunk, and thence had wound about every branch and twig, until the mighty tree had with- ered in its embrace. It seemed like Laocoon struggling ineffectually in the hideous coils of the monster Python. It was the lion of trees per- ishing in the embraces of a vegetable boa. I am fond of listening to the conversation of English gentlemen on rural concerns, and of no- ticing with what taste and discrimination, and what strong, unaffected interest they will discuss topics which, in other countries, are abandoned to mere woodmen, or rustic cultivators. I have heard a noble earl descant on park and forest scenery with the science and feeling of a painter. He dwelt on the shape and beauty of particular trees on his estate, with as much pride and techni- cal precision as though he had been discussing the merits of statues in his collection. I found that he had even gone considerable distances to exam- ine trees which were celebrated among rural amateurs ; for it seems that trees, like horses, have their established points of excellence ; and that there are some in England which enjoy very ex- tensive celebrity among tree-fanciers from being perfect in their kind. There is something nobly simple and pure in' such a taste : it argues, I think, a sweet and gen- erous nature, to have this strong relish for the beauties of vegetation, and this friendship for the FOREST TREES . 103 hardy and glorious sons of the forest. There is a grandeur of thought connected with this part of rural economy. It is, if I may be allowed the figure, the heroic line of husbandry. It is worthy of liberal, and freeborn, and aspiring men. He who plants an oak, looks forward to future ages, and plants for posterity. Nothing can be less selfish than this. He cannot expect to sit in its shade, nor enjoy its shelter ; but he exults in the idea that the acorn which he has buried in the earth will grow up into a lofty pile, and keep on flourishing, and increasing, and benefit- ing mankind, long after he shall have ceased to tread his paternal fields. Indeed, it is the nature of such occupations to lift the thoughts above mere worldliness. As the leaves of trees are said to absorb all noxious qualities of the air, and to breathe forth a purer atmosphere, so it seems to me as if they drew from us all sordid and angry passions, and breathed forth peace and philan- thropy. There is a serene and settled majesty in woodland scenery that enters into the soul, and dilates and elevates it, and fills it with noble in- clinations. The ancient and hereditary groves, too, which embower this island, are most of them full of story. They are haunted by the recollec- tions of great spirits of past ages, who have sought for relaxation among them from the tu- mult of arms, or the toils of state, or have wooed the muse beneath their shade. Who can walk, with soul unmoved, among the stately groves of Penshurst, where the gallant, the amiable, the ele- gant Sir Philip Sidney passed his boyhood ; or 104 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. can look without fondness upon the tree that is said to have been planted on his birthday ; or can ramble among the classic bowers of Hag ley ; or can pause among the solitudes of Windsor Forest and look at the oaks around, huge, gray, and time- worn, like the old castle-towers, and not feel as if he were surrounded by so many monuments of long-enduring glory ? It is, when viewed in this light, that planted groves, and stately ave- nues, and cultivated parks, have an advantage over the more luxuriant beauties of unassisted nature. It is then they teem with moral associations, and keep up the ever - interesting story of human existence. It is incumbent, then, on the high and gener- ous spirits of an ancient nation, to cherish these sacred groves which surround their ancestral mansions, and to perpetuate them to their descend- ants. Republican as I am by birth, and brought up as I have been in republican principles and habits, I can feel nothing of the servile reverence for titled rank, merely because it is titled ; but I trust that I am neither churl nor bigot in my creed. I can both see and feel how hereditary distinction, when it falls to the lot of a generous mind, may elevate that mind into true nobility. It is one of the effects of hereditary rank, when it falls thus happily, that it multiplies the duties, and, as it were, extends the existence of the pos- sessor. He does not feel himself a mere indi- vidual link in creation, responsible only for his own brief term of being. He carries back his existence in nroud recollection, and he extends it FOREST TREES. 105 forward in honorable anticipation. He lives with his ancestry, and he lives with his posterity. To both does he consider himself involved in deep responsibilities. As he has received much from those who have gone before, so he feels bound to transmit much to those who are to come aftei him. His domestic undertakings seem to imply a longer existence than those of ordinary men ; none are so apt to build and plant for future cen- turies as those noble-spirited men who have re- ceived their heritages from foregone ages. I cannot but applaud, therefore, the fondness and pride with which I have noticed English gen- tlemen, of generous temperaments and high aris- tocratic feelings, contemplating those magnificent trees, rising like towers and pyramids from the midst of their paternal lands. There is an affin- ity between all nature, animate and inanimate : the oak, in the pride and lustihood of its growth, seems to me to take its range with the lion and the eagle, and to assimilate, in the grandeur of its attributes, to heroic and intellectual man. With its mighty pillar rising straight and direct towards heaven, bearing up its leafy honors from the impurities of earth, and supporting them aloft in free air and glorious sunshine, it is an emblem of what a true nobleman should he : a refuge for the weak, a shelter for the oppressed, a defence for the de- fenceless ; warding off from them the peltings of die storm, or the scorching rays of arbitrary power. He who is this , is an ornament and a blessing to his native land. He who is otherwise, abuses his eminent advantages ; abuses the gran 106 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. deur and prosperity which he has drawn from the bosom of his country. Should tempests arise, and he be laid prostrate by the storm, who would mourn over his fall ? Should he be borne down by the oppressive hand of power, who would mur- mur at his fate ? — “ Why cumbereth he the ground ? ” i A LITERARY ANTIQUARY. Printed bookes he contemnes, as a novelty of this latter age; but a manuscript he pores on everlastingly ; especially if the cover be all moth-eaten, and the dust make a parenthesis betweene every syllable. Mlco-Cosmographie, 1628. HE Squire receives great sympathy and support, in his antiquated humors, from the parson, of whom I made some men- tion on my former visit to the Hall, and who acts as a kind of family chaplain. He has been cher- ished by the Squire almost constantly since the time that they were fellow-students at Oxford ; for it is one of the peculiar advantages of these great universities, that they often link the poor scholar to the rich patron by early and heartfelt ties, which last through life, without the usual humiliations of dependence and patronage. Un- der the fostering protection of the Squire, there- fore, the little parson has pursued his studies in peace. Having lived almost entirely among books, and those, too, old books, he is quite igno- rant of the world, and his mind is as antiquated as the garden at the Hall, where the flowers are all arranged in formal beds, and the yew-trees clipped into urns and peacocks.* His tasle for literary antiquities was first im- 103 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. bibed in the Bodleian Library at Oxford ; where, when a student, he passed many an hour forag- ing among the old manuscripts. He lias since, at different times, visited most of the curious libra- ries in England, and has ransacked many of the cathedrals. With all his quaint and curious learning, he has nothing of arrogance or pedan- try, but that unaffected earnestness and guileless simplicity which seem to belong to the literary antiquary. He is a dark, mouldy little man, and rather dry in his manner ; yet, on his favorite theme, he kindles up, and at times is even eloquent. No fox- hunter, recounting his last day’s sport, could be more animated than I have seen the worthy par- son, when relating his search after a curious docu- ment, which he had traced from library to library, until he fairly unearthed it in the dusty chapter- house of a cathedral. When, too, he describes some venerable manuscript, with its rich illumina- tions, its thick creamy vellum, its glossy ink, and the odor of the cloisters that seemed to exhale from it, he rivals the enthusiasm of a Parisian epicure expatiating on the merits of a Perigord pie, or a Pate de Strasbourg . His brain seems absolutely haunted with love- sick dreams about gorgeous old works in “ silk linings, tripled gold bands, and tinted leather, locked up in wire cases, and secured from the vulgar hands of the mere reader,” and, to con- tinue the happy expressions of an ingenious writer, “ dazzling one’s eyes like eastern beau- ties peering through their jealousies.” * * D’ Israeli. Curiosities of Literature. A LIT LR ARY ANTIQUARY. 109 He has a great desire, however, to read such works in the old libraries and chapter-houses to which they belong ; for he thinks a black-letter volume reads best in one of those venerable chambers where the light struggles through dusty lancet windows and painted glass ; and that it loses half its zest if taken away from the neigh- borhood of the quaintly carved oaken bookcase and Gothic reading-desk. At his suggestion the Squire has had the library furnished in this an- tique taste, and several of the windows glazed with painted glass, that they may throw a prop- erly tempered light upon the pages of their favor- ite old authors. The parson, I am told, has been for some time meditating a commentary on Strutt, Brand, and Douce, in which he means to detect them in sun- dry dangerous errors in respect to popular games and superstitions ; a work to which the Squire looks forward with great interest. He is, also, a casual contributor to that long-established re- pository of national customs and antiquities, the “ Gentleman’s Magazine,” and is one of those who every now and then make an inquiry concerning some obsolete custom or rare legend; nay, it is said that some of his communications have been at least six inches in length. He frequently receives parcels by coach from different parts of the kingdom, containing mouldy volumes and almost illegible manuscripts ; for it is singular what an active correspondence is kept up among literary antiquaries, and how soon the fame of any rare volume, or unique copy, just discovered 110 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. among the rubbish of a library, is circulated among them. The parson is more busy than common just now, being a little flurried by an advertisement of a work, said to be preparing for the press, on the mythology of the middle ages. The little man has long been gathering together all the hobgoblin tales he could collect, illustra- tive of the superstitions of former times ; and he is in a complete fever, lest this formidable rival should take the field before him. Shortly after my arrival at the Hall, I called at the parsonage, in company with Mr. Brace- bridge and the general. The parson had not been seen for several days, which was a matter of some surprise, as he was an almost daily visitor at the Hall. We found him in his study : a small dusky chamber, lighted by a lattice-win- dow that looked into the church-yard, and w$s overshadowed by a yew-tree. His chair was surrounded by folios and quartos, piled upon the floor, and his table was covered with books and manuscripts. The cause of his seclusion was a work which he had recently received, and with which he had retired in rapture from the world, and shut himself up to enjoy a literary honey- moon undisturbed. Never did boarding-school girl devour the pages of a sentimental novel, or Don Quixote a chivalrous romance, with more intense delight than did the little man banquet on the pages of this delicious work. It was Dibdin’s “ Bibliographical Tour,” a work calculated to have as intoxicating an effect on the imaginations of literary antiquaries as the adventures of the A LITERARY ANTIQUARY 111 heroes of the round - table on all true knights, or the tales of the early American voyagers on the ardent spirits of the age, filling them with dreams of Mexican and Peruvian mines, and of the golden realm of El Dorado. The good parson had looked forward to this bibliographical expedition as of far greater im- portance than those to Africa, or the North Pole. With what eagerness had he seized upon the his- tory of the enterprise ! with what interest had he followed the redoubtable bibliographer and his graphical squire in their adventurous roamings among Norman castles, and cathedrals, and French libraries, and German convents and universities ; penetrating into the prison-houses of vellum man- uscripts, and exquisitely illuminated missals, and revealing their beauties to the world ! • When the parson had finished a rapturous eulogy on this most curious and entertaining work, he drew forth from a little drawer a manuscript, lately received from a correspondent, which had perplexed him sadly. It was written in Norman French, in very ancient characters, and so faded and mouldered away as to bq almost illegible. It was apparently an old Norman drinking-song, which might have been brought over by one of William the Conqueror’s carousing followers. The writing was just legible enough to keep a keen antiquity-hunter on a doubtful chase ; here and there he would be completely thrown out, and then there would be a few words so plainly written as to put him on the scent again. In this way he had been led on for a whole day until he had found himself completely at fault. 112 BRACEERJDGE HALL. The Squire endeavored to assist him, but was equally baffled. The old general listened for some time to the discussion, and then asked the parson, if he had read Captain Morris’s, or George Stevens’s, or Anacreon Moore’s bacchana- lian songs ; on the other replying in the negative, “ Oh, then,” said the general, with a sagacious nod, “ if you want a drinking-song, I can furnish you with the latest collection, — I did not know you had a turn for those kind of things ; and I can lend you the Encyclopedia of Wit into the bargain. I never travel without them ; they ’re excellent reading at an inn.” It would not be easy to describe the odd look of surprise and perplexity of the parson, at this proposal ; or the difficulty the Squire had in mak- ing the general comprehend, that, though a jovial song of the present day was but a foolish sound in the ears of wisdom, and beneath the notice of a learned man, yet a trowl, written by a tosspot several hundred year^ since, was a matter worthy of the gravest research, and enough to set wholo colleges by the ears. I have since pondered much on this matter, and have figured to myself what may be the fate of our current literature, when retrieved, piece- meal, by future antiquaries, from among the rub- bish of ages. What a Magnus Apollo, for in- stance, will Moore become, among sober divines and dusty schoolmen ! Even his festive and amatory songs, which are now the mere quickeners of our social moments, or the delights of our drawing-rooms, will then become matters of la- A LITERARY ANTIQUARY. 113 borious research and painful collation. How many a grave professor will then waste his mid- night oil, or worry his brain through a long morn- ing, endeavoring to restore the pure text, or illus- trate the biographical hints of u Come, tell me, says Rosa, as kissing and kissed ; ” and how many an arid old bookworm, like the worthy little par- son, will give up in despair, after vainly striving to fill up some fatal hiatus in “ Fanny of Tim- raol ! ” Nor is it merely such exquisite authors as Moore that are doomed to consume the oil of future antiquaries. Many a poor scribbler, who is now, apparently, sent to oblivion by pastry- cooks and cheesemongers, will then rise again in fragments, and flourish in learned immortality. * After all, thought I, Time is not such an invari- ' able destroyer as he is represented. If he pulls down, he likewise builds up ; if he impoverishes one, he enriches another ; his very dilapidation furnishes matter for new works of controversy, and his rust is more precious than the most costly gilding. Under his plastic band trifles rise into importance ; the nonsense of one age becomes the wisdom of another ; the levity of the wit gravitates into the learning of the pedant, and an ancient farthing moulders into infinitely more value than a modern guinea. 8 THE FARM-HOUSE. Love and hay Are thick sown, but come up full of thistles. Beaumont and Fletcher. WAS so much pleased with the anecdotes jgN glia which were told me of Ready-Money Jack Tibbets, that I got Master Simon, a day or two since, to take me to his house. It was an old-fashioned farm-house, built of brick, with curiously twisted chimneys. It stood at a lit- • tie distance from the road, with a southern expos- ure, looking upon a soft, green slope of meadow. There was a small garden in front, with a row of beehives humming among beds of sweet herbs and flowers. Well - scoured milking - tubs, with bright copper hoops, hung on the garden paling. Fruit-trees were trained up against the cottage, and pots of flowers stood in the windows. A fat, superannuatBi mastiff* lay in the sunshine at the door, with a sleek cat sleeping peacefully across him. Mr. Tibbets was from home at the time of our calling, but we were received with hearty and homely welcome by his wife : a notable, motherly woman, and a complete pattern for wives ; since, according to Master Simon’s account, she never THE FARM-IIOUSE. 115 contradicts honest Jack, and yet manages to have her own way, and to control him in everything. She received us in the main room of the house, a kind of parlor and hall, with great brown beams of timber across it, which Mr. Tibbets is apt to point out with some exultation, observing, that they don’t put such timber in houses nowadays. The furniture was old-fashioned, strong, and high- ly polished; the walls were hung with colored prints of the story of the Prodigal Son, who was represented in a red coat and leather breeches. Over the fireplace was a blunderbuss, and a hard- favored likeness of Ready-Money Jack, taken, when he was a young man, by the same artist that painted the tavern-sign ; his mother having taken a notion that the Tibbets had as much right to have a gallery of family portraits as the folks at the Hall. The good dame pressed us very much to take some refreshment, and tempted us with a variety of household dainties, so that we were glad to compound by tasting some of her home- made wines. While we were there, the son and heir-apparent came home : a good-looking young fellow, and something of a rustic beau. He took us over the premises, and showed us the whole establishment. An air of homely but substantial plenty prevailed throughout ; everything was of ‘lie best materials, and in the best condition. Nothing was out of place, or ill made ; and you saw everywhere the signs of a man who took rare to have the worth of his money, and paid as he went. 116 BRACEBllIDGE HALL. The farm-yard was well stocked ; under a shed was a taxed cart, in trim order, in which Ready- Money Jack took his wife about the country. His well-fed horse neighed from the stable, and when led out into the yard, to use the words of young Jack, “ he shone like a bottle ; ” for he said the old man made it a rule that everything about him should fare as well as he did himself. I was pleased to see the pride which the young fellow seemed to have of his father. He gave us several particulars concerning his habits, which were pretty much to the effect of those I have already mentioned. He had never suffered an account to stand in his life, always providing the money before he purchased anything ; and, if pos- sible, paying in gold and silver. He had a great dislike to paper money, and seldom went without a considerable sum in gold about him. On my observing that it was a wonder he had never been waylaid and robbed, the young fellow smiled at the idea of any one venturing upon such an ex- ploit, for I believe he thinks the old man would be a match for Robin Hood and all his gang. ■ I have noticed that Master Simon seldom goes into any house without having a world of private talk with some one or other of the family, being a kind of universal counsellor and confidant. We had not been long at the farm, before the old dame got him into a corner of her parlor, where they had a long whispering conference together ; in which I saw by his shrugs that there were some dubious matters discussed, and by his nods that he agreed with everything she said. 77/A’ FARM-HOUSE. . 117 After we had come out, the young man accom panied us a little distance, and then, drawing Master Simon aside into a green lane, they walked and talked together for nearly half an hour. Mas- ter Simon, who has the usual propensity of con- fidants to blab everything to the next friend they meet with, let me know that there was a love- affair in the question ; the young fellow having been smitten with the charms of Phoebe Wilkins, the pretty niece of the housekeeper at the Hall. Like most other love-concerns, it had brought its troubles and perplexities. Dame Tibbets had long been on intimate, gossiping terms with the housekeeper, who often visited the farm-house ; but when the neighbors spoke to her of the like- lihood of a match between her son and Phoebe Wilkins, “ Marry come up ! ” she scouted the very idea. The girl had acted as Lady’s maid, and it was beneath the blood of the Tibbets, who had lived on their own lands time out of mind, and owed reverence and thanks to nobody, to have the heir-apparent marry a servant ! These vaporings had faithfully been carried to the housekeeper’s ears by one of their mutual go-between friends. The old housekeeper’s blood, if not as ancient, was as quick as that of Dame Tibbets. She had been accustomed to carry a high head at the Hall and among the villagers ; and her faded brocade rustled with indignation at the slight cast upon her alliance by the wife of a petty farmer. She maintained that her niece aad been a companion rather than a waiting-maid to the young ladies. “ Thank heavens, she was 118 BRA CEBRIDGE IIALL. not obliged to work for her living, and was as idle as any young lady in the land ; and when somebody died, would receive something that would be worth the notice of some folks, with all their ready money/’ A bitter feud had thus taken place between the two worthy dames, and the young people were forbidden to think of one another. As to young Jack, he was too much in love to reason upon the matter ; and being a little heady, and not standing in much awe of his mother, was ready to sacrifice the whole dignity of the Tibbets to his passion. He had lately, however, had a violent quarrel with his mistress, in consequence of some coquetry on her part, and at present stood aloof. The politic mother was exerting all her ingenuity to widen this accidental breach ; but, as is most commonly the case, the more she med- dled with this perverse inclination of her son, the stronger it grew. In the mean time Old Ready- Money was kept completely in the dark ; both parties were in awe and uncertainty as to what might be his way of taking the matter, and dread- ed to awaken the sleeping lion. Between father and son, therefore, the worthy Mrs. Tibbets was full of business, and at her wit’s end. It is true there was no great danger of honest Ready-Mon- ey’s finding the thing out, if left to himself, for he was of a most unsuspicious temper, and by no means quick of apprehension ; but there was daily risk of his attention being aroused by those cob- webs which his indefatigable wife was continually spinning about his nose. THE FARM-HOUSE . 119 Such is the distracted state of politics in the domestic empire of Ready-Money Jack ; which only shows the intrigues and internal dangers to which the best regulated governments are liable. In this perplexed situation of their affairs, both mother and son have applied to Master Simon for counsel ; and, with all his experience in med- dling with other people’s concerns, he finds it an exceedingly difficult part to play, to agree with both parties, seeing that their opinions and wishes are so diametrically opposite. HORSEMANSHIP. A coach was a strange monster in those days, and the sight of on€ put both horse and man into amazement. Some said it was a great srabshell brought out of China, and some imagined it to be one of the pagan temples, in which the canibals adored the divell. Taylor, the water poet. HAVE made casual mention, more than once, of one of the Squire’s antiquated retainers, old Christy the huntsman. I find that his crabbed humor is a source of much entertainment among the young men of the fam- ily ; the Oxonian, particularly, takes a mischiev- ous pleasure now and then in slyly rubbing the old man against the grain, and then smoothing him down again ; for the old fellow is as ready to bristle up his back as a porcupine. He rides a venerable hunter called Pepper, which is a counterpart of himself, a heady, cross-grained animal, that frets the flesh off its bones ; bites, kicks, and plays all manner of villanous tricks. He is as tough, and nearly as old as his rider, who has ridden him time out of mind, and is, in- deed, the only one that can do anything with him. Sometimes, however, they have a complete quarrel, and a dispute for mastery, and then, I am told, it is as good as a farce to see the heat HORSEMANSHIP. 121 they both get into, and tlie wrongheaded contest that ensues ; for they are quite knowing in each other’s ways, and in the art of teasing and fret- ting each other. Notwithstanding these doughty brawls, however, there is nothing that nettles old Christy sooner than to question the merits of his horse ; which he upholds as tenaciously as a faith- ful husband will vindicate the virtues of the ter- magant spouse that gives him a curtain-lecture every night of his life. The young men call old Christy their “ pro- fessor of equitation,” and in accounting for the appellation, they let me into some particulars of the Squire’s mode of bringing up his children. There is an odd mixture of eccentricity and good sense in all the opinions of my worthy host. His mind is like modern Gothic, where plain brick- work is set off with pointed arches and quaint tracery. Though the main groundwork of his opinions is correct, yet he has a thousand little notions, picked up from old books, which stand out whimsically on the surface of his mind. Thus, in educating his boys, he chose Peachem, Markam, and such like old English writers, for his manuals. At an early age he took the lads out of their mother’s hands, who was disposed, as mothers are apt to be, to make fine, orderly children of them, that should keep out of sun and rain, and never soil their hands, nor tear their clothes. In place of this, the Squire turned them loose to run free and wild about the park, without heeding wind or weather. He was also particu- 122 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. larly attentive in making them bold and expert horsemen ; and these were the days when old Christy, the huntsman, enjoyed great importance as the lads were put under his care to practise them at the leaping-bars, and to keep an eye upon them in the chase. The Squire always objected to their riding in carriages of any kind, and is still a little tena- cious on this point. He often rails against the universal use of carriages, and quotes the words of honest Nashe to that effect. “ It was thought,” says Nashe, in his Quaternio, “a kind of solecism, and to savor of effeminacy, for a young gentle- man in the flourishing time of his age to creep into a coach, and to shroud himself from wind and weather : our great delight was to outbrave the blustering Boreas upon a great horse ; to arm and prepare ourselves to go with Mars and Bellona into the field was our sport and pastime ; coaches and caroches we left unto them for whom they were first invented, for ladies and gentlemen, and decrepit age and impotent people.” The Squire insists that the English gentlemen have lost much of their hardiness and manhood since the introduction of carriages. “ Compare,” he will say, “ the fine gentleman of former times, ever on horseback, booted and spurred, and travel- stained, but open, frank, manly, and chivalrous, with the fine gentleman of the present day, full of affectation and effeminacy, rolling along a turn- pike in his voluptuous vehicle. The young men of those days were rendered brave, and lofty, and generous in their notions, by almost living in their HORSEMANSHIP. 123 saddles, and having their foaming steeds ‘ like proud seas under them/ There is something,” he adds, “ in bestriding a fine horse, that makes a man feel more than mortal. He seems to have doubled his nature, and to have added to his own courage and sagacity the power, the speed, and stateliness of the superb animal on which he i3 mounted.” “ It is a great delight,” says old Nashe, “ to see a young gentleman with his skill and cunning, by his voice, rod, and spur, better to manage and to command the great Bucephalus, than the strong- est Milo, with all his strength ; one while to see him make him tread, trot, and gallop the ring ; and one after to see him make him gather up roundly ; to bear his head steadily ; to run a full career swiftly ; to stop a sudden lightly : anon after to see him make him advance, to yorke, to go back, and side long, to turn on either hand ; to gallop the gallop galliard ; to do the capriole, the chambetta, and dance the curvetty.” In conformity to these ideas, the Squire had them all on horseback at an early age, and made them ride, slapdash, about the country, without flinching at hedge, or ditch, or stone wall, to the imminent danger of their necks. Even the fair Julia was partially included in this system ; and, under the instructions of old Christy, has become one of the best horsewomen in the country. The Squire says it is better than all the cosmetics and sweeteners of the breath that ever were invented. He extols the horsemanship *f the ladies in former times, when Queen Eliza- 124 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. beth would scarcely suffer the rain to stop her accustomed ride. “ And then think,” he will say, u what nobler and sweeter beings it made them. What a difference must there be, both in mind and body, between a joyous high-spirited dame of those days, glowing with health and exercise, freshened by every breeze, seated loftily and gracefully on her saddle, with plume on head, and hawk on hand, and her descendant of the present day, the pale victim of routs and ball-rooms, sunk languidly in one corner of an enervating car- riage.” The Squire’s equestrian system has been at- tended with great success, for his sons, having passed through the whole course of instruction without breaking neck or limb, are now healthful, spirited, and active, and have the true English- man’s love for a horse. If their manliness and frankness are praised in their father’s hearing, he quotes the old Persian maxim, and says, they have been taught “ to ride, to shoot, and to speak the truth.” It is true the Oxonian has now and then prac- tised the old gentleman’s doctrines a little in the extreme. He is a gay youngster, rather fonder of his horse than his book, with a little dash of the dandy ; though the ladies all declare that he is “ the flower of the flock.” The first year that he was sent to Oxford he had a tutor appointed to overlook him, — a dry chip of the university. When he returned home in the vacation, the Squire made many inquiries about how he liked his college, his studies, and his tutor. HORSEMANSHIP. 125 a Oh, as to my tutor, sir, I ’ve parted with him some time since.” “ You have ; and pray, why so ? ” “ Oh, sir, hunting was all the go at our college, and I was a little short of funds ; so I discharged my tutor, and took a horse, you know.” “ Ah, I was not aware of that, Tom,” said the Squire, mildly. When Tom returned to college, his allowance was doubled, that he might be enabled to keep both horse and tutor. LOVE SYMPTOMS. I will now begin to sigh, read poets, look pale, go neatly, and b« most apparently in love. — Marsxoh. H SHOULD not be surprised if we should have another pair of turtles at the Hall ; for Master Simon has informed me, in great confidence, that he suspects the general of some design upon the susceptible heart of Lady Lilly craft. I have, indeed, noticed a growing at- tention and courtesy in the veteran towards her ladyship ; he softens very much in her company, sits by her at table, and entertains her with long stories about Seringapatam, and pleasant anec- dotes of the Mulligatawney club. I have even seen him present her with a full-blown rose from the hot-house, in a style of the most captivating gallantry, and it was accepted vvith great suavity and graciousness ; for her ladyship delights in re- ceiving the homage and attention of the sex. Indeed, the general was one of the earliest ad- mirers that dangled in her train during her short reign of beauty ; and they flirted together for half a season in London, some thirty or forty years since. She reminded him lately, in the course of a conversation about former days, of LOVE SYMPTOMS. 127 the time when he used to ride a white horse, and to canter so gallantly by the side of her carriage in Hyde Park ; whereupon I have remarked that the veteran has regularly escorted her since, when she rides out on horseback ; and, I suspect, he almost persuades himself that he makes as capti- vating an appearance as in his youthful days. It would be an interesting and memorable circumstance in the chronicles of Cupid, if this spark of the tender passion, after lying dormant for such a length of time, should again be fanned *into a flame, from amidst the ashes of two burnt- out hearts. It would be an instance of perdura- ble fidelity, worthy of being placed beside those recorded in one of the Squire’s favorite tomes, commemorating the constancy of the olden times ; in which times, we are told, Men and wymmen coulue love togyders seven yeres, and no licours lustes were betwene them, and thenne was love, trouthe, and feythfulnes ; and lo in lyke wyse was used love in Kyng Arthurs dayes.” # Still, however, this may be nothing but a little venerable flirtation, the general being a vet- eran dangler, and the good lady habituated to these kind of attentions. Master Simon, on the other hand, thinks the. general is looking about him with the wary eye of an old campaigner ; and now that he is on the wane, is desirous of getting into warm winter-quarters. Much allow- ance, however, must be made for Master Simon’s uneasiness on the subject, for he looks on Lady Lilly craft’s house as one of his strongholds, where * Morte cl ’Arthur. 128 BRACEBR1DGE HALL. he is lord of the ascendant ; and, with all his ad- miration of the general, I much doubt whether he would like to see him lord of the lady and the establishment. There are certain other symptoms, notwith- standing, that give an air of probability to Mas- ter Simon’s intimations. Thus, for instance, I have observed that the general has been very as- siduous in his attentions to her ladyship’s dogs, and has several times exposed his fingers to im- minent jeopardy, in attempting to pat Beauty on the head. It is to be hoped his advances to the mistress will be more favorably received, as all his overtures towards a caress are greeted by the pestilent little cur with a wary kindling of the eye, and a most venomous growl. He has, moreover, been very complaisant to- wards my lady’s gentlewoman, the immaculate Mrs. Hannah, whom he used to speak of in a way that I do not choose to mention. Whether she has the same suspicions with Master Simon or not, I can- not say ; but she receives his civilities with no better grace than the implacable Beauty ; un- screwing her mouth into a most acid smile, and looking as though she could bite a piece out of him. In short, the poor general seems to have as formidable foes to contend with as a hero of an- cient fairy tale ; who had to fight his way to his enchanted princess through ferocious monsters of every kind, and to encounter the brimstone ter- rors of some fiery dragon. There is still another circumstance which in- clines me to give very considerable credit to Mas- LbVE SYMPTOMS. 129 ter Simon’s suspicions. Lady Lillyeraft is very fond of quoting poetry, and the conversation often turns upon it, on which occasions the gem eral is thrown completely out. It happened the other day that Spenser’s “ Fairy Queen” was the theme for the great part of the morning, and the poor gentleman sat perfectly silent. I found hi in not long after in the library, with spectacles on nose, a book in his -hand, and fast asleep. On my approach he awoke, slipped the spectacles into his pocket, and began to read very attentively. Af- ter a little while he put a paper in the place, and laid the volume aside, which I perceived was the “ Fairy Queen.” I have had the curiosity to watch how he got on in his poetical studies ; but, though I have repeatedly seen him with the book in his hand, yet I find the paper has not advanced above three or four pages ; the general being extremely apt to fall asleep when he reads. • 9 FALCONRY. Ne is there hawk which man tie th on her perch, Whether high tow’ring or accousting low, But I the measure of her flight doe search, And all her prey and all her diet know. Spenser. HERE are several grand sources of lam entation furnished to the worthy Squire by the improvement of society and the grievous advancement of knowledge ; among which none, I believe, causes him more frequent regret than the unfortunate invention of gun- powder. To this he continually traces the decay of some favorite custom, and, indeed, the general downfall of all chivalrous and romantic usages. “ English soldiers,” he says, “ have never been the men they were in the days of the cross-bow and the long-bow ; when they depended upon the strength of the arm, and the English archer could draw a cloth -yard shaft to the head. These were the times when, at the battles of Cressy, Poictiers, and Agincourt, the French chivalry was completely destroyed by the bowmen of England. The yeomanry, too, have never been what they were, when, in times of peace, they were con- stantly exercised with the bow, and archery w«\s a favorite holiday pastime.” FALCONRY. 131 Among the other evils which have followed in the train of this fatal invention of gunpowder the Squire classes the total decline of the noble art of falconry. 44 Shooting,” he says, 44 is a skulk- ing, treacherous, solitary sport in comparison ; but hawking was a gallant, open, sunshiny recreation ; it was the generous sport of hunting carried into the skies.” 44 It was, moreover,” he says, 44 according to Braithwaite, the stately amusement of 4 high and mounting spirits ’ ; for, as the old Welsh proverb affirms, in those times 4 you might know a gentle- man by his hawk, horse, and greyhound.’ In- deed, a cavalier was seldom seen abroad without his hawk on his fist ; and even a lady of rank did not think herself completely equipped, in riding forth, unless she had her tassel-gentel held by jesses on her delicate hand. It was thought in those excellent days, according to an old writer, 4 quite sufficient for noblemen to winde their horn, and to carry their hawke fair; and leave study and learning to the children of mean peo- ple.’ ” Knowing the good Squire’s hobby, therefore, I have not been surprised in finding that, among the various recreations of former times, which he has endeavored to revive in the little world in which he rules, he has bestowed great attention on the noble art of falconry. In this he, of course, has been seconded by his indefatigable coadjutor, Master Simon ; and even the parson has thrown considerable light on their labors, by various hints the subject, which he has met with in old 132 BRA CEBR1DGE UALL. English works. As to the precious work of that famous dame, Juliana Barnes ; the “ Gentleman’s Academic,” by Markham ; and the other well- known treatises that were the manuals of ancient sportsmen, they have them at their fingers’ ends ; but they have more especially studied some old tapestry in the house, whereon is represented a party of cavaliers and stately dames, with doub- lets, caps, and flaunting feathers, mounted on horse, with attendants on foot, all in animated pursuit of the game. The Squire has discountenanced the killing of any hawks in his neighborhood, but gives a lib- eral bounty for all that are brought him alive ; so that the Hall is well stocked with all kinds of birds of prey. On these he and Master Simon have exhausted their patience and ingenuity, en- deavoring to “ reclaim ” them, as it is termed, and to train them up for the sport ; but they have met with continual checks and disappointments. Their feathered school has turned out the most untractable and graceless scholars ; nor is it the least of their labor to drill the retainers who were to act as ushers under them, and to take immedi- ate charge of these refractory birds. Old Christy and the gamekeeper both, for a time, set their faces against the whole plan of education : Christy having been nettled at hearing what he terms a wild-goose chase put on a par with a fox-hunt ; and the gamekeeper having always been accus- tomed to look upon hawks as arrant poacher? which it was his duty to shoot down, and nail, iu terrorem, against the out-houses. FALCONRY. 133 Christy has at length taken the matter in hand, but has done still more mischief by his intermed- dling. He is as positive and wrong-headed about this, as he is about hunting. Master Simon has continual disputes with him as to feeding and training the hawks. He reads to him long pas- sages from the old authors I have mentioned; but Christy, who cannot read, has a sovereign contempt for all book-knowledge, and persists in treating the hawks according to his own notions, which are drawn from his experience, in younger days, in the rearing of game-cocks. The consequence is, that, between these jarring systems, the poor birds have had a most trying and unhappy time of it. Many have fallen vic- tims to Christy’s feeding and Master Simon’s phys- icking ; for the latter has gone to work secundem artem , and has given them all the vomitings and scourings laid down in the books ; never were poor hawks so fed and physicked before. Others have been lost by being but half “ reclaimed ” or tamed ; for, on being taken into the field, they have “ raked ” after the game quite out of hear- ing of the call, and never returned to school. All these disappointments had been petty, yet sore grievances to the Squire, and had made him to despond about success. He has lately, how- ever, been made happy by the receipt of a fine Welsh falcon, which Master Simon terms a stately highflyer. It is a present from the Squire’s friend, Sir Watkyn Williams Wynne ; and is, no doubt, a descendant of some ancient line of Welsh princes of the air, that have long lorded it over 134 BRACEBRJDGE HALL. their kingdom of clouds, from Wynnstay to the very summit of Snowden, or the brow of Pen- man mawr. Ever since the Squire received this invaluable present, he has been as impatient to sally forth and make proof of it, as was Don Quixote to as- say his suit of armor. There have been some demurs as to whether the bird was in proper health and training ; but these have been over- ruled by the vehement desire to play with a new toy ; and it has been determined, right or wrong, in season or out of season, to have a day’s sport in hawking to-morrow. The Hall, as usual, whenever the Squire is about to make some new sally on his hobby, is all agog with the thing. Miss Templeton, who is brought up in reverence for all her guardian’s humors, has proposed to be of the party, and Lady Lillycrafl has talked also of riding out to the scene of action and looking on. This has gratified the old gentleman extremely ; he hails it as an auspicious omen of the revival of falconry, and does not despair but the time will come when it will be again the pride of a fine lady to carry about a noble falcon in preference to a parrot or a lap-dog. I have amused myself with the bustling prep- arations of that busy spirit, Master Simon, and the continual thwartings he receives from that genuine son of a pepper-box, old Christy. They have had half a dozen consultations about how the hawk is to be prepared for the morning’s sport. Old Nimrod, as usual, has always got in FALCONRY. 135 a pet, upon which Master Simon has invariably given up the point, observing, in a good-humored tone, “ Well, well, have it your own way, Christy ; only don’t put yourself in a passion ; ” a reply which always nettles the old man ten times more than ever HAWKING. The soaring hawk, from fist that flies, Her falconer doth constrain, Sometimes to range the ground about, To find her out again ; And if by sight, or sound of bell, His falcon he may see, Wo ho ! he cries, with cheerful voice — The gladdest man is he. Handfull of Pleasant Delites. T an early hour this morning the Hall was in a bustle, preparing for the sport of the day. I heard Master Simon whistling and singing under my window at sun- rise, as he was preparing the jesses for the hawk’s legs, and could distinguish now and then a stanza of one of his favorite old ditties : “ In peascod time, when hound to horn Gives note that buck be kill’d ; And little boy with pipe of com Is tending sheep a-field,” &c. A hearty breakfast, well flanked by cold meats, was served up in the great hall. The whole garrison of retainers and hangers-on were in mo- tion, reinforced by volunteer idlers from the vil- lage. The horses were led up and down before the door ; everybody had something to say, and HA WKING. 137 something to do, and hurried hither and thither ; there was a direful yelping of dogs : some that were to accompany us being eager to set off, and others that were to stay at home being whipped back to their kennels. In short, for once, the good Squire’s mansion might have been taken as a good specimen of one of the rantipole establish- ments of the good old feudal times. Breakfast being finished, the chivalry of the Hall prepared to take the field. The fair Julia was of the party, in a hunting-dress, with a light plume of feathers in her riding-hat. As she mounted her favorite galloway, 1 remarked with pleasure that old Christy forgot his usual crusti- ness, and hastened to adjust her saddle and bridle. He touched his cap as she smiled on him and thanked him ; and then, looking round at the other attendants, gave a knowing nod of his head, in which I read pride and exultation at the charm- ing appearance of his pupil. Lady Lillycraft had likewise determined to witness the sport. She was dressed in her broad white beaver, tied under the chin, and a riding- habit of the last century. She rode her sleek, ambling pony, whose motion was as easy as a rocking-chair, and was gallantly escorted by the general, who looked not unlike one of the doughty heroes in the old prints of the battle of Blenheim. The parson, likewise, accompanied her on the other side ; for this was a learned amusement in which he took great interest, and, indeed, had given much counsel, from his knowledge of old customs. 138 BRACEBRIDGE IlALLu At length everything was arranged, and we set off from the Hall. The exercise on horseback puts one in fine spirits ; and the scene was gay and animating. The young men of the family accompanied Miss Templeton. She sat lightly and gracefully in her saddle, her plumes dancing and waving in the air; and the group had a charming effect as they appeared and disappeared among the trees, cantering along with the bound- ing animation of youth. The Squire and Master Simon rode together, accompanied by old Christy, mounted on Pepper. The latter bore the hawk on his fist, as he insisted the bird was most ac- customed to him. There was a rabble rout on foot, composed of retainers from the Hall, and some idlers from the village, with two or three spaniels, for the purpose of starting the game. A kind of corps de reserve came on quietly in the rear, composed of Lady Lillycraft, General Harbottle, the parson, and a fat footman. Her ladyship ambled gently along on her pony, while the general, mounted on a tall hunter, looked down upon her with an air of the most protect- ing gallantry. For my part, being no sportsman, I kept with this last party, or rather lagged behind, that I might take in the whole picture ; and the parson occasionally slackened his pace and jogged on in company with me. The sport led us at some distance from the Hall, in a soft meadow, reeking with the moist verdure of spring. A little river ran through it, bordered by willows, which had put forth their HA WRING. 139 tender early foliage. The sportsmen were in quest of herons which were said to keep about this stream. There was some disputing, already, among the leaders of the sport. The Squire, Master Simon, and old Christy, came every now and then to a pause, to consult together, like the field-officers in an army ; and I saw, by certain motions of the head, that Christy was as positive as any old wrong-headed German commander. As we were prancing up this, quiet meadow, every sound we made was answered by a distinct echo from the sunny wall of an old building on the opposite margin of the stream ; and I paused to listen to this 44 spirit of a sound,” which seems to love such quiet and beautiful places. The parson informed me that this was the ruin of an ancient grange, and was supposed, by the country people, to be haunted by a dobbie, — a kind of rural sprite, something like Robin Goodfellow. They often fancied the echo to be the voice of the dobbie answering them, and were rather shy of disturbing it after dark. He added, that the Squire was very careful of this ruin, on account of the superstition connected with it. As 1 con- sidered this local habitation of an 44 airy nothing,” I called to mind the fine description of an cell* in Webster’s 44 Duchess of Malfy ” : 44 Yond side o 1 th’ river lies a wall Piece of a cloister, which in my opinion Gives the best echo that von ever heard: So plain is the distinction of our words, That many have supposed it a spirit 'that answer 4 ” 140 BRACEBRIDGE HaLL. The parson went on to comment on a pleasing and fanciful appellation which the Jews of old gave to the echo, which they called Batli-kool, that is to say, “ the daughter of the voice ; ” they considered it an oracle, supplying in the second temple the want of the urim and thummim, with which the first was honored* The little man was just entering very largely and learnedly up- on the subject, when we were startled by a pro- digious bawling, shouting, and yelping. A flight of crows, alarmed by the approach of our forces, had suddenly rose from a meadow ; a cry was put up by the rabble rout on foot. “ Now, Christy ! now is your time, Christy !” The enquire and Master Simon, who were beating \ p the river banks in quest of a heron, called ouc eagerly to Christy to keep quiet ; the old man, vexed and bewildered by the confusion of voices, completely lost his head ; in his flurry he slipped off the hood, cast off the falcon, and away flew the crows, and away soared the hawk. I had paused on a rising ground, close to Lady Lillycraft and her escort, whence I had a good view of the sport. I was pleased with the ap- pearance of the party in the meadow, riding along in the direction that the bird flew ; their bright beaming faces turned up to the bright skies as they watched the game ; the attendants on foot scampering along, looking up, and calling out*, and the dogs bounding and yelping with clamor- ous sympathy. The hawk had singled out a quarry from * Beleker’s Monde enchant^. 11 A WRING. 141 among the carrion crew. It was curious to see the efforts of the two birds to get above each uther ; one to make the fatal swoop, the other to avoid it. Now they crossed athwart a bright feathery cloud, and now they were against a clear blue sky. I confess, being no sportsman, I was more interested for the poor bird that was striv- ing for its life, than for the hawk that was play- ing the part of a mercenary soldier. At length the hawk got the upperhand, and made a rush- ing stoop at her quarry, but the latter made as sudden a surge downwards, and slanting up again, evaded the blow, screaming and making the best of his way for a dry tree on the brow of a neighboring hill ; while the hawk, disappointed }f her blow, soared up again into the air, and appeared to be “ raking ” off. It was in vain old Christy called, and whistled, and endeavored to lure her down ; she paid no regard to him : and, indeed, his calls were drowned in the shouts and yelps of the army of militia that had followed him into the field. Just then an exclamation from Lady Lilly craft made me turn my head. I beheld a complete confusion among the sportsmen in the little vale below us. They were galloping and running towards the edge of a bank ; and I was shocked to see Miss Templeton’s horse galloping at large without his rider. I rode to the place to which the others were hurrying, and when I reached the bank, which almost overhung the stream, I saw at the foot of it the fair Julia, pale, bleeding, and apparently lifeless, supported in the arms of her frantic lover. 142 BRA CRBRIDGE HALL. In galloping heedlessly along, with her eyea turned upward, she had unwarily approached too near the bank; it had given way with her, and she and her horse had been precipitated to the pebbled margin of the river. I never saw greater consternation. The cap- tain was distracted, Lady Lillycraft fainting, the Squire in dismay, and Master Simon at his wit’? ends. The beautiful creature at length showed signs of returning life ; she opened her eyes looked around her upon the anxious group, and comprehending in a moment the nature of the scene, gave a sweet smile, and putting her hand in her lover’s, exclaimed feebly, “ I am not much hurt, Guy ! ” I could have taken her to my heart for that single exclamation. It was found, indeed, that she had escaped al- most miraculously, with a contusion of the head, a sprained ankle, and some slight bruises. After her wbund was stanched, she was taken to a neighboring cottage, until a carriage could be summoned to convey her home ; and when this had arrived, the cavalcade, which had issued forth so gayly on this enterprise, returned slowly and pensively to the Hall. I had been charmed by the generous spirit shown by this young creature, who amidst pain and danger had been anxious only to relieve the distress of those around her. I was gratified, therefore, by the universal concern displayed by the domestics on our return. They came crowd- ing down the avenue, each eager to render assist- ance. The butler stood ready with some curb JIA WRING. 143 ously delicate cordial ; the old housekeeper waa provided with half a dozen nostrums, prepared by her own hands according to the family receipt- book ; while her niece, the melting Phoebe, hav- ing no other way of assisting, stood wringing her hands, and weeping aloud. The most material effect that is likely to follow this accident, is a postponement of the nuptials, which were close at hand. Though I commiser- ate the impatience of the captain on that account, yet I should not otherwise be sorry at the de- lay, as it will give me a better opportunity of studying the characters here assembled, with which I grow more and more entertained. I cannot but perceive that the worthy Squire is quite disconcerted at the unlucky result of his hawking experiment, and this unfortunate illus- tration of his eulogy on female equitation. Old Christy, too, is very waspish, having been sorely twitted by Master Simon for having let his hawk fly at carrion. As to the falcon, in the confusion occasioned by the fair Julia’s disaster, the bird was totally forgotten. I make no doubt she has made the best of her way back to the hospitable hall of Sir Watkyn Williams Wynne ; and may very possibly, at this present writing, be pluming her wings among the breezy bowers oi Wynns tay. ST. MARK'S EYE. O ’t is a fearful thing to be no more. Or if to be, to wander after death ! To walk as spirits do, in brakes all day, And, when the darkness comes, to glide in paths That lead to graves ; and in the silent vault, Where lies your own pale shroud, to hover o’er it, Striving to enter your forbidden corpse. Dryden. HE conversation this evening at supper- table took a curious turn on the subject of a superstition, formerly very prevalent in this part of the country, relative to the present night of the year, which is the Eve of St. Mark’s. It was believed, the parson informed us, that if any one would watch in the church-porch on this eve, for three successive years, from eleven to one o’clock at night, he would see on the third year the shades of those of the parish who were to die in the course of the year, pass by him into church, clad in their usual apparel. Dismal as such a sight would be, he assured us that it was formerly a frequent thing for persons to make the necessary vigils. He had known more than one instance in his time. One old woman, who pretended to have seen this phantom procession, was an object of great awe ST. MARK'S EVE. 145 for the whole year afterwards, and caused much uneasiness and mischief. If she shook her head mysteriously at a person, it was like a death-war- rant ; and she had nearly caused the death of a sick person by looking ruefully in at the window. There was also an old man, not many years since, of a sullen, melancholy temperament, who had kept two vigils, and began to excite some talk in the village, when, fortunately for the public comfort, he died shortly after his third watching ; very probably from a cold that he had taken, as the night was tempestuous. It was reported about the village, however, that he had seen his own phantom pass by him into the church. This led to the mention of another superstition of an equally strange and melancholy kind, which, however, is chiefly confined to Wales. It is re- specting what are called corpse candles, little wandering fires, of a pale bluish light, that move about like tapers in the open air, and are sup- posed to designate the way some corpse is to go. One was seen at Lanylar, late at night, hover- ing up and down, along the bank of the Istwith, and was watched by the neighbors until they were tired, and went to bed. Not long after wards there came a comely country lass, from Montgomeryshire, to see her friends, who dwelt >n the opposite side of the river. She thought to ford the stream at the very place where the light had been first seen, but was dissuaded on account of the height of the flood. She walked to and fro along the bank, just where the candle had moved, waring for the subsiding of the wa 10 146 BRACKBRIDGE IIALL. ter. She at length endeavored to cross, but tbt poor girl was drowned in the attempt.