THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF ILLINOIS 
 LIBRARY 
 
 From the collection of 
 James Collins, 
 Drumcondra, Ireland. 
 Purchased, 1918. 
 
 8208 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2016 
 
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 https://archive.org/details/cabinetofliterarOObowr 
 
THE LIBRARY 
 
 IF THE 
 
 HilYEHSITY OF ILU!flj$ 
 
THE 1M4IOI 
 
THE CABINET 
 
 OF 
 
 LITERARY GEMS. 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 BERNARD BOWRING, Esq. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED WITH FINE ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY RENSHAW AND COMPANY, 
 
 AND SOLD BY ALL BOOKSELLERS. 
 

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 s rat5c. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 The Amazon. By Malcolm Campbell Esq. 
 
 Isidore and Bertrand ...... 
 
 The Lady Amabel. By a Younger Son . 
 
 Birth-day Verses 
 
 The Cataract. By R. K. Douglas . 
 
 An East Indian Adventure . 
 
 The Bachelor. By Malcolm Campbell Esq. . 
 
 A Night’s Adventure ...... 
 
 ^“An Old Woman’s Story ...... 
 
 Laws of Nature ....... 
 
 The Victim. By the Rev. John Lawson 
 Past and Present. By Malcolm Campbell Esq. 
 
 Fox the Quaker 
 
 On the Pleasures and Advantages of Intellectual 
 Pursuits ....... 
 
 Awkward £)ilemma ....... 
 
 Royal Nuptials ....... 
 
 Frederick the Great ....... 
 
 A Tale of Pentland. By the Ettrick Shepherd 
 ""^Tfonscientious Courier ...... 
 
 New Year’s Eve ....... 
 
 A Friend in Need 
 
 TJje Repentant Husband. By Malcolm Campbell Esq. 
 *** Annie Leslie, an Irish Story. By Mrs. S. C. Hall. 
 
 "6. o 
 
 Page. 
 
 1 
 
 , 9 
 
 , 17 
 
 . 25 
 
 , 26 
 
 . 35 
 
 . 48 
 
 , 61 
 
 . 77 
 
 , 91 
 
 , 92 
 
 , 94 
 
 , 108 
 
 109 
 
 112 
 
 113 
 
 130 
 
 131 
 
 148 
 
 149 
 
 150 
 
 151 
 
 158 
 
IV CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Rembrant’s Work-shop 190 
 
 The Bride, a Tale of the Times of Maria Theresa . 193 
 Government of the Temper. By Mrs. Chapone . 202 
 A Last Friend ........ 204 
 
 The Prince and the Gentleman, a Tale of Windsor 
 
 Castle 205 
 
 The Rival Cousins, a Sicilian Story . . . .211 
 
 Dead and Living ....... 236 
 
 A “ Diner sur l’Herbe.” By W. M. Tartt, Esq. . 237 
 Portrait Painting. By Hartley Coleridge . . . 244 
 
 Orphan Protector 249 
 
 The Mordaunts, a True Story of fifty years since. 
 
 By Miss Mitford 250 
 
 A Tale of Seville 259 
 
 The Ventriloquist of Marseilles . . . .276 
 
 The Shipwreck ........ 296 
 
 School-boy Friendship 302 
 
 A Sarcastic Temper. By Dr. Johnson . . . 303 
 
 The Truce of Virtue 307 
 
 The Runaway, a Juvenile Reminiscence . . . 308 
 
 Abernethy 319 
 
THE AMAZON. 
 
 Were I a man, a prince, a next of blood, 
 
 I would remove these tedious stumbling-blocks, 
 And smooth my way upon their head less, necks. 
 And being woman I will not be slack 
 To play my part in Fortune’s pageant.” 
 
 WITHOUT contending the point, whether there are in 
 South America, or in any other part of the new or the old 
 world, such women as are fabled at least to inhabit Ama- 
 zonia ; whose persons, for the weaker sex, are perfectly 
 gigantic, and whose strength and courage, nay fierceness 
 and fury, surpass all the qualities bearing these names 
 among men : it may be remarked, without scruple, that 
 there are women to be found in every generation of British 
 history, whose manners entitle them to the fabulous name : 
 whose husbands, to say nothing of other male companions, 
 stand in constant dread of their displeasure — to sit in their 
 presence is a privilege they feel to be denied them, or have 
 not the resolution to claim. 
 
 Of the Thracian Amazons of antiquity, who formed the 
 memorable army of the virgin queen Penthesilia, and were 
 led by her, under the protection of their dazzling armour 
 and their moon-like shields, against the disciplined troops 
 of Greece, under Theseus, it does not enter into the purpose 
 of this story to speak, beyond the mention of their grand and 
 bold undertaking and their triumphant victory. Military 
 
2 
 
 THE AMAZON. 
 
 prowess and patriotic zeal in every instance are entitled to 
 some honour. In a dear country’s cause, a woman’s courage 
 may be allowed to soar far above her sex; though, perhaps, 
 it can scarcely ever rise above her strength, when real 
 danger to what she loves calls forth its utmost efforts. 
 