* There was something mournful in this little anecdote of rural superstition, that seemed to af- fect all the listeners. Indeed, it is curious to re- mark how completely a conversation of the kind will absorb the attention of a circle, and sobei down its gayety, however boisterous. By degrees I noticed that every one was leaning forward over the table, with eyes earnestly fixed upon the par- son, and at the mention of corpse candles which had been seen about the chamber of a young lady who died on the eve of her wedding-day, Lady Lillycraft turned pale. I have witnessed the introduction of stories of the kind into various evening circles ; they were often commenced in jest, and listened to with smiles ; but I never knew the most gay or the most enlightened of audiences, that were not, if the conversation continued for any length of time, completely and solemnly interested in it. There is, I believe, a degree of superstition lurking in every mind ; and I doubt if any one can thor- oughly examine all his secret notions and im- pulses without detecting it, hidden, perhaps, even from himself. It seems, in fact, to be a part of our nature, like instinct in animals, acting inde- pendently of our reason. It is often found exist- ing in lofty natures, especially those that are poet- ical and aspiring. A great and extraoidmary poet of our day, whose life and writings evince a mind subject to powerful exaltations, is said to * Aubrey’s Miscel. ST. MARK'S EVE. 147 believe in omens and secret intimations. Caesar, it is well known, was greatly under the influence of such belief ; and Napoleon had his good and evil days, and his presiding star. As to the worthy parson, I have no doubt that b.e is strongly inclined to superstition. He is nat- urally credulous, and passes so much of his time searching out popular traditions and supernatural tales, that his mind has probably become infected by them. He has lately been immersed in the “ Demonolatria ” of Nicholas Remigius, concerning supernatural occurrences in Lorraine, and the writings of Joachimus Camerarius, called by Vos- sius the Phoenix of Germany; and he entertains the ladies with stories from them, that make them almost afraid to go to bed at night. I have been charmed myself with some of the wild little super- stitions which he has adduced from Blefkenius, Scheffer, and others, such as those of the Lapland- ers about the domestic spirits which wake them at night, and summon them to go and fish ; of Thor, the deity of thunder, who has power of life and death, health and sickness, and who, armed with the rainbow, shoots his arrows at those evil demons which live on the tops of rocks and moun- tains, and infest the lakes ; of the Juhles or Juhla- folket, vagrant troops of spirits, which roam the dir, and wander up and down by forests and moun- tains, and the moonlight sides of hills. The parson never openly professes his belief in ghosts, but I have remarked that he has a suspi- cious way of pressing great names into the de- fence of supernatural doctrines, and making phi- 148 Bit A CEB RID GE HALL. losophers and saints fight for him. He expati- ates at large on the opinions of the ancient phi- losophers about larves, or nocturnal phantoms, the spirits of the wicked, which wandered like exiles about the earth ; and about those spiritual beings which abode in the air, but descended occasionally to earth, and mingled among mortals, acting a? agents between them and the gods. Pie quotes edso from Philo the rabbi, the contemporary of the apostles, and, according to some, the friend of St. Paul, who says that the air is full of spirits of different ranks ; some destined for a time to exist in mortal bodies, from which, being emanci- pated, they pass and repass between heaven and earth, as agents or messengers in the service of the Deity. But the worthy little man assumes a bolder tone when he quotes from the fathers of the Church ; such as St. Jerome, who gives it as the opinion of all the doctors, that the air is filled with powers opposed to each other ; and Lactantius, who says that corrupt and dangerous spirits wan- der over the earth, and seek to console themselves lor their own fall by effecting the ruin of the hu- man race ; and Clemens Alexandrinus, who is of opinion that the souls of the blessed have knowl edge of what passes among men, the same as an- gels have. I am now alone in my chamber, but these themes have taken such hold of my imagination, :hat I cannot sleep. The room in which I sit is just fitted to foster such a state of mind. The walls are hung with tapestry the figures of which ST. MARK'S EVE. 149 are faded, and look like unsubstantial shapes melt- ing away from sight. Over the fireplace is the portrait of a lady, who, according to the house* keeper’s tradition, pined to death for the loss of her lover in the battle of Blenheim. She has a most pale and plaintive countenance, and seems to fix her eyes mournfully upon me. The family have long since retired. I have heard their steps die away, and the distant doors clap to after them. The murmur of voices, and the peal of remote laughter, no longer reach the ear. The clock from the church, in which so many of the former inhabitants of this house lie buried, has chimed the awful hour of midnight. I have sat by the window and mused upon the dusky landscape, watching the lights disappearing, one by one, from the distant village ; and the moon rising in her silent majesty, and leading up all the silver pomp of heaven. As I have gazed upon these quiet groves and shadowy lawns, sil- vered over, and imperfectly lighted by streaks of dewy moonshine, my mind has been crowded by “ thick coming fancies,” concerning those spiritual beings which “ walk the earth Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep.” Are there, indeed, such beings ? Is this space between us and the Deity filled up by innumerable orders of spiritual beings forming the same grada- tions between the human soul and divine perfec- tion, that we see prevailing from humanity down- wards to the meanest insect ? It is a sublime and beautiful doctrine, inculcated by the early 150 BliACEBRIDGE HALL. fathers, that there are guardian angels appointed to watch over cities and nations ; to take care of flic welfare of good men, and to guard and guide the steps of helpless infancy. “ Nothing,” says St. Jerome, “ gives us a greater idea of the dignity of our soul, than that God has given each of us, at the moment of our birth, an angel to have care of it.” Even the doctrine of departed spirits returning to visit the scenes and beings which were dear to them during the body’s existence, though it has been debased by the absurd superstitions of the vulgar, in itself is awfully solemn and sublime However lightly it may be ridiculed, yet the at tention involuntarily yielded to it whenever it is made the subject of serious discussion, its preva- lence in all ages and countries, and even among newly discovered nations that have had no pre- vious interchange of thought with other parts of the world, prove it to be one of those mysterious, and almost instinctive beliefs to which, if left to ourselves, we should naturally incline. In spite of all the pride of reason and philoso- phy, a vague doubt will still lurk in the mind, and perhaps will never be perfectly- eradicated ; as it is concerning a matter that does not admit of positive demonstration. Everything connected with our spiritual nature is full of doubt and difficulty. “ We are fearfully and wonderfully made ; ” we are surrounded by mysteries, and we are mysteries even to ourselves. Who yet has been able to comprehend and describe the nature of the soul, its connection with the body, or in ST. MARK'S EVE. 151 what part of the frame it is situated ? We know merely that it does exist; but whence it came, and when it entered into us, and how it is re- tained, and where it is seated, and how it oper- ates, are all matters of mere speculation and con- tradictory theories. If, then, we are thus ignorant of this spiritual essence, even while it forms a part of ourselves, and is continually present to our consciousness, how can we pretend to ascer- tain or to deny its powers and operations when released from its fleshly prison-house ? It is more the manner, therefore, in which this super- stition has been degraded, than its intrinsic ab- surdity, that has brought it into contempt. Raise it above the frivolous purposes to which it has been applied, strip it of the gloom and horror with which it has been surrounded, and none of the whole circle of visionary creeds could more delightfully elevate the imagination, or more tenderly affect the heart. It would become a sovereign comfort at the bed of death, soothing the bitter tear wrung from us by the agony of our mortal separation. What could be more consol- ing than the idea that the souls of those whom we once loved were permitted to return and watch over our welfare ? That affectionate and guardian spirits sat by our pillows when we slept, keeping a vigil over our most helpless hours? That beauty and innocence which had languished into the tomb, yet smiled unseen around us, re- vealing themselves in those blest dreams wherein we live over again the hours of past endearment ? A. belief of this kind would, I should think, be a 152 BRACEBR1DGE HALL. new incentive to virtue ; rendering us circumspect even in our secret moments, from the idea that those we once loved and honored were invisible witnesses of all our actions. It would take away, too, from that loneliness and destitution which we are apt to feel more and more as we get on in our pilgrimage through the wilderness of this world, and find that those who set forward with us, lovingly, and cheerily, on the journey, have one by one dropped away from our side. Place the superstition in this light, and I confess I should like to be a believer in it. I see nothing in it that is incompatible with the ten- der and merciful nature of our religion, nor re- volting to the wishes and affections of the heart. There are departed beings whom I have loved as I never again shall love in this world, — who have loved me as I never again shall be loved ! If such beings do ever retain in their blessed spheres the attachments which they felt on earth, if they take an interest in the poor concerns of transient mortality, and are permitted to hold communion with those whom they have loved on earth, I feel as if now, at this deep hour of night, in this silence and solitude, I could receive their visitation with the most solemn, but unalloyed delight. In truth, such visitations would be too happy for this world ; they would be incompatible with the nature of this imperfect state of being. We are here placed in a mere scene of spiritual thral- dom and restraint. Our souls are shut in and limited by bounds and barriers ; shackled by ST. MARK'S EVE. 153 mortal infirmities, and subject to all the gross im- pediments of matter. In vain would they seek to act independently of the body, and to mingle together in spiritual intercourse. They can only act here through their fleshly organs. Their earthly loves are made up of transient embraces and long separations. The most intimate friend- ship, of what brief and scattered portions of time does it consist ! We take each other by the hand, and we exchange a few words and looks of kind- ness, and we rejoice together for a few short mo- ments, and then days, months, years intervene, and we see and know nothing of each other. Or, granting that we dwell together for the full season of this our mortal life, the grave soon closes its gates between us, and then our spirits are doomed to remain in separation and widowhood ; until they meet again in that more perfect state of being, where soul will dwell with soul in bliss- ful communion,- and there will be neither death, nor absence, nor anything else to interrupt our felicity. *** In the foregoing paper I have alluded to the writings of some of the old Jewish rabbins. They abound with wild theories ; but among them are many truly poetical flights ; and their ideas are often very beautifully expressed. Their spec- ulations on the nature of angels are curious and fanciful, though much resembling the doctrines of the ancient philosophers. In the writings of the Rabbi Eleazer is an account of the temptation of our first parents, and the fall of the angels, which 154 BRA CLBRIDG E HALL. the parson pointed out to me as having probably furnished some of the groundwork for u Paradise Lost.” According to Eleazer, the ministering angels said to the Deity, “ What is there in man that thou makest him of such importance ? Is he any- thing else than vanity ? for he can scarcely reason a little on terrestrial things.” To which God re- plied, “Do you imagine that I will be exalted and glorified only by you here above ? I am the same below that I am here. Who is there among you that can call all the creatures by their names?” There was none found among them that could do so. At that moment Adam arose, and called all the creatures by their name. See- ing which, the ministering angels said among themselves, “ Let us consult together how we may cause Adam to sin against the Creator, other- wise he will not fail to become our master.” Sammael, who was a great prince in the heav- ens, was present at this, council, with the saints of the first order, and the seraphim of six bands. Sammael chose several out of the twelve orders to accompany him, and descended below, for the purpose of visiting all the creatures which God had created. He found none more cunning and more fit to do evil than the serpent. The Rabbi then treats of the seduction and the fall of man ; of the consequent fall of the de- mon, and the punishment which God inflicted on Adam, Eve, and the serpent. “ He made them all come before him ; pronounced nine maledic- tions on Adam and Eve, and condemned them to ST. MARK'S EVE. 155 Buffer death ; and he precipitated Sammael and all his band from heaven. He cut off the feet of the serpent, which had before the figure of a camel, (Sammael having been mounted on him,) and he cursed him among all beasts and ani- mals” GENTILITY. True Gentrie standeth in the trade Of rirtuous life, not in the fleshly line ; For bloud is knit, but Gentrie is divine. Mirror for Magistrates . a HAVE mentioned some peculiarities of the Squire in the education of his sons ; but I would not have it thought that his instructions were directed chiefly to their per- sonal accomplishments. He took great pains also to form their minds, and to inculcate what he calls good old English principles, such as are laid down in the writings of Peachem and his contem- poraries. There is one author of whom he can- not speak without indignation, which is Chester- field. He avers that he did much, for a time, to injure the true national character, and to intro- duce, instead of open manly sincerity, a hollow perfidious courtliness. “ His maxims,” he affirms, ‘•were calculated to chill the delightful enthusi- asm of youth, and to make them ashamed of that romance which is the dawn of generous manhood, and to impart to them a cold polish and a pre- mature worldliness.” “ Many of Lord Chesterfield’s maxims would make a young man a mere man of pleasure ; but an English gentleman should not be a mere man GENTILITY. 157 ol pleasure. He has no right to such selfish in- dulgence. His ease, his leisure, his opulence, are debts due to his country, which he must ever stand ready to discharge. He should be a man at all points ; simple, frank, courteous, intelligent, accomplished, and informed ; upright, intrepid, and disinterested ; one who can mingle among free- men ; who can cope with statesmen ; who can champion his country and its rights either at home or abroad. In a country like England, where there is such free and unbounded scope for the exertion of intellect, and where opinion and example have such weight with the people, every gentleman of fortune and leisure should feel him- self bound to employ himself in some way towards promoting the prosperity or glory of the nation. In a country where intellect and action are tram- melled and restrained, men of rank and fortune may become idlers and triflers with impunity ; but an English coxcomb is inexcusable ; and this, perhaps, is the reason why he is the most offen- sive and insupportable coxcomb in the world.” The Squire, as Frank Bracebridge informs me, would often hold forth in this manner to his sons when they were about leaving the paternal roof ; one to travel abroad, one to go to the army, and one to the university. He used to have them with him in the library, which is hung with the portraits of Sydney, Surrey, Raleigh, Wyat, and others. “ Look at those models of true English gentlemen, my sons,” he would say with enthu- siasm ; “ those were men that wreathed the graces of the most delicate and refined taste around the 158 BRA CEBRIDGE BALL. stern virtues of the soldier ; that mingled what was gentle and gracious with what was hardy and manly ; that possessed the true chivalry of spirit which is the exalted essence of manhood. They are the lights by which the youth of the country should array themselves. They were the pat- terns and idols of their country at home ; they were the illustrators of its dignity abroad. ‘ Sur- rey/ says Camden, ‘ was the first nobleman that illustrated his high birth with the beauty of learn- ing. He was acknowledged to be the gallantest man, the politest lover, and the completest gentle- man of his time/ And as to Wyat, his friend Surrey most amiably testifies of him, that his per- son was majestic and beautiful, his visage 6 stern and mild ’ ; that he sung, and played the lute with remarkable sweetness ; spoke foreign lan- guages with grace and fluency, and possessed an inexhaustible fund of wit. And see what a high commendation is passed upon these illustrious friends : 6 They were the two chieftains, who, hav- ing travelled into Italy, and there tasted the sweet and stately measures and style of the Italian poe- try, greatly polished our rude and homely man- ner of vulgar poetry from what it had been be- fore, and therefore may be justly called the re- formers of our English poetry and style/ And Sir Philip Sydney, who has left us such monu- ments of elegant thought and generous sentiment, and who illustrated his chivalrous spirit so glori- ously in the field. And Sir Walter Raleigh, the elegant courtier, the intrepid soldier, the enter- prising discoverer, the enlightened philosopher GENTILITY. 159 the magnanimous martyr. These are the men tor English gentlemen to study. Chesterfield, with his cold and courtly maxims, would have chilled and impoverished such spirits. He would have blighted all the budding romance of their tem- peraments. Sydney would never have written his k Arcadia,’ nor Surrey have challenged the world in vindication of the beauties of his Geraldine. These are the men, my sons,” the Squire will con- tinue, “ that show to what our national character may be exalted, when its strong and powerful qual- ities are duly wrought up and refined. The sol- idest bodies are capable of the highest polish ; and there is no character that may be wrought to a more exquisite and unsullied brightness than that of the true English gentleman.” When Guy was about to depart for the army, the Squire again took him aside, and gave him a long exhortation. He warned him against that affectation of cold-blooded indifference which he was told was cultivated by the young British offi- cers, among whom it was a study to “ sink the soldier” in the mere man of fashion. “A sol- dier,” said he, “ without pride and enthusiasm in his profession, is a mere sanguinary hireling. Nothing distinguishes him from the mercenary bravo but a spirit of patriotism, or thirst for glory. It is the fashion, nowadays, my son,” said he, “ to laugh at the spirit of chivalry ; when that spirit is really extinct, the profession of the soldier becomes a mere trade of blood.” He then set before him the conduct of Edward the Black Prince, who is his mirror of chivalry ; valiant, generous, affable* 160 BRA CE BRIDGE BALL. humane; gallant in the field. But when he came to dwell on his courtesy toward his prisoner, the king of F ranee ; how he received him in his tent, rather as a conqueror than as a captive ; attended on him at table like one of his retinue; rode un- covered beside him on his entry into London, mounted on a common palfrey, while his prisoner was mounted in state on a white steed of stately beauty ; the tears of enthusiasm stood in the old gentleman’s eyes. Finally, on taking leave, the good Squire put in his son’s hands, as a manual, one of his favorite old volumes, the “ Life of the Chevalier Bayard,” by Godefroy ; on a blank page of which he had written an extract from the Morte d’ Arthur, con- taining the eulogy of Sir Ector over the body of Sir Launcelot of the Lake, which the Squire con- siders as comprising the excellencies of a true soldier. “ Ah, Sir Launcelot ! thou wert head of all Christian knights ; now there thou best : thou were never matched of none earthly knights- liands. And thou wert the curtiest knight that ever bare shield. And thou were the truest friend to thy lover that ever bestrood horse ; and thou were the truest lover of a sinfull man that ever loved woman. And thou were the kindest man that ever strook with sword ; and thou were the goodliest person that ever came among the presse of knights. And thou were the meekest man and the gentlest that ever eate in hall among ladies. And thou were the sternest knight to thy mortal foe that ever put speare in rest.” FORTUNE-TELLING. Each city, each town, and every village, Affords us either an alms or pillage. And if the weather be cold and raw, Then in a barn we tumble on straw. If warm and fair, by yea-cock and nay-cock, The fields will afford us a hedge or a hay-cock. Merry BEaaARS. B PffllS I was walking one evening with the xll Oxonian, Master Simon, and the gen- Ma] eral, in a meadow not far from the vil- lage, we heard the sound of a fiddle, rudely played, and looking in the direction whence it came, we saw a thread of smoke curling up from among the trees. The sound of music is always attractive ; for, wherever there is music, there is good-humor, or good-will. We passed along a footpath, and had a peep, through a break in the hedge, at the musician and his party, when the Oxonian gave us a wink, and told us that if we would follow him, we should have some sport. It proved to be a gypsy encampment, consisting of three or four little cabins or tents, made of blankets and sail-cloth, spread over hoops stuck in the ground. It was on one side of a green lane, close under a hawthorn hedge, with a broad 11 162 BRACEBRIDGE HALL . beech-tree spreading above it. A small rill tin* kled along close by through the fresh sward, that looked like a carpet. A tea-kettle was hanging by a crooked piece of iron over a fire made from dry sticks and leaves, and two old gypsies, in red cloaks, sat crouched on the grass, gossiping over their even- ing cup of tea; for these creatures, though they live in the open air, have their ideas of fireside comforts. There were two or three children sleeping on the straw with which the tents were littered ; a couple of donkeys were grazing in the lane, and a thievish-looking dog was lying before the fire. Some of the younger gypsies were dancing to the music of a fiddle, played by a tall, slender stripling, in an old frock-coat, with a peacock’s feather stuck in his hatband. As we approached, a gypsy girl, with a pair of fine roguish eyes, came up, and, as usual, offered to tell our fortunes. I could not but admire a cer- tain degree of slattern elegance about the baggage. Her long black silken hair was curiously plaited in numerous small braids, and negligently put up in a picturesque style that a painter might have been proud to have devised. Her dress was of figured chintz, rather ragged, and not over-clean, but of a variety of most harmonious and agreea- ble colors ; for these beings have a singularly fine eye for colors. Her straw hat was in her hand, and a red cloak thrown over one arm. The Oxonian offered at once to have his for- tune told, and the girl began with the usual vol- ubility of her race ; but he drew her on one side, FORTUNE TELLING . 163 near the hedge, as he said he had no idea of hav- ing his secrets overheard. I saw he was talking to her instead of she to him, and by his glancing towards us now and then, that he was giving the baggage some private hints. "When they returned to us, he assumed a very serious air. “ Zounds ! ” said he, “ it ’s very astonishing how these creatures come by their knowledge ; this girl has told me some things that I thought no one knew but myself ! ” The girl now assailed the general : “ Come, your honor,” said she, “ I see by your face you ’re a lucky man ; but you ’re not happy in your mind ; you ’re not, indeed, sir : but have a good heart, and give me a good piece of silver, and I ’ll tell you a nice fortune.” The general had received all her approaches with a banter, and had suffered her to get hold of his hand ; but at the mention of the piece of silver, he hemmed, looked grave, and turning to us, asked if we had not better continue our walk. “ Come, my master,” said the girl, archly, “ you ’d not be in such a hurry if you knew all that I could tell you about a fair lady that has a notion for you. Come, sir, old love burns strong ; there ’s many a one comes to see weddings that go away brides themselves ! ” — Here the girl whispered something in a low voice, at which the general colored up, was a little fluttered, and suffered himself to be drawn aside under the hedge, where he appeared to listen to her with great earnest- ness, and at the end paid her half-a-crown with the air of a man that has got the worth of his money. 164 BRA CE BRIDGE HALL. The girl next made her attack upon Master Simon, who, however, was too old a bird to be caught, knowing that it would end in an attack upon his purse, about which he is a little sensi- tive. As he has a great notion, however, of be- ing considered a roister, he chucked her under the chin, played her off with rather broad jokes, and put on something of the rake-helly air that we see now and then assumed on the stage by the sad-boy gentlemen of the old school. “ Ah, your honor,” said the girl, with a malicious leer, “ you were not in such a tantrum last year, when I told you about the widow you know who ; but if you had taken a friend’s advice, you ’d never have come away from Doncaster races with a flea in your ear ! ” There was a secret sting in this speech that seemed quite to disconcert Master Simon. He jerked away his hand in a pet, smacked his whip, whistled to his dogs, and intimated that it was high time to go home. The girl, however, was determined not to lose her harvest. She now turned upon me, and, as I have a weakness of spirit where there is a pretty face concerned, she soon wheedled me out of my money, and, in return, read me a fortune ; which, if it prove true, and I am determined to believe it, will make me one of the luckiest men in the chron- icles of Cupid. I saw that the Oxonian was at the bottom of nil this oracular mystery, and was disposed to amuse himself with the general, whose tender ap- proaches to the widow have attracted the notice FOR TUNE- TELLING. 165 of the wag. I was a little curious, however, to know the meaning of the dark hints which had so suddenly disconcerted Master Simon ; and took occasion to fall in the rear with the Oxonian on our way home, when he laughed heartily at my questions, and gave me ample information on the subject. The truth of the matter is, that Master Simon has met with a sad rebuff since my Christmas visit to the Hall. He used at that time to be joked about a widow, a fine dashing woman, as he privately informed me. I had supposed the pleasure he betrayed on these occasions resulted from the usual fondness of old bachelors for being teased about getting married, and about flirting, and being fickle and false-hearted. I am assured, however, that Master Simon had really persuaded himself the widow had a kind- ness for him ; in consequence of which he had been at some extraordinary expense in new clothes, and had actually got Frank Bracebridge to order him a coat from Stultz. He began to throw out hints about the importance of a man’s settling himself in life before lie grew old ; he would look grave whenever the widow and mat- rimony were mentioned in the same sentence ; and privately asked the opinion of the Squire and parson about the prudence of marrying a widow with a rich jointure, but who had several children. An important member of a great family con- nection cannot harp much upon the theme of mat- 166 BRA C KB RID GE HALL. rimony without its taking wind ; and it soon got buzzed about that Mr. Simon Bracebridge was actually gone to Doncaster races, with a new horse ; but that he meant to return in a curricle with a lady by his side. Master Simon did, in- deed, go to the races, and that with a new horse ; and the dashing widow did make her appearance in her curricle ; but it was unfortunately driven by a strapping young Irish dragoon, with whom even Master Simon’s self-complacency would not allow him to venture into competition, and to whom she was married shortly afterwards. It was a matter of sore chagrin to Master Si- mon for several months, having never before been fully committed. The dullest head in the family had a joke upon him ; and there is no one that likes less to be bantered than an absolute joker. He took refuge for a time at Lady Lillycraft’s until the matter should blow over ; and occupied himself by looking over her accounts, regulating the village choir, and inculcating loyalty into a pet bullfinch, by teaching him to whistle “ God save the King.” He has now pretty nearly recovered from the mortification ; holds up his head, and laughs as much as any one ; again affects to pity married men, and. is particularly facetious about widows, when Lady Lillycraft is not by. His only time of trial is when the general gets hold of him, who is infinitely heavy and persevering in his wag- gery, and will interweave a dull joke through the various topics of a whole dinner-time. Mas- FORTUNE- TELLING . 167 ter Simon often parries these attacks by a stanza from his old work of “ Cupid’s Solicitor for Love ” : * ’T is in vain to wooe a widow over long In once or twice her mind you may perceive; Widows are subtle, be they old or young, And by their wiles young men they will deceive .* 5 LOVE-CHARMS. Come, do not weep, my girl, Forget him, pretty pensiveness ; there will Come others, every day, as good as he. Sir J. Suckling. approach of a wedding in a family is r ays an event of great importance, ; particularly so in a household like this, in a retired part of the country. Master Si- mon, who is a pervading spirit, and, through means of the butler and housekeeper, knows everything that goes forward, tells me that the maid-servants are continually trying their fortunes, and that the servants’-hall has of late been quite a scene of in- cantation. It is amusing to notice how the oddities of the head of a family How down through all the branches. The Squire, in the indulgence of his love of everything which smacks of old times, has held so many grave conversations with the parson at table, about popular superstitions and tradition- al rites, that they have been carried from the parlor to the kitchen by the listening domestics, and, being apparently sanctioned by such high authority, the whole house has become infected by them. LOV/> CHARMS, 169 The servants are all versed in the common modes of trying luck, and the charms to insure constancy. They read their fortunes by drawing strokes in the ashes, or by repeating a form of words, and looking in a pail of water. St. Mark’s Eve, I am told, was a busy time with them; being an appointed night for certain mystic ceremonies. Several of them sowed hemp-seed to be reaped by their true lovers ; and they even ventured upon the solemn and fearful preparation of the dumb* cake. This must be done fasting, and in silence. The ingredients are handed down in traditional form. “An eggshell full of salt, an eggshell full of malt, and an eggshell full of barley-meal.” When the cake is ready, it is put upon a pan over the fire, and the future husband will ap- pear, turn the cake, and retire ; but if a word is spoken, or a fast is broken, during this awful ceremony, there is no knowing what horrible consequences would ensue ! The experiments, in the presenj instance, came to no result ; they that sowed the hemp-seed for- got the magic rhyme that they were to pronounce, so the true lover never appeared ; and as to the dumb-cake, what between the awful stillness they had to keep, and the awfulness of the midnight hour, their hearts failed them when they had put the cake in the pan ; so that, on the striking of the great house-clock in the servants’-hall, they were seized with a sudden panic, and ran out of the room, to which they did not return until morn- ing, when they found the mystic cake burnt to a cinder. 170 BRA CK BRIDGE HALL. The most persevering at these spells, however is Phoebe Wilkins, the housekeeper’s niece. As she is a kind of privileged personage, and rather idle, she has more time to occupy herself with these matters. She has always had her head full of love and matrimony. She knows the dream - book by heart, and is quite an oracle among the little girls of the family, who always come to her to interpret their dreams in the mornings. During the present gayety of the house, how- ever, the poor girl has worn a face full of trouble ; and, to use the housekeeper’s words, “ has fallen into a sad hystericky way lately.” It seems that she was born and brought up in the village, where her father was parish clerk, and she was an early playmate and sweetheart of young Jack Tibbets. Since she has come to live at the Hall, however, her head has been a little turned. Being very pretty, and naturally genteel, she has been much noticed and indulged ; and being the housekeep- er’s niece, she has held an equivocal station be- tween a servant and a companion. She has learnt something of fashions and notions among the young ladies, which have effected quite a met- amorphosis ; insomuch that her finery at church on Sundays has given mortal offence to her for- mer intimates in the village. This lias occa sioned the misrepresentations which have awak ened the implacable family pride of Dame Tibbets But what is worse, Phoebe, having a spice of coquetry in her disposition, showed it on one or two occasions to her lover, which produced a downright quarrel ; and Jack, being very proud i.UVK-CHARMS. 171 and fiery, has absolutely turned his back upon her for several successive Sundays. The poor girl is full of sorrow and repentance, and would fain make up with her lover ; but he feels his security, and stands aloof. In this he is doubtless encouraged by his mother, who is continually reminding him what he owes to his family ; for this same family pride seems doomed to be the eternal bane of lovers. As I hate to see a pretty face in trouble, I have felt quite concerned for the luckless Phoebe, ever since I heard her story. It is a sad thing to be thwarted in love at any time, but particu- larly so at this tender season of the year, when every living thing, even to the very butterfly, is sporting with its mate ; and the green fields, and the budding groves, and the singing of the birds, and the sweet smell of the flowers, are enough to turn the head of a love-sick girl. I am told that the coolness of young Ready-Money lies very heavy at poor Phoebe’s heart. Instead of sing- ing about the house as formerly, she goes about pale and sighing, and is apt to break into tears when her companions are full of merriment. Mrs. Hannah, the vestal gentlewoman of my Lady Lillycraft, has had long talks and walks with Phoebe, up and down the avenue, of an evening ; and has endeavored to squeeze some of her own verjuice into the other’s milky na- ture. She speaks with contempt and abhorrence of the whole sex, and advises Phoebe to despise sill the men as heartily as she does. But Phoebe’s loving temper is not to be curdled ; she has no 172 BRA CBBRID G E HALL . such tiling as hatred or contempt for mankind in her whole composition. She has all the simple fondness of heart of poor, weak, loving woman ; and her only thoughts at present are, how to con- ciliate and reclaim her wayward swain. The spells and love-charms, which are matters of sport to the other domestics, are serious con- cerns with this love-stricken damsel. She is con- tinually trying her fortune in a variety of ways. I am told that she has absolutely fasted for six Wednesdays and three Fridays successively, hav- ing understood that it was a sovereign charm to insure being married to one’s liking within the year. She carries about, also, a lock of her sweetheart’s hair, and a riband he once gave her, being a mode of producing constancy in a lover. She even went so far as to try her fortune by the moon, which has always had much to do with lovers’*dreams and fancies. For this purpose she went out in the night of the full moon, knelt on a stone in the meadow, and repeated the old tra- ditional rhyme : “All hail to thee, moon, all hail to thee; I pray thee, good moon, now show to me The youth who my future husband shall be.” When she came back to the house, she was faint and pale, and went immediately to bed. The next morning she told the porter’s wife that she had seen some one close by the hedge in the meadow, which she was sure was young Tibbets , at any rate, she had dreamt of him all night; both of which, the old dame assured her, were LOVE-CHARMS. 173 most happy signs. It has since turned out that the person in the meadow was old Christy, the huntsman, who was walking his nightly rounds with the great stag-hound ; so that Phoebe’s faith in the charm is completely shaken. THE LIBRARY. ESTERDAY the fair Julia made her first appearance down-stairs since her accident ; and the sight of her spread an universal cheerfulness through the household. She was extremely pale, however, and could not walk without pain and difficulty. She was as- sisted, therefore, to a sofa in the library, which is pleasant and retired, looking out among trees, and so quiet that the little birds come hopping upon the windows, and peering curiously into the apartment. Here several of the family gathered round, and devised means to amuse her, and make the day pass pleasantly. Lady Lillycraft lamented the want of some new novel to while away the time ; and was almost in a pet, because the “ Author of Waverley ” had not produced a work for the last three months. There was a motion made to call on the par- son for some of his old legends or ghost-stories ; but to this Lady Lillycraft objected, as they were apt to give her the vapors. General Harbottle gave a minute account, for the sixth time, of the disaster of a friend in India, who had his leg bitten offi by a tiger whilst he was hunting, — THE LIBRARY. 175 and was proceeding to menace tlie company with a chapter or two about Tippoo Saib. At length the captain bethought himself, and said he believed he had a manuscript tale lying m one corner of his campaigning trunk, which, if he could find, and the company were desirous, he would read to them. The offer was eagerly accepted. He retired, and soon returned with a roll of blotted manuscript, in a very gentleman- like, but nearly illegible hand, and a great part written on cartridge paper. “ It is one of the scribblings,” said he, “ of my poor friend, Charles Lightly, of the dragoons. He was a curious, romantic, studious, fanciful fel- low ; the favorite, and often the unconscious butt of his fellow-officers, who entertained themselves with his eccentricities. He was in some of the hardest service in the peninsula, and distin- guished himself by his gallantry. When the in- tervals of duty permitted, he was fond of roving about the country, visiting noted places, and was extremely fond of Moorish ruins. When at his quarters, he was a great scribbler, and passed much of his leisure with his pen in his hand. “ As I was a much younger officer, and a very young man, he took me, in a manner, under his care, and we became close friends. He used often to read his writings to me, having a great confidence in my taste, for I always praised them. Poor fel- low ! he was shot down close by me at Waterloo. We lay wounded together for some time during a hard contest that took place near at hand. As I was least hurt, I tried to relieve him, and .to L76 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. stanch the blood which flowed from a wound ir his breast. He lay with his head in my lap, and looked up thankfully in my face, but shook his head faintly, and made a sign that it was all over with him ; and, indeed, he died a few minutes af- terwards, just as our men had repulsed the enemy, and came to our relief. I have his favorite dog and his pistols to this day, and several of his man- uscripts, which he gave to me at different times. The one I am now going to read is a tale which he said he wrote in Spain, during the time that he lay ill of a wound received at Salamanca.” We now arranged ourselves to hear the story. The captain seated himself on the sofa, beside the fair Julia, who I had noticed to be somewhat affected by the picture he had carelessly drawn of wounds and dangers in a field of battle. She now leaned her arm fondly on his shoulder, and her eye glistened as it rested on the manuscript of the poor literary dragoon. Lady Lillycraft buried herself in a deep, well-cushioned elbow-chair Her dogs were nestled on soft mats at her feet and the gallant general took his station in an arm-chair at her side, and toyed with her elegantly ornamented work-bag. The rest of the circle being all equally well accommodated, the captain began his story ; a copy of which I have pro - cured for the benefit of the reader. THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. What a life doe I lead with my master ; nothing but blowing ot Dfcllowes, beating of spirits, and scraping of croslets! It is a verj secret science, for none almost can understand the language of it .Sublimation, almigation, calcination, rubilication, albification, and fermentation; with as many termes unpossible to be uttered as the arte to be compassed. — Lilly’s Gallathea. NCE upon a time, in the ancient city of Grenada, there sojourned a young man of the name of Antonio de Cas- tros. He wore the garb of a student of Sala- manca, and was pursuing a course of reading in the library of the university ; and, at intervals of leisure, indulging his curiosity by examining those remains of Moorish magnificence for which Grenada is renowned. Whilst occupied in his studies,, he frequently noticed an old man of singular appearance, who was likewise a visitor to the library. He was lean and withered, though apparently more from study than from age. His eyes, though bright and visionary, were sunk in his head, and thrown into shade by overhanging eyebrows. His dress was always the same, — a black doublet, a short black coat, very rusty and threadbare, a small ruff, and a large overshadowing hat. His appetite for knowledge seemed insatiable. 12 178 BRA CEB RIDGE BALL. He would pass whole days in the library, absorbed in study, consulting a multiplicity of authors, as though he were pursuing some interesting sub- ject through all its ramifications ; so that, when evening came, he was almost buried among books and manuscripts. The curiosity of Antonio was excited, and he inquired of the attendants concerning the stran- ger. No one could give him any information, excepting that he had been for some time past a casual frequenter of the library ; that his reading lay chiefly among works treating of the occult sciences, and that he was particularly curious in his inquiries after Arabian manuscripts. They added, that he never held communication with any one, excepting to ask for particular works ; that, after a fit of studious application, he would disappear for several days, and even weeks, and when he revisited the library, he would look more withered and hazard than ever. The student felt interested by this account ; he was leading rather a desultory life, and had all that capricious curiosity which springs up in idleness. He deter- mined to make himself acquainted with this book worm, and find out who and what he was. The next time that he saw the old man at the library, he commenced his approaches by request- ing permission to look into one of the volumes with which the unknown appeared to have done. The latter merely bowed his head in token of assent. After pretending to look through the volume with great attention, lie returned it with many acknowledgments. The stranger made nc reply. TEE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA 179 u ]\Iay I ask, senor,” said Antonio, with some hesitation, “ may I ask what you are searching after in all these books P ” The old man raised his head, with an expres- sion of surprise at having his studies interrupted for the lirst time, and by so intrusive a question, i ( e surveyed the student with a side-glance from head to foot : “ Wisdom, my son,” said he, calmly : “ and the search requires every moment of my at- tention.” He then cast his eyes upon his book and resumed his studies. “ But, father,” said Antonio, “ cannot you spare a moment to point out the road to others ? It is to experienced travellers, like you, that we stran- gers in the path of knowledge must look for di- rections on our journey.” The stranger looked disturbed : “ I have not time enough, my son, to learn,” said he, “ much less to teach. I am ignorant myself of the path of true knowledge ; how then can I show it to others ? ” “ Well, but father ” — “ Senor,” said the old man, mildly, but ear- nestly, “ you must see that I have but a few more steps to the grave. In that short space have I to accomplish the whole business of my existence. 1 have no time for words ; every word is as one grain of sand of my glass wasted. Suffer me to be alone.” There was no replying to so complete a closing of the door of intimacy. The student found tiimself calmly but totally repulsed. Though cu- rious and inquisitive, he was naturally modest, and 180 bracebridgk ball. on after-thoughts blushed at his own intrusion. Ilis mind soon became occupied by other objects. He passed several days wandering among the mouldering piles of Moorish architecture, those melancholy monuments of an elegant and volup- tuous people. He paced the deserted halls of the Alhambra, the paradise of the Moorish kings. He visited the great court of the lions, famous for the perfidious massacre of the gallant Abencer- rages. Pie gazed with admiration at its Mosaic cupolas, gorgeously painted in gold and azure ; its basins of marble, its alabaster vase, supported by lions, and storied with inscriptions. His imagination kindled as he wandered among these scenes. They were calculated to awaken all the enthusiasm of a youthful mind. Most of the halls have anciently been beautified by foun- tains. The fine taste of the Arabs delighted in the sparkling purity and reviving freshness of water, and they erected, as it were, altars on every side, to that delicate element. Poetry mingles with architecture in the Alhambra. It breathes along the very walls. Wherever Anto- nio turned his eye, he beheld inscriptions in Ara- bic, wherein the perpetuity of Moorish power and splendor within these walls was confidently pre- dicted. Alas ! how has the prophecy been falsi- fied ! Many of the basins, where the fountains had once thrown up their sparkling showers, were dry and dusty. Some of the palaces were turned into gloomy convents > and the barefoot monk paced through those courts which had once glit- tered with the array and echoed to the music of Moorish dim dry. THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 181 In the course of his rambles, the student more lhan once encountered the old man of the library He was always alone, and so full of thought as not to notice any one about him. He appeared to be intent upon studying those half-buried in- scriptions, which are found, here and there, among the Moorish ruins, and seem to murmur from the earth the tale of former greatness. The greater part of these have since been translated ; but they were supposed by many, at the time, to con- tain symbolical revelations, and golden maxims of the Arabian sages and astrologers. As An- tonio saw the stranger apparently deciphering these inscriptions, he felt an eager longing to make his acquaintance, and to participate in his curious researches ; but the repulse he had met with at the library deterred him from making any further advances. He had directed his steps one evening to the sacred mount which overlooks the beautiful val- ley watered by the Darro, the fertile plains of the Vega, and all that rich diversity of vale and mountain which surrounds Grenada with an earthly paradise. It was twilight when he found himself at the place where, at the present day, are situated the chapels known by the name of the Sacred Furnaces. They are so called from grottos, in which some of the primitive saints are said to have been burnt. At the time of Antonio’s visit the place was an object of much euriosity. In an excavation of these grottos, Beveral manuscripts had recently been discovered engraved on plates of lead. They were written 18 ? HR A CKBRIDGE HALL. in the Arabian language, excepting one, which was in unknown characters. The Pope had is- sued a bull forbidding any one, under pain of excommunication, to speak of these manuscripts. The prohibition had only excited the greater cu- riosity ; and many reports were whispered about, that these manuscripts contained treasures of dark and forbidden knowledge. As Antonio was examining the place whence these mysterious manuscripts had been drawn, he again observed the old man of the library wan- dering among the ruins. His curiosity was now fully awakened ; the time and place served to stimulate it. He resolved to watch this groper after secret and forgotten lore, and to trace him to his habitation. There was something like ad- venture in the thing, which charmed his roman- tic disposition. He followed the stranger, there- fore, at a little distance ; at first cautiously, but he soon observed him to be so wrapped in his own thoughts, as to take little heed of external objects. They passed along the skirts of the mountain, and then by the shady banks of the Darro. They pursued their way, for some distance from Gre- nada, along a lonely road leading among the hills. The gloom of evening was gathering, and it was quite dark when the stranger stopped at the por- tal of a solitary mansion. It appeared to be a mere wing, or ruined frag- ment, of what had once been a pile of some con- sequence. The walls were of great thickness, the windows narrow, and generally secured by iron bars. The door was of planks, studded with iron THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. J 83 spikes, and had been of great strength, though at present much decayed. At one end of the man- sion was a ruinous tower, in the Moorish style of architecture. The edifice had probably been a country retreat, or castle of pleasure, during the occupation of Grenada by the Moors, and rendered sufficiently strong to withstand any casual assault in those warlike times. The old man knocked at the portal. A light appeared at a small window just above it, and a female head looked out : it might have served as a model for one of Raphael’s saints. The hair was beautifully braided, and gathered in a silken net ; and the complexion, as well as could be judged from the light, was that soft, rich brunette so becoming in southern beauty. “ It is I, my child,” said the old man. The face instantly disappeared, and soon after a wicket- door in the large portal opened. Antonio, who had ventured near to the building, caught a tran- sient sight of a delicate female form. A pair of fine black eyes darted a look of surprise at seeing a stranger hovering near, and the door was pre cipitately closed. There was something in this sudden gleam of beauty that wonderfully struck the imagination of the student. It was like a brilliant flashing from its dark casket. He sauntered about, re- garding the gloomy pile with increasing interest. A few simple, wild notes, from among some rocks and trees at a little distance, attracted his atten- tion. He found there a group of Gitanas, a vag- abond gypsy race, which at that time abounded 184 BRA CRB It l b J E HALL. in Spain, and lived in hovels and caves of the hills about the neighborhood of Grenada. Some were busy about a fire, and others were listening to the uncouth music which one of their compan- ions, seated on a ledge of the rock, was making with a split reed. Antonio endeavored to obtain some information of them concerning the old building and its inhab • itants. The one who appeared to be their spokes- man was a gaunt fellow, with a subtle gait, a whis- pering voice, and a sinister roll of the eye. He shrugged his shoulders on the student’s inquiries, and said, “All was not right in that building. An old man inhabited it, whom nobody knew, and whose family appeared to be only a daughter and a female servant. I and my companions,” he added, u live up among the neighboring hills : and as we have been about at night, we have of- ten seen strange lights and heard strange sounds from the tower. Some of the country people, who work in the vineyards among the hills, be- lieve the old man deals in the black art, and they are not over-fond of passing near the tower at night. But for our parts, we Gitanas are not a people to trouble ourselves with fears of that kind.” The student endeavored to gain more precise information, but they had none to furnish him. They began to be solicitous for a compensation for what they had already imparted ; and recollect- ing the loneliness of the place, and the vagabond character of his companions, he was glad to give them a gratuity and hasten homewards. He sat down to his studies, but his brain was THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 185 too full of what he had seen and heard ; his eye was upon the page, but his fancy still returned to the tower, and he was continually picturing the little window, with the beautiful head peeping out ; or the door half open, and the nymph-like form within. He retired to bed, but the same objects haunted his dreams. He was young and susceptible ; and the excited state of his feelings, from wandering among the abodes of departed grace pmd gallantry, had predisposed him for a sudden impression from female beauty. The next morning he strolled again in the di rection of the tower. It was still more forlorn by the broad glare of day than in the gloom of evening. The walls were crumbling, and weeds and moss were growing in every crevice. It had the look of a prison rather than a dwelling-house. In one angle, however, he remarked a window which seemed an exception to the surrounding squalidness. There was a curtain drawn within it, and flowers standing on the window-stone. Whilst he was looking at it, the curtain was par- tially withdrawn, and a delicate white arm, of the most beautiful roundness, was put forth to water the flowers. The student made a noise to attract the atten- tion of the fair florist. He succeeded. The cur- tain was further drawn, and he had a glance of the same lovely face he had seen the evening be- fore ; it was but a mere glance ; the curtain again fell, and the casement closed. All this was calcu- lated to excite the feelings of a romantic youth. Had he seen the unknown under other circum- 186 BRA CEBRIL G K II ALL. stances, it is probable he would not have been struck with her beauty; but this apoearance of being shut up and kept apart gave her the value of a treasured gem. He passed and repassed before the house several times in the course of the day, but saw nothing more. He was there again in the evening. The whole aspect of the house was dreary. The narrow windows emitted no rays of cheerful light, to indicate social life within. Antonio listened at the portal, but no sound of voices readied his ear. Just then he heard the clapping to of a distant door, and fear- ing to be detected in the unworthy act of eaves- dropping, he precipitately drew off to the opposite side of the road, and stood in the shadow of a ruined archway. He now remarked a light from a window in the tower. It was fitful and changeable ; com- monly feeble and yellowish, as if from a lamp ; with an occasional glare of some vivid metallic color, followed by a dusky glow. A column of dense smoke would now and then rise in the air, and hang like a canopy over the tower. There was altogether such a loneliness and seeming mystery about the building and its inhabitants, that Antonio was half inclined to indulge the country people’s notions, and to fancy it the den of some powerful sorcerer, and the fair damsel he had seen to be some spellbound beauty. After some time had elapsed, a light appeared in the window where he had seen the beautiful arm. The curtain was down, but it was so thin that he could perceive the shadow of some one THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 187 passing and repassing between it and the light He fancied he could distinguish that the form was delicate ; and from the alacrity of its movements, it was evidently youthful. He had not a doubt but this was the bedchamber of his beautiful un- known. Presently he heard the sound of a guitar, and a female voice singing. He drew near cautiously, and listened. It was a plaintive Moorish ballad, and he recognized in it the lamentations of one of the Abencerrages on leaving the walls of lovely Grenada. It was full of passion and tenderness. It spoke of the delights of early life ; the hours of love it had enjoyed on the banks of the Darro, and among the blissful abodes of the Alhambra. It bewailed the fallen honors of the Abencerrages and imprecated vengeance on their oppressors. Antonio was affected by the music^ It singu- larly coincided with the place. It was like the voice of past times echoed in the present, and breathing among the monuments of its departed glories. The voice ceased ; after a time the light dis- appeared, and all was still. “ She sleeps ! ” said Antonio, fondly. He lingered about the building with the devotion with which a lover lingers about the bower of sleeping beauty. The rising moon threw its silver beams on the gray walls, and glittered on the casement. The late gloomy landscape gradually became flooded with its ra- diance. Finding, therefore, that he could no longer move about in obscurity, and fearful that his loiterings might be observed, he reluctantly r e tired. 188 BRA CEBR ID G E HALL . The curiosity which had at first drawn the young man to the tower was now seconded by feelings of a more romantic kind. His studies were almost entirely abandoned. He maintained a kind of blockade of the old mansion ; he would take a book with him, and pass a great part of the day under the trees in its vicinity ; keeping a vigilant eye upon it, and endeavoring to as- certain what were the walks of his mysterious charmer. She never went out, however, except to mass, when she was accompanied by her father. He waited at the door of the church, and offered her the holy water, in the hopes of touching her hand : a little office of gallantry common in Catholic countries. She modestly declined, without raising her eyes to see who made the offer, and always took it herself from the font. She was attentive in her devotion ; her eyes were never taken from the altar or the priest ; and on returning home, her countenance was almost entirely concealed by her mantilla. Antonio had now carried on the pursuit for several days, and was hourly getting more and more interested in the chase, but never a step nearer to the game. His lurkings about the house had probably been noticed, for he no longer saw the fair face at the window, nor the white arm put forth to water the flowers. His only conso- lation was to repair nightly to his post of obser- vation and listen to her warbling ; and if by chance he could catch a sight of her shadow, pass- ing and repassing before the window, he thought himself most fortunate. THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA, 189 As lie was indulging in one of these evening vigils, which were complete revels of the imagb nation, the sound of approaching footsteps made him withdraw into the deep shadow of the ruined archway, opposite to the tow(r. A cavalier ap- proached, wrapped in a large Spanish cloak. He paused under the window of the tower, and after a little while began a serenade, accompanied by his guitar, in the usual style of Spanish gal- lantry. His voice was rich and manly ; he touched the instrument with skill, and sang with amorous and impassioned eloquence. The plume of his hat was buckled by jewels that sparkled in the moonbeams ; and, as he played on the guitar, his cloak falling off from one shoulder showed him to be richly dressed. He was evi- dently a person of rank. The idea now flashed across Antonio’s mind, that the affections of his unknown beauty might be engaged. She was young, and doubtless sus- ceptible ; and it was not in the nature of Spanish females to be deaf and insensible to music and admiration. The surmise brought with it a feel- ing of dreariness. There was a pleasant dream of several days suddenly dispelled. He had never before experienced anything of the tender passion ; and, as its morning dreams are always delightful, he would fain have continued in the delusion. “ But what have I to do with her attachments ?” thought he ; “ I have no claim on her heart, nor even on her acquaintance. How do I know that she is worthy of affection ? Or if she is, must not 190 BRACEB1UDGE FL-, LL. 30 gallant a lover as this, with his jewels, his rank, and his detestable music, have completely capti- vated her ? What idle humor is this that I have fallen into ? I must again to my books. Study, study will soon chase away all these idle fancies ! ” The more he thought, however, the more he became entangled hi the spell which his lively imagination had woven round him ; and now that a rival had appeared, in addition to the other ob- stacles that environed this enchanted beauty, she appeared ten times more lovely and desirable. It was some slight consolation to him to perceive that the gallantry of the unknown met with no apparent return from the tower. The light at the window was extinguished. The curtain re- mained undrawn, and none of the customary sig- nals were given to intimate that the serenade was accepted. The cavalier lingered for some time about the place, and sang several other tender airs with a taste and feeling that made Antonio’s#heart ache ; at length he slowly retired. The student re- mained with folded arms, leaning against the ruined arch, endeavoring to summon up resolutioi to * depart ; but a romantic fascination still en chained him to the place. “ It is the last time, said he, willing to compromise between his feel- ings and his judgment, u it is the last time ; then let me enjoy the dream a few moments longer.” As his eye ranged about the old building to take a farewell look, he observed the strange light m the tower, which he had noticed on a former occasion. It kept beaming up, and declining, as THE STUDENT Ob' SALAMANCA. 191 before. A pillar of smoke rose in the air, and hung in sable volumes. It was evident the old man was busied in some of those operations which had gained him the reputation of a sorcerer throughout the neighborhood. Suddenly an intense and brilliant glare shone through the casement, followed by a loud report, and then a fierce and ruddy glow. A figure ap- peared at the window, uttering cries of agony or alarm, but immediately disappeared, and a body of smoke and flame whirled out of the narrow aper- ture. Antonio rushed to the portal, and knocked at it with vehemence. He was only answered by loud shrieks, and found that the females were al- ready in helpless consternation. With an exertion of desperate strength, he forced the wicket from its hinges, and rushed into the house. He found himself in a small vaulted hall, and by the light of the moon which entered at the door, he saw a staircase to the left. He hurried up it to a narrow corridor, through which was rolling a volume of smoke. He found here the two females in a frantic state of alarm ; one of them clasped her hands, and implored him to save her father. The corridor terminated in a spiral flight of steps, leading up to the tower. He sprang up it to a small door, through the chinks of which came a glow of light, and smoke was spuming out. He burst it open, and found himself in an antique vaulted chamber, furnished with furnace, and va- rious chemical apparatus. A shattered retort lay mi the stone floor; a quantity of combustibles 192 BRACEBRIDGE IIALL. nearly consumed, with various half-burnt books and papers, were sending up an expiring flame, and filling the chamber with stifling smoke. Just within the threshold lay the reputed conjurer. He was bleeding, his clothes were scorched, and he appeared lifeless. Antonio caught him up, and bore him down the stairs to a chamber in which there was a light, and laid him on a bed. The female domestic was dispatched for such ap- pliances as the house afforded ; but the daughter threw herself frantically beside her parent, and could not be reasoned out of her alarm. Her dress \was all in disorder ; her dishevelled hair hung in rich confusion about her neck and bosom, and never was there beheld a lovelier picture of terror and affliction. The skilful assiduities of the scholar soon pro- duced signs of returning animation in his patient. The old man’s wounds, though severe, were not dangerous. They had evidently been produced by the bursting of the retort ; in his bewilder- ment he had been enveloped in the stifling metal- lic vapors which had overpowered his feeble frame, and had not Antonio arrived to his assist- ance, it is possible he might never have recov- ered. By slow degrees he came to his senses. He looked about with a bewildered air at the cham- ber, the agitated group around, and the student who was leaning over him. u Where am I ? ” said he, wildly. At the sound of his voice his daughter uttered a faint exclamation of delight. “ My poor Inez ! ” THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA . 193 said lie, embracing her ; then putting his hand to his head, and taking it away stained with blood, he seemed suddenly to recollect himself, and to be overcome with emotion. “ Ah ! ” cried he, “ all is over with me ! all gone ! all vanished ! gone in a moment ! the labor of a lifetime lost ! ” His daughter attempted to soothe him, but he became slightly delirious, and raved incoherently about malignant demons, and about the habitation of the green lion being destroyed. His wounds being dressed, and such other remedies adminis- tered as his situation required, he sunk into a state of quiet. Antonio now turned his attention to the daughter, whose sufferings had been little inferior to those of her father. Having with great difficulty succeeded in tranquillizing her fears, he endeavored to prevail upon her to retire, and seek the repose so necessary to her frame, proffering to remain by her father until morning. “ I am a stranger,” said he, “it is true, and my of- fer may appear intrusive ; but I see you are lonely and helpless, and I cannot help venturing over the limits of mere ceremony. Should you feel any scruple or doubt, however, say but a word, and I will instantly retire.” There was a frankness, a kindness, and a mod- esty mingled in Antonio’s deportment, which in-, spired instant confidence ; and his simple schol- ar’s garb was a recommendation in the house of poverty. The females consented to resign the suf- ferer to his care, as they would be the better able to attend to him on the morrow. On retiring, the 13 194 BRACEBR1DGE BALL. old domestic was profuse in her benedictions ; the daughter only looked her thanks ; but as they shone through the tears that filled her fine black eyes, the student thought them a thousand times the most eloquent. Here, then, he was, by a singular turn of chance, completely housed within this mysterious mansion. When left to himself, and the bustle of the scene was over, his heart throbbed as he looked round the chamber in which he was sitting. It was the daughter’s room, the promised land toward which he had cast so many a longing gaze. The furniture was old, and had probably belonged to the building in its prosperous days ; but everything was arranged with propriety. The flowers which he had seen her attend stood in the window ; a guitar leaned against a table, on which stood a crucifix, and before it lay a missal and a rosary. There reigned an air of purity and serenity about this little nestling-place of innocence ; it was the emblem of a chaste and quiet mind. Some few articles of female dress lay on the chairs ; and there was the very bed on which she had slept ; the pillow on which her soft cheek had reclined ! The poor scholar was treading enchanted ground ; for what fairy land has more magic in it \han the bedchamber of in- nocence and beauty ? From various expressions of the old man in his ravings, and from what he had noticed on a subsequent visit to the tower, to see that the fire was extinguished, Antonio had gathered that his patient was an alchemist. The philosopher’s THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 195 stone was an object eagerly sought after by vis- ionaries in those days ; but in consequence of the superstitious prejudices of the times, and the frequent persecutions of its votaries, they were apt to pursue their experiments in secret in lonely houses, in caverns and ruins, or in the privacy of cloistered cells. In the course of the night the old man had several fits of restlessness and delirium ; he would call out upon Theophrastus, and Geber, and Al- bertus Magnus, and other sages of his art ; and anon would murmur about fermentation and pro- jection, until, toward daylight, he once more sunk into a salutary sleep. When the morning sun darted his rays into the casement, the fair Inez, attended by the female domestic, came blushing into the chamber. The student now took his leave, having himself need of repose, but obtained ready permission to return and inquire after the sufferer. When he called again, he found the alchemist languid and in pain, but apparently suffering more in mind than in body. His delirium had left him, and he had been informed of the partic- ulars of his deliverance and of the subsequent attentions of the scholar. He could do little more than look his thanks, but Antonio did not require them ; his own heart repaid him for all that he had done, and he almost rejoiced in the disaster that had gained him an entrance into this mysterious habitation. The alchemist was so helpless as to need much assistance ; Antonio re- mained with him, therefore, the greater part of 196 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. the day. He repeated his visit the next day, and the next. Every day his company seemed more pleasing to the invalid ; and every day he felt his interest in the latter increasing. Perhaps the nresence of the daughter might have been at the bottom of this solicitude. He had frequent and long conversations with die alchemist. He found him, as men of his pur- suits were apt to be, a mixture of enthusiasm and simplicity ; of curious and extensive reading on points of little utility, with great inattention to the every-day occurrences of life, and profound ignorance of the world. He was deeply versed in singular and obscure branches of knowledge, and much given to visionary speculations. An- tonio, whose mind was of a romantic cast, had himself given some attention to the occult sci- ences, and he entered upon these themes with an ardor that delighted the philosopher. Their con- versations frequently turned upon astrology, div- ination, and the great secret. The old man would forget his aches and wounds, rise up like a spectre in his bed, and kindle into eloquence on his favorite topics. When gently admonished of his situation, it would but prompt him to another sally of thought. “ Alas, my son ! ” he would say, “ is not this very decrepitude and suffering another proof of the importance of those secrets with which we are surrounded? Why are we trammelled by disease, withered by old age, and our spirits quenched, as it were, within us, but because we have lost those secrets of life and youth which THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 197 were known to our parents before their fall ? To regain these have philosophers been ever since aspiring ; but just as they are on the point of securing the precious secrets forever, the brief period of life is at an end ; they die, and with them all their wisdom and experience. 6 Noth- ing/ as De Nuysment observes, — 6 nothing is wanting for man’s perfection but a longer life, less crossed with sorrows and maladies, to the attain- ing of the full and perfect knowledge of things.’ ” At length Antonio so far gained on the heart of his patient as to draw from him the outlines of his story. Felix de Vasques, the alchemist, was a native of Castile, and of an ancient and honorable line. Early in life he had married a beautiful female, a descendant from one of the Moorish families. The marriage displeased his father, who consid- ered the pure Spanish blood contaminated by this foreign mixture. It is true, the lady traced her descent from one of the Abencerrages, the most gallant of Moorish cavaliers, who had embraced the Christian faith on being exiled from the walls of Grenada. The injured pride of the father, however, was not to be appeased. He never saw his son afterwards; and on dying left him but a scanty portion of his estate ; bequeathing the resi- due, in the piety and bitterness of his heart, to the erection of convents, and the performance of masses for souls in purgatory. Don Felix re- sided for a long time in the neighborhood of Val- iadolid, in a state of embarrassment and obscurity He devoted himself to intense study, having, 198 BRA CEBR1DGE IT ALL. while at the university of Salamanca, imbibed a taste for the secret sciences. He was enthusias- tic and speculative ; he went on from one branch of knowledge to another, until he became zealous in the search after the grand Arcanum. He had at first engaged in the pursuit with the hopes of raising himself from his present obscu- rity, and resuming the rank and dignity to which his birth entitled him ; but, as usual, it ended in absorbing every thought, and becoming the busi- ness of his existence. He was at length aroused from this mental abstraction by the calamities of his household. A malignant fever swept off his wife and all his children, excepting an infant daughter. These losses for a time overwhelmed and stupefied him. His home had in a manner died away from around him, and he felt lonely and forlorn. When his spirit revived within him, he determined to abandon the scene of his humil- iation and disaster ; to bear away the child that was still left him, beyond the scene of contagion, and never to return to Castile until he should be enabled to reclaim the honors of his line. He had ever since been wandering and unset- tled in his abode. Sometimes the resident of populous cities, at other times of absolute soli- tudes. He had searched libraries, meditated on inscriptions, visited adepts of different countries, and sought to gather and concentrate the rays which had been thrown by various minds upon the secrets of alchemy. He had at one time travelled quite to Padua to search for the manu- scripts of Pietro d’ Abano, and to inspect an urn THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 199 which had been dug up near Este, supposed to have been buried by Maximus Olybius, and to have contained the grand elixir.* While at Padua he met with an adept versed in Arabian lore, who talked of the invaluable manuscripts that must remain in the Spanish libraries, preserved from the spoils of the Moorish academies and universities ; of the probability of meeting with precious unpublished writings of Geber, and Alfarabius, and Avicenna, the great physicians of the Arabian schools, who, it was well known, had treated much of alchemy ; but, above all, he spoke of the Arabian tablets of lead which had recently been dug up in the neighbor- hood of ‘Grenada, and which, it was confidently believed among adepts, contained the lost secrets of the art. The indefatigable alchemist once more bent his steps for Spain, full of renovated hope. He had made his way to Grenada ; he had wearied him- self in the study of Arabic, in deciphering in- * This urn was found in 1533. It contained a lesser one, in which was a burning lamp betwixt two small vials, the one of gold, the other of silver, both of them full of a very clear liquor. On the largest was an inscription stating that Maximus Olybius shut up in this small vessel elements which he had prepared with great toil. There were many disquisi- tions among the learned on the subject. It was the most received opinion that this Maximus Olybius was an inhab- itant of Padua ; that he had discovered the great secret, and that these vessels contained liquor, one to transmute metals to gold, the other to silver. The peasants who found the urns, imagining this precious liquor to be common water, spilt e\ ery drop, so that the art of transmuting metals remam/5 as ti '^ ch a secret as ever. 200 BRA CEB it ID GE HALL. scriptions, in rummaging libraries, and exploring every possible trace left by the Arabian sages. In all his wanderings he had been accompanied by Inez ; through the rough and the smooth, the pleasant and the adverse ; never complaining, but rather seeking to soothe his cares by her innocent and playful caresses. Her instruction had been the employment and the delight of his hours of relaxation. She had grown up while they were wandering, and had scarcely ever known any home but by his side. He was family, friends, home, everything to her. He had carried her in his arms when they first began their wayfaring ; had nestled her, as an eagle does its young, among the rocky heights of the Sierra Morena ; she had sported about him in childhood in the solitudes of the Bateucas ; had followed him, as a lamb does the shepherd, over the rugged Pyrenees, and into the fair plains of Languedoc ; and now she was grown up to support his feeble steps among the ruined abodes of her materual ancestors. His property had gradually wasted away in the course of his travels and his experiments. Still hope, the constant attendant of the alchemist, had led him on ; ever on the point of reaping the re- ward of his labors, and ever disappointed. With the credulity that often attended his art, he attrib- uted many of his disappointments to the machi- nations of the malignant spirits which beset the path of the alchemist, and torment him in his solitary labors. £ ‘ It is their constant endeavor, 1 ” he observed, “ to close up every avenue to those sublime truths which would enable man to rise TllE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 201 above the abject state into which he has fallen, and to return to his original perfection.” To the evil offices of these demons he attributed his late disaster. He had been on the very verge of the glorious discovery ; never were the indications more completely auspicious ; all was going on prosperously, when, at the critical moment which should have crowned his labors with success, and have placed him at the very summit of human power and felicity, the bursting of a retort had reduced his laboratory and himself to ruins. “ I must now,” said he, “ give up at the very threshold of success. My books and papers are burnt ; my apparatus is broken. I am too old to bear up against these evils. The ardor that once inspired me is gone ; my poor frame is ex- hausted by study and watchfulness, and this last misfortune has hurried me towards the grave.” He concluded in a tone of deep dejection. An- tonio endeavored to comfort and reassure him ; but the poor alchemist had for once awakened to a consciousness of the worldly ills gathering around him, and had sunk into despondency. After a pause, and some thoughtfulness and per- plexity of brow, Antonio ventured to make a proposal. “ I have long,” said he, “ been filled with a love for the secret sciences, but have felt too ignorant and diffident to give myself up to them. You have acquired experience ; you have amassed the knowledge of a lifetime ; it were a pity it should be thrown away. You say you are too old to lenew the toils of the laboratory; suffer me w 202 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. undertake them. Add your knowledge to my youtli and activity, and what shall we not accom- plish ? As a probationary fee, and a fund on which to proceed, I will bring into the common stock a sum of gold, the residue of a legacy, which has enabled me to complete my education. A poor scholar cannot boast much ; but I trust we shall soon put ourselves beyond the reach cfi want ; and if we should fail, why, I must depend, like other scholars, upon my brains to carry me through the world.” The philosopher’s spirits, however, were more depressed than the student had imagined. This last shock, following in the rear of so many dis- appointments, had almost destroyed the reaction of his mind. The fire of an enthusiast, however, is never so low, but that it may be blown again into a flame. By degrees the old man was cheered and reanimated by the buoyancy and ar- dor of his sanguine companion. He at length agreed to accept of the services of the student, and once more to renew his experiments. He objected, however, to using the student’s gold, notwithstanding his own was nearly exhausted ; but this objection was soon overcome ; the student insisted on making it a common stock and com- mon cause ; — and then how absurd was any del- icacy about such a trifle, with men who looked forward to discovering the philosopher’s stone ! While, therefore, the alchemist was slowly re- covering, the student busied himself in getting the laboratory once more in order. It was strewed with the wrecks of retorts and alembics, TEE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA . 203 with old crucibles, boxes and phials of powders and tinctures, and half-burnt books and manu- scripts. As soon as the old man was sufficiently re- covered, the studies and experiments were re- newed. The student became a privileged and frequent visitor, and was indefatigable in his toils in the laboratory. The philosopher daily de- rived new zeal and spirits from the animation of his disciple. '-He was now enabled to prosecute the enterprise with continued exertion, having so active a coadjutor to divide the toil. While he was poring over the writings of Sandivogius, and Philalethes, and Dominus de Nuysment, and endeavoring to comprehend the symbolical lan- guage in which they have locked up their myste- ries, Antonio would occupy himself among the re- torts and crucibles, and keep the furnace in a per- petual glow. With all his zeal, however, for the discovery of the golden art, the feelings of the student had not cooled as to the object that first drew him to this ruinous mansion. During the old man’s ill- ness, he had frequent opportunities of being near the daughter ; and every day made him more sensible to her charms. There was a pure sim- plicity, and an almost passive gentleness in her manners ; yet with all this was mingled some- thing, whether mere maiden shyness, or a con- sciousness of high descent, or a dash of Castilian pride, or perhaps all united, that prevented undue familiarity, and made her difficult of approach. The danger of her father., and the measures to be 204 LRACEBRIDGE HALL. taken for his relief, had at first overcome this coyness and reserve ; but as he recovered and her alarm subsided, she seemed to shrink from the familiarity she had indulged with the youth- ful stranger, and to become every day more shy and silent. Antonio had read many books, but this was the first volume of womankind that he had ever studied. He had been captivated with the very title-page ; but the further he read the more he was delighted. She seemed formed to love ; her soft black eye rolled languidly under its long silken lashes, and wherever it turned, it would linger and repose ; there was tenderness in every beam. To him alone she was reserved and dis- tant. Now that the common cares of the sick- room were at an end, he saw little more of her than before his admission to the house. Some- times he met her on his way to and from the lab- oratory, and at such times there was ever a smile and a blush ; but, after a simple salutation, she glided on and disappeared. “ ’T is plain,” thought Antonio, “ my presence is indifferent, if not irksome to her. She has noticed my admiration, and is determined to dis- courage it; nothing but a feeling of gratitude prevents her treating me with marked distaste ; — * and then has she not another lover, rich, gallant, splendid, musical ? how can I suppose she would turn her eyes from so brilliant a cavalier to a poor obscure student, raking among the cinders of her father’s laboratory ? ” Indeed, the idea of the amorous serenader con* THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA . 205 tinually haunted his mind. He felt convinced that he was a favored lover ; yet, if so, why did he not frequent the tower ? Why did he not make his approaches by noonday ? There was mys- tery in this eavesdropping and musical courtship. Surely Inez could not be encouraging a secret intrigue ! Oh, no ! she was too artless, too pure, too ingenuous ! But then the Spanish females were so prone to love and intrigue ; and music and moonlight were so seductive, and Inez had such a tender soul languishing in every look. “ Oh ! ” would the poor scholar exclaim, clasping his hands, — “ oh that I could but once behold those loving eyes beaming on me with affection ! ” It is incredible to those who have not experi- enced it, on what scanty aliment human life and human love may be supported. A dry crust, thrown now and then to a starving man, will give him a new lease of existence ; and a faint smile, or a kind look, bestowed at casual inter- vals, will keep a lover loving on, when a man in his sober senses would despair. When Antonio found himself alone in the lab- oratory, his mind would be haunted by one of these looks, or smiles, which he had received in passing. He would set it in every possible light, and argue on it with all the self-pleasing, self- teasing logic of a lover. The country around was enough to awaken that voluptuousness of feeling so favorable to the growth of passion. The windows of the towe^ rose above the trees of the romantic valley of the Darro, and looked down upon some of the 206 BRA CKBRIDQE HALL. loveliest scenery of the Vega, where groves of r,#lron and orange were refreshed by cool springs and brooks of the purest water. The Xenel and the Darro wound their shining streams along the plain, and gleamed from among its bowers. The surrounding hills were covered with vine- yards, and the mountains, crowned with snow, seemed to melt into the blue sky. The delicate airs that played about the tower were perfumed by the fragrance of myrtle and orange blossoms, and the ear was charmed with the fond warbling of the nightingale, which, in these happy regions, sings the whole day long. Sometimes, too, there was the idle song of the muleteer, sauntering along the solitary road, or the notes of the gui- tar from some group of peasants dancing in the shade. All these were enough to fill the head of a young lover with poetic fancies ; and Antonio would picture to himself how he could loiter among those happy groves, and wander by those gentle rivers, and love away his life with Inez. He felt at times impatient at his own weakness, and would endeavor to brush away these cobwebs of the mind. He would turn his thought, with sudden effort, to his occult studies, or occupy him- self in some perplexing process ; but often, when he had partially succeeded in fixing his attention, the sound of Inez’s lute, or the soft notes of her voice, would come * stealing upon the stillness of the chamber, and, as it were, floating round the tower. There was no great art in her per- formance ; but Antonio thought he had never THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 207 heard music comparable to this. It was perfect witchcraft to hear her warble forth some ot lier national melodies ; those little Spanish romances and Moorish ballads which transport the hearer, in idea, to the banks of the Guadalquiver, or the walls of the Alhambra, and make him dream of beauties, and balconies, and moonlight serenades. Never was poor student more sadly beset than Antonio. Love is a troublesome companion in a study at the best of times ; but in the laboratory of an alchemist his intrusion is terribly disas- trous. Instead of attending to the retorts and crucibles, and watching the process of some ex- periment intrusted to his charge, the student would get entranced in one of these love-dreams, from which he would often be aroused by some fatal catastrophe. The philosopher, on returning from his researches in the libraries, would find everything gone wrong, and Antonio in despair over the ruins of the whole day’s work. The old man, however, took all quietly, for his had been a life of experiment and failure. “We must have patience, my son,” would he say, u as all the great masters that have gone be- fore us have had. Errors, and accidents, and de- lays, are what we have to contend with. Did not Pontanus err two hundred times before he could obtain even the matter on which to found his experiments ? The great Flamel, too, did he not labor four-and-twenty years, before he ascer- tained the first agent ? What difficulties and hardships did not Cartilaceus encounter, at the very threshold of his discoveries ? And Bernard 208 BRACEBRJDGE HALL. de Treves, even after he had attained a knowl- edge of all the requisites, was he not delayed full three years ? What you consider accidents, my son, are the machinations of our invisible ene- mies. The treasures and golden secrets of nature are surrounded by spirits hostile to man. The air about us teems with them. They lurk in the fire of the furnace, in the bottom of the crucible and the alembic, and are ever on the alert to take advantage of those moments when our minds are wandering from intense meditation on the great truth that we are seeking. We must only strive the more to purify ourselves from those gross and earthly feelings which becloud the soul, and pre- vent her from piercing into nature’s arcana.” 44 Alas ! ” thought Antonio, 44 if to be purified from all earthly feeling requires that I should cease to love Inez, I fear I shall never discover the philosopher’s stone ! ” In this way matters went on for some time at the alchemist’s. Day after day was sending the student’s gold in vapor up the chimney ; every blast of the furnace made him a ducat the poorer, without apparently helping him a jot nearer to the golden secret. Still the young man stood by, and saw piece after piece disappearing without a murmur: he had daily an opportunity of seeing Inez, and felt as if her favor would be better than silver or gold, and that every smile was worth a ducat. Sometimes, in the cool of the evening, when the toils of the laboratory happened to be sus- pended, he would walk with the alchemist in THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 209 what had once been a garden belonging to the mansion. There were still the remains of ter- races and balustrades, and here and there a mar- ble urn, or mutilated statue overturned, and bur- ied among weeds and flowers run wild. It was the favorite resort of the alchemist in his hours of relaxation, where he would give full scope to liis visionary flights. His mind was tinctured with the Rosicrucian doctrines. He believed in elementary beings ; some favorable, others ad- verse to his pursuits ; and in the exaltation of his fancy, had often imagined that he held commun- ion with them in his solitary walks about the whispering groves and echoing walls of this old garden. When accompanied by Antonio, he would pro- long these evening recreations. Indeed, he some- times did it out of consideration for his disciple, for he feared lest his too close application, and his incessant seclusion in the tower, should be in- jurious to his health. He was delighted and sur- prised by this extraordinary zeal and persever- ance in so young a tyro, and looked upon him as destined to be one of the great luminaries of the art. Lest the student should repine at the time lost in these relaxations, the good alchemist would fill them up with wholesome knowledge, in mat- ters connected with their pursuits ; and would walk up and down the alleys with his disciple, imparting oral instruction like an ancient philoso- pher. In all his visionary schemes there breathed a spirit of lofty, though chimerical philanthropy, that won the admiration of the scholar. Noth- 14 210 BllACEBRIDGE HALL. ing sordid, nor sensual ; nothing petty nor selfish seemed to enter into his views, in respect to the grand discoveries he was anticipating. On the contrary, his imagination kindled with concep- tions of widely dispensated happiness. He looked forward to the time when he should be able to go about the earth relieving the indigent, comforting the distressed ; and, by his unlimited means, de*> vising and executing plans for the complete extir- pation of poverty, and all its attendant sufferings and crimes. Never were grander schemes for general good, for the distribution of boundless wealth and universal competence, devised, than by this poor, indigent alchemist in his ruined tower. Antonio would attend these peripatetic lectures with all the ardor of a devotee ; but there was another circumstance which may have given a secret charm to them. The garden was the re- sort also of Inez, where she took her walks of recreation, the only exercise her secluded life permitted. As Antonio was duteously pacing by the side of his instructor, he would often catch a glimpse of the daughter, walking pensively about the alleys in the soft twilight. Sometimes they would meet her unexpectedly, and the heart of the student would throb with agitation. A blush, too, would crimson the cheek of Inez, but still she passed on, and never joined them. He had remained one evening, until rather a late hour, with the alchemist in this favorite re- sort. It was a delightful night after a sultry day, and the balmy air of the garden was peculiarly reviving The old man was seated on a fragment THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 211 of a pedestal, looking like a part of the ruin on which he sat. He was edifying his pupil by long lessons of wisdom from the stars, as they shone out with brilliant lustre in the dark-blue vault of a southern sky; for he was deeply versed in Bell- men, and other of the Rosicrucians, and talked much of the signature of earthly things, and pass- ing events, which may be discerned in the heav- ens ; of the power of the stars over corporeal be- ings, and their influence on the fortunes of the sons of men. By degrees the moon rose and shed her gleam- ing light among the groves. Antonio apparently listened with fixed attention to the sage, but his ear was drinking in the melody of Inez’s voice, who was singing to her lute in one of the moon- light glades of the garden. The old man having exhausted his theme, sat gazing in silent reverie at the heavens. Antonio could not resist an in- clination to steal a look at this coy beauty, who was thus playing the part of the nightingale, so sequestered and musical. Leaving the alchemist in his celestial reverie, he stole gently along one of the alleys. The music had ceased, and he thought he heard the sound of voices. He came to an angle of a copse that had screened a kind of green recess, ornamented by a marble fountain. The moon shone full upon the place, and by its light he beheld his unknown serenading rival at the feet of Inez. He was detaining her by the hand, which he covered with kisses ; but at sight of Antonio he started up and half drew his sword, while Inez, disengaged, fled back to the house. 212 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. All the jealous doubts and fears of Antonio were now confirmed. He did not remain to en- counter the resentment of his happy rival at be- ing thus interrupted, but turned from the place in sudden wretchedness of heart. That Inez should love another would have been misery enough ; but that she should be capable of a dishonorable amour, shocked him to the soul. The idea of deception in so young and apparently artless a being, brought with it that sudden distrust in hu- man nature, so sickening to a youthful and in- genuous mind ; but when he thought of the kind, simple parent she was deceiving, whose affections all centred in her, he felt for a moment a senti- ment of indignation, and almost of aversion. He found the alchemist still seated in his vis- ionary contemplation of the moon. “ Come hith- er, my son,” said he, with his usual enthusiasm, “ come, read with me in this vast volume of wis- dom, thus nightly unfolded for our perusal. Wisely did the Chaldean sages affirm, that the heaven is as a mystic page, uttering speech to those who can rightly understand ; warning ttem of good and evil, and instructing them in the se- cret decrees of fate.” The student’s heart ached for his venerable master ; and, for a .moment, he felt the futility of all his occult wisdom. “ Alas ! poor old man ! ” thought he, “ of what avails all thy study ? Lit- tle dost thou dream, while busied in airy specu- lations among the stars, what a treason against thy happiness is going on under thine eyes, — as it were, in thy very bosom ! — Oh, Inez ! Inez ! THE STUDENT OF SALAMaNCA. 213 where shall we look for truth and innocence ; where shall we repose confidence in woman, if even you can deceive ? ” It was a trite apostrophe, such as every lover makes when he finds his mistress not quite such a goddess as he had painted her. With the stu- dent, however, it sprang from honest anguish of heart. He returned to his lodgings in pitiable confusion of mind. He now deplored the infatua- tion which had led him on until his feelings were so thoroughly engaged. He resolved to abandon his pursuits at the tower, and trust to absence to dispel the fascination by which he had been spellbound. He no longer thirsted after the dis- covery of the grand elixir : the dream of alchemy was over ; for without Inez, what was the value of the philosopher’s stone ? He rose, after a sleepless night, with the * de- termination of taking his leave of the alchemist, and tearing himself from Grenada. For several days did he rise with the same resolution, and every night saw him come back to his pillow to repine at his want of resolution, and to make fresh determinations for the morrow. In the meanwhile he saw less of Inez than ever. She no longer walked in the garden, but remained almost entirely in her apartment. When she met him, she blushed more than usual ; and once hesitated, as if she would have spoken ; but after a tern porary embarrassment, and still deeper blushes, she made some casual observation, and retired. Antonio read, in this confusion, a consciousness of fault, and of that fault’s being discovered. “ What 214 BRA CEBRIDGE HALL. could she have wished to communicate ? Per- haps to account for the scene in the garden ; — but how can she account for it, or why should she account for it to me ? What am I to her ? — or rather, what is she to me?” exclaimed he, im- patiently ; with a new resolution to break through these entanglements of the heart, and fly from this enchanted spot forever. He was returning that very night to his lodg- ings, full of this excellent determination, when, in a shadowy part of the road, he passed a per- son whom he recognized, by his height and form, for his rival : he was going in the direction of the tower. If any lingering doubts remained, here was an opportunity of settling them com- pletely. He determined to follow this unknown cavalier, and, under favor of the darkness, observe his movements. If he obtained access to the tower, or in any way a favorable reception, Antonio felt as if it would be a relief to his mind, and would enable him to fix his wavering resolution. The unknown, as he came near the tower, was more cautious and stealthy in his approaches. He was joined under a clump of trees by another person, and they had much whispering together A light was burning in the chamber of Inez, the curtain was down, but the casement was left open, as the night was warm. After some time the light was extinguished. A considerable inter- val elapsed. The cavalier and his companion remained under covert of the trees, as if keeping watch. At length they approached the tower ivith silent and cautious steps. The cavalier re- THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 215 reived a dark lantern from his companion, and threw off his cloak. The other then softly brought something from the clump of trees, which Antonio perceived to be a light ladder : he placed it against the wall, and the serenader gently ascended. A sickening sensation came over Antonio. Here was indeed a confirmation of* every fear. He was about to leave the place, never to return, when he heard a stifled shriek from Inez’s chamber. In an instant the fellow that stood at the foot of the ladder lay prostrate on the ground. An- tonio wrested a stiletto from his nerveless hand, and hurried up the ladder. He sprang in at the window, and found Inez struggling in the grasp of his fancied rival : the latter, disturbed from his prey, caught up his lantern, turned its light full upon Antonio, and drawing his sword, made a furious assault ; luckily the student saw the light gleam along the blade, and parried the thrust with the stiletto. A fierce, but unequal combat ensued. Antonio fought exposed to the full glare of the light, while his antagonist was in shadow : his stiletto, too, was but a poor defence against a rapier. He saw that nothing would save him but closing with his adversary and getting with- in his weapon : he rushed furiously upon him, and gave him a severe blow with the stiletto ; but received a wound in return from the short ened sword. At the same moment a blow was inflicted from behind, by the confederate, who had ascended the ladder ; it felled him to the floor, and his antagonists made their escape. 216 BRA CEBU ID G E HALL. By this time the cries of Inez had brought he* father and the domestic to the room. Antonio was found weltering in his blood, and senseless. He was conveyed to the chamber of the alche- mist, who now repaid in kind the attentions which the student had once bestowed upon him. Among his varied knowledge he possessed some skill in surgery, which at this moment was of more value than even his chemical lore. He stanched and dressed the wounds of his disciple, which on ex- amination proved less desperate than he had at first apprehended. For a few days, however, his case was anxious, and attended with danger. The old man watched over him with the affection of a parent. He felt a double debt of gratitude towards him on account of his daughter and him- self ; he loved him too as a faithful and zealous disciple ; and he dreaded lest the world should be deprived of the promising talents of so aspiring an alchemist. An excellent constitution soon medicined his wounds ; and there was a balsam in the looks and words of Inez, that had a healing effect on the still severer wounds which he carried in his heart. She displayed the strongest interest in his safety ; she called him her deliverer, her pre- server. It seemed as if her grateful disposition sought, in the warmth of its acknowledgments, to repay him for past coldness. But what most con- tributed to Antonio’s recovery, was her explanation concerning his supposed rival. It was some time since he had first beheld her at church, and he had ever since persecuted her with his atten- THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 217 iions. He had beset her in her walks, until she had been obliged to confine herself to the house, except when accompanied by her father. He had besieged her with letters, serenades, and every art by which he could urge a vehement, but clandestine and dishonorable suit. The scene in the garden was as much of a surprise to her as to Antonio. Her persecutor had been attract- ed by her voice, and had found his way over a ruined part of the wall. He had come upon her unawares, was detaining her by force, and plead- ing his insulting passion, when the appearance of the student interrupted him, and enabled her to make her escape. She had forborne to mention to her father the persecution which she suffered ; she wished to spare him unavailing anxiety and distress, and had determined to confine herself more rigorously to the house ; though it appeared that even here she had not been safe from his daring enterprise. Antonio inquired whether she knew the name of this impetuous admirer ? She replied, that he had made his advances under a fictitious name ; but that she had heard him once called by the name of Don Ambrosio de Loxa. Antonio knew him, by report, for one of the most determined and dangerous libertines in all Grenada. Artful, accomplished, and, if he chose to be so, insinuating ; but daring and headlong in the pursuit of his pleasures ; violent and impla- cable in his resentments. He rejoiced to find that Inez had been proof against his seductions, ind had been inspired with aversion by his splen- 218 BRA CEB RID GE IIALL. did profligacy ; but he trembled to think of the dangers she had run, and he felt solicitude about the dangers that must yet environ her. At present, however, it was probable the en- emy had a temporary quietus. The traces of blood had been found for some distance from the ladder, until they were lost among thickets ; and as nothing had been heard or seen of him since, it was concluded that he had been seriously wounded. As the student recovered from his wounds he was enabled to join Inez and her father in their domestic intercourse. The chamber in which they usually met had probably been a saloon of state in former times. The floor was of marble ; the walls were partially covered with remains of tapestry ; the chairs, richly carved and gilt, were crazed with age, and covered with tarnished and tattered brocade. Against the wall hung a long, rusty rapier, the only relic that the old man re- tained of the chivalry of his ancestors. There might have been something to provoke a smile in the contrast between the mansion and its inhab- itants, between present poverty and the traces of departed grandeur ; but the fancy of the student had thrown so much romance about the edifice and its inmates, that everything was clothed with charms. The philosopher, with his broken-down pride, and his strange pursuits, seemed to comport with the melancholy ruin he inhabited ; and there was a native elegance of spirit about the daughter, that showed she would have graced the mansion in it** happier days. THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 219 Wliat delicious moments were these to the stu- dent ! Inez was no longer coy and reserved. She was naturally artless and confiding ; though the kind of persecution she had experienced from one admirer had rendered her, for a time, sus- picious and circumspect towards the other, she now felt an entire confidence in the sincerity and worth of Antonio, mingled with an overflowing gratitude. When her eyes met his, they beamed with sympathy and kindness ; and Antonio, no longer haunted by the idea of a favored rival, once more aspired to success. At these domestic meetings, however, he had little opportunity of paying his court, except by looks. The alchemist, supposing him, like him- self, absorbed in the study of alchemy, endeavored to cheer the tediousness of his recovery by long conversations on the art. He even brought sev- eral of his half-burnt volumes, which the student had once rescued from the flames, and rewarded him for their preservation by reading copious passages. He would entertain him with the great and good acts of Flamel, which he effected through means of the philosopher’s stone, reliev- ing widows and orphans, founding hospitals, build- ing churches, and what not ; or with the interrog- atories of King Kalid, and the answers of Mori- enus, the Roman hermit of Hierusalem ; or the profound questions which Elardus, a necromancer of the province of Catalonia, put to the devil, touch- ing the secrets of alchemy, and the devil’s replies. All these were couched in occult language, al- most ur intelligible to the unpractised ear of the 220 BRA CEB HID GE HAIL. disciple. Indeed, the old man delighted in tha mystic phrases and symbolical jargon in which the writers that have treated of alchemy have wrapped their communications ; rendering them incomprehensible except to the initiated. With what rapture would he elevate his voice at a triumphant passage, announcing the grand dis- covery ! “ Thou shalt see,” would he exclaim, in the words of Henry Kuhnrade,* “ the stone of the philosophers (our king) go forth of the bed- chamber of his glassy sepulchre into the theatre of this world; that is to say, regenerated and made perfect, a shining carbuncle, a most temper- ate splendor, whose most subtle and dephurated parts are inseparable, united into one with a con- cordial mixture, exceeding equal, transparent as crystal, shining red like a ruby, permanently col- oring or ringing, fixt in all temptations or trials ; yea, in the examination of the burning sulphur itself, and the devouring waters, and in the most vehement persecution of the fire, always incom- bustible and permanent as a salamander ! ” The student had a high veneration for the fathers of alchemy, and a profound respect for his instructor ; but what was Henry Kuhnrade, Geber, Lully, or even Albertus Magnus himself, compared to the countenance of Inez, which pre- sented such a page of beauty to his perusal? While, therefore, the good alchemist was doling out knowledge by the hour, his disciple would forget books, alchemy, everything but the lovely object before him. Inez, too, unpractised in tha * Amphitheatre of the Eternal Wisdom. THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 221 lienee of the heart, was gradually becoming fas- cinated by the silent attentions of her lover. Day by day she seemed more and more per- plexed by the kindling and strangely pleasing emotions of her bosom. Her eye was often cast down in thought. Blushes stole to her cheek without any apparent cause, and light, half-sup- pressed sighs would follow these short fits of musing. Her little ballads, though the same that she had always sung, yet breathed a more tender spirit. Either the tones of her voice were more soft and touching, or some passages were delivered with a feeling which she had never be- fore given them. Antonio, beside his love for the abstruse sciences, had a pretty turn for music ; and never did philosopher touch the guitar more tastefully. As, by degrees, he conquered the mutual embarrassment that kept them asunder, he ventured to accompany Inez in some of her songs. He had a voice full of fire and tender- ness ; as he sang, one would have thought, from the kindling blushes of his companion, that he had been pleading his own passion in her ear. Let those who would keep two youthful hearts asun- der beware of music. Oh ! this leaning over chairs, and conning the same music-book, and en- twining of voices, and melting away in harmo- nies ! — the German waltz is nothing to it. The worthy alchemist saw nothing of all this. His mind could admit of no idea that was not connected with the discovery of the grand arca- num, and he supposed his youthful coadjutor equally demoted. He was a mere child as to hu 222 BRACEDRJDGE HALL. man nature ; and, as to the passion of love, what- ever he might once have felt of it, he had long since forgotten that there was such an idle passion in existence. But, while he dreamed, the silent amour went on. The very quiet and seclusion of the place were favorable to the growth of ro- mantic passion. The opening bud of love was able to put forth leaf by leaf, without an adverse wind to check its growth. There was neither officious friendship to chill by its advice, nor in- sidious envy to wither by its sneers, nor an ob- serving world to look on and stare it out of coun- tenance. There was neither declaration, nor vow, nor any other form of Cupid’s canting school. Their hearts mingled together, and understood each other without the aid of language. They lapsed into the full current of affection, uncon- scious of its depth, and thoughtless of the rocks that might lurk beneath its surface. Happy lovers! who wanted nothing to make their fe- licity complete but the discovery of the philoso- pher’s stone. At length Antonio’s health was sufficiently re- stored to enable him to return to his lodgings in Grenada. He felt uneasy, however, at leaving the tower, while lurking danger might surround its almost defenceless inmates. He dreaded lest Don Ambrosio, recovered from his wounds, might plot some new attempt, by secret art or open vi- olence. From all that he had heard, he knew him to be too implacable to suffer his defeat to pass unavenged, and too rash and fearless, when his arts were unavailing, to stop at any daring THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA . 223 deed in the accomplishment of his purposes. He urged his apprehensions to the alchemist and his daughter, and proposed that they should abandon the dangerous vicinity of Grenada. “ I have relations,” said he, “ in Valencia, poor indeed, but worthy and affectionate. Among them you will find friendship and quiet, and we may there pursue our labors unmolested.” He went on to paint the beauties and delights of Va- lencia with all the fondness of a native, and all the eloquence with which a lover paints the fields and groves which he is picturing as the future scenes of his happiness. His eloquence, backed by the apprehensions of Inez, was successful with the alchemist, who, indeed, had led too unsettled a life to be particular about the place of his resi- dence ; and it was determined that, as soon as Antonio’s health was perfectly restored, they should abandon the tower, and seek the delicious neighborhood of Valencia.* To recruit his strength, the student suspended his toils in the laboratory, and spent the few re- maining days, before departure, in taking a fare- * Here are the strongest silks, the sweetest wines, the ex- cellent’st almonds, the best oyls and beautifull’st females of all Spain. The very bruit animals make themselves beds of rosemary, and other fragrant flowers hereabouts ; and when one is at sea, if the winde blow from the shore, he may smell this soyl before he come in sight of it many leagues off, by the strong oderiferous scent it casts. As it is the most pleasant, so it is also the temperat’st clime of all Spain, and they com jnonly call it the second Italy, which made the Moors, whereof many thousands were disterr’d and banish’d hence to Barbary to think that Paradise was in that part of the heavens which hung over this citie. — Howell’s Letters. 