 It is somewhat humiliating to descend from the lofty 
 elevation of such amazons as these, to the low level of the 
 one about to be described. Her rank in society, at a time 
 when social rank was held in greater estimation than it is 
 at present, or ever will be again, was not to be despised, but 
 rather envied ; but as the poet says — 
 
 “ Pigmies are pigmies still, though perch’d on Alps, 
 And pyramids are pyramids in vales.” 
 
 f 
 
 so we may say — 
 
 Tyrants are tyrants still though perch’d on Alps. 
 
 It would take more time than can at present be spared to 
 frame a line answering to the pyramid part of the quota- 
 tion ; we therefore pass on the amazonian subject of the 
 story. She was of the reign of George the First, of a 
 wealthy and honourable family, and took care to marry him 
 among her numerous suitors whom she thought she stood the 
 best chance of ruling to her heart’s content. Not that she 
 chose a man of straw, to knock about as she pleased, with- 
 out resistance ; or one of no mind and no heart, who would 
 never stimulate her passion by provocation, or her venge- 
 ance by offence: but she thought she had succeeded in 
 selecting one with sufficient spirit to give active employment 
 to her own greater energy, and yet of sufficient tameness to 
 submit when that energy faultered, and she became weary 
 of contention. 
 
TI1E AMAZON. 
 
 3 
 
 For some months, if not a year or so, she exulted in all 
 the luxury of a perfect triumph. He was complaisant to a 
 proverb. Amidst the torrent and whirlwind of her passion, 
 he did not venture a word of resistance or reproof; but he 
 poured into her ear, at every little interval that her ear was 
 capable of receiving it, such a stream of flattery, that ob- 
 tained for him, indeed, no recompence of thanks, but still 
 kept her fury somewhat dignified, and prevented her master 
 passion from disgracing itself by mean epithets and vulgar 
 abuse. The reader may, perhaps, be amused with a few 
 samples of his talent in returning good for evil, and in 
 spoiling the proverb — “ A soft answer turneth away wrath,” 
 by interpreting the principal word in a weak and bad sense. 
 
 Complaisance has been said to mean, “ Address aiming 
 at pleasing by disreputable means.” If so the complaisance 
 of our amazon’s husband partook from the first very 
 much of the nature of downright flattery. She would 
 sometimes throw out her arms in a manner which 
 indicated, that their next change of position might inflict 
 on him some personal injury : and then, instead of with- 
 drawing to a safe distance, or placing himself in a defensive 
 attitude, he would take her hands, one in each of his own, 
 and with a pressure of affection, accompanied by a look and 
 a word or two of tenderness, entreat her to take a walk or 
 ride with him in the park. 
 
 She was of foreign extraction, and spoke the English 
 language with a German accent. When her amazonian 
 fury rose to the greatest height, this accent was exceeding 
 brajid, and had all the harshness of her native tongue about 
 it. Then he would exclaim that, much as he had always 
 admired her pronunciation before, it was now superior to 
 that of British natives ! 
 
 Purchasing little for his own amusement or use, he never 
 
4 
 
 THE AMAZON. 
 
 came home without something likely to be acceptable to 
 her. For her amusement he kept monkeys, doves, gold 
 and silver fish, vases of every size, shape, and quality ; busts, 
 antiquities innumerable, and whatever was likely to give her 
 occupation, and divert her from her passions and himself. 
 When they rode, or walked, or sailed out together, he would 
 often say, — “ Do you observe how the eyes of every gentle- 
 man are upon you ? if any one in this multitude has cause to 
 be jealous, surely it is I.” Then, in a sudden fit of haughti- 
 ness, as though she would realise his apprehensions, she used 
 to command him to depart to some of his own proper society, 
 while she flirted with a knot of gentlemen who were giving 
 significant hints of a wish for her company. On returning 
 to him, or resuming their carriage or boat to be conveyed 
 home, instead of a word of resentment, he would say — “ In 
 the company I joined the conversation turned on the finest 
 woman to be seen this evening in the promenade, when they 
 all began and ended with the praise of you.” 
 
 Had this woman been of sense enough to see through the 
 hollowness of such flattery, she might with some reason 
 have avenged the insult, either by a proud contempt of the 
 flatterer, or an entire abandonment of his society : but, such 
 was her love of praise, combined with her strength of passion, 
 that, while she courted the one with the most inviting and 
 approving smiles, she wielded the other with a fury strangely 
 proportioned to her success. In fact, the more he flattered 
 the greater abuse she poured on him, till his life became a 
 burden, and he resolved at all hazards to change her 
 temper or his own condition. 
 