224 Bit A CEB RIDGE HALL. well look at the enchanting environs of Grenada, He felt returning health and vigor as lie inhaled the pure temperate breezes that play about its hills ; and the happy state of his mind contributed lo his rapid recovery. Inez was often the com- panion of his walks. Her descent, by the moth- er’s side, from one of the ancient Moorish families, gave her an interest in this once favorite seat of Arabian power. She gazed with enthusiasm upon its magnificent monuments, and her memory was filled with the traditional tales and ballads of Moorish chivalry. Indeed, the solitary life she had led, and the visionary turn of her father’s mind, had produced an effect upon her charac- ter, and given it a tinge of what, in modern days, would be termed romance. All this was called into full force by this new passion ; for, when a woman first begins to love, life is all ro- mance to her. In one of their evening strolls, they had as- cended to the mountain of the Sun, where is sit- uated the Generalise, the palace of pleasure, in the days of Moorish dominion, but now a gloomy convent of capuchins. They had wandered about its garden, among groves of orange, citron, and cypress, where the waters, leaping in torrents, or gushing in fountains, or tossed aloft in sparkling jets, fill the air with music and freshness. There is a melancholy mingled with all the beauties of this garden, that gradually stole over the feelings of the lovers. The place is full of the sad story of past times. It was the favorite abode of the lovely queen of Grenada, where she was sur THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 225 rounded by the delights of a gay and voluptuous court. It was here, too, amidst her own bowers of roses, that her slanderers laid the base story of her dishonor, and struck a fatal blow to the line of the gallant Abencerrages. The whole garden has a look of ruin and neg- lect, Many of the fountains are dry and broken ; the streams have wandered from their marble channels, and are choked by weeds and yellow leaves. The reed whistles to the wind where it had once sported among roses, and shaken per- fume from the orange-blossom. The convent-bell flings its sullen sound, or the drowsy vesper hymn floats along these solitudes, which once re- sounded with the song, and the dance, and the lover’s serenade. Well may the Moors lament over the loss of this earthly paradise ; well may they remember it in their prayers, and beseech Heaven to restore it to the faithful ; well may their ambassadors smite their breasts when they behold these monuments of their race, and sit down and weep among the fading glories of Gre- nada ! It is impossible to wander about these scenes of departed love and gayety, and not feel the ten- derness of the heart awakened. It was then that Antonio first ventured to breathe his passion, and to express by words what his eyes had long since so eloquently revealed. He made his avowal with fervor, but with frankness. He had no gay pros- pects to hold out ; he was a poor scholar, depend- ent on his “ good spirits to feed and clothe him.” Bu' a woman in love is no interested calculator. 15 226 BRA CEB FUDGE BALL. Inez listened to him with downcast ej r es, but in them was a humid gleam that showed .her heart was with him. She had no prudery in her na- ture ; and she had not been sufficiently in society to acquire it. She loved him with all the ab- sence of worldliness of a genuine woman ■ and, amidst timid smiles and blushes, he drew from her a modest acknowledgment of her affection. They wandered about the garden with that sweet intoxication of the soul which none but happy lovers know. The world about them was all fairy land ; and, indeed, it spread forth one of its fairest scenes before their eyes, as if to fulfil their dream of earthly happiness. They looked out from between groves of orange upon the tow- ers of Grenada below them ; the magnificent plain of the Vega beyond, streaked with evening sunshine, and the distant hills tinted with rosy and purple hues ; it seemed an emblem of the happy future that love and hope were decking out for them. As if to make the scene complete, a group of Andalusians struck up a dance, in one of the vis- tas of the garden, to the guitars of two wandering musicians. The Spanish music is wild and plain- tive, yet the people dance to it with spirit and en- thusiasm. The picturesque figures of the dances, the girls with their . hair in silken nets that hung in knots and tassels down their backs, their man- tillas floating round their graceful forms, their slender feet peeping from under their basquinas, their arms tossed up in the air to play the casta- nets, had a beautiful effect on this airy height, with THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 227 the rich evening landscape spreading out below them. When the dance was ended, two of the parties approached Antonio and Inez ; one of them be- gan a soft and tender Moorish ballad, accompanied by the other on the lute. It alluded to the story of the garden, the wrongs of the fair queen of Grenada, and the misfortunes of the Abencerrages. It was one of those old ballads that abound in this part of Spain, and live, like echoes, about the ruins of Moorish greatness. The heart of Inez was at that moment open to every tender impres- sion ; the tears rose into her eyes as she listened to the tale. The singer approached nearer to her ; she was striking in her appearance ; young, beautiful, with a mixture of wildness and melan- choly in her fine black eyes. She fixed them mournfully and expressively on Inez, and sud- denly varying her manner, sang another ballad, which treated of impending danger and treach- ery. All this might have passed for a mere ac- cidental caprice of the singer, had there not been something in her look, manner, and gesticulation, that made it pointed and startling. Inez was about to ask the meaning of this evi- dently personal application of the song, when she was interrupted by Antonio, who gently drew her from the place. Whilst she had been lost in at- tention to the music, he had remarked a group of men, in the shadows of the trees, whispering to- gether. They were enveloped in the broad hats and great cloaks so much worn by the Spanish, and while they were regarding himself and Inez 228 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. attentively, seemed anxious to avoid observation. Not knowing what might be their character or in- tention, he hastened to quit a place where the gathering shadows of evening might expose them to intrusion and insult. On their way down the hill, as they passed through the wood of elms, mingled with poplars and oleanders, that skirts (lie road leading from the Alhambra, he again saw these men, apparently following at a dis- tance ; and he afterwards caught sight of them among the trees on the banks of the Darro. He said nothing on the subject to Inez, nor her father, lor he would not awaken unnecessary alarm ; but he felt at a loss how to ascertain or to avert any machinations that might be devising against the helpless inhabitants of the tower. He took his leave of them late at night, full of this perplexity. As he left the dreary old pile, he saw some one lurking in the shadow of the wall, apparently watching his movements. He hastened after the figure, but it glided away, and disappeared among some ruins. Shortly after he heard a low whistle, which was answered from a little distance. He had no longer a doubt but. that some mischief was on foot, and turned to hasten back to the tower, and put its inmates on their guard. He had scarcely turned, however, before he found himself suddenly seized from be- hind by some one of Herculean strength. His struggles were in vain ; he was surrounded by armed men. One threw a mantle over him that stifled his cries, and enveloped him in its folds , and he was hurried od* with irresistible rapidity, THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA . 229 Tlie next day passed without the appearance ^>f Antonio at the alchemist’s. Another, and an- other day succeeded, and yet he did not come ; nor had anything been heard of him at his lodg- ings. His absence caused, at first, surprise and conjecture, and at length alarm. Inez recollected the singular intimations of the ballad-singer upon the mountain, which seemed to warn her of im- pending danger, and her mind was full of vague forebodings. She sat listening to every sound at the gate, or footstep on the stairs. She would take up her guitar and strike a few notes, but it would not do ; her heart was sickening with suspense and anxiety. She had never before felt what it was to be really lonely. She now was conscious of the force of that attachment which had taken possession of her breast ; for never do we know how much we love, never do we know how necessary the object of our love is to our happiness, until we experience the weary void of separation. The philosopher, too, felt the absence of his disciple almost as sensibly as did his daughter. The animating buoyancy of the youth had in- spired him with new ardor, and had given to his labors the charm of full companionship. How- ever, he had resources and consolations of which his daughter was destitute. His pursuits were of a nature to occupy every thought, and keep the spirits in a state of continual excitement. Certain indications, too, had lately manifested themselves, of the most favorable nature. Forty days and forty nights had the process gone on 230 BRA CEBR1DGE HALL . successfully ; the old man’s hopes were constantly rising, and he now considered the glorious mo- ment once more at hand, when he should obtain not merely the major lunaria, but likewise the tinctura Solaris, the means of multiplying gold, and of prolonging existence. He remained, therefore, continually shut up in his laboratory, watching his furnace; for a moment’s inadver- tency might once more defeat all his expecta- tions. He was sitting one evening at one of his soli- tary vigils, wrapped up in meditation ; the hour was late, and his neighbor, the owl, was hooting from the battlement of the tower, when he heard the door open behind him. Supposing it to be his daughter coming to take her leave of him for the night, as was her frequent practice, he called her by name, but a harsh voice met his ear in reply. He was grasped by the arms, and looking up, perceived three strange men in the chamber. He attempted to shake them off, but in vain. He called for help, but they scoffed at his cries. “ Peace, dotard ! ” cried one, “ think’st thou the servants of the most holy inquisition are to be daunted by thy clamors ? Comrades, away with him ! ” Without heeding his remonstrances and en- treaties, they seized upon his books and papers, took some note of the apartment, and the uten- sils, and then bore him off a prisoner. Inez, left to herself, had passed a sad and lonely evening; seated by a casement which looked in- to the garden, she had pensively watched star THE STL DENT OF SALAMANCA. 231 after star sparkle out of the blue depths of the sky, and was indulging a crowd of anxious thoughts about her lover, until the rising tears began to flow. She was suddenly alarmed by the sound of voices that seemed to come from a distant part of the mansion. There was not long after a noise of several persons descending the stairs. Surprised at these unusual sounds in their lonely habitation, she remained for a few moments in a state of trembling yet indistinct apprehension, when the servant rushed into the room, with ter- ror in her countenance, and informed her that her father was carried off by armed men. Inez did not stop to hear further, but flew down-stairs to overtake them. She had scarcely passed the threshold when she found herself in the grasp of strangers. — “ Away ! away ! ” cried she, wildly ; “ do not stop me — let me follow my father.” “We come to conduct you to him, senora,” said one of the men, respectfully. “ Where is he then ? ” “ He is gone to Grenada,” replied the man : “ an unexpected circumstance requires his pres- ence there immediately ; but he is among friends.” “We have no friends in Grenada,” said Inez, drawing back. But then the idea of Antonio rushed into her mind ; something relating to him might have called her father thither. “ Is Senor Antonio de Castros with him ? ” demanded she, with agitation. “ I knc w not, senora,” replied the man. “ It 232 BRA CEBR1DGE HALL. is very possible. I only know that your fathei is among friends, and is anxious for you to follow him.” “ Let us go, then,” cried she, eagerly. The men led her a little distance to where a mule was waiting, and, assisting her to mount, they conducted her slowly towards the city. Grenada was on that evening a scene of fan- ciful revel. It was one of the festivals of the Maestranza, an association of the nobility to keep up some of the gallant customs of ancient chivalry. There had been a representation of a tournament in one of the squares ; the streets would still occa- sionally resound with the beat of a solitary drum, or the bray of a trumpet, from some straggling party of revellers. Sometimes they were met by cavaliers, richly dressed in ancient costumes, at- tended by their squires ; and at one time they passed in sight of a palace brilliantly illuminated, whence came the mingled sounds of music and the dance. Shortly after they came to the square, where the mock tournament had been held. It was thronged by the populace, recreating them- selves among booths and stalls where refreshments were sold, and the glare of torches showed the temporary galleries, and gay-colored awnings, and armorial trophies, and other paraphernalia of the show. The conductors of Inez endeavored to keep out of observation, and to traverse a gloomy part of the square ; but they were detained at one place by the pressure of a crowd surrounding a party of wandering musicians, singing one of those ballads of which the Spanish ponulace are THE STUDENT OF SALAMAN CA. 233 so passionately fond. The torches which were held by some of the crowd, threw a strong mass of light upon Inez, and the sight of so beautiful a being, without mantilla or veil, looking so bewil- dered, and conducted by men who seemed to take no gratification in the surrounding gayety, occa- sioned expressions of curiosity. One of the bal- lad-singers approached, and striking her guitar with peculiar earnestness, began to sing a doleful air, full of sinister forebodings. Inez started with surprise. It was the same ballad-singer that had addressed her in the garden of Gener- aliffe. It was the same air that she had then sung. It spoke of impending dangers ; they seemed, indeed, to be thickening around her. She was anxious to speak with the girl, and to ascertain whether she really had a knowledge of any definite evil that was threatening her ; but as she attempted to address her, the mule on which she rode was suddenly seized and led forcibly through the throng by one of her con- ductors, while she saw another addressing mena- cing words to the ballad-singer. The latter raised her hand with a warning gesture as Inez lost sight of her. While she was yet lost in perplexity, caused by this singular occurrence, they stopped at the gate of a large mansion. One of her attendants knocked, the door was opened, and they entered a paved court. “ Where are we ? ” demanded Inez, with anxiety. “At the house of a friend, senora,” replied the man. “ Ascend this staircase with me, and in a moment you will meet your father.” 234 BRACEBRTDGE HALL . They ascended a staircase that led to a suite of splendid apartments. They passed through sev* eral until they came to an inner chamber. The door opened ; some one approached ; but what was her terror on perceiving, not her father, but Don Ambrosio ! The men wdio had seized upon the alchemist had, at least, been more honest in their professions. They were, indeed, familiars of the inquisition. He was conducted in silence to the gloomy prison of that horrible tribunal. It was a mansion whose very aspect withered joy, and almost shut out hope. It was one of those hideous abodes which the bad passions of men conjure up in this fair world, to rival the fancied dens of demons and the accursed. Day after day went heavily by, without any- thing to mark the lapse of time but the decline and reappearance of the light that feebly glim- mered through the narrow window of the dun- geon in which the unfortunate alchemist was bur- ied rather than confined. His mind was harassed with uncertainties and fears about his daughter, so helpless and inexperienced. He endeavored to gather tidings of her from the man who brought his daily portion of food. The fellow stared, as if astonished at being asked a question in that mansion of silence and mystery, but de- parted without saying a word. Every succeed- ing attempt was equally fruitless. The poor alchemist was oppressed with many griefs ; and it was not the least that he had been again interrupted in his labors on the very point THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA . 235 of success. Never was alchemist so near attain- ing the golden secret ; — a little longer, and all his hopes would have been realized. The thoughts of these disappointments afflicted him more than even the fear of all that he might suf- fer from the merciless inquisition. His waking thoughts would follow him into his dreams. He would be transported in fancy to his laboratory, busied again among retorts and alembics, and surrounded by Lully, by D’ Abano, by Olybius, and the other masters of the sublime art. The moment of projection would arrive ; a seraphic form would arise out of the furnace, holding forth a vessel containing the precious elixir; but, be- fore he could grasp the prize, he would awake, and find himself in a dungeon. All the devices of inquisitorial ingenuity were employed to ensnare the old man, and to draw from him evidence that might be brought against himself, and might corroborate certain secret in- formation given against him. He had been ac- cused of practising necromancy and judicial astrol- ogy, and a cloud of evidence had been secretly brought forward to substantiate the charge. It would be tedious to enumerate all the circum- stances, apparently corroborative, which had been industriously cited by the secret accuser. The silence which prevailed about the tower, its des- olateness, the very quiet of its inhabitants, had been adduced as proofs that something sinister was perpetrated within. The alchemist’s conver- sations and soliloquies in the garden had been overheard and misrepresented. The lights and 236 BRACE BR IDGE IIALL . Btrange appearances at night, in the tower, were given with violent exaggerations. Shrieks and yells were said to have been heard thence at mid- night, when, it was confidently asserted, the old man raised familiar spirits by his incantations, and even compelled the dead to rise from their graves, and answer to his questions. The alchemist, according to the custom of the inquisition, was kept in complete ignorance of his accuser ; of the witnesses produced against him ; even of the crimes of which he was accused. He was examined generally, whether he knew why he was arrested, and was conscious of any guilt that might deserve the notice of the holy office? He was examined as to his country, his life, his habits, his pursuits, his actions, and opin- ions. The old man was frank and simple in his replies ; he was conscious of no guilt, capable of no art, practised in no dissimulation. After re- ceiving a general admonition to bethink himself whether he had not committed any act deserving of punishment, and to prepare, by confession, to secure the well-known mercy of the tribunal, he was remanded to his cell. He was now visited in his dungeon by crafty familiars of the inquisition ; who, under pretence of sympathy and kindness, came to beguile the tediousness of his imprisonment with friendly con- versation. They casually introduced the subject of alchemy, on which they touched with great caution and pretended indifference. There was no need of such craftiness. The honest enthusi- ast had no suspicion in his nature : the moment THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 237 they touched upon his favorite theme, he forgot his misfortunes and imprisonment, and broke forth into rhapsodies about the divine science. The conversation was artfully turned to the discussion of elementary beings. The alchemist readily allowed his belief in them ; and that there had been instances of their attending upon phi- losophers, and administering to their wishes. He related many miracles said to have been performed by Apollonius Thyaneus, through the aid of spirits or demons ; insomuch that he was set up by the heathens in opposition to the Messiah ; and was even regarded with reverence by many Christians. The familiars eagerly demanded whether he believed Apollonius to be a true and worthy philosopher. The unaffected piety of the ilchemist protected him even in the midst of his simplicity ; for he condemned Apollonius as a sorcerer and an impostor. No art could draw from him an admission that he had ever employed or in- voked spiritual agencies in the prosecution of his pursuits, though he believed himself to have been frequently impeded by their invisible interference. The inquisitors were sorely vexed at not being able to inveigle him into a confession of a crim- inal nature ; they attributed their failure to craft, to obstinacy, to every cause but the right one, namely, that the harmless visionary had nothing guilty to confess. They had abundant proof of a secret nature against him ; but it was the prac- tice of the inquisition to endeavor to procure con- fession from the prisoners. An auto da fe was at hand ; the worthy fathers were eager for his am- 238 BRA CEBRID'iE HALL. vict.ion, for they were always anxious t b have a good number of culprits condemned to the stake, to grace these solemn triumphs. He was at length brought to a final examination. The chamber of trial was spacious and gloomy. At one end was a huge crucifix, the standard of the inquisition. A long table extended through the centre of the room, at which sat the inquisi- tors and their secretary ; at the other end a stool was placed for the prisoner. He was brought in, according to custom, bare- headed and bare-legged. He was enfeebled by confinement and affliction ; by constantly brood- ing over the unknown fate of his child, and the disastrous interruption of his experiments. He sat bowed down and listless ; liis head sunk upon his breast; his whole appearance that of one “ past hope, abandoned, and by himself given over.” The accusation alleged against him was now brought forward in a specific form ; he was called upon by name, Felix de Yasquez, formerly of Castile, to answer to the charges of necromancy and demonology. He was told that the charges were amply substantiated ; and was asked whether he wa3 ready, by full confession, to throw himself upon the well-known mercy of the holy inquisi- tion. The philosopher testified some little surprise at the nature of the accusation, but simply replied, K I am innocent.” “ What proof have you to give of your inno- cence ? ” TFIE STUDENT OF SALajTANCA. 239 “ It rather remains for you to prove your charges,” said the old man. “ I am a stranger and a sojourner in the land, and know no one out of the doors of my dwelling. I can give noth- ing in my vindication but the word of a noble- man and a Castilian.” The inquisitor shook his head, and went on to repeat the various inquiries that had before been made as to his mode of life and pursuits. The poor alchemist was too feeble and too weary at heart to make any but brief replies. He re- quested that some man of science might examine his laboratory, and all his books and papers, by which it would be made abundantly evident that he was merely engaged in the study of alchemy. To this the inquisitor observed, that alchemy had become a mere covert for secret and deadly sins. That the practisers of it were apt to scru- ple at no means to satisfy their inordinate greed- iness of gold. Some had been known to use spells and impious ceremonies ; to conjure the aid of evil spirits ; nay, even to sell their souls to the enemy of mankind, so that they might riot in boundless wealth while living. The poor alchemist had heard all patiently, or, at least, passively. He had disdained to vindi- cate his name otherwise than by his word ; he had smiled at the accusations of sorcery, when applied merely to himself; but when the sublime art, which had been the study and passion of his life, was assailed, he could no longer listen in si- lence. His head gradually rose from his bosom ; a hectic color came in faint streaks to his cheeks, 2 10 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. played about there, disappeared, returned, and at length kindled into a burning glow. The clammy dampness dried from his forehead ; his eyes, which had been nearly extinguished, lighted up again, and burned with their wonted arid visionary tires. Pie entered into a vindication of his favorite art. His voice at first was feeble and broken ; but it gathered strength as he proceeded, until it rolled in a deep and sonorous volume. He gradually rose from his seat as he rose with his subject ; he threw back the scanty black mantle which had hitherto wrapped his limbs ; the very uncouthness of his form and looks gave an impressive effect to what he uttered ; it was as though a corpse had become suddenly animated. He repelled with scorn the aspersions cast upon alchemy by the ignorant and vulgar. He affirmed it v' be the mother of all art and science, citing the opinions of Paracelsus, Sandivogius, Ray- mo). d Lully, and others, in support of his asser- tions. He maintained that it was pure and inno- cenv, and honorable both in its purposes and means. What were its objects ? The perpetua- tion of life and youth, and the production of gold. “ The elixir vitae,” said he, “ is no charmed potion, but merely a concentration of those elements of vitality which nature has scattered through her works. The philosopher’s stone, or tincture, or powder, as it is variously called, is no necromantic talisman, but consists simply of those particles which gold contains within itself for its reproduc- tion ; for gold, like other things, has its seed within itself, though bound up with inconceivable THE STUDENT Of SALAMANCA. 241 firmness, from the vigor of innate fixed salts and sulphurs. In seeking to discover the elixir of life, then,” continued he, 44 we seek only to apply some of nature’s own specifics against the disease and decay to which our bodies are subjected • and what else does the physician, when he tasks his art, and uses subtle compounds and cunning distillations to revive our languishing powers, and avert the stroke of death for a season ? 44 In seeking to multiply the precious metals, also, we seek but to germinate and multiply, b^ natural means, a particular species of nature’s productions ; and what else does the husbandman, who consults times and seasons, and, by what might be deemed a natural magic, from the mere scattering of his hand, covers a whole plain with golden vegetation ? The mysteries of our art, it is true, are deeply and darkly hidden ; but it requires so much the more innocence and purity of thought to penetrate unto them. No, father, the true alchemist must be pure in mind and body ; he must be temperate, patient, chaste, watchful, meek, humble, devout. 4 My son,’ says Hermes Trismegestes, the great master of our art, 4 my son, I recommend you above all things to fear God.’ And indeed it is only by devout castigation of the senses and purification of the soul, that the alchemist is enabled to enter into the sacred chambers of truth. 4 Labor, pray, and read,’ is the motto of our science. As De Nuyse- inent well observes, 4 these high and singular favors are granted unto none save only unto the sons of God, (that is to say, the virtuous and de- 16 242 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. vout,) who, under his paternal benediction, have obtained the opening of the same, by the helping hand of the queen of arts, divine Philosophy. Indeed, so sacred has the nature of this knowl edge been considered, that we are told it hag four times been expressly communicated by God to man, having made a part of that cabalis- tieal wisdom which was revealed to Adam to con- sole him for the loss of Paradise, to Moses in the bush, to Solomon in a dream, and to Esdras by the angel. “ So far from demons and malign spirits being the friends and abettors of the alchemist, they are the continual foes with which he has to con- tend. It is their constant endeavor to shut up the avenues to those truths which would enable him to rise above the abject state into which he has fallen, and return to that excellence which was his original birthright. For what would be the effect of this length of days, and this abun- dant wealth, but to enable the possessor to go on from art to art, from science to science, with en- ergies unimpaired by sickness, uninterrupted by death? For this have sages and philosophers shut themselves up in cells and solitudes ; buried themselves in caves and dens of the earth ; turn- ing from the joys of life, and the pleasance of the world ; enduring scorn, poverty, persecution. For this was Raymond Lully stoned to death in Mauritania. For this did the immortal Pietro I)’ Abano suffer persecution at Padua, and when he escaped from his oppressors by death, was despitefully burnt in effigy. For this have ill us- THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 243 fcrious men of all nations intrepidly suffered mar- tyrdom. For this, if unmolested, have they as- siduously employed the latest hour of life, the expiring throb of existence, hoping to the last that they might yet seize upon the prize for which they had struggled, and pluck themselves back even from the very jaws of the grave. “ For, when once the alchemist shall have attained the object of his toils, when the sublime secret shall be revealed to his gaze, how glorious will be the change in his condition ! How will he emerge from his solitary retreat, like the sun breaking forth from the darksome chamber of the night, and darting his beams throughout the earth ! Gifted with perpetual youth and bound- less riches, to what heights of wisdom may he attain ! How may he carry on, uninterrupted, the thread of knowledge, which has hitherto been snapped at the death of each philosopher ! And, as the increase of wisdom is the increase of vir- tue, how may he become the benefactor of his fellow-men ; dispensing with liberal, but cautious and discriminating hand, that inexhaustible wealth which is at his disposal ; banishing poverty, which is the cause of so much sorrow and wickedness ; encouraging the arts ; promoting discoveries, and enlarging all the means of virtuous enjoyment ! His life will be the connecting band of genera- tions. History will live in his recollection ; dis- tant ages will speak with his tongue. The nations of the earth will look to him as their pre- ceptor, and kings will sit at his feet and learn wisdom. Oh glorious ! oh celestial alchemy ! ” — 244 BRACEBRIDGE n ALL Here he was interrupted by the inquisitor, who had suffered him to go on thus far, in hopes of gathering something from his unguarded enthu- siasm. “ Sehor,” said he, u this is all rambling, visionary talk. You are charged with sorcery, and in defence you give us a rhapsody about al- chemy. Have you nothing better than this to offer in your defence ? ” The old man slowly resumed his seat, but did deign no reply. The fire that had beamed in his eye gradually expired. His cheek resumed its wonted paleness ; but he did not relapse into in- anity. He sat with a steady, serene, patient look, like one prepared not to contend but to suffer. His trial continued for a long time with cruel mockery of justice, for no witnesses were ever, in this court, confronted with the accused, and the latter had continually to defend himself in the dark. Some unknown and powerful enemy had alleged charges against the unfortunate alchemist, but who he could not imagine. Stranger and so- journer as he was in the land, solitary and harm- less in his pursuits, how could he have provoked such hostility ? The tide of secret testimony, how- ever, was too strong against him : he was con- victed of the crime of magic, and condemned to expiate his sins at the stake, at the approaching auto da fe. While the unhappy alchemist was undergoing his trial at the inquisition, his daughter was ex- posed to trials no less severe. Don Ambrosio, into whose hands she had fallen, was, as has be- fore been intimated, one of the most daring and THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA . 245 lawless profligates in all Grenada. He was a man of hot blood and fiery passions, who stopped at nothing in the gratification of his desires ; yet with all this he possessed manners, address, and accomplishments, that had made him eminently successful among the sex. From the palace to the cottage he had extended his amorous enter* prises ; his serenades harassed the slumbers of half the husbands in Grenada ; no balcony was too high for his adventurous attempts ; nor any cottage too lowly for his perfidious seductions. Yet he was as fickle as he was ardent ; success had made him vain and capricious ; he had no sentiment to attach him to the victim of his arts ; and many a pale cheek and fading eye, languish- ing amidst the sparkling of jewels, and many a breaking heart, throbbing under the rustic bodice, bore testimony to his triumphs and his faithless- ness. He was sated, however, by easy conquests, and wearied of a life of continual and prompt grati- fication. There had been a degree of difficulty and enterprise in the pursuit of Inez, that he had never before experienced. It had aroused him from the monotony of mere sensual life, and stim- ulated him with the. charm of adventure. He had become an epicure in pleasure ; and now that he had this coy beauty in his power, he was deter- mined to protract his enjoyment, by the gradual conquest of her scruples, and downfall of her vir- tue. He was vain of his person and address, which he thought no woman could long withstand ; and it was a kind of trial of skill to endeavor to 246 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. gain by art and fascination what he was secure of obtaining at any time by violence. When Inez, therefore, was brought to his pres- ence by his emissaries, he affected not to notice her terror and surprise, but received her with for- mal and stately courtesy. He was too wary a fowler to flutter the bird when just entangled in the net. To her eager and wild inquiries about her father, he begged her not to be alarmed ; that he was safe, and had been there, but was en- gaged elsewhere in an affair of moment, from which he would soon return ; in the mean time he had left word that she should await his return in patience. After some stately expressions of gen- eral civility, Don Ambrosio made a ceremonious bow, and retired. The mind of Inez was full of trouble and per- plexity. The stately formality of Don Ambro- sio was so unexpected as to check the accusations and reproaches that were springing to her lips. Had he had evil designs, would he have treated her with such frigid ceremony when he had her in his power ? But why, then, was she brought to his house? Was not the mysterious disap- pearance of Antonio connected with this ? A thought suddenly darted into her mind. Anto- nio had again met with Don Ambrosio — they had fought — Antonio was wounded — perhaps dying ! — It was him to whom her father had gone. It was at his request that Don Ambro- sio had sent for them to soothe his dying moments ! These, and a thousand such horrible suggestions harassed her mind ; but she tried in vain to get HIE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 247 information from the domestics ; they knew noth- ing but that her father had been there, had gone, and would soon return. Thus passed a night of tumultuous thought and vague yet cruel apprehensions. She knew not what to do, or what to believe ; whether she ought to fly, or to remain ; but if to fly, how was she to extricate herself? and where was she to seek her father ? As the day dawned with- out any intelligence of him, her alarm increased ; at length a message was brought from him, say- ing that circumstances prevented his return to her, but begging her to hasten to him without delay. With an eager and throbbing heart did she set forth with the men that were to conduct her. She little thought, however, that she was merely changing her prison-house. Don Ambrosio had feared lest she should be traced to his residence in Grenada ; or that he might be interrupted there before he could accomplish his plan of seduction. He had her now conveyed, therefore, to a man- sion which he possessed in one of the mountain sol- itudes in the neighborhood of Grenada ; a lonely, but beautiful retreat. In vain, on her arrival, did she look around for her father, or Antonio ; none but strange faces met her eye ; menials pro- foundly respectful, but who knew nor saw any- thing but what their master pleased. She had scarcely arrived before Don Ambrosio made his appearance, less stately in his manner, but still treating her with the utmost delicacy and deference. Inez was too much agitated and 248 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. alarmed to be baffled by his courtesy, and be- came vehement in her demand to be conducted to her father. Don Ambrosio now put on an appearance of the greatest embarrassment and emotion. After some delay, and much pretended confusion, he at length confessed that the seizure of. her father was all a stratagem ; a mere false alarm to pro- cure him the present opportunity of having ac- cess to her, and endeavoring to mitigate that ob- duracy, and conquer that repugnance, which he declared had almost driven him to distraction. He assured her that her father was again at home in safety, and occupied in his usual pursuits ; having been fully satisfied that his daughter was in honorable hands, and would soon be restored to him. In vain she threw herself at his feet, and implored to be set at liberty ; he only replied by gentle entreaties, that she would pardon the seeming violence he had to use ; and that she would trust a little while to his honor. “ You are here,” said he, “ absolute mistress of every- thing : nothing shall be said or done to offend you ; I will not even intrude upon your ear the unhappy passion that is devouring my heart. Should you require it, I will even absent myself from your presence ; but to part with you en- tirely at present, with your mind full of doubts and resentments, would be worse than death to me. No, beautiful Inez, you must first know me a little better, and know my conduct, that my pas- sion for you is as delicate and respectful as it i* vehement.” THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 249 The assurance of her father’s safety had re lieved Inez from one cause of torturing anxiety, only to render her fears more violent on her own account. Don Ambrosio, however, continued to treat her with artful deference, that insensibly lulled her apprehensions. It is true she found herself a captive, but no advantage appeared to be taken of her helplessness. She soothed herself with the idea that a little while would suffice to convince Don Ambrosio of the fallacy of his hopes, and that he would be induced to restore her to her home. Her transports of terror and affliction, there* fore, subsided, in a few days, into a passive, yet anxious melancholy, with which she awaited the hoped-for event. In the meanwhile all those artifices were em- ployed that are calculated to charm the senses, ensnare the feelings, and dissolve the heart into tenderness. Don Ambrosio was a master of the subtle arts of seduction. His very mansion breathed an enervating atmosphere of languor and delight. It was here, amidst twilight sa- loons and dreamy chambers, buried among groves of orange and myrtle, that he shut himself up at times from the prying world, and gave free scope to the gratification of his pleasures. The apartments were furnished in the most sumptuous and voluptuous manner ; the silken couches swelled to the touch, and sank in downy softness beneath the slightest pressure. The paint- ings and statues all told some classic tale of love, managed, however, with an insidious delicacy ; which, while it banished the grossness that might 25 0 BliACEBRIDGE HALL. disgust, was the more calculated to excite the im* agination. There the blooming Adonis was seen, not breaking away to pursue the boisterous chase, but crowned with flowers, and languishing in the embraces of celestial beauty. There Acis wooed his Galatea in the shade, with the Sicilian sea spreading in halcyon serenity before them. There were depicted groups of fauns and dryads, fondly reclining in summer bowers, and listening to the liquid piping of the reed ; or the wanton satyrs surprising some wood-nymph during her noontide slumber. There, too, on the storied tapestry, might be seen the chaste Diana, stealing, in the mystery of moonlight, to kiss the sleeping En- dymion ; while Cupid and Psyche, entwined in immortal marble, breathed on each other’s lips the early kiss of love. The ardent rays of the sun were excluded from these balmy halls ; soft and tender music from unseen musicians floated around, seeming to min- gle with the perfumes exhaled from a thousand flowers. At night, when the moon shed a fairy light over the scene, the tender serenade would rise from among the bowers of the garden, in which the fine voice of Don Ambrosio might often be distinguished ; or the amorous flute would be heard along the mountain, breathing in its pensive ca- dences the very soul of a lover’s melancholy. Various entertainments were also devised to dispel her loneliness and to charm away the idea of confinement. Groups of Andalusian dancers performed, in the splendid saloorfs, the various picturesque dances of their country ; or repre- THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 251 sented little amorous ballets, which turned upon some pleasing scene of pastoral coquetry and courtship. Sometimes there were bands of sing- ers, who, to the romantic guitar, warbled forth ditties full of passion and tenderness. Thus all about her enticed to pleasure and vo~ luptuousness ; but the heart of Inez turned with distaste from this idle mockery. The tears would rush into her eyes as her thoughts reverted from this scene of profligate splendor to the humble but virtuous home whence she had been be- trayed ; or if the witching power of music ever soothed her into a tender reverie, it was to dwell with fondness on the image of Antonio. But if Don Ambrosio, deceived by this transient calm, should attempt at such time to whisper his pas- sion, she would start as from a dream, and recoil from him with involuntary shuddering. She had passed one long day of more than or- dinary sadness, and in the evening a band of these hired performers were exerting all the animating powers of song and dance to amuse her. But while the lofty saloon resounded with their war- nings, and the light sound of feet upon its marble pavement kept time to the cadence of the song, poor Inez, with her face buried in the silken couch on which she reclined, was only rendered more wretched by the sound of gayety. At length her attention was caught by the voice of one of the singers, that brought with it Borne indefinite recollections. She raised her bead, and cast an anxious look at the performers, who, as usual, were at the lower end of the sa 252 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. loon. One of them advanced a little before the others. It was a female, dressed in a fanciful pastoral garb, suited to the character she was sus- taining ; but her countenance was not to be mis- taken. It was the same ballad-singer that had twice crossed her path, and given her mysterious intimations of the lurking mischief that surround- ed her. When the rest of the performances were concluded, she seized a tambourine, and tossing it aloft, danced alone to the melody of her own voice. In the course of her dancing she ap- proached to where Inez reclined : and as she struck the tambourine, contrived, dexterously, to throw a folded paper on the couch. Inez seized it with avidity, and concealed it in her bosom. The singing and dancing were at an end ; the motley crew retired ; and Inez, left alone, hast- ened with anxiety to unfold the paper thus mys- teriously conveyed. It was written in an agitated, and almost illegible, handwriting : “ Be on your guard ! you are surrounded by treachery. Trust not to the forbearance of Don Ambrosio ; you are marked out for his prey. An humble victim to his perfidy gives you this warning ; she is encom- passed by too many dangers to be more explicit. Your father is in the dungeons of the inquisition ! ” The brain of Inez reeled as she read this dreadful scroll. She was less filled with alarm at her own danger, than horror at her father’s situa- tion. The moment Don Ambrosio appeared, she rushed and threw herself at his feet, imploring him to save her father. Don Ambrosio started with astonishment ; but immediately regaining his TEE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 253 6elf-possession, endeavored to soothe her by his blandishments, and by assurances that her father was in safety. She was not to be pacified ; her fears were too much aroused to be trifled with She declared her knowledge of her father’s being a prisoner of the inquisition, and reiterated her frantic supplications that he would save him. Don Ambrosio paused for a moment in per- plexity, but was too adroit to be easily con- founded. “ That your father is a prisoner,” replied he, £ ‘I have long known. I have concealed it from you, to save you from fruitless anxiety. You now know the real reason of the restraint I have put upon your liberty : I have been protecting instead of detaining you. Every exertion has been made in your father’s favor ; but I regret to say, the proofs of the offences of which he stands charged have been too strong to be contro- verted. Still,” added he, “I have it in my power to save him ; I have influence, I have means at my beck ; it may involve me, it is true, in diffi- culties, perhaps in disgrace ; but what would I not do in the hopes of being rewarded by your favor ? Speak, beautiful Inez,” said he, his eyes kindling with sudden eagerness ; “ it is with you to say the word that seals your father’s fate. One kind word — say but you will be mine, and ‘you will behold me at your feet, your father at liberty and in affluence, and we shall all be happy ! ” Inez drew back from him with scorn and dis- belief. “ My father,” exclaimed she, “ is too in- nocent and blameless to be convicted of crime; this is some base, some cruel artifice ! ” Don 254 DRACEBRIDGE IIALL . Ambrosio repeated nis asseverations, and with them also his dishonorable proposals ; but his eagerness overshot its mark ; her indignation and her incredulity were alike awakened by his base suggestions ; and he retired from her presence checked and awed by the sudden pride and dig- nity of her demeanor. The unfortunate Inez now became a prey to the most harrowing anxieties. Don Ambrosio saw that the mask had fallen from his face, and that the nature of his machinations was revealed. He had gone too far to retrace his steps, and as- sume the affectation of tenderness and respect ; indeed, he was mortified and incensed at her in- sensibility to his attractions, and now only sought to subdue her through her fears. He daily repre- sented to her the dangers that threatened her father, and that it was in his power alone to avert them. Inez was still incredulous. She was too ignorant of the nature of the inquisition to know that even innocence was not always a protection from its cruelties ; and she confided too surely in the virtue of her father to believe that any accu- sation could prevail against him. At length Don Ambrosio, to give an effectual blow to her confidence, brought her the procla mation of the approaching auto da fe , in which the prisoners were enumerated. She glanced her eye over it, and beheld her father’s name, con- demned to the stake for sorcery. For a moment she stood tiansfixed with hor ror. Don Ambrosio seized upon the transient calm. “ Think now, beautiful Inez,” said he, THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 255 with a tone of affected tenderness, “ his life i? still in your hands ; one word from you, one kind word, and I can yet save him.” u Monster ! wretch ! ” cried she, coming to her- self, and recoiling from him with insuperable ab- horrence : “ ’t is you that are the cause of this — ’t is you that are his murderer ! ” Then, wing- ing her hands, she broke forth into exclamations of the most frantic agony. The perfidious Ambrosio saw the torture of her soul, and anticipated from it a triumph. He saw that she was in no mood, during her present paroxysm, to listen to his words ; but he trusted that the horrors of lonely rumination would break down her spirit, and subdue her to his will. In this, however, he was disappointed. Many were the vicissitudes of mind of the wretched Inez : one time she would embrace his knees with piercing supplications ; at another she would shrink with, nervous horror at his very approach ; but any intimation of his passion only excited the same emotion of loathing and detestation. At length the fatal day drew nigh. “ To-mor- row,” said Don Ambrosio, as he left her one even- ing, — “ to-morrow is the auto da fe. To-morrow you will hear the sound of the bell that tolls your father to his death. You will almost see the smoke th^t rises from his funeral-pile. I leavo you to yourself. It is yet in my power to save him. Think whether you can stand to-morrow’s horrors without shrinking. Think whether you can endure the after-reflection, that you were the cause of his death, and that merely through a per- versity in refusing proffered happiness.” 256 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. What a night was it to Inez ! Her heart, al ready harassed and almost broken by repeated and protracted anxieties ; her strength wasted and enfeebled. On every side horrors awaited her : her father’s death, her own dishonor : there seemed no escape from misery or perdition. “ Is there no relief from man — no pity in heaven ? ” exclaimed she. “ What have we done that we should be thus wretched ? ” As the dawn approached, the fever of her mind arose to agony ; a thousand times did she try the doors and windows of her apartment, in the des- perate hope of escaping. Alas ! with all the splendor of her prison, it was too faithfully secured for her weak hands to work deliverance. Like a poor bird, that beats its wings against its gilded cage, until it sinks panting in despair, so she threw herself on the floor in hopeless anguish. Her blood grew hot in her veins, her tongue was parched, her temples throbbed with violence, she gasped rather than breathed ; it seemed as if her brain was on fire. “ Blessed Virgin ! ’’ exclaimed she, clasping her hands, and turning up her 6trained eyes, “ look down with pity, and support me in this dreadful hour ! ” Just as the day began to dawn, she heard a key turn softly in the door of her apartment. She dreaded lest it should be Don Ambrosio : and the very thought of him gave her a sicken- ing pang. It was a female, clad in a rustic dress, with her face concealed by her mantilla. She stepped silently into the room, looked cau- tiously round, and then, uncovering her face, re- THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 257 sealed the well-known features of the ballad- singer. Inez uttered an exclamation of surprise, almost of joy. The unknown started back, pressed her finger on her lips enjoining silence, and beck- oned her to follow. She hastily wrapped her- self in her veil, and obeyed. They passed with quick but noiseless steps through an an tech am* ber, across a spacipus hall, and along a corridor ; all was silent ; the household was yet locked in sleep. They came to the door, to which the un known applied a key. Inez’s heart misgave her ; she knew not but some new treachery was men- acing her ; she laid her cold hand on the stran- ger’s arm : “ Whither are you leading me ? ” said she. “ To liberty,” replied the other in a whis- per. “ Do you know the passages about this man- sion ? ” “ But too well ! ” replied the girl, with a mel- ancholy shake of the head. There was an ex- pression of sad veracity in her countenance that was not to be distrusted. The door opened on a small terrace which was overlooked by several windows of the mansion. “ We must move across this quickly,” said the girl, “or we may be observed.” They glided over it as if scarce touching the ground. A flight of steps led down into the garden ; a wicket at the bottom was readily unbolted ; they passed with breathless velocity along one of the alleys, still in sight of the mansion, in which, however, no person appeared to be stirring. At length they came to a low private door in the 17 258 BRA CEBRIDGE IIALL . wall, partly hidden by a fig-tree. It was secured by rusty bolts, that refused to yield to their fee- ble efforts. “ Holy Virgin ! ” exclaimed the stranger, — “ what is to be done? one moment more, and we may be discovered.” She seized a stone that lay near by : a few blows, and the bolts flew back; the door grated harshly as they opened it, and the next moment they found themselves in a narrow road. “ Now,” said the stranger, “ for Grenada as quickly as possible ! The nearer we approach it, the safer we shall be ; for the road will be more frequented.” The imminent risk they ran of being pursued and taken gave supernatural strength to their limbs ; they flew rather than ran. The day had dawned ; the crimson streaks on the edge of the horizon gave tokens of the approaching sunrise ; already the light clouds that floated in the west- ern sky were tinged with gold and purple, though the broad plain of the Vega, which now began to open upon their view, was covered with the dark haze of the morning. As yet they only passed a few straggling peasants on the road, who could have yielded them no assistance in case of their being overtaken. They continued to hurry for- ward, and had gained a considerable distance, when the strength of Inez, which had only been sustained by the fever of her mind, began to yield to fatigue : she slackened her pace, and faltered. “ Alas ! ” said she, “ my limbs fail me! f can go no farther ! ” THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 259 “ Bear up, bear up,” replied her companion eheeringly ; “ a little farther, and we shall bs eafe: look! yonder is Grenada, just showing it- self in the valley below us. A little farther, and we shall come to the main road, and then we shall find plenty of passengers to protect us.” Inez, encouraged, made fresh efforts to get for- ward, but her weary limbs were unequal to the eagerness of her mind ; her mouth and throat were parched by agony and terror : she gasped for breath, and leaned for support against a rock. “ It is all in vain ! ” exclaimed she ; “ I feel as though I should faint.” “ Lean on me,” said the other ; “ let us get in- to the shelter of yon thicket, that will conceal us from view. I hear the sound of water, which will refresh you.” With much difficulty they reached the thicket, which overhung a small mountain-stream, just where its sparkling waters leaped over the rock and fell into a natural basin. Here Inez sank upon the ground exhausted. Her companion brought water in the palms of her hands, and bathed her pallid temples. The cooling drops re- vived her ; she was enabled to get to the margin of the stream, and drink of its crystal current ; then, reclining her head on the bosom of her deliv- erer, she was first enabled to murmur forth her heartfelt gratitude. “ Alas ! ” said the other, “ I deserve no thanks ; L deserve not the good opinion you express. In me you behold a victim of Don Ambrosio’s arts. In early years he seduced me from the cottage 260 BRA CEBRIDG E HALL. of my parents : look ! at the foot of yonder blue mountain in the distance lies my native village ; but it is no longer a home for me. Pie lured me thence when I was too young for reflection ; he educated me, taught me various accomplishments, made me sensible to love, to splendor, to refine- ment ; then, having grown weary of me, he neg- lected me, and cast me upon the world. Plap- pily, the accomplishments he taught me have kept me from utter want ; and the love with which he inspired me has kept me from farther degrada- tion. Yes ! I confess my weakness : all his per- fidy and wrongs cannot efface him from my heart. I have been brought up to love him ; I have no other idol : I know him to be base, yet I cannot help adoring him. I am content to mingle among the hireling throng that administer to his amuse- ments, that I may still hover about him, and lin- ger in those halls where I once reigned mistress. What merit, then, have I in assisting your escape ? 1 scarce know whether I am acting from sympa- thy and a desire to rescue another victim from his power, or jealousy and an eagerness to re- move too powerful a rival ! ” While she was yet speaking, the sun rose in all its splendor ; first lighting up the mountain summits, then stealing down height by height, until its rays gilded the domes and towers of Gre- nada, which they could partially see from be- tween the trees, below them. Just then the heavy tones of a bell came sounding from a dis- tance, echoing, in sullen clang, along the mountain. Tnez turned pale at the sound. She knew it to THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 261 be the great bell of the cathedral, rung at sunrise on the day of the auto da fe, to give note of fu- neral preparation. Every stroke beat upon her heart, and inflicted an absolute, corporeal pang. She started up wildly. “ Let us be gone ! ” cried she ; “ there is not a moment for delay ! ” “ Stop ! ” exclaimed the other, “ yonder are horsemen coming over the brow of that distant height ; if I mistake not, Don Ambrosio is at their head. — Alas ! ’t is he ; we are lost. Hold ! ” continued she ; “ give me your scarf and veil ; wrap yourself in this mantilla. I will fly up yon footpath that leads to the heights. I tvill let the veil flutter as I ascend ; perhaps they may mis- take me for you, and they must dismount to fol- low me. Do you hasten forward : you will soon reach the main road. You have jewels on your fingers : bribe the first muleteer you meet to assist you on your way.” All this was said with hurried and breathless rapidity. The exchange of garments was made in an instant. The girl darted up the mountain- path, her white veil fluttering among the dark shrubbery ; while Inez, inspired with new strength, or rather new terror, flew to the road, and trusted to Providence to guide her tottering steps to Gre- nada. All Grenada was in agitation on the morning of this dismal day. The heavy bell of the cathe- dral continued to utter its clanging tones, that pervaded every part of the city, summoning all persons to the tremendous spectacle about to be exhibited. The streets through which the proees 262 BRA CEBRIDGE HALL. sion was to pass were crowded with the populace. The windows, the roofs, every place that could admit a face or a foothold, was alive with specta- tors. In the great square a spacious scaffolding, like an amphitheatre, was erected, where the sen- tences of the prisoners were to be read, and the sermon of faith to be preached ; and close by were the stakes prepared, where the condemned were to be burnt to death. Seats were arranged for the great, the gay, the beautiful ; for such is the horrible curiosity of human nature, that this cruel sacrifice was attended with more eagerness than a theatre, or even a bull-feast. As the day advanced, the scaffolds and bal- conies were filled with expecting multitudes; the sun shone brightly upon fair faces and gallant dresses ; one would have thought it some scene of elegant festivity, instead of an exhibition of human agony and death. But what a different spectacle and ceremony was this from those which Grenada exhibited in the days of her Moorish splendor. “ Her galas, her tournaments, her sports of the ring, her fetes of St. John, her music, her Zambras, and admirable tilts of canes ! Her serenades, her concerts, her songs in Generaliffe ! The costly liveries of the Abencerrages, their ex- quisite inventions, the skill and valor of the Ala- baces, the superb dresses of the Zegries, Mazas, and Gomeles ! ” # — All these were at an end. The days of chivalry were over. Instead of the prancing cavalcade, with neighing steea and live- ly trumpet ; with burnished lance, ana helm, and * Rodd’s Civil Wars of Grenada. THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA . 263 ouckler ; with rich confusion of plume, and scarf, and banner, where purple, and scarlet, and green, and orange, and every gay color, were mingled with cloth of gold and fair embroidery ; instead of tins crept on the gloomy pageant of supersti- tion. in cowl and sackcloth ; with cross and coffin, and frightful symbols of human suffering. In place of the frank, hardy knight, open and brave, with his lady’s favor in his casque, and amorous motto on his shield, looking, by gallant deeds, to win the smile of beauty, came the shaven, un- manly monk, with downcast eyes, and head and heart bleached in the cold cloister, secretly exult- ing in this bigot triumph. The sound of the bells gave notice that the dismal procession was advancin \ It passed slowly through the principal streets of the city, bearing in advance the awful banner of the holy office. The prisoners walked singly, attended by confessors, and guarded by familiars of the in- quisition. They were clad in different garments according to the nature of their punishments ; — those who were to suffer death wore the hideous Samarra, painted with flames and demons. The procession was swelled by choirs of boys, differ- ent religious orders, and public dignitaries ; and, above all, by the fathers of the faith, moving “ with slow pace, and profound gravity, truly tri- umphing as becomes the principal generals of that ^reat victory.”* As the sacred banner of the inquisition ad- vanced, the countless throng sunk on their knees * Gonsalvius p. 135. 264 BRA CEBU ID GE HALL. before it ; they bowed their faces to the ver}> earth as it passed, and then slowly rose again, like a great undulating billow. A murmur of tongues prevailed as the prisoners approached, and eager eyes were strained, and fingers pointed, to distinguish the different orders of penitents, whose habits denoted the degree of punishment they were to undergo. But as those drew near whose frightful garb marked them as destined to the flames, the noise of the rabble subsided ; they seemed almost to hold in their breaths ; filled with that strange and dismal interest with which we contemplate a human being on the verge of suf- fering and death. It is an awful thing — a voiceless, noiseless multitude 1 The hushed and gazing stillness of the surrounding thousands, heaped on walls, and gates, and roofs, and hanging, as it were, in clus- ters, heightened the effect of the pageant that moved drearily on. The low murmuring of the priests could now be heard in prayer and exhor- tation, with the faint responses of the prisoners, and now and then the voices of the choir at a dis- tance, chanting the litanies of the saints. The faces of the prisoners were ghastly and disconsolate. Even those who had been pardoned, and wore the Sanbenito, or penitential garment, bore traces of the horrors they had undergone. Some were feeble and tottering from long confine- ment ; some ’crippled and distorted by various tortures ; every countenance was a dismal page, on which might be read the secrets of their pris- on-house. But in the looks of those condemned THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA . 265 to death there was something fierce and eager. They seemed men harrowed up by the past, and desperate as to the future. They were antici- pating, with spirits fevered by despair, and fixed and clenched determination, the vehement struggle with agony and death they were shortly to under- go. Some cast now and then a wild and an- guished look about them upon the shining day ; the “ sun-bright palaces,” the gay, the beautiful world, which they were soon to quit forever ; or a glance of sudden indignation at the throng- ing thousands, happy in liberty and life, who seemed, in contemplating their frightful situation, to exult in their own comparative security. One among the condemned, however, was an exception to these remarks. It was an aged man, somewhat bowed down, with a serene, though de- jected countenance, and a beaming, melancholy eye. It was the alchemist. The populace looked upon him with a degree of compassion, which they were not prone to feel towards criminals condemned by the inquisition ; but when they were told that he was convicted of the crime of magic, they drew back with awe and abhorrence. The procession had reached the grand square. The first part had already mounted the scaffold- ing, and the condemned were approaching. The press of the populace became excessive, and was repelled, as it were, in billows by the guards. Just as the condemned were entering the square, a shrieking was heard among the crowd. A fe- male, pale, frantic, dishevelled, was seen struggling through the multitude. u My father ! my father ! 9j 266 BRA CEBRIDGK BALL was all the cry slie uttered, but it thrilled through every heart. The crowd instinctively drew back, and made way for her as she advanced. The poor alchemist had made his peace with Heaven, and, by hard struggle, had closed his heart upon the world, when the voice of his child called him once more back to worldly thought and agony. He turned towards the well-known voice ; his knees smote together ; he endeavored to reach forth his pinioned arms, and felt himself clasped in the embraces of his child. The emo- tions of both were too agonizing for utterance. Convulsive sobs, and broken exclamations, and embraces more of anguish than tenderness, were all that passed between them. The procession was interrupted for a moment. The astonished monks and familiars were filled with involuntary respect at this agony of natural affection. Ejacu- lations of pity broke from the crowd, touched by the filial piety, the extraordinary and hopeless anguish of so young and beautiful a being. Every attempt to soothe her, and prevail on her to retire, was unheeded ; at length they en- deavored to separate her from her father by force. The movement roused her from her temporary abandonment. With a sudden paroxysm of fury, she snatched a sword from one of the familiars. Her late pale countenance was flushed with rage, and fire flashed from her once soft and languish- ing eyes. The guards shrunk back with awe. There was something in this filial frenzy, this feminine tenderness wrought up to desperation, that* touched even their hardened hearts. Tliev THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA . 267 endeavored to pacify her, but in vain. Her eye was eager and quick as the she-wolf’s guarding her young. With one arm she pressed her father to her bosom, with the other she menaced every one that approached. The patience of the guards was soon ex- hausted. They had held back in awe, but not in fear. With all her desperation the weapon was soon wrested from her feeble hand, and she was borne shrieking and struggling among the crowd. The rabble murmured compassion ; but such was the dread inspired by the inquisition, that no one attempted to interfere. The procession again resumed its march. Inez was ineffectually struggling to release herself from the hands of the familiars that detained her, when suddenly she saw Don Ambrosio before her. “ Wretched girl ! ” exclaimed he with fury, “ why have you fled from your friends ? Deliver her,” said he to the familiars, “ to my domestics ; she is under my protection.” His creatures advanced to seize her. “ Oh no ! oh no ! ” cried she, with new terrors, and clinging to the familiars, “I have fled from no friends. He is not my protector ! He is the murderer of my father ! ” The familiars were perplexed ; the crowd pressed on with eager curiosity. “ Stand off ! ” cried the fiery Ambrosio, dashing the throng from around him. Then turning to the familiars, with sudden moderation, “ My friends,” said he, ‘ deliver this poor girl to me. Her distress has iurned her brain ; she has escaped from her 268 bracebridge hall. friends and protectors this morning ; but a little quiet and kind treatment will restore her to tran- quillity.” “ I am not mad ! I am not mad ! ” cried she, vehemently. “ Oh, save me ! — save me from these men ! I have no protector on earth but my father, and him they are murdering ! ” The familiars shook their heads ; her wildness corroborated the assertions of Don Ambrosio, and his apparent rank commanded respect and belief. They relinquished their charge to him, and he was consigning the struggling Inez to his creatures — “ Let go your hold, villain ! ” cried a voice from among the crowd, and Antonio was seen eagerly tearing his way through the press of people. “ Seize him ! seize him ! ” cried Don Ambrosk to the familiars ; “ ’t is an accomplice of the sor- cerer’s.” 66 Liar ! ” retorted Antonio, as he thrust the mob to the right and left, and forced himself to the spot. The sword of Don Ambrosio flashed in an in- stant from the scabbard ; the student was armed, and equally alert. There was a fierce clash of weapons; the crowd made way for them as they fought, and closed again, so as to hide them from the view of Inez. All was tumult and confusion for a moment ; when the^e was a kind of shout from the spectators, and the mob again opening, 6he beheld, as she thought, Antonio weltering in his blood. This new shock was too great for her already THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 260 overstrained intellects. A giddiness seized upon her ; everything seemed to whirl before her eyes ; she gasped some incoherent words, and sunk senseless upon the ground. Days, weeks, elapsed before Inez returned to consciousness. At length she opened her eyes, as if out of a troubled sleep. She was lying upon a magnificent bed, in a chamber richly furnished with pier-glasses and massive tables inlaid with silver, of exquisite workmanship. The walls were covered with tapestry ; the cornices richly gilded : through the door, which stood open, she perceived a superb saloon, with statues and crys- tal lustres, and a magnificent suit of apartments beyond. The casements of the room were open to admit the soft breath of summer, which stole in, laden with perfumes from a neighboring gar- den ; whence, also, the refreshing sound of foun- tains and the sweet notes of birds came in min- gled music to her ear. Female attendants were moving, with noiseless step, about the chamber ; but she feared to ad- dress them. She doubted whether this were not all delusion, or whether she was not still in the palace of Don Ambrosio, and that her escape, and all its circumstances, had not been but a feverish dream. She closed her eyes again, endeavoring to recall the past, and to separate the real from the imaginary. The last scenes of consciousness, however, rushed too forcibly, with all their hor- rors, to her mind to be doubted, and she turned shuddering from the recollection, to gaze once more on the quiet and serene magnificence around 270 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. her. As she again opened her eyes, they rested on an object that at once dispelled every alarai. At the head of her bed sat a venerable form watching over her with a look of fond anxiety, — it was her father ! I will not attempt to describe the scene that ensued ; nor the moments of rapture which more than repaid all the sufferings her affectionate heart had undergone. As soon as their feelings had become more calm, the alchemist stepped out of the room to introduce a stranger, to whom he was indebted for his life and liberty. He re- turned, leading in Antonio, no longer in his poor scholar’s garb, but in the rich dress of a noble- man. The feelings of Inez were almost overpowered by these sudden reverses, and it was some time before she was sufficiently composed to compre- hend the explanation of this seeming romance. It appeared that the lover, who had sought her affections in the lowly guise of a student, was only son and heir of a powerful grandee of Valencia. He had been placed at the university of Salamanca ; but a lively curiosity, and an eagerness for adventure, had induced him to aban- don the university, without his father’s consent, and to visit various parts of Spain. His rambling in- clination satisfied, he had remained incognito for a time at Grenada, until, by farther study and self-regulation, he could prepare himself to return home with credit, and atone for his transgressions against paternal authority. How hard he had studied does not remain on THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 271 record. All that we know is his romantic adven- ture of the tower. It was at first a mere youth- ful caprice, excited by a glimpse of a beautiful face. In becoming a disciple of the alchemist, he probably thought of nothing more than pur- suing a light love-affair. Farther acquaintance, however, had completely fixed his affections ; and he had determined to conduct Inez and her fa- ther to Valencia, and trust to her merits to se- cure his father’s consent to their union. In the mean time he had been traced to his con- cealment. His father had received intelligence of his being entangled in the snares of a myste- rious adventurer and his daughter, and likely to become the dupe of the fascinations of the latter. Trusty emissaries had been dispatched to seize upon him by main force, and convey him without delay to the paternal home. What eloquence he had used with his father to convince him of the innocence, the honor, and the high descent of the alchemist, and of the ex- alted worth of his daughter, does not appear. All that we know is, that the father, though a very passionate, was a very reasonable man, as •appears by his consenting that his son should re- lurn to Grenada, and conduct Inez, as his affi- anced bride, to Valencia. Away, then, Don Antonio hurried back, full of joyous anticipations. He still forbore to throw off his disguise, fondly picturing to himself whai would be the surprise of Inez, when, having won her heart and hand as a poor wandering scholar, he should raise her and her father at once to opu lence and splendor. *72 BRACEBRIDGju hall. On his arrival he had been shocked at finding the tower deserted of its inhabitants. In vain he sought for intelligence concerning them ; a mys- tery hung over their disappearance which he could not penetrate, until he was thunderstruck, on accidentally reading a list of the prisoners at the impending auto da fe, to find the name of his venerable master among the condemned. It was the very morning of the execution. The procession was already on its way to the grand square. Not a moment was to be lost. The grand inquisitor was a relation of Don Antonio, tltough they had never met. His first impulse was to make himself known ; to exert all his family influence, the weight of his name, and the power of his eloquence, in vindication of the alchemist. But the grand inquisitor was already proceeding, m all his pomp, to the place where the fatal cere- Kiony was to be performed. How was he to be approached ? Antonio threw himself .into the crowd, in a fever of anxiety, and was forcing his way to the scene of horror, where he arrived just in time to rescue Inez, as has been men- tioned. It was Don Ambrosio that fell in the contest. Being desperately wounded, and thinking his end approaching, he had confessed, to an attending father of the inquisition, that he was the sole cause of the alchemist’s condemnation, and that the evidence on which it was grounded was al together false. The testimony of Don Antoni came in corroboration of this avowal ; and his relationship to the grand inquisitor had, in ah THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 273 probability, its proper weight. Thus was the poor alchemist snatched, in a manner, from the very flames ; and so great had been the sympathy awakened in his case, that for once a populace rejoiced at being disappointed of an execution. The residue of the story may readily be imag- ined by every one versed in this valuable kind of history. Don Antonio espoused the lovely Inez, and took her and her father with him to Valencia. As she had been a loving and dutiful daughter, so she proved a true and tender wife. It was not long before Don Antonio succeeded to his father’s titles and estates, and he and his fair spouse were renowned for being the handsomest and happiest couple in all Valencia. As to Don Ambrosio, he partially recovered to the enjoyment of a broken constitution and a blasted name, and hid his remorse and disgraces in a convent ; while the poor victim of his arts, who had assisted Inez in her escape, unable to conquer the early passion that he had awakened in her bosom, though convinced of the baseness of the object, retired from the world, and became a humble sister in a nunnery. The worthy alchemist took up his abode with his children. A pavilion, in the garden of their palace, was assigned to him as a laboratory, where he resumed his researches, with renovated ardor, after the grand secret. He was now and then assisted by his son-in-law ; but the latter slack ened grievously in his zeal and diligence after marriage. Still he would listen with profound gravity and attention to the old man’s rhapsodies, 18 274 BRACEBRIDGE BALL. and his quotations from Paracelsus, Sandivogius, and Pietro D’ Abano, which daily grew longer and longer. In this way the good alchemist lived on quietly and comfortably, to what is called a good old age, that is to say, an age that is good for nothing, and, unfortunately for mankind, was hur- ried out of life in his ninetieth year, just as he was on the point of discovering the philosopher’s stone. Such was the story of the captain’s friend, with which we whiled away the morning. The cap- tain was, every now and then, interrupted by questions and remarks, which I have not men- tioned, lest I should break the continuity of the tale. He was a little disturbed, also, once or twice, by the general, who fell asleep, and breathed rather hard, to the great horror and annoyance of Lady Lillycraft. In a long and tender love-scene, also, which was particularly to her ladyship’s taste, the unlucky general, having his head a little sunk upon his breast, kept mak- ing a sound at regular intervals, very much like the word pish , long drawn out. At length he made an odd, abrupt, guttural sound, that sud- denly awoke him ; he hemmed, looked about with a slight degree of consternation, and then began to play with her ladyship’s work-bag, which, how- ever, she rather pettishly withdrew. The steady sound of the captain’s voice was still too potent a soporific for the poor general ; he kept gleaming up and sinking in the socket, until the cessation of the tale again roused him, when he started THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 275 awake, put kis foot down upon Lady Lillyeraft’s cur, the sleeping Beauty, which yelped, seized him by the leg, and in a moment the whole li- brary resounded with yelpings and exclamations. Never did a man more completely mar his for- tunes while he was asleep. Silence being at length restored, the company expressed their thanks to the captain, and gave various opinions of the story. The parson’s mind, I found, had been continually running upon the leaden manu* scripts, mentioned in the beginning, as dug up at Grenada, and he put several eager questions to the captain on the subject. The general could not well make out the drift of the story, but thought it a little confused. “ I am glad, how- ever,” said he, “ that they burnt the old chap in the tower ; I have no doubt he was a notorious impostor.” ENGLISH COUNTEY GENTLEMEN. His certain life that never can deceive him, Is full of thousand sweets, and rich content : The smooth-leaved beeches in the field receive him With coolest shade, till noontide’s heat be spent. His life is neither tost in boisterous seas Or the vexatious world ; or lost in slothful ease. Pleased and full blest he lives when he his God can please. Phineas Fletcheb. TAKE great pleasure in accompanying ira pS! Squire perambulations about bis estate, in which he is often attended by a kind of cabinet council. His prime minis- ter, the steward, is a very worthy and honest old man, who assumes a right of way ; that is to say, a right to have his own way, from having lived time out of mind on the place. He loves the es- tate even better than he does the Squire ; and thwarts the latter sadly in many of his projects of improvement, being a little prone to disapprove of every plan that does not originate with him- self. In the course of one of these perambulations, I have knoWn the Squire to point out some im- portant alteration which he was contemplating, in the disposition or cultivation of the grounds ; this of course would be opposed by the steward, and ENGLISH COUNTRY GENTLEMEN . 277 a long argument would ensue over a stile, or on a rising piece of ground, until the Squire, who had a high opinion of the other’s ability and in- tegrity, would be fain to give up the point. This concession, I observed, would immediately mollify (he old man, and, after walking over a field or two in silence, with his hands behind his back, chewing the cud of reflection, he would suddenly turn to the Squire, and observe, that “he had been turning the matter over in his mind, and, upon the whole, he believed he would take his honor’s advice.” # Christy, the huntsman, is another of the Squire’s occasional attendants, to whom he con- tinually refers in all matters of local history, as to a chronicle of the estate, having, in a manner, been acquainted with many of the trees from the very time that they were acorns. Old Nimrod, as has been shown, is rather pragmatical in those points of knowledge on which he values himself ; but the Squire rarely contradicts him, and is, in fact, one of the most indulgent potentates that was ever hen-pecked by his ministry. He often laughs about it himself, and evidently yields to these old men' more from the bent of his own humor than from any want of proper * The reader who lias perused a little work published by the author several years subsequently to Bracebridge Hall, uarrating a visit to Abbotsford, will detect the origin of the above anecdote in the conferences between Sir Walter Scott and his right-hand man, Tommy Purdie. Indeed, the author is indebted for several of his traits of the Squire to observa- tions made on Sir Walter Scott during that visit; though he had to be cautious and sparing in drawing from that source. 278 BKACEBRIDGE HALL. authority. He likes this honest independence of old age, and is well aware that these trusty fol- lowers love and honor him in their hearts. He is perfectly at ease about his own dignity and the respect of those around him ; nothing disgusts him sooner than any appearance of fawning or sycophancy. I really have seen no display of royal state that could compare with one of the Squire’s prog- resses about his paternal fields and through his hereditary woodlands, with several of these faith- ful adherents about him, and followed by a body- guard of dogs. He encourages a frankness and manliness of deportment among his dependents, and is the personal friend of liis tenants ; inquir- ing into their concerns, and assisting them in times of difficulty and hardship. This has rendered him one of the most popular, and of course one of the happiest of landlords. Indeed, I do not know a more enviable condi- tion of life than that of an English gentleman, of sound judgment and good feelings, who passes the greater part of his time on an hereditary es- tate in the country. From the excellence of the roads and the rapidity and exactness of public conveyances, he is enabled to command all the comforts and conveniences, all the intelligence and novelties of the capital, while he is removed from its hurry and distraction. He has ample means of occupation and amusement within his own domains ; he may diversify his time by rural occupations, by rural sports, by study, and by the delights of friendly society collected within bis own hospitable halls. ENGLISH COUNTRY GENTLEMEN. 279 Or if his views and feelings are of a more ex- tensive and liberal nature, he has it greatly in his power to do good, and to have that good immedi- ately reflected back upon himself. He can render essential services to his country by assisting in the disinterested administration of the laws ; by watching over the opinions and principles of the lower orders around him ; by diffusing among them those lights important to their welfare ; by mingling frankly among them, gaining their con- fidence, becoming the immediate auditor of their complaints, informing himself of their wants, mak- ing himself a channel through which their griev ances may be quietly communicated to the proper sources of mitigation and relief ; or by becoming, if need be, the intrepid and incorruptible guardian of their liberties — the enlightened champion of their rights. All this can be done without any sacrifice of personal dignity, without any degrading arts of popularity, without any truckling to vulgar preju- dices or concurrence in vulgar clamor; but by the steady influence of sincere and friendly coun- sel, of fair, upright and generous deportment. Whatever may be said of English mobs and English demagogues, I have never met with a people more open to reason, more considerate in their tempers, more tractable by argument in the roughest times, than the English. They are remarkably quick at discerning and appreciating whatever is manly and honorable. They are by nature and habit methodical and orderly ; and they feel the value of all that is regular and re- 280 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. spectable. They may occasionally be deceived by sophistry, and excited into turbulence by pub- lic distresses and the misrepresentations of de- signing men ; but open their eyes, and they will eventually rally round the landmarks of steady truth and deliberate good sense. They are fond of established customs and long-established names ; and that love of order and quiet which character- izes the nation gives a vast influence to the de- scendants of the old families, whose forefathers have been lords of the soil from time immemo- rial. It is when the rich and well-educated and highly-privileged classes neglect their duties, when they neglect to study the interests, and conciliate the affections, and instruct the opinions and champion the rights of the people, that the latter become discontented and turbulent, and fall into the hands of demagogues : the demagogue al- ways steps in where the patriot is wanting. There is a common high-handed cant among the high-feeding, and, as they fancy themselves, high- minded men, about putting down the mob ; but all true physicians know that it is better to sweeten the blood than attack the tumor, to ap- ply the emollient rather than the cautery. It is absurd in a country like England, where there is so much freedom and such a jealousy of right, for any man to assume an aristocratical tone, and talk superciliously of the common people. There is no rank that makes him independent of the opinions and affections of his fellow-men, there is oo rank nor distinction that severs him from his ENGLISH COUNTRY GENTLEMEN. 281 fellow-subjects ; and if, by any gradual neglect or assumption on the one side, and discontent and jealousy on the other, the orders of society should really separate, let those who stand on the eminence beware that the chasm is not mining at their feet. The orders of society in all well-con- stituted governments are mutually bound to- gether, and important to each other; there can be no such thing in a free government as a vac- uum ; and whenever one is likely to take place, by the drawing off of the rich and intelligent from the poor, the bad passions of society will rush in to fill up the space, and rend the whole asunder. Though born and brought up in a republic, and more and more confirmed in republican principles by every year's observation and experience, I am not insensible to the excellence that may exist in other forms of government ; nor to the fact that they may be more suitable to the situation and circumstances of the countries in which they ex- ist ; I have endeavored rather to look at them as they are, and to observe how they are calculated to effect the end which they propose. Consider- ing, therefore, the mixed nature of the government of this country, and its representative form, I have looked with admiration at the manner in which the wealth and influence and intelligence were spread over its whole surface, — not, as in some monarchies, drained from the country, and collected in towns and cities. I have considered the great rural establishments of the nobility, and the lesser establishments of the gentry, as so 282 BRA CEBR1DGE HALL. many reservoirs of wealth and intelligence dis- tributed about the kingdom, apart from the towns, to irrigate, freshen, and fertilize the surrounding country. I have looked upon them, too, as the august retreat of patriots and statesmen, where, in the enjoyment of honorable independence and elegant leisure, they might train up their minds to appear in those legislative assemblies whose debates and decisions form the study and prece- dents of other nations, and involve the interests of the world. I have been both surprised and disappointed, therefore, at finding that on this subject I was often indulging in an Utopian dream, rather than a well-founded opinion. I have been concerned at finding that these fine estates were too often involved, and mortgaged, or placed in the hands of creditors, and the owners exiled from their pa- ternal lands. There is an extravagance, I am told, that runs parallel with wealth ; a lavish ex- penditure among the great ; a senseless competi- tion among the aspiring ; a heedless, joyous dissi- pation, among all the upper ranks, that often beg- gars even these splendid establishments, breaks down the pride and principles of their possessors, and makes too many of them mere place-hunters, or shifting absentees. It is thus that so many are thrown into the hands of government ; and a court which ought to be the most pure and hon- orable in Europe, is so often degraded by noble but importunate time-servers. It is thus, too, that bo many become exiles from their native land, crowding the hotels of foreign countries, and ex- ENGLISH COUNTRY GENTLEMEN ; 283 pending upon thankless strangers the wealth* so hardly drained from their laborious peasantry. I have looked upon these latter with a mixture of censure and concern. Knowing the almost big- oted fondness of an Englishman for his native home, I can conceive .what must be their com- punction and regret, when, amidst the sun-burnt plains of France, they call to mind the green fields of England, the hereditary groves which they have abandoned, and the hospitable roof of their fathers, which they have left desolate, or to be inhabited by strangers. But retrenchment is no plea for abandonment of country. They have risen with the prosperity of the land ; let them abide its fluctuations, and conform to its fortunes. It is not for the rich to fly because the country is suffering : let them share, in their relative pro- portion, the common lot ; they owe it to the land that has elevated them to honor and affluence. When the poor have to diminish their scanty mor- sels of bread ; when they have to compound with the cravings of nature, and study with how little they can do, and not be starved ; it is not then for the rich to fly, and diminish still farther the resources of the poor, that they themselves may live in splendor in a cheaper country. Let them rather retire to their estates, and there practise retrenchment. Let them return to that noble simplicity, that practical good sense, that honest pride, which form the foundation of true English character, and from them they may again rear the edifice of fair and honorable prosperity. On the rural habits of the Pmglish nobility and 284 BRACEBRIDGE BALI., gentry, on the manner in which they discharge their duties on their patrimonial possessions, de- pend greatly the virtue and welfare of the nation. So long as they pass the greater part of their time in the quiet and purity of the country ; surrounded by the monuments of their, illustrious ancestors ; surrounded by everything that can inspire gener- ous pride, noble emulation, and amiable and mag- nanimous sentiment ; so long they are safe, and in them the nation may repose its interest and its honor. But the moment that they become the servile throngers of court avenues, and give them- selves up to the political intrigues and heartless dissipations of the metropolis, that moment they lose the real nobility of their natures, and be- come the mere leeches of the country. That the great majority of nobility and gentry in England are endowed with high notions of honor and independence, I thoroughly believe. They have evidenced it lately on very important questions, and have given an example of adhe- rence to principle, in preference to party and power, that must have astonished many of the venal and obsequious courts of Europe. Such are the glorious effects of freedom, when infused into a constitution. But it seems to me that they are apt to forget the positive nature of their duties, and to consider their eminent privileges only as so many means of self-indulgence. They should recollect that in a constitution like that of England the titled orders are intended to be as useful as they are ornamental, and it is their virtues alone that can render them both. Their ENGLISH COUNTRY GENTLEMEN . 285 duties are divided between the sovereign and the subjects ; surrounding and giving lustre and dig nity to the throne, and at the same time temper- ing and mitigating its rays, until they are trans* mitted in mild and genial radiance to the people. "Born to leisure and opulence, they owe the exer- cise of their talents, and the expenditure of their wealth, to their native country. They may be compared to the clouds ; which, being drawn up by the sun, and elevated in the heavens, reflect and magnify his splendor, — while they repay the earth, whence they derive their sustenance, by returning their treasures to its bosom in fertiliz- ing showers. A BACHELOR’S CONFESSIONS. “ I ’ll live a private, pensive, single life.” The Collier op Croydon. WAS sitting in my room, a morning or two since, reading, when some one tapped at the door, and Master Simon entered. He had an unusually fresh appearance ; he wore a bright-green riding-coat, with a bunch of vio- lets in the button-hole, and had the air of an old bachelor trying to rejuvenate himself. He had not, however, his usual briskness and vivacity ; but loitered about the room with somewhat of ab- sence of manner, humming the old song, — “ Go, lovely rose, tell her that wastes her time and me ; ” and then, leaning against the window, and look- ing upon the landscape, he uttered a very audible sigh. As I had not been accustomed to see Mas- ter Simon in a pensive mood, I thought there might be some vexation preying on his mind, and endeavored to introduce a cheerful strain of con- versation ; but he was not in the vein to follow it up, and proposed a walk. It was a beautiful morning of that soft vernal temperature which seems to thaw all the frost out of one’s blood, and set all nature in a ferment A BACHELORS CONFESSIONS. 287 The very fishes felt its influence: the cautious trout ventured out of his dark hole to seek his mate ; the roach and the dace rose up to the sur- face of the brook to bask in the sunshine ; and the amorous frog piped from among the rushes. If ever an oyster can really fall in love, as has been said or sung, it must be on such a morning. The weather certainly had its effect upon Mas- ter Simon, for he seemed obstinately bent upon the pensive mood. Instead of stepping briskly along, smacking his dog-whip, whistling quaint ditties, or telling sporting anecdotes, he leaned on my arm, and talked about the approaching nuptials, whence he made several digressions upon the character of womankind, touched a little up- on the tender passion, and made sundry very ex- cellent, though rather trite, observations upon disappointments in love. It was evident he had something on his mind which he wished to im- part, but felt awkward in approaching it. I was curious to see what this strain would lead to, but determined not to assist him. Indeed, I mis- chievously pretended to turn the conversation, and talked of his usual topics, dogs, horses, and hunting ; but he was very brief in his replies, and invariably got back, by hook or by crook, into the sentimental vein. At length we came to a clump of trees over- hanging a whispering brook, with a rustic bench at their feet. The trees were grievously scored with letters and devices, grown out of all shape and size by the growth of the bark ; and it ap- peared that this grove had served as a kind of 288 BRA CEBR1DGE HALL. register of the family loves from time immemorial. Here Master Simon made a pause, pulled up a tuft of flowers, threw them one by one into the water, and at length, turning somewhat abruptly upon me, asked me if I had ever been in love. I confess the question startled me a little, as I am not over- fond of making confessions of my amorous follies, and above all should never dream of choosing my friend Master Simon for a confi- dant. He did not wait, however, for a reply; the inquiry was merely a prelude to a confession on his own part ; and after several circumlocutions and whimsical preambles, he fairly disburdened himself of a very tolerable story of his having been crossed in love. The reader will, very probably, suppose that it related to the gay widow who jilted him not long since at Doncaster races ; — no such thing. It was about a sentimental passion that he once had for a most beautiful young lady, who wrote poetry and played on the harp. He used to ser- enade her ; and, indeed, he described several ten- der and gallant scenes, in which he was evidently picturing himself in his mind’s eye as some ele- gant hero of romance, though, unfortunately for the tale, I only saw him as he stood before me, a dapper little old bachelor, with a face like an ap- ple that had dried with the bloom on it. What were the particulars of this tender tale I have already forgotten ; indeed, I listened to it with a heart like a very pebble-stone, having hard work to repress a smile while Master Simon was putting on the amorous swain, uttering every now A BACHELOR'S CONFESSIONS. 289 and then a .sigh, and endeavoring to look senti- mental and melancholy. All that I recollect is, that the lady, according to his account, was certainly a little touched ; for she used to accept all the music that he copied for her harp, and all the patterns that he drew for her dresses ; and he began to flatter himself 1 after a long course of delicate attentions, that he was gradually fanning up a gentle flame in her heart, when she suddenly accepted the hand of a rich, boisterous, fox-hunting baronet, without either music or sentiment, who carried her by storm, after a fortnight’s courtship. Master Simon could not help concluding by some observation about “ modest merit,” and the power of gold over the sex. As a remembrance of his passion, he pointed out a heart carved on the bark of one of the trees, but which, in the process of time, had grown out into a large ex- crescence ; and he showed me a lock of her hair, which he wore in a true lover’s knot, in a large gold brooch. I have seldom met with an old bachelor who had not, at some time or other, his nonsensical moment, when he would become tender and sen- timental, talk about the concerns of the heart, and have some confession of a delicate nature to make Almost every man has some little trait of romance in his life, to which he looks back with fondness, and about which he is apt to grow garrulous oc- casionally. He recollects himself as he was at the time, young and gamesome, and forgets that his hearers have no other idea of the hero of the 19 290 BRACEBRIDGE HALL . tale but such as he may appear at the time of tell- ing it; peradventure, a withered, whimsical, spin- dle-shanked old gentleman. With married men, it is true, this is not so frequently the case ; their amorous romance is apt to decline after marriage ; why, I cannot for the life of me imagine ; but with a bachelor, though it may slumber, it never dies. It is always liable to break out again m transient flashes, and never so much as on a spring morning in the country, or on a winter evening when seated in his solitary chamber, stirring up the fire and talking of matrimony. The moment Master Simon had gone through his confession, and, to use the common phrase, “ had made a clean breast of it,” he became quite himself again. He had settled the point which had been worrying his mind, and doubtless con- sidered himself established as a man of sentiment in my opinion. Before we had finished our morning’s stroll, he was singing as blithe as a grasshopper, whistling to his dogs, and telling droll stories ; and I recollect that he was particu- larly facetious that day at dinner on the subject of matrimony, and uttered several excellent jokes, not to be found in Joe Miller, that made the bride elect blush and look down, but set all the old gentlemen at the table in a roar, and absolutely brought tears into the general’s eyes. ENGLISH GRAVITY. “ Merrie England ! ” Ancient Phrase. HERE is nothing so rare as for a man to ride his hobby without molestation. I find the Squire has not so undisturbed an indulgence in his humors as I had imagined ; but has been repeatedly thwarted of late, and has suffered a kind of well-meaning persecution from a Mr. Faddy, an old gentleman of some weight, at least of purse, who has recently moved into the neighborhood. He is a worthy and substan- tial manufacturer, who, having accumulated a large fortune by dint of steam-engines and spin- ning-jennies, has retired from business, and set up for a country gentleman. He has taken an old country seat, and refitted it ; and painted and plastered it until it looks not unlike his own man- ufactory. He has been particularly careful in mending the walls and hedges, and putting up no- tices of spring-guns and man-traps in every part of his premises. Indeed, he shows great jeal- ousy about his territorial rights, having stopped up a footpath which led across his fields ; and given warning, in staring letters, that whoevei 292 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. was found trespassing on those grounds would be prosecuted with the utmost rigor of the law He has brought into the country with him all the practical maxims of the town, and the bus- tling habits of business ; and is one of those sensible, useful, prosing, troublesome, intolerable old gentlemen, who go about wearying and worrying society with excellent plans for public utility. He is very much disposed to be on intimate terms with the Squire, and calls on him every now and then, with some project for the good of the neighborhood, which happens to run dia- metrically opposite to some one or other of the Squire’s peculiar notions, but which is “ too sen- sible a measure ” to be openly opposed. He has annoyed him excessively by enforcing the vagrant laws ; persecuting the gypsies, and endeavoring to suppress country wakes and holiday games ; which he considers great nuisances, and reprobates as causes of the deadly sin of idleness. There is evidently in all this a little of the ostentation of newly acquired consequence ; the tradesman is gradually swelling into the aristo- crat ; and he begins to grow excessively intol- erant of everything that is not genteel. He has a great deal to say about “ the common people ” ; talks much of his park, his preserves, and the necessity of enforcing the game-laws more strictly ; and makes frequent use of the phrase, “ the gen- try of the neighborhood.” He came to the Hall lately, with a face full of business, that he and the Squire, to use his own ENGLISH GRAVITY. 293 words, 61 might lay their heads together,” to hit upon some mode of putting a stop to the frolick- ing at the village on the approaching May-day It drew, lie said, idle people together from all parts of the neighborhood, who spent the day fid filing, dancing, and carousing, instead of staying at home to work for their families. Now, as the Squire, unluckily, is at the bottom of these May-day revels, it may be supposed that these suggestions of the sagacious Mr. Faddy were not received with the best grace in the world. It is true, the old gentleman is too cour- teous to show any temper to a guest in his own house ; but no sooner was he gone than the indig- nation of the Squire found vent, at having his poetical cobwebs invaded by this buzzing blue- bottle fly of traffic. In his warmth he inveighed against the whole race of manufacturers, who, I found, were sore disturbers of his comfort. “ Sir,” said he, with emotion, “ it makes my heart bleed to see all our fine streams dammed up and be- strode by cotton-mills ; our valleys smoking with steam-engines, and the din of the hammer and the loom scaring away all our rural delights. What ’s to become of merry old England, when its manor- houses are all turned into manufactories, and its sturdy peasantry into pin-makers and stocking- weavers ? I have looked in vain for merry Sher- wood, and all the greenwood haunts of Robin Hood ; the whole country is covered with manu- facturing towns. I have stood on the ruins of Dudley Castle, and looked round, with an aching heart, on what were once its feudal domains of 294 BRACEBRIDGE BALL. verdant and beautiful country. Sir, I beheld a mere campus phlegrse ; a region of fire ; reeking with coal-pits, and furnaces, and smelting-houses, vomiting forth flames and smoke. The pale and ghastly people, toiling among vile exhalations, looked more like demons than human beings ; the clanking wheels and engines, seen through the murky atmosphere, looked like instruments of tor- ture in this pandemonium. What is to become of the country with these evils rankling in its very core ? Sir, these manufacturers will be the ruin of our rural manners ; they will destroy the national character ; they will not leave materials for a single line of poetry ! ” The Squire is apt to wax eloquent on such themes ; and I could hardly help smiling at this whimsical lamentation over national industry and public improvement. I am told, however, that he really grieves at the growing of trade, as de- stroying the charm of life. He considers every new short-hand mode of doing things as an in- road of snug sordid method ; and thinks that this will soon become a mere matter-of-fact world, where life will be reduced to a mathematical cal- culation of conveniences, and everything will be done by steam. He maintains, also, that the nation has declined in its free and joyous spirit in proportion as it has turned its attention to commerce and manu- factures ; and that in old times, when England was an idler, it was also a merrier little island. In support of this opinion, he adduces the fre- quency and splendor of ancient festivals and ENGLISH GRAVITY. 295 merry-makings, and the hearty spirit with which they were kept up by all classes of people. His memory is stored with the accounts given by Stow, in his Survey of London, of the holiday revels at the inns of court, the Christmas mum- meries, and the masquings and bonfires about the streets. London, he says, in those days, resem- bled the continental cities in its picturesque man- ners and amusements. The court used to dance after dinner on public occasions. After the coro- nation-dinner of Richard n., for example, the king, the prelates, the nobles, the knights, and the rest of the company danced in Westminster Hall to the music of the minstrels. The example of the court was followed by the middling classes, and so down to the lowest, and the whole nation was a dancing, jovial nation. He quotes a lively city picture of the times, given by Stow, which resembles the lively scenes one may often see in the gay city of Paris ; for he tells us that on holidays, after evening prayers, the maidens in London used to assemble before the door, in sight of their masters and dames, and while one played on a timbrel, the others danced for garlands, hanged athwart the street. “ Where will we meet with such merry groups nowadays ? ” the Squire will exclaim, shaking his head mournfully ; — “ and then at to the gayety that prevailed in dress throughout all ranks of society ; and made the very streets so fine and picturesque. 6 1 have myself/ says Ger- 7aise Markham, ‘ met an ordinary tapster in his silk stockings, garters deep fringed with gold lace, 296 BRA CEB It ID GE HALL. the rest of his apparel suitable, with cloak lined with velvet ! 9 Naslie, too, who wrote in 1593, exclaims at the finery of the nation, ‘ England, the player’s stage of gorgeous attire, the ape of all nations’ superfluities, the continual masquer in outlandish habiliments.’ ” Such are a few of the authorities quoted by the Squire by way of contrasting what he sup- poses to have been the former vivacity of the nation with its present monotonous character. u John Bull,” he will say, “ was then a gay cava- lier, with a sword by his side and a feather in his cap ; but he is now a plodding citizen, in snuff- colored coat and gaiters.” By the by, there really appears to have been some change in the national character since the days of which the Squire is so fond of talking ; those days when this little island acquired its favorite old title of “ merry England.” This may be attributed in part to the growing hard- ships of the times, and the necessity of turning the whole attention to the means of subsistence ; but England’s gayest customs prevailed at times when her common people enjoyed comparatively few of the comforts and conveniences which they do at present. It may be still more attributed to the universal spirit of gain, and the calculating habits which commerce has introduced; but I am inclined to attribute it chiefly to the gradual in- crease of the liberty of the subject, and the grow- ing freedom and activity of opinion. A free people are apt to be grave and thought- ful. They have high and important matters to ENGLISH GRA VITY. 297 occupy their minds. They feel it their right, their interest, and their duty to mingle in public concerns, and to watch over the general wel- fare. The continual exercise of the mind on political topics gives intenser habits of think- ing, and a more serious and earnest demeanor. A nation becomes less gay, but more intellect- ually active and vigorous. It evinces less play of the fancy, but more power of the imagina- tion ; less taste and elegance, but more grandeur of mind ; less animated vivacity, but deeper en- thusiasm. It is when men are shut out of the regions of manly thought by a despotic government ; when every grave and lofty theme is rendered perilous to discussion and almost to reflection ; it is then that they turn to the safer occupations of taste and amusement ; trifles rise to importance, and occupy the craving activity of intellect. No being is more void of care and reflection than the slave ; none dances more gayly in his inter- vals of labor : but make him free, give him rights and interests to guard, and he becomes thought- ful and laborious. The French are a gayer people than the Eng- lish. Why ? Partly from temperament, per- haps ; but greatly because they have been accus- tomed to governments which surrounded the free exercise of thought with danger, and where he only was safe who shut his eyes and ears to pub- lic events, and enjoyed the passing pleasure of vhe day. Within late years they have had more opportunity of exercising their minds ; and with- 298 BRACEBR1DGE HALL. in late years the national character has essentially changed. Never did the French enjoy such a degree of freedom as they do at this moment, and at this moment the French are comparatively a grave people. GYPSIES. What’s that to absolute freedom ; such as the very beggars have; o feast and revel here to-day, and yonder to-morrow ; next day sphere they please ; and so on still, the whole country or kingdom aver ? There ’s liberty ! the birds of the air can take no more. — Jovial Crew. K^tgjSlNCE the meeting with the gypsies, which I have related in a former paper, I have observed several of them haunt- ing the purlieus of the Hall, notwithstanding a positive interdiction of the Squire. They are part of a gang which has long kept about this neighborhood to the great annoyance of the far- mers, whose poultry-yards often suffer from their nocturnal invasions. They are, however, in some measure, patronized by the Squire, who considers the race as belonging to the good old times ; which, to confess the private truth, seem to have abounded with good-for-nothing characters. This roving crew is called “ Star-light Turn’s Gang,” from the name of its chieftain, a notorious poacher. I have heard repeatedly of the mis- deeds of this “ minion of the moon ” ; for every midnight depredation in park, or fold, or farm- yard, is laid to his charge. Star-light Tom, in fact, answers to his name ; he seems to walk in 300 BRA CEBRILMiE UAL darkness, and, like a fox, to be traced in the morning by the mischief he has done. He re- minds me of that fearful personage in the nursery i hyme : u Who goes round the house at night ? None but bloody Tom ! Who steals all the sheep at night ? None but one by one ! ” In short, Star-light Tom is the scape-goat of the neighborhood, but so cunning and adroit, that there is no detecting him. Old Christy and the gamekeeper have watched many a night in hopes of entrapping him ; and Christy often patrols the park with his dogs for the purpose, but all in vain. It is said that the Squire winks hard at his mis- deeds, having an indulgent feeling towards the vagabond, because of his being very expert at all kinds of game, a great shot with the cross-bow, and the best morris-dancer in the country. The Squire also suffers the gang to lurk un- molested about the skirts of his estate, on condi- tion they do not come about the house. The approaching wedding, however, has made a kind of Saturnalia at the Hall, and has caused a sus- pension of all sober rule. It has produced a great sensation throughout the female part of the household ; not a housemaid but dreams of wed- ding-favors, and has a husband running in her head. Such a time is a harvest for the gypsies : there is a public footpath leading across one part of the park, by which they have free ingress ; and they are continually hovering about the grounds, telling the servant-girls’ fortunes, or getting smug- gled in to the young ladies. G YPS/ES. 301 I believe tlie Oxonian amuses himself very much by furnishing them with hints in private, and bewildering all the weak brains in the house with their wonderful revelations. The general certainly was very much astonished by the com- munications made to him the other evening by the gypsy girl : he kept a wary silence towards us on the subject, and affected to treat it lightly ; but I have noticed that he has since redoubled his attentions to Lady Lillycraft and her dogs. I have seen also Phoebe Wilkins, the house- keeper’s pretty and lovesick niece, holding a long conference with one of these old sibyls behind a large tree in the avenue, and often looking round to see that she was not observed. I make no doubt she was endeavoring to get some favorable augury about the result of her love-quarrel with young Ready-Money, as oracles have always been more consulted on love-affairs than upon anything else. I fear, however, that in this instance the response was not so favorable as usual, for I perceived poor Phoebe returning pensively towards the house her head hanging down, her hat in her hand, and the ribbon trailing along the ground. At another time, as I turned a corner of a ter- race, at the bottom of the garden, just by a clump of trees, and a large stone urn, I came upon a bevy of the young girls of the family, attended by this same Phoebe Wilkins. I was at a loss to comprehend the meaning of their blushing and giggling, and their apparent agitation, until I saw the red cloak of a gypsy vanishing among the shrubbery. A few in aments after I caught a sight 802 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. of Master Simon and the Oxonian stealing along one of the walks of the garden, chuckling and laughing at their successful waggery ; having evi- dently put the gypsy up to the thing, and in- structed her what to say. After all, there is something strangely pleasing in these tamperings with the future, even where we are convinced of the fallacy of the prediction. It is singular how willingly the mind will half deceive itself ; and with a degree of awe we will listen even to these babblers about futurity. For my part, I cannot feel angry with these poor vaga- bonds, that seek to deceive us into bright hopes and expectations. I have always been something of a castle-builder, and have found my liveliest pleas- ures to arise from the illusions which fancy has cast over commonplace realities. As I get on in life, I find it more difficult to deceive myself in this delightful manner ; and I should be thankful to any prophet, however false, who would conjure the clouds which hang over futurity into palaces, and all its doubtful regions into fairy-land. The Squire, who, as I have observed, has a private good-will towards gypsies, has suffered considerable annoyance on their account. Not that they requite his indulgence with ingratitude, for they do not depredate very flagrantly on his estate ; but because their pilferings and misdeeds occasion loud murmurs in the village. I can readily understand the old gentleman’s humor on this point ; I have a great toleration for all kinds of vagrant, sunshiny existence, and must confess I take a pleasure in observing the ways of gypsies. G YPSIES. 