 He found separation, for many reasons, impracticable; 
 and to continue with her in a general state of silence, 
 agreeing to differ, and holding none but general intercourse, 
 was equally impossible. He therefore consulted a friend. 
 
THE AMAZON. 
 
 5 
 
 and was advised to adopt a system of retaliation. He 
 resolved upon it, and commenced his new undertaking 
 without delay. The phaeton was at the door at the usual 
 hour of the morning, when, to her surprise, he took the 
 reins, which she had always before held, and drove off in 
 a dignified silence. She had scarcely time to interpose with 
 an inquiry why he acted thus (which her overpowering 
 wonder thrice stifled as it rose upon her tongue), when 
 he drew up at the door of his friend with such abruptness 
 as almost to throw the horses on their haunches and his 
 lady on her face. The servant was commanded to bring 
 his master to the door, and the following dialogue, loud 
 enough for every one to hear, took place : — 
 
 “ Have you parted with the horse which threw your 
 lady V’ 
 
 “ I have not.’ , 
 
 “ You certainly don’t wish to keep a steed that has been 
 fatal to your wife, and I am therefore come to offer you 
 your own terms for it.” 
 
 “ I shall keep it myself, for I purpose marrying again.” 
 
 “ I am sorry for it, as I wished above all things to 
 purchase it.” 
 
 Let the reader judge of the fury of the amazon on hear- 
 ing this from her hitherto obsequious husband ; especially 
 when he called his own servant to drive his mistress home, 
 that he might stay to prevail, if possible, with his friend 
 to dispose of the horse. 
 
 On her return, the whole fury of her outrageous tongue 
 vwas_let loose on the offender ; who, however, had armed 
 himself with corresponding weapons for his defence. He 
 allowed her to exhaust her stock of abusive epithets, and 
 then with better temper, and provoking energy and firmness, 
 answered in the words of Petruchio : — 
 n 2 
 
TIIE AMAZON. 
 
 “ Think you a little din can daunt my ears ? 
 
 Have I not, in my time, heard lions roar ? 
 
 Have I not heard the sea puff’d up with winds, 
 
 ."Rage like an angry boar, chafed with sweat? 
 
 Have I not heard loud ordnance in the field ? 
 
 And heav’ns artillery thundering in the skies ? 
 
 Have I not in a pitched battle heard 
 
 Loud larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets clanque? 
 
 And do you tell me of a woman’s tongue, 
 
 That gives not half so great a blow to hear, 
 
 As will a chesnut in a farmer’s fire ?” 
 
 This system of retaliation commenced with some promise 
 of success; but experience is necessary to render us strong 
 as well as wise, firm and persevering as well as skilful 
 and prudent ; and the amazon’s strength, having long had 
 this advantage, increased, or appeared to increase, with the 
 resistance and provocation it received. Her husband cal- 
 culated, wrongly, that he, whose talent lay not in the 
 violent and abusive, might overcome her, with whom 
 violence and abuse were not only the elements in which 
 she seemed to breathe most freely, but her very breath 
 itself. Neither his nature, nor his studies, nor his habits, 
 nor his conscience, were favourable to any long con- 
 tinuance of such a course. It was a mode of meeting 
 her fury which he found required the private cultivation of 
 vindictive feeling, with him a very difficult task, effectually 
 to keep it up in her company. He, therefore, soon resolved 
 on another change of conduct towards her, and, if that did 
 not succeed, to change his condition altogether, by leaving 
 her, 
 
 Having tried obsequiousness and retaliation, he now 
 
THE AMAZON 
 
 7 
 
 thought he would make an experiment of enduring her 
 furious sallies, (which had by recent resistance become 
 more furious and more frequent than ever), with an air 
 of calm and quiet raillery, sufficiently tempered to shew 
 that he was neither vindictive nor unhappy, yet sufficient- 
 ly keen to give a wounding restraint to some of her worst 
 assaults. He was early furnished with an opportunity. 
 He had left his riding gloves on the table in her private 
 room, and she no sooner beheld them than he was com- 
 manded into her presence. The ingenuity of her attack 
 is worth recording. 
 
 “ I thought the throwing down of one glove was the 
 token of a challenge, and that then it was thrown on 
 the ground in defence of a lady, instead of on a table in 
 her own room to provoke her : what mean you by this 
 conduct? Remove the dirty handcuffs without a moment’s 
 delay !” 
 
 He smiled as he entered the room, and the cheerfulness 
 of his countenance increased with the fury of her looks 
 and words. In answer to her command to remove the 
 gloves, he promised to do so when he had finished a book 
 he was intent on reading through. 
 
 “ What is the important subject,” she asked “ that 
 must interfere a moment with my commands?” 
 