303 The English, who are accustomed to them from childhood, and often suffer from their petty depre- dations, consider them as mere nuisances ; but I have been very much struck with their peculi- arities. I like to behold their clear olive com plexions ; their romantic black eyes ; their raven locks ; their lithe slender figures ; and to hear them, in low silver tones, dealing forth magnifi- cent promises of honors and estates, of world’s wealth, and ladies’ love. Their mode of life, too, has something in it very fanciful and picturesque. They are the free denizens of nature, and maintain a primitive in- dependence, in spite of law and gospel, of county jails and country magistrates. It is curious to see this obstinate adherence to the wild unsettled habits of savage life transmitted from generation to generation, and preserved in the midst of one of the most cultivated, populous, and systematic countries in the world. They are totally distinct from the busy, thrifty people about them. They seem to be, like the Indians of America, either above or below the ordinary cares and anxieties of mankind. Heedless of power, of honors, of wealth, and indifferent to the fluctuations of times, the rise or fall of grain, or stock, or empires, they seem to laugh at the toiling, fretting world around them, and to live according to the philoso- phy of the old song : “ "Who would ambition shun, And loves to lie i’ the sun, Seeking the food he eats, And pleased with what he gets, 304 BRACEBR1DGE II ALL. Come hither, come hither, come hither- Here shall he see No enemy, But winter and rough weather.” In this way they wander from county to county keeping about the purlieus of villages, or in plen* teous neighborhoods, where there are fat farms and rich country-seats. Their encampments are generally made in some beautiful spot : either a green shady nook of a road ; or on the border of a common, under a sheltering hedge ; or on the skirts of a fine spreading wood. They are always to be found lurking about fairs, and races, and rustic gatherings, wherever there is pleasure, and throng, and idleness. They are the oracles of milkmaids and simple serving-girls ; and some- times have even the honor of perusing the white hands of gentlemen’s daughters, when rambling about their fathers’ grounds. They are the bane of good housewives and thrifty farmers, and odi- ous in the eyes of country justices ; but, like all other vagabond beings, they have something to commend them to the fancy. They are among the last traces, in these . matter-of-fact days, of the motley population of former times ; and are whim- sically associated in my mind with fairies and witches, Robin Good Fellow, Robin Hood, and the other fantastical personages of poetry. MAY-DAY CUSTOMS. Happy the age, and harmless were the dayes, (For then true love and amity was found,) When every village did a May-pole raise, And Whitson ales and May games did abound * And all the lusty yonkers m a rout, With merry lasses daunc’d the rod about, Then friendship to their banquets bid the guests, And poore men far’d the better for their feasts. Pasquil’s Palinodia. HE month of April has nearly passed away, and we are fast approaching that poetical day, which was considered, in old times, as the boundary that parted the front- iers of winter and summer. With all its caprices, however, I like the month of April. I like these laughing and crying days, when sun and shade seem to run in billows over the landscape. I like to see the sudden shower coursing over the meadow, and giving all nature a greener smile ; and the bright sunbeams chasing the flying cloud, and turning all its drops into diamonds. I was enjoying a morning of the kind in com- pany with the Squire in one of the finest parts of the park. We were skirting a beautiful grove, and he was giving me a kind of biographical ac- count of several of his favorite forest- trees, when he heard the strokes of an axe fr^m the midst of 20 306 BRACEB1UDGE HALL. a thick copse. The Squire paused and listened, with manifest signs of uneasiness. He turned his steps in the direction of the sound. The strokes grew louder and louder as we advanced ; there was evidently a vigorous arm wielding the axe. The Squire quickened his pace, but in vain ; a loud crack and a succeeding crash told that the mischief had been done, and some child of the forest laid low. When we came to the place, we found Master Simon and several others standing about a tall and beautifully straight young tree, which had just been felled. The Squire, though a man of most harmonious dispositions, was completely put out of tune by this circumstance. He felt like a monarch wit- nessing the murder of one of his liege subjects, and demanded, with some asperity, the meaning of the outrage. It turned out to be an affair of Master Simon’s, who had selected the tree, from its height and straightness, for a May-pole, the old one which stood on the village green being unfit for farther service. If anything could have soothed the ire of my worthy host, it would have been the reflection that his tree had fallen in so good a cause ; and I saw that there was a great struggle between his fondness for his groves and his devotion to May-day. He could not contem- plate the prostrate tree, however, without indulg- ing in lamentation, and making a kind of funeral eulogy, like Marc Antony over the body of Cajsar ; and he forbade that any tree should thenceforward be cut down on his estate without a warrant from himself; being determined, he said, to hold the MAY-DAY CUSTOMS . 307 sovereign power of life and death in hife own hands. This mention of the May-pole struck my at- tention, and I inquired whether the old customs connected with it were really kept up in this part of the country. The Squire shook his head mournfully ; and I found I had touched on one of his tender points, for he grew quite melancholy in bewailing the total decline of old May-day. Though it is regularly celebrated in the neigh- ooring village, yet it has been merely resuscitated by the worthy Squire, and is kept up in a forced state of existence at his expense. He meets with continual discouragements ; and finds great diffi- culty in getting the country bumpkins to play their parts tolerably. He manages to have every year a “ Queen of the May ” ; but as to Robin Hood, Friar Tuck, the Dragon, the Hobby Horse, and all the other motley crew that used to enliven the day with their mummery, he has not ventured to introduce them. Still I look forward with some interest to the promised shadow of old May-day, even though it be but a shadow ; and I feel more and more pleased with the whimsical yet harmless hobby of my host, which is surrounding him with agree- able associations, and making a little world of poetry about him. Brought up, as I have been, in a new country, I may appreciate too highly the taint vestiges of ancient customs which I now and then meet with, and the interest I express in them may provoke a smile from those who are negli- gently suffering them to pass away. But with 308 BRACEBRIDGE IIALL . whatever indifference they may be regarded by those “ to the manner born,” yet in my mind the lingering flavor of them imparts a charm to rus- tic life, which nothing else could readily supply. I shall never forget the delight I felt on first seeing a May-pole. It was on the banks of the Dee, close by the picturesque old bridge that stretches across the river, from the quaint little city of Chester. I had already been carried back into former days by the antiquities of that vener- able place ; the examination of which is equal to turning over the pages of a black-letter volume, or gazing on the pictures in Froissart. The May- pole on the margin of that poetic stream completed the illusion. My fancy adorned it with wreaths of flowers, and peopled the green bank with all the dancing revelry of May-day. The mere sight of this May-pole gave a glow to my feelings, and spread a charm over the country for the rest of the day ; and as I traversed a part of the fair plain of Cheshire, and the beautiful borders of Wales, and looked from among swelling hills, down a long green valley, through which “ the Deva wound its wizard stream,” my imagination turned all into a perfect Arcadia. Whether it be owing to such poetical associa- tions early instilled into my mind, or whethei there is a sympathetic revival and budding forth of the feelings at this season, certain it is, that 1 always experience, wherever I may be placed, a delightful expansion of the heart at the return of May. It is said that birds about this time will become restless in their cages, as if instinct with MAY-DAY CUSTOMS. m the season, conscious of the revelry going on in the groves, and impatient to break from their bond- age and join in the jubilee of the year. In like manner I have felt myself excited, even in the midst of the metropolis, when the windows, which had been churlishly closed all winter, were again thrown open to receive the balmy breath of May ; when the sweets of the country were breathed into the town, and flowers were cried about the streets. I have considered the treasures of flow- ers thus poured in, as so many missives from na- ture inviting us forth to enjoy the virgin beauty of the year, before its freshness is exhaled by the heats of sunny summer. One can readily imagine what a gay scene it must have been in jolly old London, when the doors were decorated with dowering branches, when every hat was decked with hawthorn, and Robin Hood, Friar Tuck, Maid Marian, the mor- ris-dancers, and all the other fantastic masks and revellers, were performing their antics about the May-pole in every part of the city. I am not a bigoted admirer of old times and old customs merely because of their antiquity ; but while I rejoice in the decline of many of the rude usages and coarse amusements of former days, I regret that this innocent and fanciful fes- tival has fallen into disuse. It seemed appropri- ate to this verdant and pastoral country, and calculated to light up the too pervading gravity of the nation. I value every custom which tends to infuse poetical feeling into the common people, and to sweeten and soften the rudeness of rustic 310 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. manners, without destroying their simplicity. In- deed, it is to the decline of this happy simplicity that the decline of this custom may be traced and the rural dance on the green, and the homely May-day pageant, have gradually disappeared, in proportion as the peasantry have become expen- sive and artificial in their pleasures, and too know- ing for simple enjoyment. Some attempts, the Squire informs me, have been made of late years, by men of both taste and learning, to rally back the popular feeling to these standards of primitive simplicity ; but the time has gone by, the feeling has become chilled by habits of gain and traffic ; the country apes the manners and amusements of the town, and little is heard of May-day at present, except from the lamentations of authors, who sigh after it from among the brick walls of the city : 41 For 0, for 0, the Hobby Horse is forgot.” VILLAGE WORTHIES. Nay, I tell you, I am so well beloved in our town, that not the worst dog in the street will hurt my little finger. Collier of Croydon jgl^lS the neighboring village is one of those pigSt Sja out-of-the-way, but gossiping little places where a small matter makes a great stir, it is not to be supposed that the approach of a festival like that of May-day can be regarded with indifference, especially since it is made a matter of such moment by the great folks at the Hall. Master Simon, who is the faithful factotum of the worthy Squire, and jumps with his humor in everything, is frequent just now in his visits to the village, to give directions for the impending fete ; and as I have taken the liberty occasionally of accompanying him, I have been enabled to get some insight into the characters and internal pol- itics of this very sagacious little community. Master Simon is in fact the Caesar of the village. It is true the Squire is the protecting lower, but his factotum is the active and busy agent. He intermeddles in all its concerns ; is acquainted with all the inhabitants and their do- mestic history ; gives counsel to the old folks in their business matters, and the young folks in 312 BRACEBRUGE IIALL . their love-affairs ; and enjoys the proud satisfao tion of being a great man in a little world. - He is the dispenser, too, of the Squire’s char- ity, which is bounteous ; and, to do Master Simon justice, he performs this part of his functions with great alacrity. Indeed, I have been entertained with the mixture of bustle, importance, and kind- heartedness which he displays. He is of too vi- vacious a temperament to comfort the afflicted by sitting down moping and whining and blowing noses in concert ; but goes whisking about like a sparrow, chirping consolation into every hole and corner of the village. I have seen an old woman, in a red cloak, hold him for half an hour together with some long phthisical tale of distress, which Master Simon listened to with many a bob of the head, smack of his dog-whip, and other symptoms of impatience, though he afterwards made a most faithful and circumstantial report of the case to the Squire. I have watched him, too, during one of his pop visits into the cottage of a superannu- ated villager, who is a pensioner of the Squire, where he fidgeted about the room without sitting down, made many excellent off-hand reflections with the old invalid, who was propped up in his chair, about the shortness of life, the certainty of death, and the necessity of preparing for u that awful change ” ; quoted several texts of Scripture very incorrectly, but much to the edification of the cottager’s wife ; and on coming out, pinched the daughter’s rosy cheek, and wondered what was -in the young men that sucn a pretty face did not get a husband. VILLAGE WORTHIES . 313 He has also his cabinet counsellois in the village, with whom he is very busy just now preparing for the May-day ceremonies. Among these is the village tailor, a pale-faced fellow, who plays the clarinet in the church-choir ; and, being a great musical genius, has frequent meetings of the band at his house, where they “ make night hideous ” by their concerts. He is, in consequence, high in favor with Master Simon ; and, through his influence, has the making, or rather marring, of all the liveries of the Hall ; which generally look as though they had been cut out by one of those scientific tailors of the Flying Island of Laputa, who took measure of their customers with a quadrant. The tailor, in fact, might rise to be one of the moneyed men of the village, was he not rather too prone to gossip, and keep holi- days, and give concerts, and blow all his substance, real and personal, through his clarinet ; which lit- erally keeps him poor both in body and estate. He has for the present thrown by all his regular work, and suffered the breeches of the village to go unmade and unmended, while he is occupied in making garlands of party-colored rags, in imitation of flowers, for the decoration of the May-pole. Another of Master Simon’s counsellors is the apothecary, a short and rather fat man, with a pair of prominent eyes, that diverge like those of a lobster. He is the village wise man ; very sen- tentious, and full of profound remarks on shal- low subjects. Master Simon often quotes his say- ings, and mentions him as rather an extraordi- nary man ; and even consults him occasionally in 314 BRA CEBRIDGE BALL. desperate cases of the dogs and horses. Indeed, lie seems to have been overwhelmed by the apoth- ecary’s philosophy, which is exactly one observa- tion deep, consisting of indisputable maxims such as may be gathered from the mottoes of tobacco- boxes. I had a specimen of his philosophy in my very first conversation with him ; in the course of which he observed, with great solemnity and emphasis, that “ man is a compound of wisdom and folly ” ; upon which Master Simon, who had hold of my arm, pressed very hard upon it, and whis- pered in my ear, “ That ’s a devilish shrewd re mark.” THE SCHOOLMASTER. There will no mosse stick to the stone of Sisiphus, no grasse hang on the heeles of Mercury, no butter cleave on the bread of a traveller. For as the eagle at every flight loseth a feather, which maketh her bauld in her age, so the traveller in every country loseth some fleece, which maketh him a beggar in his youth, by buying that for a pound which he cannot sell again for a penny — repent- ance. — Lilly’s Euphues. | MONG the worthies of the village, that enjoy the peculiar confidence of Master Simon, is one who has struck my fancy so much that I have thought him worthy of a separate notice. It is Slingsby, the schoolmaster, a thin elderly man, rather threadbare and slovenly, somewhat indolent in manner, and with an easy, good-humored look, not often met with in his craft I have been interested in his favor by a few anec- dotes which I have picked up concerning him. He is a native of the village, and was a con- temporary and playmate of Ready-Money Jack in the days of their boyhood. Indeed, they carried on a kind of league of mutual good offices. Slingsby was rather puny, and withal somewhat of a coward, but very apt at his learning : Jack, on the contrary, was a bully-boy out of doors, but a sad laggard at his books. Slingsby helped Jack, therefore, to all his lessons ; Jack fought all 316 BRA CKBR1DG E HALL. Slingsby’s battles ; and they were inseparable friends. This mutual kindness continued even after they left the school, notwithstanding the dissimilarity of their characters. Jack took to ploughing and reaping, and prepared himself to till his paternal acres ; while the other loitered negligently on in the path of learning, until he penetrated even into the confines of Latin and Mathematics. In an unlucky hour, however, he took to read- ing voyages and travels, and was smitten with a desire to see the world. This desire increased upon him as he grew up ; so, early one bright sunny morning, he put all his effects in a knap- sack, slung it on his back, took staff in hand, and called in his way to take leave of his early schoolmate. Jack was just going out with the plough : the friends shook hands over the farm- house-gate ; Jack drove his team a-field, and Slingsby whistled “ Over the hills and far away,” and sallied forth gayly to “ seek his fortune.” Years and years passed away, and young Tom Slingsby was forgotten ; when, one mellow Sun- day afternoon in autumn, a thin man, somewhat advanced in life, with a coat out at elbows, a pair of old nankeen gaiters, and a few things tied in a handkerchief, and slung on the end of a stick, was seen loitering through the village. He ap- peared to regard several houses attentively, to peer into the windows that were open, to eye the villagers wistfully as they returned from church, and then to pass some time in the church-yard, reading the tombstones. THE SCHOOLMASTER. 317 A.t length he found his way to the farm-house of Ready-Money Jack, but paused ere he at- tempted the wicket ; contemplating the picture of substantial independence before him. In the porch of the house sat Ready-Money Jack, in his Sunday dress ; with his hat upon his head, his pipe in his mouth, and his tankard before him, the monarch of all he surveyed. Beside him lay his fat house-dog. The varied sounds of poultry were heard from the well-stocked farm-yard ; the bees hummed from their hives in the garden ; the cattle lowed in the rich meadow ; while the crammed barns and ample stacks bore proof of an abundant harvest. The stranger opened the gate and advanced dubiously toward the house. The mastiff growled at the sight of the suspicious-looking intruder, but was immediately silenced by his master, who, taking his pipe from his mouth, awaited with in- quiring aspect the address of this equivocal per- sonage. The stranger eyed old Jack for a mo- ment, so portly in his dimensions, and decked out in gorgeous apparel ; then cast a glance upon his own threadbare and starveling condition, and the scanty bundle which he held in his hand ; then giving his shrunk waistcoat a twitch to make it meet its receding waistband, and casting another 'ook, half sad, half humorous, at the sturdy yeo- man, “ I suppose,” said he, “ Mr. Tibbets, you have forgot old times and old playmates.” The latter gazed at him with scrutinizing look, but acknowledged that he had no recollection of him. 318 BRACLBRWuL HALL. “ Like enough, like enough,’’ said the stranger ; “ everybody seems to have forgotten poor Sliitgs- by ! ” “ Why no, sure ! it can’t be Tom Slingsby ! ” “ Yes, but it is though ! ” replied the stranger, shaking his head. lleady-Money Jack was on his feet in a twink- ling, thrust out his hand, gave his ancient crony the gripe of a giant, and slapping the other hand on a bench, “ Sit down there,” cried he, u Tom Slingsby ! ” A long conversation ensued about old times, while Slingsby was regaled with the best cheer that the farmhouse afforded ; for he was hungry as well as way-worn, and had the keen appetite of a poor pedestrian. The early playmates then talked over their subsequent lives and adventures. Jack had but little to relate, and was never good at a long story. A prosperous life, passed at home, has little incident for narrative ; it is only poor devils, that are tossed about the world, that are the true heroes of story. Jack had stuck by the paternal farm, followed the same plough that Ills forefathers had driven, and had waxed richer and richer as he grew older. As to Tom Slings- by, he was an exemplification of the old proverb, “ a rolling stone gathers no moss.” He had sought his fortune about the world, without ever find- ing it ; being a thing oftener found at home than abroad. He had been in all kinds of situations, and had learnt a dozen different modes of mak- ing a living ; but had found his way back to his native village rather poorer tl an when le left it* THE SCHOOLMASTER . 319 liis knapsack having dwindled down to a scanty bundle. As luck would have it, the Squire was passing by the farmhouse that very evening, and called there, as is often his custom. He found the two schoolmates still gossiping in the porch, and, ac- cording to the good old Scottish song, “ taking a cup of kindness yet, for auld lang syne.” The Squire was struck by the contrast in appearance and fortunes of these early playmates. Ready- Money Jack, seated in lordly state, surrounded by the good things of this life, with golden guineas hanging to his very watch-chain ; and the poor pilgrim Slingsby, thin as a weasel, with all his worldly effects, his bundle, hat, and walking- staff, lying on the ground beside him. The good Squire’s heart warmed towards the luckless cosmopolite, for he is a little prone to like such half-vagrant characters. He cast about in his mind how he should contrive once more to anchor Slingsby in his native village. Honest Jack had already offered him a present shelter under his roof, in spite of the hints, and winks, and half remonstrances of the shrewd Dame Tib- bets ; but how to provide for his permanent main- tenance, was the question. Luckily, the Squire bethought himself that the village school was without a teacher. A little further conversation convinced him that Slingsby was as fit for that as for anything else, and in a day or two he was seen swaying the rod of empire in the very school- house where he had often been horsed in the days of his boyhood. 320 BRA CEB R ID (J E HALL . Here he lias remained for several years, and, being honored by the countenance of the Squire, and the fast friendship of Mr. Tibbets, he has grown into much importance and consideration in the village. I am told, however, that he still shows, now and then, a degree of restlessness, and a disposition to rove abroad again, and see a little more of the world, — an inclination which seems particularly to haunt him about spring - time. There is nothing so difficult to conquer as the vagrant humor, when once it has been fully in- dulged. Since I have heard these anecdotes of poor Slingsby, I have more than once mused upon the picture presented by him and his schoolmate Ready-Money Jack, on their coming together again after so long a separation. It is difficult to deter- mine between lots in life, where each is attended with its peculiar discontents. He who never leaves his home, repines at his monotonous exist- ence, and envies the traveller, whose life is a con- stant tissue of wonder and adventure ; while he who is tossed about the world looks back with many a sigh to the safe and quiet shore which he has abandoned. I cannot help thinking, however, that the man who stays at home, and cultivates the comforts and pleasures daily springing up around him, stands the best chance for happiness. There is nothing so fascinating to a young mind as the idea of travelling ; and there is very witch- craft in the old phrase found in every nursery tale, of “ going to seek one’s fortune.” A con- tinual change of place, and change of object, THE SCHOOLMASTER. 321 promises a continual succession of adventure and gratification of curiosity. But there is a limit to all our enjoyments, and every desire bears its death in its very gratification. Curiosity lan- guishes under repeated stimulants ; novelties cease to excite surprise ; until at length we can- not wonder even at a miracle. He who has sallied forth into the world, like poor Slingsby, full of sunny anticipations, finds too soon how different the distant scene becomes when visited. The smooth place roughens as he approaches ; the wild place becomes tame and barren ; the fairy tints which beguiled him on, still fly to the distant hill, or gather upon the land he has left behind ; and every part of the land- scape seems greener than the spot he stands on 21 THE SCHOOL. But to come down from great men and higher matters to my little rhildren and poor schoolhouse again ; I will, God willing, go forward orderly, as I purposed, to instruct poor children and young men both for learning and manners. — Roger Ascham. j AVING given the reader a slight sketch of the village schoolmaster, he may be curious to learn something concerning his school. As the Squire takes much interest in the education of the neighboring children, he put into the hands of the teacher, on first install- ing him in office, a copy of Roger Ascham’s Schoolmaster, and advised him, moreover, to con over that portion of old Peach em which treats of the duty of masters, and which condemns the favorite method of making boys wise by flagella- tion. He exhorted Slingsby not to break down or depress the free spirit of the boys, by harshness and slavish fear, but to lead them freely and joy- ously on in the path of knowledge, making it pleasant and desirable in their eyes. He wished to see the youth trained up in the manners and habitudes of the peasantry of tin good old times, and thus to lay a foundation for the accomplish- ment of his favorite object, the revival of old THE SCHOOL. 323 English customs and character. He recommended that all the ancient holidays should be observed, and the sports of the boys, in their hours of play, regulated according to the standard authorities laid down in Strutt ; a copy of whose invaluable work, decorated with plates, was deposited in the school-house. Above all, he exhorted the peda- gogue to abstain from the use of birch : an instru- ment of instruction which the good Squire regards as fit only for the coercion of brute natures, that cannot be reasoned with. Mr. Slingsby has followed the Squire’s instruc- tions to the best of his disposition and ability. He never flogs the boys, because he is too easy, good-humored a creature to inflict pain on a worm. He is bountiful in holidays, because he loves holi- days himself, and has a sympathy with the urchins’ impatience of confinement, from having divers times experienced its irksomeness during the time that he was seeing the world. As to sports and pastimes, the boys are faithfully exercised in all that are on record : quoits, races, prison-bars, tip- cat, trap-ball, bandy-ball, wrestling, leaping, and what not. The only misfortune is, that, having banished the birch, honest Slingsby has not studied Roger Ascham sufficiently to find out a substitute, or, rather, he has not the management in his na- ture to apply one ; his school, therefore, though one of the happiest, is one of the most unruly in the country ; and never was a pedagogue more liked, or less heeded, by his disciples than Slingsby. He has lately taken a coadjutor worthy of him- 324 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. self ; being another stray sheep returned to the village fold. This is no other than the son of the musical tailor, who had bestowed some cost upon his education, hoping one day to see him ar- rive at the dignity of an exciseman, or at least of a parish clerk. The lad grew up, however, as idle and musical as his father ; and, being capti- vated by the drum and fife of a recruiting party, followed them off to the army. He returned not long since, out of money, and out at elbows, the prodigal son of the village. He remained for some time lounging about the place in half-tat- tered soldier’s dress, with a foraging cap on one side of his head, jerking stones across the brook, or loitering about the tavern-door, a burden to his father, and regarded with great coldness by all warm householders. Something, however, drew honest Slingsby towards the youth. It might be the kindness he bore to his father, who is one of the schoolmas- ter’s great cronies ; it might be that secret sym- pathy which draws men of vagrant propensities toward each other ; for there is something truly magnetic in the vagabond feeling ; or it might be that he remembered the time when he himself had come back like this youngster, a wreck to his native place. At any rate, whatever the motive, Slingsby drew towards the youth. They had many conversations in the village tap-room about foreign parts, and the various scenes and places they had witnessed during their wayfaring about the world. The more Slingsby talked with him, the more he found him to his taste ; and finding THE SCHOOL. 325 him almost as learned as himself, he forthwith en- gaged him as an assistant, or usher, in the school. Under such admirable tuition, the school, as may be supposed, flourishes apace ; and if the scholars do not become versed in all the holiday accomplishments of the good old times, to the Squire’s heart’s content, it will not be the fault of their teachers. The prodigal son has become al- most as popular among the boys as the pedagogue himself. His instructions are not limited to school- hours ; and having inherited the musical taste and talents of his father, he has bitten the whole school with the mania. He is a great hand at beating a drum, which is often heard rumbling from the rear of the school-house. He is teaching half the boys of the village, also, to play the fife, and the pandean pipes ; and they weary the whole neighborhood with therr vague pipings, as they sit perched on stiles, or loitering about the barn-doors in the evenings. Among the other exercises of the school, also, he has introduced the ancient art of archery, one of the Squire’s favorite themes, with such success, that the whipsters roam in tru- ant bands about the neighborhood, practising with their bows and arrows upon the birds of the air, and the beasts of the field ; and not unfrequently making a foray into the Squire’s domains, to the great indignation of the gamekeepers. In a word, so completely are the ancient English customs and habits cultivated at this school, that I should not be surprised if the Squire should live to see one of his poetic visions realized, and a brood veared up, worthy successors to Robin Hood, and his merry gang of outlaws. A VILLAGE POLITICIAN. I am a rogue if I do not think I was designed for the helm of state; I am so full of nimble stratagems, that I should have ordered affairs, and carried it against the stream of a faction, with as much ease as a skipper would laver against the wind. — The Goblins. gWfgjjN one of my visits to the village with jig gBgSj Master Simon, he proposed that we feSfiSSl! should stop at the inn, which he wished to show me, as a specimen of a real country inn, the headquarters of village gossip. I had re- marked it before, in my perambulations about the place. It has a deep old-fashioned porch, leading into a large hall, which serves for tap-room and travellers’-room ; having a wide fireplace, with high-backed settles on each side, where the wise men of the village gossip over their ale, and hold their sessions during the long winter evenings. The landlord is an easy, indolent fellow, shaped a little like one of his own beer-barrels, and is apt to stand gossiping at his own door, with his wig on one side, and his hands in his pockets, whilst his wife and daughter attend to customers. His wife, however, is fully competent to manage the establishment ; and, indeed, from long habitude, rules over all the frequenters of the tap-room as completely as if they were her dependents and A VILLAGE POLITICIAN. 827 not her patrons. Not a veteran ale-bibber but pays homage to her, having, no doubt, often been in her arrears. I have already hinted that she is on very good terms with Ready-Money Jack. He was a sweetheart of hers in early life, and has always countenanced the tavern on her account. Indeed, he is quite a “ cock of the walk ” at the tap -room. As we approached the inn, we heard some one talking with great volubility, and distinguished the ominous words, “ taxes,” “ poor’s rates,” and “agricultural distress.” It proved to be a thin, loquacious fellow, who had penned the landlord up in one corner of the porch, with his hands in his pockets, listening with an air of the most va- cant acquiescence. The sight seemed to have a curious effect on Master Simon, as he squeezed my arm, and alter- ing his course, sheered wide of the porch, as though he had not had any idea of entering. This evident evasion induced me to notice the orator more particularly. He was meagre, but active in his make, with a long, pale, bilious face ; a black beard, so ill-shaven as to leave marks of blood on his shirt-collar; a feverish eye, and a hat sharpened up at the sides into a most prag- matical shape. He had a newspaper in his hand, and seemed to be commenting on its contents, to the thorough conviction of mine host. At sight of Master Simon the landlord was evi- dently a little flurried, and began to rub his hands, edge away from his corner, and make several pro- found publican bows ; while the orator took no 328 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. other notice of my companion than to talk rathei louder than before, and with as I thought, some- thing of an air of defiance. Master Simon, how- ever, as I have before said, sheered off from the porch, and passed on, pressing my arm within his, and whispering as we got by, in a tone of awe and horror, “ That ’s a radical ! he reads Cob- bett ! ” I endeavored to get a more particular account of him from my companion, but he seemed un- willing even to talk about him, answering only in general terms, that he was “ a cursed busy fellow, that had a confounded trick of talking, and was apt to bother one about the national debt, and such nonsense ; ” from which I suspected that Master Simon had been rendered wary of him by some accidental encounter on the field of argument ; for these radicals are continually roving about in quest of wordy warfare, and never so happy as when they can tilt a gentleman logician out of his saddle. On subsequent inquiry my suspicions have been confirmed. I find the radical has but recently found his way into the village, where he threatens to commit fearful devastations with his doctrines. He has already made two or three complete con- verts, or new lights ; has shaken the faith of several others ; and has grievously puzzled the brains of many of the oldest villagers, who had never thought about politics, nor scarce anything else, during their whole lives. He is lean and meagre from the constant rest- lessness of mind and body ; worrying about with A VILLAGE POLITICIAN . newspapers and pamphlets in his pockets, which he is ready to pull out on all occasions. He has shocked several of the stanchest villagers, hy talking lightly of the Squire and his family ; and hinting that it would be better the park should be cut up into small farms and kitchen- gardens, or feed good mutton instead of worthless deer. He is a great thorn in the sight of the Squire* who is sadly afraid that he will introduce politics into the village, and turn it into an unhappy, thinking community. He is a still greater griev- ance to Master Simon, who has hitherto been able to sway the political opinions of the place, without much cost of learning or logic ; but has been much puzzled of late to weed out the doubts and heresies already sown by this champion of re- ✓ form. Indeed, the latter has taken complete com- mand at the tap-room of the tavern, not so much because he has convinced, as because he has out- talked all the old-established oracles. The apoth- ecary, with all his philosophy, was as naught before him. He has convinced and converted the landlord at least a dozen times ; who, however, is liable to be convinced and converted the other way by the next person with whom he talks. It is true the radical has a violent antagonist in the landlady, who is vehemently loyal, and thorough- ly devoted to the king, Master Simon, and the Squire. She now and then comes out upon the reformer with all the fierceness of a cat-o’-moun- tain, and does not spare her own soft-headed hus* band for listening to what she terms such “ low 330 BRACEBRIDGE BALL. lived politics.” What makes the good woman the more violent, is the perfect coolness with which the radical listens to her attacks, drawing his face up into a provoking, supercilious smile ; and when she has talked herself out of breath, quietly asking her for a taste of her home- brewed. The only person in any way a match for this redoubtable politician is Ready-Money Jack Tib- bets ; who maintains his stand in the tap-room, in defiance of the radical and all his works. Jack is one of the most loyal men in the country, with- out being able to reason about the matter. He has that admirable quality for a tough arguer, also, that he never knows when he is beat. He has half a dozen old maxims, which he advances on all occasions, and though his antagonist may overturn them ever so often, yet he always brings them anew to the field. He is like the robber in Ariosto, who, though his head might be cut off half a hundred times, yet whipped it on his shoul- ders again in a twinkling, and returned as sound a man as ever to the charge. Whatever does not square with Jack’s simple and obvious creed, he sets down for “ French politics ” ; for, notwithstanding the peace, he can- not be persuaded that the French are no' still raying plots to ruin the nation, and to get hold of the Bank of England. The radical attempted to overwhelm him one day by a long passage from a newspaper ; but Jack neither reads nor believes in newspapers. In reply, he gave him one of the Hanzas which he has by heart from his favorite, A VILLAGE POLITICIAN. 331 and indeed only author, old Tusser, and which he calls his Golden Rules : “ Leave princes’ affairs undescanted on, And tend to such doings as stand thee upon ; Fear God, and offend not the king nor his laws, And keep thyself out of the magistrate’s claws.” When Tibbets had pronounced this with great emphasis, he pulled out a well-filled leathern purse, took out a handful of gold and silver, paid his score at the bar with great punctuality, re- turned his money, piece by piece, into his purse, his purse into his pocket, which he buttoned up ; and then, giving his cudgel a stout thump upon the floor, and bidding the radical “ good morning, sir ! ” with the tone of a man who conceives he has completely done for his antagonist, he walked with lionlike gravity out of the house. Two or three of Jack’s admirers who were present, and had been afraid to take the field themselves, looked upon this as a perfect triumph, and winked at each other when the radical’s back was turned. “Ay, ay ! ” said mine host, as soon as the radical was out of hearing, “ let old Jack alone ; I ’U warrant he ’ll give him his own ! ” THE ROOKERY. But cawing ‘rooks, and kites that swim sublime In still repeated circles ; screaming loud, The jay, the pie, and e’en the boding owl, That hails the rising moon, have charms for me. Cowper a grove of tall oaks and beeches, that rowns a terrace-walk, just on the skirts f the garden, is an ancient rookery; which is one of the most important provinces in the Squire’s rural domains. The old gentleman sets great store by his rooks, and will not suffer one of them to be killed ; in consequence of which they have increased amazingly : the tree-tops are loaded with their nests ; they have encroached upon the great avenue, and even established in times long past a Colony among the elms and pines of the church-yard, which, like other distant colonies, has already thrown off allegiance to the mother-country. The rooks are looked upon by the Squire as a very ancient and honorable line of gentry, highly aristocratical in their notions, fond of place, and attached to church and state ; as their building so loftily, keeping about churches and cathedrals, and in the venerable groves of old castles and manor-houses, sufficiently manifests. The good THE ROOKERY. 333 opinion thus expressed by the Squire put me upon observing more narrowly these very re- spectable birds ; for I confess, to my shame, I had been apt to confound them with their cousins- german the crows, to whom, at the first glance, they bear so great a family resemblance. Noth- ing, it seems, could be more unjust or injurious than such a mistake. The rooks and crows are, among the feathered tribes, what the Spaniards and Portuguese are among nations, — the least loving, in consequence of their neighborhood and similarity. The rooks are old-established house- keepers, high-minded gentlefolk, who have had their hereditary abodes time out of mind ; but as to the poor crows, they are a kind of vagabond, predatory, gypsy race, roving about the country without any settled home ; “ their hands are against everybody, and everybody’s against them,” and they are gibbeted in every cornfield. Master Simon assures me that a female rook, who should so far forget herself as to consort with a crow, would inevitably be disinherited, and indeed would be totally discarded by all her genteel ac- quaintance. The Squire is very watchful over the interests and concerns of his sable neighbors. As to Mas- ter Simon, he even pretends to know many of them by sight, and to have given names to them ; he points out several, which he says are old heads of families, and compares them to worthy old cit- izens, beforehand in the world, that wear cocked hats, and silver buckles in their shoes. Notwith- standing the protecting benevolence of the Squire, 334 BRA CEBRIDGE I1A1.L. and their being residents in liis empire, they seem to acknowledge no allegiance, and to hold no in- tercourse or intimacy. Their airy tenements are built almost out of the reach of gunshot ; and notwithstanding their vicinity to the Hall, they maintain a most reserved and distrustful shyness of mankind. * There is one season of the year, however, which brings all birds in a manner to a level, and tames the pride of the loftiest high-flier, which is the season of building their nests. This takes place early in the spring, when the forest-trees first begin to show their buds, and the long, withy ends of the branches to turn green ; when the wild strawberry and other herbage of the sheltered woodlands put forth their tender and tinted leaves ; and the daisy and the primrose peep from under the hedges. At this time there is a general bustle among the feathered tribes ; an incessant flut- tering about, and a cheerful chirping ; indicative, like the germination of the vegetable world, of the reviving life and fecundity of the year. It is then that the rooks forget their usual stateliness, and their shy and lofty habits. Instead of keeping up in the high regions of the air, swinging on the breezy tree-tops, and looking down with sovereign contempt upon the humble crawlers upon earth, they are fain to throw off for a time the dignity of the gentleman, to come down to the ground, and put on the painstaking and industrious character of a laborer. They now lose their natural shyness, become fearless and familiar, and may be seen plying about in all di- THE ROOKERY. 335 rections, with an air of great assiduity, in search of building-materials. Every now and then your path will be crossed by one of these busy old gentlemen, worrying about with awkward gait, as if troubled with the gout, or with corns on his toes ; casting about many a prying look ; turning down first one eye, then the other, in earnest con- sideration, upon every straw he meets with ; until, espying some mighty twig, large enough to make a rafter for his air-castle, he will seize upon it with avidity, and hurry away with it to the tree- top ; fearing, apparently, lest you should dispute with him the invaluable prize. Like other castle-builders, these airy architects seem rather fanciful in the materials with which they build, and to like those most which come from a distance. Thus, though there are abun- dance of dry twigs on the surrounding trees, yet they never think of making use of them, but go foraging in distant lands, and come sailing home one by one, from the ends of the earth, each bear- ing in his bill some precious piece of timber. Nor must I avoid mentioning, what, I grieve to say, rather derogates from the grave and hon- orable character of these ancient gentlefolk, that, during the architectural season, they are subject to great dissensions among themselves ; that they make no scruple to defraud and plunder each other ; and that sometimes the rookery is a scene of hideous brawl and commotion, in consequence of some delinquency of the kind. One of the partners generally remains on the nest to guard it from depredation ; and I have seen severe con- 336 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. tests, when some sly neighbor has endeavored to filch away a tempting rafter that had captivated his eye. As I am not willing hastily to admit any suspicion derogatory to the general character of so worshipful a people., I am inclined to think these larcenies discountenanced by the higher classes, and even rigorously punished by those in authority ; for I have now and then seen a whole gang of rooks fall upon the nest of some indi- vidual, pull it all to pieces, carry off the spoils, and even buffet the luckless proprietor. I have con- cluded this to be a signal punishment inflicted upon him, by the officers of the police, for some pilfering misdemeanor ; or, perhaps, that it was a crew of bailiffs carrying an execution into his house. I have been amused with another of their movements during the building-season. The stew- ard has suffered a considerable number of sheep to graze on a lawn near the house, somewhat to the annoyance of the Squire, who thinks this an innovation on the dignity of a park, which ought to be devoted to deer onlj. Be this as it may, there is a green knoll, not far from the drawing- room window, where the ewes and lambs are ac- customed to assemble towards evening, for the benefit of the setting sun. No sooner were they gathered here, at the time when these politic birds were building, than a stately old rook, who Mas- ter Simon assured me was the chief magistrate of this community, would settle down upon the head of one of the ewes, who, seeming uncon- scious of this condescension, would desist from grazing, and stand fixed in motionless reverence TEE ROOKERY. 337 of her august burden ; the rest of the rookery would then come wheeling down, in imitation of their leader, until every ewe had two or three of them cawing, and fluttering, and battling upon her back. Whether they requited the submission of the sheep by levying a contribution upon their fleece for the benefit of the rookery, I am not cer- tain ; though I presume they followed the usual custom of protecting powers. The latter part of May is the time of great tribulation among the rookeries, when the young are just able to leave the nests, and balance them lelves on the neighboring branches. Now comes ^>n the season of “ rook-shooting,” — a terrible ^laughter of the innocents. The Squire, of course, prohibits all invasion of the kind on his territo- ries ; but I am told that a lamentable havoc takes place in the colony about the old church. Upon this devoted commonwealth the village charges “ with all its chivalry.” Every idle wight, lucky enough to possess an old gun or blunderbuss, to- gether with all the archery of Slingsby’s school, takes the field on the occasion. In vain does the little parson interfere, or remonstrate, in angry tones, from his study-window that looks into the church-yard ; there is a continual popping from morning till night. Being no great marksmen, their shots are not often effective ; but every now and then a great shout from the besieging army of 1 bumpkins makes known the downfall of some unlucky squab rook, which comes to the ground with the emphasis of a squashed apple-dumpling. Nor is the rookery entirely free from other 22 338 BRACEBR1DGE TIALL. troubles and disasters. In so aristocratical and lofty-minded a community, which boasts so much ancient blood and hereditary pride, it is natural to suppose that questions of etiquette will some- times arise, and affairs of honor ensue. In fact, this is very often the case ; bitter quarrels break out between individuals, which produce sad scuf- flings on the tree-tops, and I have more than once seen a regular duel between two doughty heroes of the rookery. Their field of battle is generally the air ; and their contest is managed in the most scientific and elegant manner ; wheeling round and round each other, and towering higher and higher, to get the vantage-ground, until they some- times disappear in the clouds before the combat is determined. They have also fierce combats now and then with an invading hawk, and will drive him off from their territories by a posse comitatus. They are also extremely tenacious of their domains, and will suffer no other bird to inhabit the grove or its vicinity. A very ancient and respectable old- bachelor owl had for a long time his lodgings in a corner of the grove, but has been fairly ejected by the rooks ; and has retired, disgusted with the world, to a neighboring wood, where he leads the life of a hermit,' and makes nightly complaints of his ill treatment. The hootings of this unhappy gentleman may generally be heard in the still evenings, when the rooks are all at rest ; and I have often listened to them, of a moonlight night, with a kind cf mysteri- ous gratification. This gray-bearded misanthrope, THE ROOKERY. 