 “ Its title, madam,” he answered, “is ‘A Woman’s 
 Patience.’ Suppose you sit down” he added, “ and let 
 me read a page or two on a virtue you must find so 
 valuable under the delay of your wishes and commands.” 
 
 ,The manner in which this was uttered, rather than 
 the matter itself, produced an effect upon her which he 
 had never before perceived, and which encouraged him 
 henceforward to adopt this mode of meeting every part 
 of her characteristic and offensive behaviour. In a short 
 
8 
 
 THE AMAZON. 
 
 time he had the happiness of considerably abating the 
 violence of her temper, by avoiding the extremes of tame 
 submission and resolute retaliation, and by reasoning with 
 her as a philosopher of temper would reason with his 
 pupils. 
 
 What then is the advice to husbands and wives, and 
 all others, springing out of this descriptive tale ? 
 
 If you find that you have a hastiness of temper, which 
 breaks out into indiscreet and violent sallies, and rough 
 and abusive expressions, watch it narrowly, check it 
 carefully, and call in consideration and calmness to your 
 aid. Labour ever to get the command of your counte- 
 nance so well, that evil emotions may not be read in it. 
 On the other hand let no complaisance, no gentleness of 
 temper, no weak desire of pleasing, no wheedling, coax- 
 ing, nor flattery make you recede one jot from any point 
 which reason and prudence have led you to pursue. A 
 yielding timid meekness is always abused ; while a violent 
 hasty resistance is always injurious : but a calm and firm 
 temper under provocation will always succeed — even with 
 a wife. 
 
9 
 
 ISIDORE AND BERTRAND, 
 
 OR 
 
 THE ACQUITTAL. 
 
 Nearly thirty years ago two young soldiers belonging to 
 the French army, commanded by General Buonaparte, 
 were crossing over a pass at the foot of Mont Beave, on 
 
 their way to the village of C . The names of these 
 
 young men were Isidore Marcel, and Bertrand le Bruyere. 
 
 ** That is a very pretty girl below,” said Bertrand to his 
 companion. They had thrown themselves down on the 
 green grass, beneath a group of spreading trees, which 
 threw a pleasant shadow over their steep and rocky path. 
 
 “ Girl, did you sayl” said Isidore. “ I see a young and 
 lovely mother, seated upon a mule, and I see a great heavy 
 boy, much too heavy for her to carry. “ Here young 
 fellow,” he cried, to a youth who was rather shoving than 
 lifting the infant into the arms of the young woman, “ let 
 me lift up the chubby brat, he is too heavy for you ; and 
 for you, too, I am sure,” he added, looking up very smiling- 
 ly, and a little tenderly, into her face. 
 
 “ Thank you, thank you,” said the young woman, as 
 she received the infant from Isidore. As she said this she 
 bentTer face over the baby, and the youth, her companion, 
 having taken the bridle in his hand, led the mule forward. 
 
 * * # * * 
 
 “ You did not tell us you were Simon St. Morin’s 
 
10 
 
 ISIDORE AND BERTRAND, 
 
 daughter,” said Isidore, some hours afterwards, to the 
 smiling maiden beside him. 
 
 “ Simply because you did not ask me,” replied Nina. 
 
 “ Do you think I go about the country, stopping every 
 young man I meet, and saying, I am Nina St. Morin, the 
 daughter of Simon St. Morin of C 1” 
 
 “And we, at least I, took you for a married woman ; 
 and that heavy child for your infant.” 
 
 “ And cannot one carry one’s sister’s child home to its • 
 mother without being married 1” replied Nina, archly. 
 
 * # * * 
 
 Nina was sitting at her little parlour-window; it was 
 her jour de fete, or saint’s day, that day in the year which 
 is celebrated in her country as birthdays are by some 
 persons in England. Nina was dressed, of course, in her 
 best attire. A gown of the darkest green, laced and tied 
 with ribbands of pale rose colour, her shining hair plaited 
 also with ribbands, in long braids, and a chaplet of bluets 
 (the beautiful but common blue corn-flower) placed at 
 the back of her head. 
 
 “ That is pretty enough, that chaplet of bluets ! ” said 
 Bertrand, who made his appearance at the outside of the 
 window. 
 
 “ Do you remember, Nina,” he continued, “ that I 
 taught you to make these very corn-flower wreaths! How 
 well you have remembered my lessons! You made this, 
 did you not, on purpose to give me a pleasant surprise 
 to-day!” 
 
 “ Oh no,” she replied, very artlessly looking up in her 
 cousin’s face, “ Oh no, I cannot take the credit to myself, 
 Isidore wove that wreath of bluets.” 
 
 The moment these words were spoken, Nina shut her 
 
OR THE ACQUITTAL. 
 
 11 
 
 eyes and shrunk back with terror ; for if a fiend had stared 
 at her, he could not have frowned more horribly than 
 Bertrand did. Roughly he tore the garlands from her 
 hair, and stamped them under his feet; and then, when 
 he had done so, his rage suddenly left him. Horror-struck 
 at his owm mad violence, he threw himself at her feet, and, 
 with the tears streaming down his face, he entreated her 
 to forgive, and, if possible, to forget his unmanly, brutal 
 violence. 
 
 Deeply as Bertrand was shocked for the time, such 
 scenes were repeated more than once. At first Nina was 
 disposed to refuse to see Bertrand, except in the presence of 
 others ; but, on consideration, she thought it better to use 
 all her influence with him, and persuade him to give up 
 the suit that he was now so constantly pressing. She 
 dreaded to tell him that she had listened favourably to the 
 addresses of his friend. From Isidore, also, it was her 
 constant endeavour to conceal the conduct of Bertrand; 
 for she feared, from what she had seen of Isidore, that if 
 provoked in any way, he would also discover the same 
 ungovernable passions. 
 
 She had one comfort, in looking forward to the return 
 of the two young men to their regiments, for she knew that 
 Bertrand had been ordered to join his corps at Boulogne, 
 while Isidore was to return to the neighbourhood of Milan. 
 
 Only two days before the departure of the young men, 
 poor Nina was doomed to see her worst fears almost rea- 
 lized. Bertrand had returned with her father from a visit 
 to Chamberry some hours before she had looked for him. 
 He had found her with Isidore, and she had little doubt, 
 from the expression of his countenance as he turned away, 
 that he now regarded Isidore as his successful rival. 
 
12 
 
 ISIDORE AND BERTRAND, 
 
 It was past midnight, and Nina heard footsteps in the 
 chamber above her, which Bertrand occupied. She listened 
 with breathless attention, and heard the door of Bertrand’s 
 chamber softly opened. She had unclosed her own door, 
 so as to open a crevice just sufficient for her to look 
 through, before his step was heard upon the stair; but . 
 she had almost sunk powerless to the ground when she 
 beheld Bertrand slowly descending, his face deadly pale, 
 his eyes glaring with infernal passions, and a naked glit- 
 tering weapon in his hand. He had scarcely reached the 
 door of his rival, when Nina was at his side — at his feet — 
 he struggled with her; but though very feebly, her bosom 
 was wounded — merely scratched with the knife, — yet she 
 prevailed : she drew him gently and silently away, and she 
 disengaged the horrid weapon from his grasp. And now 
 Nina felt inspired with new strength: she opened the door 
 of the house, and stopped not till they had reached the 
 chapel. For awhile she had no strength to speak, and 
 for awhile Bertrand continued pacing the whole length of 
 the chapel with hasty step and furious mien, and more than 
 once he moved towards the door, but there he was always 
 stopped, for there — her soft white arm passed through 
 the staples by which the doors were barred, her pale sweet 
 face turned meekly towards him — stood Nina strong in 
 a spirit which he could not resist. At last he stopped 
 before her, and fixing his eyes full on her face, he said, 
 “ On one condition I obey you, and swear not to lift my 
 hand against his life.’’ 
 
 “ Name it, name it,” she exclaimed eagerly. 
 
 “ That from this moment you solemnly swear, never to 
 receive the vows of Isidore Marcel — never to become his 
 wife.” 
 
OR THE ACQUITTAL. 
 
 13 
 
 “ Is it your only condition,” she asked faintly ; “ is there 
 no heavenly pity in your heart 1” 
 
 “ That is my condition,” he repeated, in a voice still more 
 deep, still more horribly determined. Nina took his hand, 
 and walking at once to the altar, she kneeled down upon 
 the stone pavement, and with a distinct yet feeble voice, 
 she took the oath required. She was again silent for many 
 minutes, not having risen from her knees ; but the effect of 
 her silent prayer was soon evident. 
 
 “ Linger here awhile, my dear cousin,” she said at length, 
 in a voice tender and soothing. “ When quite alone with 
 Him, against whom you have most deeply offended, humble 
 your proud spirit to the dust; pour out your whole soul 
 in fervent prayer, that he who said * peace and be still/ to 
 the tempest and the raging billows, and there was a great 
 calm, — that He may pardon you, and send into your heart 
 the only peace that will ever calm your dark and dreadful 
 passions.” 
 
 With light but cautious steps Nina was returning; she 
 was about to enter the little grove of aged birch trees before 
 the house ; but she paused for a moment, and looked back 
 upon the chapel. Again she turned to enter the birch 
 wood, and, at that instant, her own name was distinctly 
 pronounced in a low voice, which she now distinguished 
 to be that of Isidore. Nina did not reply ; once she caught 
 his hand in hers, and clung to it, and then her fingers 
 relaxed their hold, her eyes closed — she sunk lifeless on 
 the ground. 
 