339 of course, is highly respected by the Squire ; but the servants have superstitious notions about him ; and it would be difficult to get the dairy-maid to venture after dark near to the wood which he inhabits. Besides the private quarrels of the rooks, there are other misfortunes to which they are liable, and which often bring distress into the most respect- able families of the rookery. Having the true baronial spirit of the good old feudal times, they are apt now and then to issue forth from their castles on a foray, and lay the plebeian fields of the neighboring country under contribution ; in the course of which chivalrous expeditions they now and then get a shot from the rusty artillery of some refractory farmer. Occasionally, too, while they are quietly taking the air beyond the park boundaries, they have the incaution to come within reach of the truant bowmen of Slingsby’s school, and receive a flight shot from some un- lucky urchin’s arrow. In such case the wounded adventurer will sometimes have just strength enough to bring himself home, and, giving up the ghost at the rookery, will hang dangling “ all abroad ” on a bough, like a thief on a gibbet: an awful warning to his friends, and an object of great commiseration to the Squire. But, maugre all these untoward incidents, the rooks have, upon the whole, a happy holiday life of it. When their young are reared, and fairly launched upon their native element, the air, the sares of the old folks seem over, and they resume *11 their aristoeratical dignity and idleness. I 340 BRACEBRIDGE II ALL. have envied them the enjoyment which they ap- pear to have in their ethereal heights, sporting with clamorous exultation about their lofty bow- ers ; sometimes hovering over them, sometimes partially alighting upon the topmost branches, and there balancing with outstretched wings, and swinging in the breeze. Sometimes they seem to take a fashionable drive to the church, and amuse themselves by circling in airy rings about its spire ; at other times a mere garrison is left at home to mount guard in their stronghold at the grove, while the rest roam abroad to enjoy the fine weather. About sunset the garrison gives notice of their return ; their faint cawing will be heard from a great distance, and they will be seen far off like a sable cloud, and then, nearer and nearer, until they all come soaring home. Then they perform several grand circuits in the air, over the Hall and garden, wheeling closer and closer, until fiiey gradually settle down ; when a prodigious cawing takes place, as though they were relating their day’s adventures. I like at such times to walk about these dusky groves, and hear the various sounds of these airy people roosted so high above me. As the gloom increases, their conversation subsides, and they gradually drop asleep ; but every now and then there is a querulous note, as if some one was quarrelling for a pillow, or a little more of the blanket. It is late in the evening before they completely sink to repose, and then their old anch- orite neighbor, the owl, begins his lonely lwotings from his bachelor’s-hall, in the wood. MAY-DAY. It is the choice time of the year, For the violets now appear ; Now the rose receives its birth, And pretty primrose decks the earth. Then to the May-pole come away, For it is now a holiday. Aoteon and Diana. S I was lying in bed this morning, enjoy- ing one of those half dreams, half rev- eries, which are so pleasant in the coun- try, when the birds are singing about the window, and the sunbeams peeping through the curtains, I was roused by the sound of music. On going down-stairs, I found a number of villagers, dressed in their holiday clothes, bearing a pole ornamented with garlands and ribbons, and accompanied by the village band of music, under the direction of the tailor, the pale fellow who plays on the clari- net. They had all sprigs of hawthorn, or, as it is called, “ the May,” in their hats, and had br; uglit green branches and flowers to decorate the Hall doors and windows. They had come to give no- tice that the May-pole was reared on the green, and to invite the household to witness the sports. The Hall, according to custom, became a scene of hurry and delighted confusion. The servant* 342 BRA CKBRIDGE HALL . were all agog with May and music ; and there was no keeping either the tongues or the feet of the maids quiet, who were anticipating the sports of the green, and the evening dance. I repaired to the village at an early hour to enjoy the merry-making. The morning was pure and sunny, such as a May morning is always de- scribed. The fields were white with daisies, the hawthorn was covered with its fragrant blossoms, the bee hummed about every bank, and the swal- low played high in the air about the village stee- ple. It was one of those genial days when we seem to draw in pleasure with the very air we breathe, and to feel happy we know not why. Whoever has felt the worth of worthy man, or has doted on lovely woman, will, on such a day, call them tenderly to mind, and feel his heart all alive with long-buried recollections. “ For thenne,” says the excellent romance of King Arthur, “lovers call ageyne to their mynde old gentilnes and old servyse, and many kind dedes, that were forgotten by neglygence.” Before reaching the village, I saw the May- pole towering above the cottages, with its gay garlands and streamers, and heard the sound of music. Booths had been set up near it, for the reception of company ; and a bower of green branches and flowers for the Queen of May, a fresh, rosy-cheeked girl of the village. A band of morris-dancers were capering on the green in their fantastic dresses, jingling with hawks’ bells, with a boy dressed up as Maid Ma- rian, and the attendant fool rattling his box to MA Y-DA Y. 343 collect contributions from the by-standers. The gypsy-women too were already plying their mys- tery in by-corners of the village, reading the hands of the simple country-girls, and no doubt promis- ing them all good husbands and tribes of children. The Squire made his appearance in the course of the morning, attended by the parson, and was received with loud acclamations. He mingled among the country people throughout the day, giving and receiving pleasure wherever he went. The amusements of the day were under the man- agement of Slingsby, the schoolmaster, who is not merely lord of misrule in his school, but master of the revels to the village. He was bustling about with the perplexed and anxious air of a man who has the oppressive burden of promoting other peo- ple’s merriment upon his mind. He had involved himself in a dozen scrapes in consequence of a politic intrigue, which, by the by, Master- Simon and the Oxonian were at the bottom of, which had for its object the election of the Queen of May. He had met with violent opposition from a faction of ale-drinkers, who were in favor of a bouncing bar-maid, the daughter of the innkeeper ; but he had been too strongly backed not to carry his point, though it shows that these rural crowns, like all others, are objects of great ambition and heart-burning. I am told that Master Simon takes great interest, though in an underhand way, in the election of these May-day Queens ; and that the chaplet is generally secured for some rus- tic beauty who has found favor in his eyes. In the course of the day there were various 344 BRACEBRIDGE TIAEL. games of strength and agility on the green, at which a knot of village veterans presided, as judges of the lists. Among these Ready-Money Jack took the lead, looking with a learned and crit- ical eye on the merits of the different candidates ; and though he was very laconic, and sometimes merely expressed himself by a nod, it was evident his opinions far outweighed those of the most lo- quacious. Young Jack Tibbets was the hero of the day, and carried off most of the prizes, though in some of the feats of agility he was rivalled by the “ prodigal son,” who appeared much in his ele- ment on this occasion ; but his most formidable competitor was the notorious gypsy, the redoubt- able “ Star-light Tom.” I was rejoiced at having an opportunity of seeing this “ minion of the moon ” in broad daylight. I found him a tall, swarthy, good-looking fellow, with a lofty air, something like what I have seen in an Indian chieftain ; and with a certain lounging, easy, and almost graceful carriage, which I have often remarked in beings of the lazaroni order, who lead an idle, loitering life, and have a gentlemanlike contempt of labor. Master Simon and the old general reconnoi- tred the ground together, and indulged a vast deal of harmless raking among the buxom country girls. Master Simon would give some of them a kiss on meeting with them, and would ask after their sisters, for he is acquainted with most of the farmers’ families. Sometimes he would whisper, and affect to talk mischievously with them, and, if bantered on the subject, would turn it off with MAY-DAY. 345 a laugh, though it was evident he liked to be sus- pected of being a gay Lothario amongst them. He had much to say to the farmers about their farms ; and seemed to know all their horses by name. There was an old fellow, with a round ruddy face, and a night-cap under his hat, the village wit, who took several occasions to crack a joke with him in the hearing of his companions, to whom he would turn and wink hard when Master Simon had passed. The harmony of the day, however, had nearly, at one time, been interrupted, by the appearance of the radical on the ground, with two or three of his disciples. He soon got engaged in argu- ment in the very thick of the throng, above which I could hear his voice, and now and then see his meagre hand, half a mile out of the sleeve, elevated in the air in violent gesticulation, and flourishing a pamphlet by way of truncheon. He was de- crying these idle nonsensical amusements in times of public distress, when it was every one’s busi- ness to think of other matters, and to be misera- ble. The honest village logicians could make no stand against him, especially as he was seconded by his proselytes ; when, to their great joy, Mas- ter Simon and the general came drifting down into the field of action. Master Simon was for making off, as soon as he found himself in the neighborhood of this fire-ship ; but the general was too loyal to suffer such talk in his hearing, and thought, no doubt, that a look and a word from a gentleman would be sufficient to shut up so shabby an orator. The latter, however, was no 34 G BRACEBR1DGE BALL. respecter of persons, but rather exulted in having such important antagonists. He talked with greater volubility than ever, and soon drowned them in declamation on the subject of taxes, poors’ rates, and the national debt. Master Si- mon endeavored to brush along in his usual ex- cursive manner, which always answered amaz- ingly well with the villagers ; but the radical was one of those pestilent fellows that pin a man down to facts ; and, indeed, he had two or three pamphlets in his pocket, to support everything he advanced by printed documents. The general, too, found himself betrayed into a more serious action than his dignity could brook, and looked like a mighty Dutch Indiaman grievously pep- pered by a petty privateer. In vain he swelled and looked big, and talked large, and endeavored to make up by pomp of manner for poverty of matter ; every home-thrust of the radical made him wheeze like a bellows, and seemed to let a volume of wind out of him. In a word, the two worthies from the Hall were completely dumb- founded, and this too in the presence of several of Master Simon’s stanch admirers, who had al- ways looked up to him as infallible. I do not know how he and the general would have man- aged to draw their forces decently from the field, had not a match at grinning through a horse- collar been announced, whereupon the radical re- tired with great expression of contempt, and, as soon as his back was turned, the argument was carried against him all hollow. “ Did you ever hear such a pack of stuff, gen MA Y-DA Y. 347 9 ml ? ” said Master Simon ; “ there ’s no talking with one of these chaps when he once gets that confounded Cobbett in his head.” “ S’blood, sir ! ” said the general, wiping his forehead, “ such fellows ought to be transported ! ” In the latter part of the day the ladies from the Hall paid a visit to the green. The fair Julia made her appearance, leaning on her lover’s arm, and looking extremely pale and interesting. As she is a great favorite in the village, where she has been known from childhood, and as her late accident had been much talked about, the sight of her caused very manifest delight, and some of the old women of the village blessed her sweet face as she passed. While they were walking about, I noticed the schoolmaster in earnest conversation with the Queen of May, evidently endeavoring to spirit her up to some formidable undertaking. At length, as the party from the Hall approached her bower, she came forth, faltering at every step, until she reached the spot where the fair Julia stood be- tween her lover and Lady Lilly craft. The little Queen then took the chaplet of flowers from her head, and attempted to put it on that of the bride elect ; but the confusion of both was so great that the wreath would have fallen to the ground, had not the officer caught it, and, laughing, placed it upon the blushing brows of his mistress. There was something charming in the very embarrass- ment of these two young creatures, both so beauti- ful, yet so different in their kinds of beauty. Mas- ter Simon told me, afterwards, that the Queen of 348 BRA CEBRfDGE HALL. May was to have spoken a few verses which the schoolmaster had written for her; but she had neither wit to understand, nor memory to recol- lect them. “ Besides,” added he, “ between you and I, she murders the king’s English abomina- bly ; so she has acted the part of a wise woman in holding her tongue, and trusting to her pretty face.” Among the other characters from the Hall was Mrs. Hannah, my Lady Lilly craft’s gentlewoman : to my surprise, she was escorted by old Christy, the huntsman, and followed by his ghost of a greyhound ; but I find they are very old *acquaint- ances, being drawn together by some sympathy of disposition. Mrs. Hannah moved about with starched dignity among the rustics, who drew back from her with more awe than they did from her mistress. Her mouth seemed shut as with a clasp ; excepting that I now and then heard the word “ fellows ! ” escape from between her lips, as she got accidentally jostled in the crowd. But there was one other heart present that did not enter into the merriment of the scene, which was that of the simple Phoebe Wilkins, the house- keeper’s niece. The poor girl has continued to pine and whine for some time past, in consequence of the obstinate coldness of her lover ; never wa3 a little flirtation more severely punished. She ap- peared this day on the green, gallanted by a smart servant out of livery, and had evidently resolved to try the hazardous experiment of awakening the jealousy of her lover. She was dressed it? her very best; affected an air cf great gayety MAY- DAT. 349 talked loud and girlishly, and laughed when there was nothing to laugh at. There was, however, an aching, heavy heart in the poor baggage’s bosom, in spite of all her levity. Her eye turned every now and then in quest of her reckless lover, and her cheek grew pale, and her fictitious gayety vanished, on seeing him paying his rustic homage to the little May- day Queen. My attention was now diverted by a fresh stir and bustle. Music was heard from a dis- tance ; a baanex* was advancing up the road, pre- ceded by a rustic band playing something like a march, and followed by a sturdy throng of coun- try lads, the chivalry of a neighboring and rival village. No sooner had they reached the green than they challenged the heroes of the day to new trials of strength and activity. Several gymnastic contests ensued for the honor of the respective villages. In the course of these exercises, young Tibbets and the cnampion of the adverse party had an obstinate match at wrestling. They tugged, and strained, and panted, without either getting the mastery, until both came to the ground, and rolled upon the green. Just then the discon- solate Phoebe came by. She saw her recreant lover in fierce contest, as she thought, and in dan- ger. In a moment pride, pique, and coquetry were forgotten : she rushed into the ring, seized upon the rival champion by the hair, and was on the point of wreaking on him her puny vengeance, when a buxom, strapping country lass, the sweet- ueart of the prostrate swain, pounced upon 1 er 350 Bit A CEBRIDGE HALL . like a hawk, and would have stripped her of her fine plumage in a twinkling had she also not been seized in her turn. A complete tumult ensued. The chivalry of the two villages became embroiled. Blows began to be dealt, and sticks to be flourished. Phoebe was carried off from the field in hysterics. In vain did the sages of the village interfere. The sententious apothecary endeavored to pour the soothing oil of his philosophy upon this tempes- tuous sea of passion, but was tumbled into the dust. Slingsby, the pedagogue, a^o is a great lover of peace, went into the midst o*. the throng, as marshal of the day, to put an end to the com- motion, but was rent in twain, and came out with his garment hanging in two strips from his shoul- ders : upon which the prodigal son dashed in with fury to revenge the insult sustained by his patron. The tumult thickened ; I caught glimpses of the jockey-cap of old Christy, like the helmet of a chieftain, bobbing about in the midst of the scuffle ; while Mistress Hannah, separated from her doughty protector, was squalling and strik- ing at right and left with a faded parasol ; being tossed and tousled about by the crowd in such wise as never happened to maiden gentlewoman before. At length old Ready-Money Jack made his way into the very thickest of the throng, tearing it, as it were, apart, and enforcing peace vi et armis. It was surprising to see the sudden quiet that en- sued. The storm settled down at once into tran- quillity. The parties, having no real grounds of MA Y-DA Y. 351 hostility, were readily pacified, and in fact were a little at a loss to know why and how they had got by the ears. Slingsby was speedily stitched together again by his friend the tailor, and re- sumed his usual good humor. Mrs. Hannah drew on one side to plume her rumpled feathers ; and old Christy, having repaired his damages, took her under his arm, and they swept back again to the Hall, ten times more bitter against mankind than ever. The Tibbets family alone seemed slow in re- covering from the agitation of the scene. Young Jack was evidently very much moved by the her- oism of the unlucky Phoebe. His mother, who had been summoned to the field of action by news of the affray, was in a sad panic, and had need of all her management to keep him from follow- ing his mistress, and coming to a perfect reconcil- iation. What heightened the alarm and perplexity of the good managing dame was, that the matter had aroused the slow apprehensions of old Ready- Money himself ; who was very much struck by the intrepid interference of so pretty and deli- cate a girl, and was sadly puzzled to understand the meaning of the violent agitation in his family. When all this came to the ears of the Squire, he was grievously scandalized that his May -day fete should have been disgraced by such a brawl. He ordered Phoebe to appear before him, but the girl was so frightened and distressed, that she came sobbing and trembling, and, at the first bh2 BRA CEB RID GE HALJj. question he asked, fell again into hysterics. Lady Lillycraft, who understood there was an affair of the heart at the bottom of this distress, immedi- ately took the girl into great favor and protection, and made her peace with the Squire. This was the only thing that disturbed the harmony of the day, if we except the discomfiture of Master Si- mon and the general by the radical. Upon the whole, therefore, the Squire had very fair rea- son to be satisfied that he had rode his hobby throughout the day without any other molesta- tion. The reader, learned in these matters, will per ceive that all this was but a faint shadow of the once gay and fanciful rites of May. The peas- antry have lost the proper feeling for these rites, and have grown almost as strange to them as the boors of La Mancha were, to the customs of chivalry in the days of the valorous Don Quixote. Indeed, I considered it a proof of the discretion with which the Squire rides his hobby, that he had not pushed the thing any farther, nor attempted to revive many obsolete usages of the day, which, in the present matter-of-fact times, would appear affected and absurd. I must say, though I do it under the rose, the general brawl in which this festival had nearly terminated has made me doubt whether these rural customs of the good old times were always so very loving and innocent as we are apt to fancy them, and whether the peasantry in those times were really so Arcadian as they have been fondly represented I begin to fear — MAY- DAY. 353 “ Those days were never ; airy dreams Sat for the picture, and the poet’s hand, Imparting substance to an empty shade, Imposed a gay delirium for a truth. Grant it ; I still must envy them an age That favored such a dream.” 23 THE MANUSCRIPT. ESTERDAY was a day of quiet and repose after the bustle of May-day. During the morning I joined the ladies in a small sitting-room, the windows of which came down to the floor, and opened upon a ter- race of the garden, which was set out with deli- cate shrubs and flowers. The soft sunshine fall- ing into the room through the branches of trees that overhung the windows, the sweet smell of flowers, and the singing of birds, produced a pleas- ing yet calming effect on the whole party. Some time elapsed without any one speaking: Lady Lilly craft and Miss Templeton were sitting by an elegant work-table, near one of the windows, occupied with some pretty lady-like work. The captain was on a stool at his mistress’s feet, look- ing over some music ; and poor Phoebe Wilkins, who has always been a kind of pet among the ladies, but who has risen vastly in favor with Lady Lillycraft in consequence of some tender confessions, sat in one corner of the room, with swollen eyes, working pensively at some of the fair Julia’s wedding-ornaments. The silence was interrupted by her ladyship, THE MANUSCRIPT. 355 who suddenly proposed a task to the captain. u I am in your debt,” said she, “ for that tale you read to us the other day ; I will now furnish one in return, if you ’ll read it ; and it is just suited to this sweet May morning, for it is all about love ! ” The proposition seemed to delight every one present. The captain smiled assent. Her lady- ship rang for her page, and dispatched him to her room for the manuscript. “ As the captain,” said she, “ gave us an account of the- author of his story, it is but right I should give one of mine. It was written by the parson of the parish where I reside. He is a thin, elderly man, of a delicate constitution, but positively one of the most charm- ing men that ever lived. He lost his wife a few years since ; one of the sweetest women you ever saw. He has two sons, whom he educates him- self ; both of whom already write delightful po- etry. His parsonage is a lovely place, close by the church, all overrun with ivy and honey- suckles ; with the sweetest flower-garden about it ; for, you know, our country clergymen are al- most always fond of flowers, and make their par- sonages perfect pictures. “ His living is a very good one, and he is very much beloved, and does a great deal of good in the neighborhood, and among the poor. And then such sermons as he preaches ! Oh, if you could only hear one taken from a text in Solomon’s Song, all about love and matrimony, one of the sweetest things you ever heard ! He preaches it at least once a year, in spring-time, for he knows I 356 BRA CEB RID G E HALL. am fond of it. He always dines with me on Sun- days, and often brings me some of the sweetest pieces of poetry, -all about the pleasures of mel- ancholy, and such subjects, that make me cry so* you can’t think. I wish he would publish. I think he has some things as sweet as anything of Moore or Lord Byron. “ He fell into very ill health, some time ago, and was advised to go to the Continent ; and I gave him no peace until he went, and promised to take care of his two boys until he returned. “ He was gone for above a year, and was quite restored. When he came back, he sent me the tale I ’m going to show you. — Oh, here it is ! ” said she, as the page put in her hands a beautiful box of satin-wood. She unlocked it, and among several parcels on notes of embossed paper, cards of charades, and copies of verses, she drew out a crimson velvet case, that smelt very much of perfumes. From this she took a manuscript, daintily written on gilt-edged vellum paper, and stitched with a light - blue ribbon. This she handed to the captain, who read the following tale, which I have procured for the entertainment the reader. ANNETTE PELARBRE. The soldier frae the war returns, And the merchant from the main, But I hae parted wi’ my love, And ne’er to meet again, My dear, And ne’er to meet again. When day is gone, and night is come, And a’ are boun to sleep, I think on them that ’s far awa ’"he lee-lang night and weep, My dear, fhe lee-lang night and weep. Old Scotch Ballad. # jP|fl| N the course of a tour in Lower Nor- gllfj mandy I remained for a day or two in la&BSii the old town of Honfleur, which stands near the mouth of the Seine. It was the time of a fete, and all the world was thronging in the evening to dance at the fair, held before the chapel of Our Lady of Grace. As I like all kinds of innocent merry-making, I joined the throng. The chapel is situated at the top of a high hill, or promontory, whence its bell may be heard at a distance by the mariner at night. It is said to have given the name to the port of Havre de Grace, which lies directly opposite, on the other side of the Seine. The road up to the chapel 358 BRA CEBRiVGE HaLL. went in a zigzag course, along the brow of the steep coast ; it was shaded by trees, from between which I had beautiful peeps at the ancient tow- ers of Honfleur below, the varied scenery of the opposite shore, the white buildings of Havre in the distance, and the wide sea beyond. The road was enlivened by groups of peasant girls, in bright crimson dresses, and tall caps ; and I found all the flower of the neighborhood assembled on the green that crowds the summit of the hill. The chapel of Notre Dame de Grace is a fa- vorite resort of the inhabitants of Honfleur and its vicinity, both for pleasure and devotion. At this little chapel prayers are put up by the mari- ners of the port previous to their voyages, and by their friends during their absence ; and votive offerings are hung about its walls, in fulfilment qf vows made during times of shipwreck and dis- aster. The chapel is surrounded by trees. Over the portal is an image of the Virgin and Child, with an inscription which struck me as being quite poetical : 11 Etoile de la mer, priez pour nous ! ” (Star of the sea, pray for us.) On a level spot near the chapel, under a grove of noble trees, the populace dance on fine summer evenings ; and here are held frequent fairs and fetes, which assemble all the rustic beauty of the loveliest parts of Lower Normandy. The pres- ent was an occasion of the kind. Booths and tents were erected among the trees ; there were the usual displays of finery to tempt the rural 364 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. He had left Annette ' almost a child ; he found her a blooming woman. If he had loved her be fore, he now adored her. Annette was equally struck with the improvement time had made in her lover. She noticed, with secret admiration, his superiority to the other young men of the vil- lage ; the frank, lofty, military air, that distin- guished him from all the rest at their rural gath- erings. The more she saw him, the more her light, playful fondness of former years deepened into ardent and powerful affection. But Annette was a rural belle. She had tasted the sweets of dominion, and had been rendered wilful and ca- pricious by constant indulgence at home, and ad- miration abroad. She was conscious of her power over Eugene, and delighted in exercising it. She sometimes treated him with petulant caprice, en- joying the pain which she inflicted by her frowns, from the idea how soon she would chase it away again by her smiles. She took a pleasure in alarming his fears, by affecting a temporary pref- erence .for some one or other of his rivals; and then would delight in allaying them by an ample measure of returning kindness. Perhaps there was some degree of vanity gratified by all this ; it might be a matter of triumph to show her abso- lute power over the young soldier, who was the universal object of female admiration. Eugene, however, was of too serious and ardent a nature to be trifled with. He loved too fervently not to be filled with doubt. He saw Annette sur- rounded by admirers, and full of animation, the gayest among the gay at all their rural festivities, ANNETTE DEL ARB RE. 363 gene. She would often steal away from her youthful companions and their amusements;, to pass whole days with the good widow ; listening to her fond talk about her boy, and blushing with secret pleasure, when his letters were read, at find- ing herself a constant theme of recollection and inquiry. At length the sudden return of peace, which sent many a warrior to his native cottage, brought back Eugene, a young sunburnt soldier, to the village. I need not say how rapturously his re- turn was greeted by his mother, who saw in him the pride and staff of her old age. He had risen in the service by his merit ; but brought away little from the wars, excepting a soldierlike- air/ a gallant name, and a scar across the forehead. He brought back, however, a nature unspoiled by the camp. He was frank, open, generous, and ardent. His heart was quick and kind in its impulses, and was perhaps a little softer from having suffered ; it was full of tenderness for Annette. He had received frequent accounts of her from hi* mother ; and the mention of her kindness to his lonely parent had rendered her doubly dear to him. He had been wounded ; he had been a prisoner ; he had been in various troubles, but had always pre- served the braid of hair which she had bound round his arm. It had been a kind of talisman to him ; he had many a time looked upon it as he lay on the hard ground, and the thought that he might one day see Annette again, and the fair fields about his native village, had cheered his heart, and enabled him to bear up against every hardship. BRACEBRIDGE HALI l m orse to sit by the mother all day, to studf her wants, to beguile her heavy hours, to hang Hbout her with the caressing endearments of a daughter, and to seek by every means, if possible, to supply the place of the son, whom she reproached her- self with having driven away. In the mean time the ship made a prosperous voyage to her destined port. Eugene’s mother received a letter from him, in which he lamented the precipitancy of his departure. The voyage had given him time for sober reflection. If An- nette had been unkind to him, he ought not to have forgotten what was due to bis mother, who wae now advanced in. years. He accused him- self of selfishness in only listening to the sugges- tions of his own inconsiderate passions. He promised to return with the ship, to make his mind up to his disappointment, and to think of nothing but making his mother happy “And when he does return,” said Annette, clasping her hapds with transport, “it shall not be my fault if he ev^er leaves us again.” The time approached for the ship’s return. She was daily expected, when the weather be- came dreadfully tempestuous. Day after day brought news of vessels foundered, or driven on shore, and the coast was strewed with wrecks. Intelligence was received of the looked-for ship having been seen dismasted in a violent storm, and the greatest fears were entertained for her safety. Annette never left the side of Eugene’s mother. She watched every change of her countenance with painful solicitude, and endeavored to cheer ANNETTE LELARBRE . 359 coquette, and of wonderful shows to entice the curious ; mountebanks were exerting their elo- quence ; jugglers and fortune-tellers astonishing the credulous ; while whole rows of grotesque saints, in wood and wax-work, were offered for the purchase of the pious. The fete had assembled in one view all the picturesque costumes of the Pays d’Auge and the Cote de Caux. I beheld tall, stately caps, and trim bodices, according to fashions which have been handed down from mother to daughter for centuries ; the exact counterparts of those worn in the time of the Conqueror ; and which sur- prised me by their faithful resemblance to those in the old pictures of Froissart’s Chronicles, and in the paintings of illuminated manuscripts. Any one, also, who has been in Lower Normandy, must have remarked the beauty of the peasantry, and that air of native elegance which prevails among them. It is to this country, undoubtedly, that the English owe their good looks. It was hence that the bright carnation, the fine blue eye, the light auburn hair, passed over to England in the train of the Conqueror, and filled the land with beauty. The scene before me was perfectly enchanting : the assemblage of so many fresh and blooming faces ; the gay groups in fanciful dresses ; some dancing ou the green, others strolling about, or seated on the grass ; the fine clumps of trees in ihe foreground, bordering the brow of this airy Height, and the broad green sea, sleeping in sum- mer tranquillity, in the distance. ANNETTE DEL ARB RE. 365 and apparently most gay when he was most de- jected. Every one saw through this caprice but himself ; every one saw that in reality she doted on him ; but Eugene alone suspected the sincerity of her affection. For some time he bore this co- quetry with secret impatience and distrust ; but his feelings grew sore and irritable, and overcame his self-command. A slight misunderstanding took place ; a quarrel ensued. Annette, unaccus- tomed to be thwarted and contradicted, and full of the insolence of youthful beauty, assumed an air of disdain. She refused all explanations to her lover, and they parted in anger. That very evening Eugene saw her, full of gayety, dancing with one of his rivals ; and as her eye caught his, fixed on her with unfeigned distress, it spar- kled with more than usual vivacity. It was a fin- ishing blow to his hopes, already so much im- paired by secret distrust. Pride and resentment both struggled in his breast, and seemed to rouse his spirit to all his wonted energy. He retired from her presence with the hasty determination never to see her again. A woman is more considerate in affairs of love than a man ; because love is more the study and business of her life. Annette soon repented of her indiscretion ; she felt that she had used her lover unkindly ; she felt that she had trifled with his sincere and generous nature ; — and then he looked so handsome when he parted after their quarrel — his fine features lighted up by indigna- tion. She had intended making up with him at the evening dance ; but his sudden departure pre* 366 BRA CEB HU tJE HALL. ventol her. She now promised herself that when next they met she would amply repay him by the sweets of a perfect reconciliation, and that, thence- forward, she would never — never tease him more ! That promise was not to be fulfilled. Day after day passed ; but Eugene did not make his ap- pearance. Sunday evening came, the usual time when all the gayety of the village assembled ; but Eugene was not there. She inquired after him ; he had left the village. She now became alarmed, and, forgetting all coyness and affected indifference, called on Eugene’s mother for an ex- planation. She found her full of affliction, and learnt with surprise and consternation that Eu- gene had gone to sea. While his feelings were yet smarting with hei affected disdain, and his heart a prey to alter- nate indignation and despair, he had suddenly embraced an invitation which had repeatedly been made him by a relative, who was fitting out a ship from the port of Honfleur, and who wished him to be the companion of his voyage. Absence appeared to him the only cure for his unlucky pas- sion ; and in the temporary transports of his feel- ings there was something gratifying in the idea of having half the world intervene between them. The hurry necessary for his departure left no time for cool reflection ; it rendered him deaf to the remonstrances of his afflicted mother. He hast- ened to Honfleur just in time to make the need- ful preparations for the voyage ; and the first news that Annette received of this sudden de- termination was a letter delivered by his mother, ANNETTE DELARBRE. 369 her with hopes, while her own mind was racked by anxiety. She tasked her efforts to be gay ; but it was a forced and unnatural gayety ; a sigh from the mother would completely check it ; and when she could no longer restrain the rising tears, she would hurry away and pour out her agony in secret. Every anxious look, every anxious in- quiry of the mother, whenever a door opened, or a strange face appeared, was an arrow to her soul. She considered every disappointment as a pang of her own infliction, and her heart sick- ened under the care-worn expression of the ma- ternal eye. At length this suspense became in- supportable. She left the village and hastened to Honfleur, hoping every hour, every moment, to receive some tidings of her lover. She paced the pier, and wearied the seamen of the port with her inquiries. She made a daily pilgrimage to the chapel of Our Lady of Grace ; hung vo- tive garlands on the wall, and passed hours either kneeling before the altar, or looking out from the brow of the hill upon the angry sea. At length word was brought that the long- wished-for vessel was in sight. She was seen standing into the mouth of the Seine, shattered arid crippled, bearing marks of having been sadly tempest-tossed. A general joy was diffused by her return ; and there was not a brighter eye, nor a lighter heart, than Annette’s in the little port of Honfleur. The ship came to anchor in the river ; and a boat put off for the shore. The pop- ulace crowded down to the pier-head to welcome it. Annette stood blushing, and smiling, and trem- 310 UUA C ABRIDGE BALL. bling, and weeping ; for a thousand painfully pleas- ing emotions agitated her breast at the thoughts of the meeting and reconciliation about to take place. Her heart throbbed to pour itself out, and atone to her gallant lover for all its errors. At one moment she would place herself in a conspicuous situation, where she might catch his view at once, and surprise him by her welcome ; but the next moment a doubt would come across her mind, and she would shrink among the throng, trem- bling and faint, and gasping with her emotions. Her agitation increased as the boat drew near, until it became distressing ; and it was almost a relief to her when she perceived that her lovei was not there. She presumed that some accident had detained him on board of the ship, and felt that the delay would enable her to gather more self-possession for the meeting. As the boat neared the shore, many inquiries were made, and laconic answers returned. At length Annette heard some inquiries after her lover. Her heart palpitated ; there was a moment's pause : the re- ply was brief, but awful. He had been washed from the deck, with two of the crew, in the midst of a stormy night, when it was impossible to ren- der any assistance. A piercing shriek broke from among the crowd ; and Annette had nearly fallen into the waves. The sudden revulsion of feelings after such a transient gleam of happiness was too much for her harassed frame. She was carried home senseless. Her life was ftr some *ime despaired ANNETTE DELARBRE. 371 :>f, and it was months before she recovered her health ; but she never had perfectly recovered her mind : it still remained unsettled with respect to her lover’s fate. “ The subject,” continued my informer, “ is never mentioned in her hearing ; but she some- limes speaks of it herself, and it seems as though (here were some vague train of impressions in her mind, in which hope and fear are strangely mingled ; some imperfect idea of her lover’s ship- wreck, and yet some expectation of his return. “ Her parents have tried every means to cheer her, and to banish these gloomy images from her thoughts. They assemble round her the young companions in whose society she used to delight ; and they will work, and chat, and sing, and laugh, as formerly ; but she will sit silently among them, and will sometimes weep in the midst of their gayety ; and, if spoken to, will make no reply, but look up with streaming eyes, and sing a dismal little song, which she has learned somewhere, about a shipwreck. It makes every one’s heart ache to see her in this way, for she used to be the happiest creature in the village. “ She passes the greater part of the time with Eugene’s mother ; whose only consolation is her society, and who dotes on her with a mother's tenderness. She is the only one that has perfect •nduence over Annette in every mood. The pool girl seems, as formerly, to make an effort to be cheerful in her company ; but will sometimes gaze upon her with the most piteous look, and "hen kiss her gray hairs, and fall on her neck and weep. 372 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. “ She is not always melancholy, however ; there are occasional intervals when she will be bright and animated for days together ; but a de- gree of wildness attends these fits of gayety, that prevents their yielding any satisfaction to her friends. At such times she will arrange her room, which is all covered with pictures of ships and legends of saints ; and will wreathe a white chap- let, as for a wedding, and prepare wedding-orna- ments. She will listen anxiously at the door, and look frequently out at the window, as if ex- pecting some one’s arrival. It is supposed that at such times she is looking for her lover’s return ; but, as no one touches upon the theme, or men- tions his name in her presence, the current of her thoughts is mere matter of conjecture. Now and then she will make a pilgrimage to the chapel of Notre Dame de Grace ; where she will pray for hours at the altar, and decorate the images with wreaths that she has woven ; or will wave her handkerchief from the terrace, as you have seen, if there is any vessel in the distance.” Upwards of a year, he informed me, had now elapsed without effacing from her mind this sin- gular taint of insanity ; still her friends hoped it might gradually wear away. They had at one time removed her to a distant part of the country, in hopes that absence from the scenes connected with her story might have a salutary effect ; but, when her periodical melancholy returned, she be- came more restless and wretched than usual, and, secretly escaping from her friends, set out on foot, without knowing the road, on one of her pilgrim- ages to the chapel. ANNETTE DELARBRE . 373 This little story entirely drew my attention from the gay scene of the fete, and fixed it upon the beautiful Annette. While she was yet stand- ing on the terrace, the vesper-bell rang from the neighboring chapel. She listened for a moment, and then drawing a small rosary from her bosom, walked in that direction. Several of the peas- antry followed her in silence ; and I felt too much interested not to do the same. The chapel, as I said before, is in the midst of a grove, on the high promontory. The inside is hung round with little models of ships, and rude paintings of wrecks and perils at sea, and providential deliverances : the votive offerings of captains and crews that have been saved. On entering, Annette paused for a moment before a picture of the Virgin, which, I observed, had re- cently been decorated with a wreath of artificial flowers. When she reached the middle of the chapel she knelt down, and those who followed her involuntarily did the same at a little distance. The evening sun shone softly through the check- ered grove into one window of the chapel. A perfect stillness reigned within ; and this stillness was the more impressive, contrasted with the dis- tant sound of music and merriment from the fair. I could not take my eyes off from the poor sup- pliant ; her lips moved as she told her beads, but her prayers were breathed in silence. It might have been mere fancy excited by the scene, that, as she raised her eyes to he^en, I thought they had an expression truly seraphic. But I am easily affected, by female beauty, and there wad 374 BRACEBRIDGE BALL. something in this mixture of love, devotion, and partial insanity, inexpressibly touching. As the poor girl left the chapel, there was a sweet serenity in her looks ; and I was told she would return home, and in all probability be calm and cheerful for days, and even weeks ; in which time it was supposed that hope predominated in her mental malady ; and when the dark side of her mind, as her friends call it, was about to turn up, it would be known by her neglecting her dis- taff or her lace, singing plaintive songs, and weep- ing in silence. She passed on from the chapel without notic- ing the fete, but smiling and speaking to many as she passed. I followed her with my eyes as she descended the winding road towards Honfleur, leaning on her father’s arm. “ Heaven,” thought I, “ has ever its store of balms for the hurt mind and wounded spirit, and may in time rear up this broken flower to be once more the pride and joy of the valley. The very delusion in which the poor girl walks may be one of those mists kindly diffused by Providence over the regions of thought, when they become too fruitful of misery. The veil may gradually be raised which obscures the horizon of her mind, as she is enabled steadily and calmly to contemplate the sorrows at present hidden in mercy from her view.” On my return from Paris, about a year after- wards, I turned off from the beaten route at Rouen, to revisit some of the most striking scenes of Lower Normandy. Having passed through the ANNETTE DEL ARB RE. 375 lovely country of the Pays d’Auge, I reached Honfleur on a tine afternoon, intending to cross to Havre the next morning, and embark for England. As I had no better way of passing the evening, I strolled up the hill to enjoy the fine prospect from the chapel of Notre Dame de Grace ; and while there, I thought of inquiring after the fate of poor Annette Delarbre. The priest who had told me her story was officiating at vespers, after which I accosted him, and learnt from him the remaining circumstances. He told me that from the time I had seen her at the chapel, her disor- der took a sudden turn for the worse, and her health rapidly declined. Her cheerful intervals became shorter and less frequent, and attended with more incoherency. She grew languid, silent, and moody in her melancholy ; her form was wasted, her looks were pale and disconsolate, and it was feared she would never recover. She be- came impatient of all sounds of gayety, and was never so contented as when Eugene’s mother was near her. The good woman watched over her with patient, yearning solicitude ; and in seeking to beguile her ^sorrows, would half forget her own. Sometimes, as she sat looking upon her pallid face, the tears would fill her eyes, which when An- nette perceived, she would anxiously wipe them away, and tell her not to grieve, for that Eugene would soon return ; and then she would affect a forced gayety, as in former times, and sing a lively air ; but a sudden recollection would come oyer her, and she would burst into tears, hang on the poor mother’s neck, and entreat her not to ?urse her for having destroyed her son. 376 BRACEBRIDGE HALL Just at this time, to the astonishment of every one, news was received of Eugene ; who, it ap- pears, was still living. When almost drowned, he had fortunately seized upon a spar washed from the ship’s deck. Finding himself nearly exhausted, he fastened himself to it, and floated for a day and night, until all sense left him. On recovering, he found himself on board a vessel bound to India, but so ill as not to move without assistance. His health continued precarious throughout the voyage ; on arriving in India, he experienced many vicissitudes, and was transferred from ship to ship, and hospital to hospital. His constitution enabled him to struggle through every hardship ; and he was now in a distant port, waiting only for the sailing of a ship to re- turn home. Great caution was necessary in imparting these tidings to the mother, and even then she was nearly overcome by the transports of her joy. But how to impart them to Annette was a matter of still greater perplexity. Her state of mind had been so morbid, she had been subject to such violent changes, and the cause of her de- rangement had been of such an inconsolable and hopeless kind, that her friends had always forborne to tamper with her feelings. They had never even hinted at the subject of her griefs, nor encour- aged the theme when she adverted to it, but had passed it over in silence, hoping that time would gradually wear the traces of it from her recollec- tion, or, at least, would render them less painful. They now felt at a loss how to undeceive her ANNETTE DELARBRE. 377 even ii . her misery, lest the sudden recurrence of happiness might confirm the estrangement of her reason, or might overpower her enfeebled frame. They ventured, however, to probe those wounds which they formerly did not dare to touch, for they now had the balm to pour into them. They led the conversation to those topics which they had hitherto shunned, and endeavored to ascertain the current of her thoughts in those varying moods which had formerly perplexed them. They found her mind even more affected than they had imag- ined. All her ideas were confused and wander- ing. Her bright and cheerful moods, which now grew seldom er than ever, were all the effects of mental delusion. At such times she had no rec- ollection of her lover’s having been in danger, but was orly anticipating his arrival. “ When the winter has passed away,” said she, “ and the trees put on their blossoms, and the swallow comes back over the sea, he will return.” When she was drooping and desponding, it was in vain to remind her of what she had said in her gayer moments, and to assure her that Eugene would indeed return shortly. She wept on in silence, and appeared insensible to their words. But at times her agitation became violent, when she would upbraid herself with having driven Eugene from his mother, and brought sorrow on her gray hairs. Her mind admitted but one leading idea at a time, which nothing could avert or efface ; or if they ever succeeded in interrupting the current of her fancy, it only became the more incoherent, and increased the feverishness that preyed upon 378 BRA CBBRIDGE HALL. both mind and body. Her friends felt more alarm for her than ever, for they feared her senses were irrevocably gone, and her constitution completely undermined. In the mean time Eugene returned to the vil- lage. He was violently affected when the story of Annette was told him. With bitterness of heart he upbraided his own rashness and infatua- tion that had hurried him away from her, and ac- cused himself as the author of all her woes. His mother would describe to him all the anguish and remorse of poor Annette ; the tenderness with which she clung to her, and endeavored, even in the midst of her insanity, to console her for the loss of her son ; and the touching expressions of affec- tion mingled with her most incoherent wanderings of thought, until his feelings would be wound up to agony, and he would entreat her to desist from the recital. They did not dare as yet to bring him into Annette’s sight ; but he was permitted to see her when she was sleeping. The tears streamed down his sunburnt cheeks as he contemplated the ravages which grief and malady had made ; and his heart swelled almost to breaking as he beheld round her neck the very braid of hair which she once gave him in token of girlish affec- tion, and which he had returned to her in anger. At length the physician that attended her de- termined to adventure upon an experiment ; to take advantage of one of those cheerful moods when her mind was visited by hope, and to en- deavor to' engraft, as it were, the reality upon the delusions of her fancy. These moods had now ANNETTE DELARBRE. 379 become very rare, for nature was sinking under the continual pressure of her mental malady, and the principle of reaction was daily growing weaker. Every effort was tried to bring on a cheerful interval of the kind. Several of her most favorite companions were kept continually about her ; they chatted gayly, they laughed, and sang, and danced ; but Annette reclined with languid frame and hollow eye, and took no part in their gayety. At length the winter was gone ; the trees put forth their leaves ; the swallows be- gan to build in the eaves of the house, and the robin and wren piped all day beneath the window. Annette’s spirits gradually revived. She began to deck her person with unusual care ; and bring- ing forth a basket of artificial flowers, went to work to wreathe a bridal chaplet of white roses. Her companions asked her why she prepared the chaplet. “ What ! ” said she with a smile, “ have you not noticed the trees putting on their wed- ding-dresses of blossoms ? Has not the swallow flown back over the sea ? Do you not know that the time is come for Eugene to return ? that he will be home to-morrow, and that on Sunday we are to be married ? ” Her words were repeated to the physician, and he seized on them at once. He directed that her idea should be encouraged and acted upon. Her words were echoed through the house. Every one talked of the return of Eugene as a matter of course ; they congratulated her upon her ap- proaching happiness, and assisted her in her prep- arations. The next morning the same theme was 380 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. resumed. She was dressed out to receive her lover. Every bosom fluttered with anxiety. A cabriolet drove into the village. “ Eugene is com- ing ! ” was the cry. She saw him alight at the door, and rushed with a shriek into his arms. Her friends trembled for the result of this crit- ical experiment ; but she did not sink under it, for her fancy had prepared her for his return. She was as one in a dream, to whom a tide of unlooked-for prosperity, that would have over- whelmed his waking reason, seems but the natu- ral current of circumstances. Her conversation, however, showed that her senses were wandering. There was an absolute forgetfulness of all past sorrow ; a wild and feverish gayety that at times was incoherent. The next morning she awoke languid and ex- hausted.- All the occurrences of the preceding day had passed away from her mind as though they had been the mere illusions of her fancy. She rose melancholy and abstracted, and as she dressed herself, was heard to sing one of her plaintive ballads. When she entered the parlor, her eyes were swollen with weeping. She heard Eugene’s voice without, and started ; passed her hand across her forehead, and stood musing, like one endeavoring to recall a dream. Eugene entered the room, and advanced towards her ; she looked at him with an eager, searching look, murmured gome indistinct words, and, before he could reach her, sank upon the floor. She relapsed into a wild and unsettled state of mind ; but now that the first shock was over, the ANNETTE DELARBRE. 381 physician ordered that Eugene should keep con- tinually in her sight. Sometimes she did not know him ; at other times she would talk to him as if he were going to sea, and would implore him not to part from her in anger ; and when he was not present, she would speak of him as if buried in the ocean, and would sit, with clasped hands, looking upon the ground, the picture of despair. As the agitation of her feelings subsided, and her frame recovered from the shock it had received, she became more placid and coherent. Eugene kept almost continually near her. He formed the real object round which her scattered ideas once more gathered, and which linked them once more with the realities of life. But her changeful disorder now appeared to take a new turn. She became languid and inert, and would sit for hours silent, and almost in a state of lethargy. If roused from this stupor, it seemed as if her mind would make some attempt to follow up a train of thought, but would soon become confused. She would regard every one that approached her with an anxious and inquiring eye, that seemed continually to dis- appoint itself. Sometimes, as her lover sat hold- ing her hand, she would look pensively in his face without saying a word, until his heart was overcome ; and after these transient fits of intel- lectual exertion, she would sink again into leth- ^gy- By degrees this stupor increased ; her mind appeared to have subsided into a stagnant and al- most deathhke calm. For the greater part of the 382 BRA CEBR1DGE HALL. time her eyes were closed ; her face was almost as fixed and passionless as that of a corpse. She no longer took any notice of surrounding objects. There was an awfulness in this tranquillity that filled her friends with apprehensions. The phy- sician ordered that she should be kept perfectly quiet ; or that, if she evinced any agitation, she should be gently lulled, like a child, by some fa- vorite tune. She remained in this state for hours, hardly seeming to breathe, and apparently sinking into 'the sleep of death. Her chamber was profoundly still. The attendants moved about it with noise- less tread ; everything was communicated by signs and whispers. Her lover sat by her side watch- ing her with painful anxiety, and fearing every breath which stole from her pale lips would be the last. At length she heaved a deep sigh ; and from some convulsive motions, appeared to be troubled in her sleep. Her agitation increased, accom- panied by an indistinct moaning. One of her companions, remembering the physician’s instruc- tions, endeavored to lull her by singing, in a lqw voice, a tender little air, which was a particular favorite of Annette’s. Probably it had some con- nection in her mind with her own story ; for every fond girl has some ditty of the kind, linked in her thoughts with sweet and sad remembrances. As she sang, the agitation of Annette subsided. A streak of faint color came into her cheeks ; her eyelids became swollen with rising tears which trembled there for a moment, and then, AJSNLT'Vt UELAUULiIL 3 88 stealing forth, coursed down her pallid cheek. When the song was ended, she opened her eyes, and looked about her, as one awaking in a strange place. “ Oh Eugene ! Eugene ! ” said she, “ it seems as if I have had a long and dismal dream : what has happened, and what has been the matter with me ? ” The questions were embarrassing ; and before they could be answered, the physician, who was in the next room, entered. She took him by the hand, looked up in his face, and made the same inquiry. He endeavored to put her off with some evasive answer. “ No, no ! ” cried she, u I know I have been ill, and I have been dreaming strangely, T thought Eugene had left us — and that he had gone to sea — and that — and that he was drowned ! — But he has been to sea ! ” added she earnestly, as recollection kept flashing upon her, “ and he has been wrecked — and we were all so wretched — and he came home again one bright morning — and — oh ! ” said she, pressing her hand against her forehead with a sickly smile, u I see how it is ; all has not been right here. I be- gin to recollect — but it is afi past now — Eu- gene is here ! and his mother is happy — and we will never — never part again — shall we, Eugene ? ” She sunk back in her chair exhausted ; the tears streamed down her cheeks. Her compan- ions hovered round her, not knowing what to make of this sudden dawn of reason. Her lover sobbed aloud. She opened her eyes again, and 384 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. looked upon them with an air of the sweetest ao- knowledgment. “ You are all sc good to me ! ’ said she, faintly. The physician drew the father aside. “Your daughter’s mind is restored,” said he ; “ she is sensible that she has been deranged ; she is grow- ing conscious of the past, and conscious of the present. All that now remains is to keep her calm and quiet until her health is reestablished, and then let her be married, in God’s name ! ” “ The wedding took place,” continued the good priest, “but a short time since ; they were here at the last fete during their honey-moon, and a handsomer and happier couple was not to be seen as they danced under yonder trees. The young man, his wife, and mother, now live on a fine farm at Pont L’Eveque ; and that model of a ship which you see yonder, with white flowers wreathed round it, is Annette’s offering of thanks to our Lady of Grace, for having listened to her prayers, and protected her lover in the hour of peril.” The captain having finished, there was a mo- mentary silence. The tender-hearted Lady Lil- ly craft, who knew the story by heart, had led the way in weeping, and indeed often began to shed tears before they came to the right place. The fair Julia was ’a little flurried at the pas- sage where wedding preparations were mentioned ; but the auditor most affected was the simple Phoebe Wilkins. She hud gradually dropped her work in her lap, and sat sobbing through the lat- ter part of the story, ur til towards the end, when ANNETTE DELARBRE. 385 the happy reverse had nearly produced another scene of hysterics. “ Go, take this case to my room again, child,” said Lady Lilly craft kindly, “ and don’t cry so much.” “ I won’t, an’t please your ladyship, if I can help it ; — but I ’m glad they made all up again, and were married ! ” By the way, the case of this lovelorn damsel begins to make some talk in the household, espe- cially among certain little ladies, not far in their teens, of whom she has made confidants. She is a great favorite with them all, but particularly so since she has confided to them her love-secrets They enter into her concerns with all the violent zeal and overwhelming sympathy with which lit- tle boarding-school ladies engage in the politics of a love-affair. I have noticed them frequently clustering about her in private conferences, or walking up and down the garden-terrace under my window, listening to some long and dolorous story of her afflictions ; of which I could now and then dis- tinguish the ever-recurring phrases “ says he,” and “ says she.” I accidentally interrupted one of these little councils of war, when they were all huddled to- gether under a tree, and seemed to be earnestly considering some interesting document. Theflut- ter at my approach showed that there were some secrets under discussion ; and I observed the dis- consolate Phoebe crumpling into her bosom eithei a love-letter or an old valentine, and brushing away the tears from her cheeks. 