 Isidore raised the poor girl into his arms, and advanced 
 towards the house. There he stopped, intending to carry 
 Nina to her chamber, and then proceed in search of 
 Bertrand ; but when he looked down upon her pale and 
 
 c 
 
14 
 
 ISIDORE AND BERTRAND, 
 
 lovely face, the thought that if he then gave her from his 
 arms, she might be parted from him for ever, passed like 
 madness through his brain. 
 
 At once he determined to bear her away to some 
 unknown and distant retreat, and there, trusting to her 
 affection for him, to prevail on her to become his wife 
 before any further impediment could be thrown in the 
 way of their union. 
 
 With long and rapid strides Isidore ascended the moun- 
 tains at the back of the village, and he paused not till he 
 had already proceeded several miles. 
 
 He now discovered that Nina was still in an insensible 
 state, and he saw, for the first time, that the folds of her 
 dress were glued together, over her bosom, by clotted blood, 
 yet damp, for his hands had been stained by it in carrying 
 her. Deeply touched by her pitiable condition, but not 
 knowing what to do for her relief, he placed her gently 
 upon the soft grass, and there she gradually revived. 
 Isidore then went, and returned soon after, with his cap 
 full of clear water. Nina was gone. Long and fruitless 
 was the search he made, — he only lost himself in the 
 pathless solitudes. At length it occurred to him that she 
 might have returned to her father’s house, and, with no 
 little difficulty, he retraced his steps to the village of 
 C . 
 
 Soon after Simon St. Morin arose that morning, he heard 
 that his daughter was missing. Her vacant chamber, and 
 the knife, yet wet with blood, found upon her bed, and 
 known by every one to be the knife of Bertrand, turned 
 many suspicions against the wretched man. The officers 
 of justice were bearing him away to prison, when Isidore, 
 pale and haggard, his hands stained with blood, made his 
 appearance. 
 
OR THE ACQUITTAL. 
 
 15 
 
 The prisoner raised his head when he heard Isidore 
 enquiring for Nina, and then shouted, with a look of 
 savage exultation, “ There, there is the real murderer : if 
 you would avenge the poor undone girl, — lose no time in 
 securing him.” 
 
 There was a little deliberation, and then the officers of 
 justice sprung forward and arrested Isidore. The two 
 comrades were borne away together to the same prison, 
 to be tried for the murder of Nina St. Morin. 
 
 * * % * * 
 
 The trial was nearly concluded — evidence had been 
 brought forward so conclusive, on almost every point, that 
 the judge was about to pronounce sentence of death against 
 both the prisoners, when a low whispering was heard in 
 the crowd. Soon after an opening was made, and an old 
 and venerable man, the minister of the little parish 
 
 of V , in the mountains, advanced, and conversed 
 
 for some few minutes with the judge. The old clergyman 
 retired, but almost immediately appeared again, walking 
 slowly and sorrowfully at the foot of what appeared to be 
 a kind of litter. It was closely covered with the folds 
 of a dark cloth, and carried by four men, who set it down 
 in the very midst of the open space before the judge. 
 There was a breathless silence throughout the whole 
 assembly, as the old clergyman drew forth a scroll of 
 paper, which he presented to the judge. 
 
 “ Circumstances have occurred within the last hour,” 
 said the judge, addressing himself to the court, “ that 
 enable me to acquit the prisoners now before you of the 
 impute^ murder of Nina St. Morin. She herself signed 
 this paper only last night. The said Nina has, however, 
 sent even a surer witness that she was not murdered.” 
 -"-Here the judge paused for a short time, while the 
 
16 
 
 ISIDORE AND BERTRAM, 
 
 two prisoners were brought, by his command, from the 
 bar, and placed one on either side of the covered litter. — 
 “ She,” continued the judge, “has not only been desirous 
 to satisfy the ends of justice, but to stop for ever the 
 dreadful strife of two persons who were once devoted 
 friends, — she would solemnly bring before them the effect 
 of their unbridled and horrible passions. Remove that 
 cloth,” he said to the men who bore the litter. It was 
 entirely withdrawn, and the form and features of a young 
 and beautiful maiden were revealed. Young and beautiful 
 they still appeared, though fixed in the fearful and pallid 
 stiffness of death. The arms were crossed meekly over 
 the bosom, and a smile was upon the small and beautifully 
 shaped lips. “ Here you are required,” said the judge, 
 turning to the two young men, who stood motionless as the 
 corpse before them, — “ here you are required by the last, 
 the dying request of her who loved you both, — here to 
 embrace, even over the lifeless remains of her, whose pure 
 kind heart was broken by your wicked and violent strife.” 
 
THE LADY AMABEL, 
 
 BY A YOUNGER SON. 
 
 “ A green-eyed monster! 
 
 Which mocks the food it preys on.” 
 
 bHAKSPEARE 
 
 “ Pshaw ! dying for love is a very stale affair,” I mur- 
 mured to myself after the cogitation of a whole hour — 
 a longer period by six-sevenths than I had ever bestowed 
 on any one subject in my life before. “ To be sure, she 
 did tell me that she could never love another — that I 
 was the mainspring of her existence, and the day-dream of 
 her imagination ; but then, perhaps, young ladies write 
 these pretty sentences in their copy books by way of 
 practice, and so have them by heart. She gave me, too, 
 a lock of her hair, and a broken sandal ; and sent me sub 
 rosa two little triangular billet doux on pink paper, sealed 
 with the impress of a ‘ forget-me-not.’ Well, the hair I 
 can throw into the fire ; I can tie my own shoe with the 
 ribbon ; and the pink paper will do to light my candle ; 
 this will be, at all events, much better than dying for 
 love ; and so, lady Amabel — and so — ” and I stood near 
 the fire, and took from its envelope a tress of the sunniest 
 hair in the world, “ here goes your first love-gift !” I 
 held my hand just over the bright blaze, but it would not 
 do ; so I drew it back, and refolded the golden curl. 
 “ Idiot !” I exclaimed, a moment after ; “ what is she to 
 me, that I should preserve so worthless a gift'!” That was 
 c 2 
 
18 
 
 THE LADY AMABEL. 
 
 all very true; but just as I asked myself the question, I 
 remembered the moment at which the present was made. 
 It was on a fine evening in summer ; the sun had just 
 set, and the lady Amabel was lingering on the marble 
 terrace of her father’s garden, watching the decay of his 
 crimson light ; lovely parasites were clinging to the balus- 
 trades of that proud terrace, waving their perfumed tendrils 
 to the breeze, and twining as gracefully about the pale 
 marble as light tresses over the pure brow of beauty ; 
 costly exotics, carefully arranged on sculptured pedestals, 
 were flinging out their luxurious odours, and glowing in 
 all their rare and foreign beauty ; but there was one pure 
 English flower on that gay terrace brighter and more 
 beautiful than all — the young and lovely lady Amabel ! — 
 She blushed when I joined her, and murmured something 
 about “the night air” and “a chill from the lake;” but 
 I only replied by pointing first to the crimson clouds, 
 which had not yet wholly disappeared, and then to the fine 
 piece of water which lay like a mirror under the bright 
 sky, without a ripple upon its bosom. My silent answer 
 won a smile from the young beauty ; and it signifies not 
 by what arguments I prevailed on her to linger yet another 
 hour in the night air, near a wide lake, running all 
 risks of ague and influenza ; suffice it that she did so, 
 and that ere I kissed her fairy hand on my depar- 
 ture, that very little lock of hair which I had just re- 
 solved to commit to the flames was won and worn, and 
 we were vowed to each other in much the same style and 
 by much the same sentences, that young ladies and 
 gentlemen in similar circumstances are accustomed to 
 exchange oaths and hearts, before they know the nature 
 of the one or the value of the other. 1 was fresh from 
 Oxford; she was yet under the surveillance of a French 
 
THE LADY AMABEL. 
 
 19 
 
 governess, all flounces and fidget ; but we never either of 
 us doubted for an instant our own capability of acting most 
 judiciously and wisely in this as well as every other relation 
 of life. The lady Amabel was a perfect Peri, with hair 
 like gold, eyes like amethysts, the form of a sylph, and 
 the voice of a syren. What could man desire more 'l On my 
 side, I had six good feet in height, white teeth, and shoulders 
 like a life-guardsman. The lady Amabel was pennyless, 
 if she married against the consent of the sturdy old baron 
 her father ; and I possessed, as a younger son, the splendid 
 provision of three hundred a-year ; but we scorned to think 
 of these things, and so we plighted our vows, exchanged 
 hair locks, and made ourselves charmingly sentimental, as 
 in all such cases it is the bounden duty of lovers to do. 
 Thus I became possessed of the golden tress whose destruc- 
 tion 1 had contemplated; the recollection melted me, so I 
 put it back again into my pocket book, and drew forth the 
 bit of ribbon. “ This , at all events, I will keep no longer !” 
 I again ejaculated, as I looked at the slight satin which 
 had once encompassed the most delicate ancle in Britain ; 
 the circle was so small (for the ribbon was creased where 
 it had been tied), that it might almost have seemed to have 
 been measured for the foot of a fairy ; and then I thought 
 of the taper fingers which had twisted that tie, and I 
 remembered — bewitching recollection! — the moment when 
 the slender string gave way. It was at a festival given by 
 the baron to celebrate the lady Amabel’s fifteenth birthday. 
 I was beside her in the dance ; her hand was in mine ; 
 and we were just springing forward to join the revellers, 
 when-the treacherous ribbon broke ; I stooped for the now 
 useless sandal, and I won a blush and a smile when I put 
 it into my bosom. As I thought of this, I began invo- 
 luntarily to whistle the air of that old English dance, and 
 