25 386 BRACEBRJDGE BALL The girl is a good girl, of a soft, melting na- ture, and shows her concern at the cruelty of her lover only in tears and drooping looks; but with the little ladies who have espoused her cause, it sparkles up into fiery indignation ; and I have noticed on Sunday many a glance darted at the pew of the Tibbets’s, enough even to melt down the silver buttons on old Ready-Money’s jacket TRAVELLING. A citizen, for recreation sake, To see the country would a journey take Some dozen mile, or very little more ; Taking his leave with friends two months before With drinking healths, and shaking by the hand, As he had travail’d to some new-found land. Doctor Merrie Man, 1G09. HE Squire has lately received another shock in the saddle, and been almost unseated by his marplot neighbor, the indefatigable Mr. Faddy, who rides his jog-trot hobby with equal zeal ; and is so bent upon im- proving and reforming the neighborhood, that the Squire thinks, in a little while, it will be scarce worth living in. The enormity that has thus dis- composed my worthy host is an attempt of the manufacturer to have a line of coaches established, that shall diverge from the old route, and pass through the neighboring village. I believe I have mentioned that the Hall is situated in a retired part of the country, at a dis- tance from any great coach-road ; insomuch that the arrival of a traveller is apt to make every one look out of the window, and to cause some talk among the ale-drinkers at the little inn. I was at a loss, therefore, to account for the Squire’s indignation at a measure apparently fraught with 388 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. convenience and advantage, until I found that the conveniences of travelling were among his great- est grievances. In fact, he rails against stage-coaches, post chaises, and turnpike roads, as serious causes of the corruption of English rural manners. They have given facilities, he says, to every humdrum citizen to trundle his family about the kingdom, and have sent the follies and fashions of town whirling, in coach-loads, to the remotest parts of the island. The whole country, he says, is trav- ersed by these flying cargoes ; every by-road is explored by enterprising tourists from Cheapside and the Poultry, and every gentleman’s park and lawns invaded by cockney sketchers of both sexes, with portable chairs and portfolios for drawing. He laments over this as destroying the charm of privacy, and interrupting the quiet of country life ; but more especially as affecting the simplic- ity of the peasantry, and filling their heads with half-city notions. A great coach-inn, he says, is enough to ruin the manners of a whole village. It creates a horde of sots and idlers ; makes gapers and gazers and newsmongers of the common peo- ple, and knowing jockeys of the 'country bump- kins. The Squire has something of the old feudal feeling. He looks back with regret to the “ good old times,” when journeys were only made on horseback, and the extraordinary difficulties of travelling, owing to bad roads, bad accommodations, and highway robbers, seemed to separate each village and hamlet from the rest of the world. TRA YELLING. 389 The lord of the manor was then a kind of mon- arch in the little realm around him. He held his court in his paternal hall, and was looked up to with almost as much loyalty and deference as the king himself. Every neighborhood was a little world within itself, having its local manners and customs, its local history and local opinions. The inhabitants were fonder of their homes, and thought less of wandering. It was looked upon as an expedition to travel out of sight of the par- ish steeple ; and a man that had been to London was a village oracle for the rest of his life. What a difference between the mode of trav- elling in those days and at present ! At that time, when a gentleman went on a distant visit, he sallied forth like a knight-errant on an enter- prise, and every family excursion was a pageant. How splendid and fanciful must one of those do- mestic cavalcades have been, where the beautiful dames were mounted on palfreys magnificently ca- parisoned, with embroidered harness, all tinkling with silver bells ; attended by cavaliers richly attired on prancing steeds, and followed by pages and serving-men, as we see them represented in old tapestry. The gentry, as they travelled about in those days, were like moving pictures. They delighted the eyes and awakened the admiration of the common people, and passed before them like superior beings ; and indeed they were so ; there was a hardy and healthful exercise connected with this equestrian style, that made them gener- ous and noble. In his fondness for the old style of travelling, 390 BRACEBRIDGE HALE. the Squire makes most of his journeys on horse- back, though he laments the modern deficiency of incident on the road, from the want of fellow- wayfarers, and the rapidity with which every one else is whirled along in coaches and post-chaises. In the “ good old times,” on the contrary, a cava- lier jogged on through bog and mire, from town to town, and hamlet to hamlet, conversing with friars and franklens, and all other chance compan- ions of the road ; beguiling the way with trav- ellers’ tales, which then were truly wonderful, for everything beyond one’s neighborhood was full of marvel and romance ; stopping at night at some “ hostel,” where the bush over the door proclaimed good wine, or a pretty hostess made bad wine palatable ; meeting at supper with travellers, or listening to the song or merry story of the host, who was generally a boon companion, and presided at his own board ; for, according to old Tusser’s “ Inn- holder’s Poesie,” “ At meales my friend who vitleth here And sitteth with his host, Shall both be sure of better cheere, And ’scape with lesser cost.” The Squire is fond, too, of stopping at those inns which may be met with, here and there, in ancient houses of wood and plaster, or calimanco houses, as they are called by antiquaries, with deep porches, diamond-paned bow- windows, pan- elled rooms, and great fireplaces. He will prefer them to more spacious and modern inns, and would cheerfully put up with bad cheer and bad accommodations in the gratification of his humor. TEA YELLING. 391 They give him, he says, the feeling of old times, insomuch that he almost expects, in the dusk of the evening, to see some party of weary travellers ride up to the door, with plumes and mantles, trunk-hose, wide boots, and long rapiers. The good Squire’s remarks brought to mind a visit I once paid to the Tabard Inn, famous for being the place of assemblage whence Chaucer’s pilgrims set forth for Canterbury. It is in the borough of Southwark, not far from London Bridge, and bears, at present, the name of u The Talbot.” It has sadly declined in dignity since the days of Chaucer, being a mere rendezvous and packing-place of the great wagons that travel into Kent. The court-yard, which was anciently the mustering - place of the pilgrims previous to their departure, was now lumbered with huge wagons. Crates, boxes, hampers, and baskets, containing the good things of town and country, were piled about them ; while, among the straw and litter, the motherly hens scratched and clucked, with their hungry broods at their heels. Instead of Chaucer’s motley and splendid throng, I only saw a group of wagoners and stable-boys enjoy- ing a circulating pot of ale ; while a long-bodied dog sat by, with head on one side, ear cocked up, and wistful gaze, as if waiting for his turn at the tankard. Notwithstanding this grievous declension, how- ever, I was gratified at perceiving that the pres- ent occupants were not unconscious of the poeti- cal renown of .their mansion. An inscription &ver the gateway proclaimed it to be the inn 392 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. where Chaucer’s pilgrims slept on the night pre« vious to their departure, and at the bottom of the yard was a magnificent sign, representing them in the act of sallying forth. I was pleased, too, at noticing, that though the present inn was com- paratively modern, the form of the old inn was preserved. There were galleries round the yard, as in old times, on which opened the chambers of the guests. To these ancient inns have antiqua- ries ascribed the present forms of our theatres. Plays were originally acted in the inn-yards. The guests lolled over the galleries, which answered to our modern dress-circle ; the critical mob clus- tered in the yard instead of the pit ; and the groups gazing from the gar ret- windows were no bad representatives of the gods of the shilling gallery. When, therefore, the drama grew im- portant enough to have a house of its own, the architects took a hint for its construction from the yard of the ancient “ hostel.” I was so well pleased at finding these remem- brances of Chaucer and his poem, that I ordered my dinner in the little parlor of the Talbot, Whilst it was preparing, I sat at the window, musing, and gazing into the court-yard, and con- luring up recollections of the scenes depicted in such lively colors by the poet, until, by degrees, boxes, bales, and hampers, boys, wagoners, and dogs faded from sight, and my fancy peopled the place with the motley throng of Canterbury pilgrims. The galleries once more swarmed with idle gazers, in the rich dresses of Chaucer’s time, and the whole cavalcade seemed to pass before TRA YELLING . 393 me. There was the stately knight on sober steed, who had ridden in Christendom and heathenesse, and had “ foughten for our faith at Tramissene ” ; — and his son, the young squire, a lover, and a lusty bachelor, with curled locks and gay em- broidery ; a bold rider, a dancer, and a writer of verses, singing and fluting all day long, and “ fresh as the month of May ” ; — and his “ knot- headed ” yeoman ; a bold forester, in green, with horn, and baudrick, and dagger ; a mighty bow in hand, and a sheaf of peacock arrows shining beneath his belt ; — and the coy, smiling, simple nun, with her gray eyes, her small red mouth and fair forehead, her dainty person clad in featly cloak and “ ’ypinched wimple,” her coral beads about her arm, her golden brooch with a love- motto, and her pretty oath “ by Saint Eloy ” ; — and the merchant, solemn in speech and high on horse, with forked beard and u Flaundrish bever hat ” ; — and the lusty monk, “ full fat and in good point,” with berry-brown palfrey, his hood fastened with gold pin, wrought with a love-knot his bald head shining like glass, and his face glis tening as though it had been anointed ; — and the lean, logical, sententious clerke of Oxenforde, upon his half-starved, scholarlike horse ; — and the bowsing sompnour, with fiery-cherub face, ail knobbed with pimples, an eater of garlic and onions, and drinker of “ strong wine, red aa blood,” that carried a cake for a buckler, and babbled Latin in his cups ; of whose brimstone visage “ children were sore aferd ” ; — and the Duxom wife of Bath, the widow of five husbands 394 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. upon her ambling nag, with her hat broad as a buckler, her red stockings and sharp spurs ; — and the slender, choleric reeve of Norfolk, be- striding his good gray stot ; with close-shaven beard, his hair cropped round his ears ; long, lean calfless legs and a rusty blade by his side ; — and the jolly Limitour, with lisping tongue and twinkling eye, well beloved of franklens and housewives, a great promoter of marriages among young women, known at the taverns in every town and by every “ hosteler and gay tapstere.” In short, before I was roused from my reverie by the less poetical, but more substantial apparition of a smoking beefsteak, I had seen the whole caval- cade issue forth from the hostel-gate, with the brawny, double-jointed, red-haired miller, playing the bagpipes before them, and the ancient host of the Tabard giving them his farewell God-send to Canterbury. When I told the Squire of the existence of this legitimate descendant of the ancient .Tabard Inn, his eyes absolutely glistened with delight. He determined to hunt it up the very first time he visited London, and to eat a dinner there, and drink a cup of mine host’s best wine, in memory of old Chaucer. The general, who happened to be present, immediately begged to be of the party, for he liked to encourage these long-< istablished houses, as they are apt to have choice old wines. POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS. Farewell rewards and fairies, Good housewives now may say ; For now fowle sluts in dairies Do fare as well as they : And though they sweepe their hearths no lesse Than maids were wont to doe, Yet who of late for cleanlinesse Finds sixpence in her shooe ? Bishop Corbet. HAVE mentioned the Squire’s fondness for the marvellous, and his predilection for legends and romances. His librarj contains a curious collection of old works of this kind, which bear evident marks of having been much read. In his great love for all that is an- tiquated, he cherishes popular superstitions, and listens, with very grave attention, to every tale, however strange ; so that, through his countenance, the household, and indeed the whole neighbor- hood, is well stocked with wonderful stories ; and if ever a doubt is expressed of any one of them, the nanator will generally observe, that “ the Squire thinks there ’s something in it.” The Hall of course comes in for its share, the common people having always a propensity to furnish a great superannuated building of the 396 BRACEBRIDUE HALL . kind with supernatural inhabitants. The gloomy galleries of such old family mansions ; the stately chambers, adorned with grotesque carvings and faded paintings ; the sounds that vaguely echo about them ; the moaning of the wind ; the cries of rooks and ravens from the trees and chimney- tops ; all produce a state of mind favorable to superstitious fancies. In one chamber of the Hall, just opposite a door which opens upon a dusky passage, there is a full-length portrait of a warrior in armor. When, on suddenly turning into the passage, I have caught a sight of the portrait, thrown into strong relief by the dark panelling against which it hangs, I have more than once been startled, as though it were a figure advancing towards me. To superstitious minds, therefore, predisposed by the strange and melancholy stories connected with family paintings, it needs but little stretch of fancy, on a moonlight night, or by the flicker- ing light of a candle, to set the old pictures on the walls in motion, sweeping in their robes and trains about the galleries. The Squire confesses that he used to take a pleasure in his younger days in setting marvel- lous stories afloat, and connecting them with the lonely and peculiar places of the neighborhood. Whenever he read any legend of a striking na- ture, he endeavored to transplant it, and give it a local habitation among the scenes of his boyhood. Many of these stories took root, and he says he is often amused with the odd shapes in which they come back to him in some old woman’s uarrative. P OP U LA R S UPERS TI TI ONS 397 after they have been circulating for years among the peasantry, and undergoing rustic additions and amendments. Among these may doubtless be numbered that of the crusader’s ghost, which I have mentioned in the account of my Christ- mas visit ; and another about the hard-riding squire of yore, the family Nimrod, who is some- times heard on stormy winter nights, galloping, with hound and horn, over a wild moor a few miles distant from the Hall. This I apprehend to have had its origin in the famous story of the wild huntsman, the favorite goblin in German tales ; though, by the by, as I was talking on the subject with Master Simon, the other evening in the dark avenue, he hinted that he had himself once or twice heard odd sounds at night, very like a pack of hounds in cry ; and that once, as he was returning rather late from a hunting-din- ner, he had seen a strange figure galloping along this same moor ; but as he was riding rather fast at the time, and in a hurry to get home, he did not stop to ascertain what it was. Popular superstitions are fast fading away in England, owing to the general diffusion of knowl- edge, and the bustling intercourse kept up throughout the country ; — still they have their strongholds and lingering places, and a retired peighborhood' like this is apt to be one of them. The parson tells me that he meets with many tra- ditional beliefs and notions among the common people, which he has been able to draw from them in the course of familiar conversation, though they are rather shy of avowing them to 398 BRA CEBRIDGE HALL strangers, and particularly to “ the gentry ” who are apt to laugh at them. He says there are several of his old parishioners who remember when the village had its bar-guest, or bar-ghost ; a spirit supposed to belong to a town or village, and to predict any impending misfortune by mid- night shrieks and wailings. The last time it was heard was just before the death of Mr Brace- bridge’s father, who was much beloved through- out the neighborhood ; though there are not wanting some obstinate unbelievers, who insisted that it was nothing but the howling of a watch- dog. I have been greatly delighted, however, at meeting with some traces of my old favorite, Bobin Goodfellow, though under a different ap- pellation from any of those by which I have heretofore heard him called. The parson assures me that many of the peasantry believe in house- hold goblins, called Dobbies, which live about particular farms and houses, in the same way that Robin Goodfellow did of old. Sometimes they haunt the barns and out-houses, and now and then will assist the farmer wonderfully, by getting in all his hay or corn in a single night. In general, however, they prefer to live within doors, and are fond of keeping about the great hearths, and basking at night, after the family have gone to bed, by the glowing embers. When put in par- ticular good humor by the warmth of their lodg- ings, and the tidiness of the housemaids, they will overcome their natural laziness, and do a vast deal of household work before morning ; churn- ing the cream, brewing the beer, or spinning all POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS. 309 the good dame’s flax. All this is precisely the conduct of Robin Goodfellow, described so charm- ingly by Milton : “ Tells how the drudging goblin sweat To earn his cream-bowl duly set, When in one night, ere glimpse of mom, His shadowy flail had threshed the corn That ten day laborers could not end ; Then lays him down the lubber-fiend, And stretch’d out all the chimney’s length, Basks at the fire his hairy strength, And crop-full, out of door he flings Ere the first cock his matin rings.’ * But beside these household Dobbies, there are others of a more gloomy and unsocial nature, which keep about lonely barns, at a distance from any dwelling-house, or about ruins and old bridges, These are full of mischievous, and often malig- nant tricks, and are fond of playing pranks upon benighted travellers. There is a story, among the old people, of one which haunted a ruined mill, just by a bridge that crosses a small stream ; how that late one night, as a traveller was pass- ing on horseback, the goblin jumped up behind him, and grasped him so close round the body that he had no power to help himself, but expected to be squeezed to death ; luckily his heels were loose, with which he plied the sides of his steed, and was carried, with the wonderful instinct of a trav- eller’s horse, straight to the village inn. Had the inn been at any greater distance, there is no doubt but he would have been strangled to death ; as it was, the good people were a long time in bring- ing him to liis senses, and it was remarked that 400 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. the first sign he showed of returning conscious ness, was to call for a bottom of brandy. These mischievous Dobbies bear much resem- blance in their natures and habits to the sprites which Heywood, in his “ Ilierarchie,” calls pugs of hobgoblins : “ Their dwellings be In corners of old houses least frequented, Or beneath stacks of wood, and these convented, Make fearful noise in butteries and in dairies ; Kobin Goodfellow some, some call them fairies, In solitarie rooms these uprores keep, And beate at doores to wake men from their slepe, Seeming to force lockes, be they nere so strong, And keeping Christmasse gambols all night long. Pots, glasses, trenchers, dishes, pannes, and kettles They will make dance about the shelves and settles, As if about the kitchen tost and cast, Yet in the morning nothing found misplac’t. Others such houses to their use have fitted In which base murthers have been once committed. Some have their fearful habitations taken In desolate houses, ruin’d and forsaken.” in the account of our unfortunate hawking ex- pea »tion, I mentioned an instance of one of these sprites supposed to haunt the ruined grange that stands in a lonely meadow, and has a remarkable echo. The parson informs me, also, of a belief once very prevalent, that a household Dobbie kept about the old farmhouse of the Tibbetses. It has long been traditional, he says, that one oi these good-natured goblins is attached to the Tib- bets family, and came with them when thej moved into this part of the country ; for it is one of the peculiarities of these household sprites, POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS. 401 that they attach themselves to the fortunes of certain families, and follow them in all their re- movals. There is a large old-fashioned fireplace in the farmhouse, which affords fine quarters for a chim- ney-corner sprite that likes to lie warm, — espc - cially as Ready-Money Jack keeps up rousing fires in the winter time. The old people of the village recollect many stories about this goblin, current in their young days. It was thought to have brought good luck to the house, and to be the reason why the Tibbetses were always beforehand in the world ; and why their farm was always in better order, their hay got in sooner, and their corn better stacked, than that of their neighbors. The present Mrs. Tibbets, at the time of her courtship, had a number of these stories told her by the country gossips ; and when married, was a little fearful about living in a house where such a hobgoblin was said to haunt. Jack, however, who has always treated this story with great contempt, assured her that there was no spirit kept about his house that he could not at any time lay in the Red Sea with one flourish of his cudgel. Still his wife has never got completely over her notions on the subject ; but has a horse-shoe nailed on the threshold, and keeps a branch of rauntry, or mountain-ash, with its red berries, suspended from one of the great beams in the parlor, — a sure protection from all evil spirits. TliSle stories, as I before observed, are fast fading away, and in another generation or two will probably be completely forgotten. There is 26 402 BRA CKBRIDGE HALL. something, however, about these rural supersti tions extremely pleasing to the imagination ; par- ticularly those which relate to the good-humored race of household demons, and indeed to the whole fairy mythology. The English have given an inexpressible charm to these superstitions, by the manner in which they have associated them with whatever is most homefelt and delightful in nature. I do not know a more fascinating race of beings than these little fabled people who haunted the southern sides of hills and mountains ; lurked in flowers and about fountain-heads ; glid- ed through keyholes into ancient halls ; watched over farmhouses and dairies ; danced on the green by summer moonlight, and on the kitchen hearth in winter. They accord with the nature of Eng- lish housekeeping and English scenery. I al- ways have them in mind when I see a fine old English mansion, with its wide hall and spacious kitchen ; or a venerable farmhouse, in which there is so much fireside comfort and good house- wifery. There was something of national char- acter in their love of order and cleanliness ; in the vigilance with which they watched over the econ* omy of the kitchen, and the functions of the ser- vants ; munificently rewarding, with silver sixpence in shoe, the tidy housemaid, but venting their dire- ful wrath, in midnight bobs and pinches, upon the sluttish dairymaid. I think I can trace the good effects of this ancient fairy sway over household concerns in the care that prevails to the presen/ day among English housemaids to put theii kitchens in order before they go to bed. POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS. 403 I have said that these fairy superstitions accord with the nature of English scenery. They suit these small landscapes, which are divided by hon- eysuckle hedges into sheltered fields and mead- ows ; where the grass is mingled with daisies, buttercups, and hare-bells. When I first found myself among English scenery, I was continually reminded of the sweet pastoral images which dis- tinguish their fairy mythology ; and when for the first time a circle in the grass was pointed out to me as one of the rings where they were formerly supposed to have held their moonlight revels, ii seemed for a moment as if fairy-land were no longer a fable. Brown, in his “ Britannia’s Pasto- rals,” gives a picture of the kind of scenery to which I allude : “ A pleasant mead Where fairies often did their measures tread ; Which in the meadows make such circles green As if with garlands it had crowned been. W r ithin one of these rounds was to be seen A hillock rise, where oft the fairy queen At twilight sat.” And there is another picture of the same, in a poem ascribed to Ben Jonson : “ By wells and rills in meadows green, We nightly dance our hey-dey guise, And to our fairy king and queen We chant our moonlight minstrelsies.” • Indeed, it seems to me, that the older British poets, with that true feeling for nature which dis- tinguishes them, have closely adhered to the sim- ple and familiar imagery which they found in 404 BRACEBRIDGE I1ALL. these popular superstitions ; and have thus given to their fairy mythology those continual allusions to the farmhouse and the dairy, the green meadow and the fountain-head, which fill our minds with the delightful associations of rural life. It is cu- rious to observe how the most beautiful fictions have their origin among the rude and ignorant. There is an indescribable charm about the illusions with which chimerical ignorance once clothed every subject. These twilight views of nature are often more captivating than any which are re- vealed by the rays of enlightened philosophy. The most accomplished and poetical minds, therefore, have been fain to search back into the accidental conceptions of what are termed barbarous ages, and to draw from them their finest imagery and machinery. If we look through our most admired poets, we shall find that their minds have been impregnated by these popular fancies, and that those have succeeded l)est who have adhered clos- est to the simplicity of their rustic originals. Such is the case with Shakspeare in his “ Midsummer- Night’s Dream,” which so minutely describes the employments and amusements of fairies, and em- bodies all the notions concerning them which were current among the vulgar. It is thus that poetry in England has echoed back every rustic note, softened into perfect melody; it is this that has spread its charms over every-day life, displac- ing nothing ; taking things as it found them ; but tinting them up with its own magical hues, until every green hill and fountain-head, every fresh meadow, nay, every humble flower, is full of song and story. POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS. 405 I am dwelling too long, perhaps, upon a thread- bare subject ; yet it brings up with it a thousand delicious recollections of those happy days of childhood, when the imperfect knowledge I have since obtained had not yet dawned upon my mind, and when a fairy tale was true history to me. I have often been so transported by the pleasure of these recollections, as almost to wish I had been born in the days when the fictions of poetry were believed. Even now I cannot look upon those fanciful creations of ignorance and credulity, with- out a lurking regret that they have all passed away. The experience of my early days tells me, they were sources of exquisite delight ; and I sometimes question whether the naturalist who can dissect the flowers of the field receives half the pleasure from contemplating them that he did who considered them the abode of elves and fairies. I feel convinced that the true interests and solid happiness of man are promoted by the advancement of truth ; yet I cannot but mourn over the pleasant errors which it has trampled down in its progress. The fauns and sylphs, the household sprites, the moonlight revel, Oberon, Queen Mab, and the delicious realms of fairy-land, all vanish before the light of true philosophy ; but who does not sometimes turn with distaste from the cold realities of morning, and seek to recall the sweet visions of the night ? THE CULPRIT. From fire, from water, and all things amiss, Deliver the house of an honest justice. The Widow. HE serenity of the Hall has been sud- denly interrupted by a very important occurrence. In the course of this morn- ing a posse of villagers was seen trooping up the avenue, with boys shouting in advance. As it drew near, we perceived Ready-Money Jack Tib- bets striding along, wielding his cudgel in one. hand, and with the other grasping the collar of a tall fellow, whom, on still nearer approach, we recognized for the redoubtable gypsy hero, Star- light Tom. He was now, however, completely cowed and crestfallen, and his courage seemed to have quailed in the iron gripe of the lion-hearted Jack. The whole gang of gypsy women and children came draggling in the rear ; some in tears, others making a violent clamor about the ears of old Ready-Money, who, however, trudged on in silence with his prey, heeding their abuse as little as a hawk that lias pounced upon a barn-door hero regards the outcries and cacklings of his whole feathered seraglio. THE CULPRIT . 407 He had passed through the village on his way to the Hall, and of course had made a great sen sation in that most excitable place, where every event is a matter of gaze and gossip. The report flew like wildfire, that Starlight Tom was in cus- tody. The ale-drinkers forthwith abandoned the tap-room ; Slingsby’s school broke loose, and mas- ter and boys swelled the tide that came rolling at the heels of old Ready-Money and his captive. The uproar increased as they approached the Hall ; it aroused the whole garrison of dogs, and the crew of hangers-on. The great mastiff barked from the dog-house ; the staghound and the grey- hound, and the spaniel, issued barking from the hall-door, and my Lady Lillycraft’s little dogs ramped and barked from the parlor-window. I remarked, however, that the gypsy dogs made no reply to all these menaces and insults, but crept close to the gang, looking round with a guilty, poaching air, and now and then glancing up a dubious eye to their owners ; which shows that the moral dignity, even of dogs, may be ruined by bad company ! When the throng reached the front of the house they were brought to a halt by a kind of advanced guard, composed of old Christy, the gamekeeper, and two or three servants of the house, who had been brought out by the noise. The common herd of the village fell back with respect ; the boys were driven back by Christy and his com- peers ; while Ready-Money Jack maintained his ground and his hold of the prisoner, and was sur- rounded by the tailor, the schoolmaster, and sev- 408 BRA CKBRIDG E HALL. eral other dignitaries of the village, and by the clamorous brood of gypsies, who were neither to be silenced nor intimidated. By this time the whole household were brought to the doors and windows, and the Squire to the portal. An audience was demanded by Ready - Money Jack, who had detected the prisoner in the very act of sheep-stealing on his domains, and had borne him off to be examined before the Squire, who was in the commission of the peace. A kind of tribunal was immediately held in the servants’ hall, a large chamber, with a stone floor, and a long table in the centre, at one end of which, just under an enormous clock, was placed the Squire’s chair of justice, while Master Simon took his place at the table as clerk of the court. An attempt had been made by old Christy to keep out the gypsy gang, but in vain, and they, with the village worthies, and the household, half filled the hall. The old housekeeper and the butler were in a panic at this dangerous irruption. They hurried away all the valuable things and portable articles that were at hand, and even kept a dragon watch on the gypsies, lest they should carry off the house-clock, or the deal table. Old Christy, and his faithful coadjutor the game- keeper, acted as constables to guard the prisoner, triumphing in having at last got this terrible of- fender in their clutches. Indeed, I am inclined to think the old man bore some peevish recollec- tion of having been handled rather roughly by the gypsy in the chance - medley affair of May day. THE CULPRIT. 409 Silence was now commanded by Master Simon * but it was difficult to be enforced in such a mot- ley assemblage. There was a continual snarling and yelping of dogs, and, as fast as it was quelled in one corner, it broke out in another. The poor gypsy curs, who, like errant thieves, could not hold up their heads in an honest house, were worried and insulted by the gentlemen dogs of the establishment, without offering to make resist- ance ; the very curs of my Lady Lilly craft bullied them with impunity. The examination was conducted with great mildness and indulgence by the Squire, partly from the kindness of his nature, and partly, I sus- pect, because his heart yearned towards the cul- prit, who had found great favor in his eyes, as I have already observed, from the skill he had at various times displayed in 'archery, morris-dancing, and other obsolete accomplishments. Proofs, how- ever, were too strong. Peady-Money Jack told his story in a straightforward independent way, nothing daunted by the presence in which he found himself. He had suffered from various dep- redations on his sheepfold and poultry-yard, and had at length kept watch, and caught the delin- quent in the very act of making off with a sheep on his shoulders. Tibbets was repeatedly interrupted, in the course of his testimony, by the culprit’s mother, a furious old beldame, with an insufferable tongue, and who, in fact, was several times kept, with some diffi- culty, from flying at him tooth and nail. The wife, too, of the prisoner, whom I am told he does 410 BRA CEBRIDGE HALL . not beat above half a dozen times a week, com pletely interested Lady Lillycraft in her husband's behalf, by her tears and supplications ; and sev- eral of the other gypsy women were awakening strong sympathy among the young girls and maid- servants in the background. The pretty black - eyed gypsy girl, whom I have mentioned on a former occasion as the sibyl that read the fortunes of the general, endeavored to wheedle that doughty warrior into their interests, and even made some approaches to her old acquaintance, Master Simon ; but was repelled by the latter with all the dig- nity of office, having assumed a look of gravity and importance suitable to the occasion. I was a little surprised, at first, to find honest Slingsby, the schoolmaster, rather opposed to his old crony Tibbets, and coining forward as a kind of advocate for the accused. It seems that he had taken compassion on the forlorn fortunes of Starlight Tom, and had been trying his eloquence in his favor the whole way from the village, but without effect. During the examination of Ready- Money Jack, Slingsby had stood like “ dejected pity at his side,” seeking every now and then, by a soft word, to soothe any exacerbation of his ire, or to qualify any harsh expression. He now ven- tured to make a few observations to the Squire in palliation of the delinquent’s offence ; but poor Slingsby spoke more from the heart than the head, and was evidently actuated merely by a general sympathy for every poor devil in trouble, and a liberal toleration for all kinds of vagabond ex- istence. THE CULPRIT. 411 The ladies, too, large and small, with the kind- heartedness of the sex, were zealous on the side of mercy, and interceded strenuously with the Squire ; insomuch that the prisoner, finding him- self unexpectedly surrounded by active friends, once more reared his crest, and seemed disposed for a time to put on the air of injured innocence. The Squire, however, with all his benevolence of heart, and his lurking weakness towards the prisoner, was too conscientious to swerve from the strict path of justice. Abundant concurring tes- timony made the proof of guilt incontrovertible, and Starlight Tom’s mittimus was made out ac- cordingly. The sympathy of the ladies was now greatei than ever ; they even made some attempts to mollify the ire of Ready-Money Jack ; but that sturdy potentate had been too much incensed by the repeated incursions into his territories by the predatory band of Starlight Tom, and he was re- solved, he said, to drive the “ varment reptiles ” out of the neighborhood. To avoid all further importunities, as soon as the mittimus was made out, he girded up his loins, and strode back to his seat of empire, accompanied by his interceding friend, Slings by, and followed by a detachment of the gypsy gang, who hung on his rear, assail- ing him with mingled prayers and execrations. The question now was, how to dispose of the prisoner ; a matter of great moment in this peace- ful establishment, where so formidable a charac- ter as Starlight Tom was like a hawk entrapped in a dove-cote. As the hubbub and exainina- 412 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. tion had occupied a considerable time, it was too late in the day to send him to the county prison, and that of the village was sadly out of repair, from long want of occupation. Old Christy, who took great interest in the affair, proposed that the culprit should be committed for the night to an upper loft of a kind of tower in one of the out-houses, where he and the gamekeeper would mount guard. After much deliberation, this meas- ure was adopted; the premises in question were examined and made secure, and Christy and his trusty ally, the one armed with a fowling-piece, the other with an ancient blunderbuss, turned out as sentries to keep watch over this donjon-keep. Such is the momentous affair that has just taken place, and it is an event of too great mo- ment in this quiet little world not to turn it com- pletely topsy-turvy. Labor is at a stand. The house has been a scene of confusion the whole evening. It has been beleaguered by gypsy wom- en, with their children on their backs, wailing and lamenting ; while the old virago of a mother has cruised up and down the lawn in front, shak- ing her head and muttering to herself, or now and then breaking into a paroxysm of rage, brandish- ing her fist at the Hall, and denouncing ill luck upon Ready-Money Jack, and even upon the Squire himself. Lady Lillycraft has given repeated audiences to the culprit’s weeping wife, at the Hall-door ; and the servant-maids have stolen out to confer with the gypsy women under the trees. As to the little ladies of the family, they are all out* THE CULPRIT . 413 rageous at Ready-Money Jack, whom they look upon in the light of* a tyrannical giant of fairy tale. Phoebe Wilkins, contrary to her usual nature, is the only one pitiless in the affair. She thinks Mr. Tibbets quite in the right ; and thinks the gypsies deserve to be punished severely for med- dling with the sheep of the Tibbetses. In the mean time the females of the family evinced all the provident kindness of the sex, ever ready to soothe and succor the distressed, right or wrong. Lady Lillycraft has had a mattress taken to the out-house, and comforts and delicacies of all kinds have been taken to the prisoner ; even the little girls have sent their cakes and sweetmeats ; so that, I ’ll warrant, the vagabond has never fared so well in his life before. Old Christy, it is true, looks upon everything with a wary eye ; struts about with his blunderbuss with the air of a vet- eran campaigner, and will hardly allow himself to be spoken to. The gypsy women dare not come within gunshot, and every tatterdemalion of a boy has been frightened from the park. The old fel- low is determined to lodge Starlight Tom in prison with his own hajids ; and hopes, he gays, to see one of the poaching crew made an ex- ample of. I doubt, after all, whether the worthy Squire is not the greatest sufferer in the whole affair. His honorable sense of duty obliges him to be rigid, but the overflowing kindness of his nature makes this a grievous trial to him. He is not accustomed to have such demands upon his justice in his truly patriarchal domain ; 414 BRACEBRIDGE JIALL. and it wounds his benevolent spirit, that, while prosperity and happiness are flowing in thus boun- teously upon him, he should have to inflict mis- ery upon a fellow-being. He has been troubled and cast down the whole evening ; took leave of the family, on going to bed, with a sigh, instead of his usual hearty and affectionate tone ; and will, in all probability, have a far more sleepless night than his prisoner. In- deed, this unlucky affair has cast a damp upon the whole household, as there appears to be a universal opinion that the unlucky culprit will come to the gallows. Morning. — The clouds of last evening are all blown over. A load has been taken from the Squire’s heart, and every face is once more in smiles. The gamekeeper made his appearance at an early hour, completely shamefaced and crest- fallen. Starlight Tom had made his escape in the night ; how he had got out of the loft, no one could tell : the Devil, they think, must have as- sisted him. Old Christy was so mortified that he would not show his face, but had shut himself up in his stronghold at the dog-kennel, and would not be spoken with. What has particularly re- lieved the Squire is, that there is very little like lihood of the culprit’s being retaken, having gone off on one of the old gentleman’s best hunters FAMILY MISFORTUNES. The night has been unruly : where we lay, The chimneys were blown down. Macbeth E have for a day or two past had a haw of unruly weather, which has intruded itself into this fair and flowery month, and for a time quite itiarred the beauty of the landscape. Last night the storm attained its cri- sis ; the rain beat in torrents against the case- ments, and the wind piped and blustered about the old Hall with quite a wintry vehemence. The morning, however, dawned clear and serene ; the face of the heavens seemed as if newly washed, and the sun shone wifh a brightness undimmed by a single vapor. Nothing overhead gave traces of the recent storm ; but on looking from my window I beheld sad ravage among the shrubs and flowers ; the garden-walks had formed the channels for little torrents ; trees were lopped of their branches, and a small silver stream which wound through the park, and ran at the bottom of the lawn, had swelled into a turbid, yellow sheet of water. In an establishment like this, where the man- * sion is vast, ancient, and somewhat afflicted with 416 BRA CEBRTDGE HALL. the infirmities of age, and where there are nu- merous and extensive dependencies, a storm is an event of a very grave nature, and brings in its train a multiplicity of cares and disasters. While the Squire was taking his breakfast in the great hall, he was continually interrupted by bearers of ill tidings from some part or other of his domains ; he appeared to me like the com- mander of a besieged city, after some grand as- sault, receiving at his headquarters reports of damages sustained in the various quarters of the place. At one time the housekeeper brought him intelligence of a chimney blown down, and a des- perate leak sprung in the roof over the picture- gallery, which threatened to obliterate a whole generation of his ancestors. Then the steward came in with a doleful story of the mischief done in the woodlands ; while the gamekeeper be- moaned the loss of one of his finest bucks, whose bloated carcass was seen floating along the swol- len current of the river. When the Squire issued forth, he was accosted, before the door, by the old, paralytic gardener, with a face full of trouble, reporting, as I sup- posed, the devastation of his flower-beds, and the destruction of his wall-fruit. I remarked, how- ever, that his intelligence caused a peculiar ex- pression of concern not only with the Squire and Master Simon, but with the fair Julia and Lady Lillycraft, who happened to be present. From a few words which reached my ear, I found there was some tale of domestic calamity in the case, and that some unfortunate family had been ren- FAM1L Y JITS FOR TUNES. 41 7 dered houseless by the storm. Many ejaculations of pity broke from the ladies; I heard the ex- pressions of u poor helpless beings,” and u unfortu nate little creatures,” several times repeated ; tout that house ? What a pack of fools, to let a rats and mice frighten them out of good IgHuarters ! ” |H nay, said the housekeeper, wagging her ^Head knowingly, and piqued at having a good Miost-story doubted, “ there ’s more in it than rats I PH BRA CEBRIDGE BALL. house ; and then such sights as have beer 1 hi it ! Peter de Groodt tells me, that the famil^v that sold you the house, and went to Holland, dropped several strange hints about it, and said, know yourself there ’s no getting any family to live in it.” “ Peter de Groodt ’s a ninny — an old woman,” said the doctor, peevishly ; “ I ’ll warrant he ’s been filling these people’s heads full of stories. It’s just like his nonsense about the ghost that haunted the church-belfry, as an excuse for net ringing the bell that cold night when Harmanus Brinkerhoffs house was on fire. Send Claus to Claus Hopper now made his appearance : a simple country lout, full of awe at. finding himself in the very study of Dr. Knipperhausen, and too much embarrassed to enter in much detail of the matters that had caused his alarm. He stood twirling his hat in one ha,nd, resting sometimes on one leg, sometimes on the other, looking occa- sionally at the doctor, and now and then stealing a fearful glance at the death’s-head that seemed ogling him from the top of the clothes-press. The doctor tried every means to persuade him to return to the farm, but all in vain ; he ma tained a dogged determination on the subjec and at the close of every argument or solicitati would make the same brief, inflexible reply, “ I kan nicht, mynheer.” The doctor was a “lit pot, and soon hot ; ” his patience was exhaust by these continual vexations about his esta ‘ they wished you joy of your bargain ; 9 and you me. D0LPI1 HEYLIGER. The stubborn refusal of Claus Hopper s him like flat rebellion ; his temper suddenly over, and Claus was glad to make a rapid ret to escape scalding. When the bumpkin got to the housekeepers room, he found Peter de Groodt, and several other true believers, ready to receive him. Here he indemnified himself for the restraint he had suffered in the study, and opened a budget of stories about the haunted house that astonished all his hearers. The housekeeper believed them all, if it was only to spite the doctor for having received her intelligence so uncourteously. Pe- ter de Groodt matched them with many a won- derful legend of the times of the Dutch dynasty, and of the Devil’s Stepping-stones ; and of the pirate hanged at Gibbet Island, that continued to swing there at night long after the gallows was taken down ; and of the ghost of the unfortunate Governor Leisler, hanged for treason, which haunted the old fort and the government-house. The gossiping knot dispersed, each charged with direful intelligence. The sexton disburdened him- self at a vestry meeting that was held that very day, and the black cook forsook her kitchen, and spent half the day at the street-pump, that gos- siping-piace of servants, dealing forth the news to all that came for water. In a little time the whole town was in a buzz with tales about the haunted house. Some said that Claus Hoppei had seen the devil, while others hinted that the house was haunted by the ghosts of some of the patients whom the doctor had physicked out of CEB RIDGE BALL. and that was the reason why he (lid bnture to live in it himself, this put the little doctor in a terrible fume. Ie threatened vengeance on any one who should affect the value of his property by exciting pop- ular prejudices. He complained loudly of thus being in a manner dispossessed of his territories by mere bugbears ; but he secretly determined to have the house exorcised by the Dominie. Great was his relief therefore, when, in the midst of his perplexities, Dolph stepped forward and under- took to garrison the haunted house. The young- ster had been listening to all the stories of Claus Hopper and Peter de Groodt : he was fond of adventure, he loved the marvellous, and his imag- ination had became quite excited by these tales of wonder. Besides, he had led such an uncomfort- able life at the doctor’s, being subjected to the intolerable thraldom of early hours, that he was delighted at the prospect of having a house to himself, even though it should be a haunted one. His offer was eagerly accepted, and it was deter- mined he should mount guard that very night. His only stipulation was, that the enterprise should be kept secret from his mother ; for he knew the poor soul would not sleep a wink if she knew her son was waging war with the powers of darkness. When night came on he set out on this perilous expedition. The old black cook, his only friend in the household, had provided him with a little mess for supper, and a rush-light ; and she tied round his neck an amulet, given her by an Afri can conjurer, as a charm against evil spirits DOLPII IIEYL1G ER. 457 olph was escorted oil his way by the doctor and Peter de Groodt, who had agreed to accom- pany him to the house, and to see him safe lodged. The night was overcast, and it was very dark when they arrived at the grounds which surrounded the mansion. The sexton led the way with a lan- tern. As they walked along the avenue of aca- cias, the fitful light, catching from bush to bush, and tree to tree, often startled the doughty Peter, and made him fall back upon his followers ; and the doctor grappled still closer hold of Dolph’s arm, observing that the ground was very slippery and uneven. At one time they were nearly put to total rout by a bat, which came flitting about the lantern ; and the notes of the insects from the trees, and the frogs from a neighboring pond, formed a most drowsy and doleful concert. The front door of the mansion opened with a grating sound, that made the doctor turn pale. They entered a tolerably large hall, such as is common in American country-houses, and which serves for a sitting-room in warm weather. From this they went up a wide staircase, that groaned and creaked as they trod, every step making its particular note, like the key of a harpsichord. This led to another hall on the second story, whence they entered the room where Dolph was to sleep. It was large, and scantily furnished ; the shutters were closed ; but as they were much broken, there was no want of a circulation of air. It appeared to have been that sacred chamber, known among Dutch housewives by the name of “ the best bedroom ” ; which is the best furnished room in the house, 458 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. but in which scarce anybody is ever permitted to sleep. Its splendor, however, was all at an! end. There were a few broken articles of furni- * ture about the room, and in the centre stood a heavy deal table and a large arm-chair, both of which had the look of being coeval with the man- sion. The fireplace was wide, and had been faced with Dutch tiles, representing Scripture stories'; but some of them had fallen out of their places, and lay scattered about the hearth. The sexton lit the rush-light ; and the doctor, looking fearfully about the room, was just exhorting Dolph to be of good cheer, and to pluck up a stout heart, when a noise in the chimney, like voices and struggling, struck a sudden panic into the sexton. He took to his heels with the lantern ; the doctor followed hard after him ; the stairs groaned and creaked as they hurried down, increasing their agitation and speed by its noises. The front door slammed after them ; and Dolph heard them scrabbling down the avenue, till the sound of their feet was lost in the distance. That he did not join in this precipitate retreat might have been owing to his possessing a little more courage than his compan- ions, or perhaps that he had caught a glimpse of the cause of their dismay, in a nest of chimney-swal- lows, that came tumbling down into the fireplace. Being now left to himself, he secured the front door by a strong bolt and bar ; and having seen that the other entrances were fastened, returned to his desolate chamber. Having made his sup- per from the basket which the good old cook had provided, he locked the chamber-door, and retired DOLPH HE YLIGER. 459 to rest on a mattress in one corner. The night was calm and still ; and nothing broke upon the profound quiet but the lonely chirping of a cricket from the chimney of a distant chamber. The rush-light, which stood in the centre of the deal table, shed a feeble yellow ray, dimly illumining the chamber, and making uncouth shapes and shadows on the walls, from the clothes which Dolph had thrown over a chair. With all his boldness of heart, there was some- thing subduing in this desolate scene ; and he felt his spirits flag within him, as he lay on his hard bed and gazed about the room. He was turning over in his mind his idle habits, his doubtful prospects, and now and then heaving a heavy sigh as he thought on his poor old mother ; for there is nothing like the silence and loneliness of night to bring dark shadows over the brightest miij&r-! By-and-by he thought he heard a sound as of some one walking below stairs, fie lis- tened, and distinctly heard a step on the great staircase. It approached solemnly and slowly, tramp — tramp — tramp ! It was evidently the tread of some heavy personage ; and yet how could he have got into the house without making a noise ? He had examined all the fastenings, and was certain that every entrance was secure. Still the steps advanced, tramp — tramp — tramp ! It was evident that the person approaching could not be a robber, the step was too loud and delib- erate ; a robber would either be stealthy or pre- cipitate. And now the footsteps had ascended the staircase ; they were slowly advancing along the 460 BRA CEBRID G L HALL passage, resounding through the silent and empty apartments. The very cricket had ceased its mel- ancholy note, and nothing interrupted their aw- ful distinctness. The door, which had been locked on the inside, slowly swung open, as if self-moved. The footsteps entered the room ; but no one was to be seen. They passed slowly and audibly across it, tramp — tramp — - tramp ! but whatever made the sound was invisible. Dolph rubbed his eyes, and stared about him ; he could see to every part of the dimly lighted chamber ; all was va- cant ; yet still he heard those mysterious foot- steps, solemnly walking about the chamber. They ceased, and all was dead silence. There was something more appalling in this invisible visita- tion than there would have been in anything that addressed itself to the eye-sight. It was awfully vague and indefinite. He felt his heart beat against his ribs ; a cold sweat broke out upon his forehead ; he lay for some time in a state of vio- lent agitation ; nothing, however, occurred to in- crease his alarm. His light gradually burnt down into the socket, and he fell asleep. When he awoke it was broad daylight ; the sun was peer- ing through the cracks of the window-shutters, and the birds were merrily singing about the house. The bright cheery day soon put to flight all the terrors of the preceding night. Dolph laughed, or rather tried to laugh, at all that had passed, and endeavored to persuade himself that it was a mere freak of the imagination, conjured up by the stories he had heard ; but he was a little puzzled to find the door of his room locked on DOLPH HEYLIGER . 461 the inside, notwithstanding that he had positively seen it swing open as the footsteps had entered. He returned to town in a state of considerable perplexity ; but he determined to say nothing on the subject, until his doubts were either confirmed or removed by another night’s watching. His silence was a grievous disappointment to the gos- sips who had gathered at the doctor’s mansion. They had prepared their minds to hear direful tales, and were almost in a rage at being assured he had nothing to relate. The next night, then, Dolph repeated his vigil. He now entered the house with some trepidation. He was particular in examining the fastenings of all the doors, and securing them well. He locked the door of his chamber, and placed a chair against it ; then having dispatched his supper, he threw himself on his mattress and endeavored to sleep. It was all in vain ; a thousand crowding fancies kept him waking. The time slowly dragged on, as if minutes were spinning themselves out into hours. As the night advanced, he grew more and more nervous ; and he almost started from his couch when he heard the mysterious footstep again on the staircase. Up it came, as before, solemnly and slowly, tramp — tramp — tramp ! It approached along the passage ; the door again swung open, as if there had been neither lock nor impediment, and a strange-looking figure stalked into the room. It was an elderly man, large and robust, clothed in the old Flemish fashion. He t\ad on a kind of short cloak, with a garment under it, belted rd und the waist trunk-hose, 162 BRA CK BRIDGE IIALL. with great bunches or bows at the ki