20 
 
 THE LADY AMABEL. 
 
 while in the act of so doing, I all unconsciously put the 
 ribbon back again, side by side, with the lock of hair. 
 Nothing now remained to destroy but the little triangular 
 billet-doux , the pretty, poetical, pink, perfume-breathing 
 messengers of Dan Cupid. I opened the first to read it 
 for the last time. How beautifully it was written ! — how 
 delicately folded ! I thought of the rapture with which 
 I had received it ; the heart-bound with which I had dis- 
 embarrassed its acute angles, with a feeling almost as acute 
 as themselves ! These were sweet memories ! And if the 
 writing was admirable, was not the style a thousand times 
 more so '{ She told me — but no — I will not say what she 
 told me, for that were scarcely worthy of a preux chevalier ; 
 but certain it is, that if I have a weak point, it is loving 
 to be flattered by a pretty woman ; and with such a feeling 
 it is not wonderful that I refolded the notes carefully and 
 cautiously, and placed them beside their old companions in 
 the pocket-book. “ Nevertheless,” was my next apostrophe, 
 “ I will not die for love like a beardless boy ; I will forget 
 her !” and with this doughty resolution I took up my hat, 
 and strolled forth in the direction of the baron’s fine old 
 place, St. Peter’s priory. The house, which was of great 
 extent, was seated on a lovely eminence, whence it com- 
 manded a vast extent of park, finely diversified by wood 
 and water ; at the distance of about a couple of miles, a 
 range of romantic and grassy hills sheltered the domain 
 from the rude northern winds, while to the southward the 
 ornamented grounds sloped softly down to the beautiful lake 
 already mentioned, and then spread far away in thick masses 
 of underwood, bright green patches of turf, or gay wastes 
 of yellow almond-scented furze, overshadowed by fine old 
 trees. The building itself was ancient, heavy, and mo- 
 nastic ; betraying its origin at the first glimpse. The 
 
THE LADY AMABEL. 
 
 21 
 
 chapel-tower still stood, square and dark, unchanged, save 
 in having been shorn of its freestone cross by the Protestant 
 zeal of an ancestor of the present baron. The small and 
 narrow windows of the main building still opened as 
 diminutively along the dark face of the walls as they had 
 done ere the second Henry wrenched the far-famed priory 
 from the pious fathers of St. Peter’s, to reward his brave 
 and courtly follower with the spoil ; and even the original 
 outline of the pile had been faithfully preserved. Roof 
 rose above roof 3 refectory, and butlery, dormitory and 
 parlour, might be traced on the exterior with nearly as 
 much precision as within the building. Nearer the house 
 the trees thickened ; and extensive clumps, and ancient 
 avenues of oak, beech, and elm, obscured at intervals the 
 noonday sun, while the feathery acacia, and the fan-like 
 foliage of the chestnut, quivered in the light, and gave 
 cheerfulness to the scene ; a winding walk stretched through 
 these fine old wrnods from the south-east entrance of the 
 Priory to the border of the lake, where, on a summer 
 evening, the playful fish bounded above the wave for an 
 instant, and then fell back, their burnished scales glittering 
 like silver ; while the stately swans swept like water-kings 
 over the ripple. Towards this lovely spot I bent my steps 
 with the heroic resolution of forgetting the fair being, who, 
 should she obey the dictates of her proud father’s will, 
 would one day be its mistress. I resolved to think of her 
 no more, for she had strolled through the Priory grounds 
 for three successive evenings on the arm of Sir Marmaduke 
 Mackintosh ; she had sung a Polish duet with Count 
 Potasoisky, and danced a cotillion with a Cantab. There 
 was no bearing this ! It was a sweet evening when I 
 sauntered towards the Priory. I had been invited to join 
 the revellers by the old baron, but the lady Amabel was 
 
22 
 
 THE LADY AMABEL. 
 
 silent, and I consequently declined ; nevertheless, I felt 
 it as no breach of the contract into which I had entered 
 with my pride, to while away an hour in the old woods, 
 resolving to forget my faithless mistress, and hearkening 
 to the nightingales. I grew weary of this, and then I 
 paid a visit to the deer park, and loitered away another 
 half hour among the herd ; still the time appeared un- 
 usually, provokingly long; and I next turned my steps 
 toward the lake. As I approached I remarked that the 
 noble pair of swans which I had once loved because they 
 were favourites of the lady Amabel, were rapidly making their 
 way to the opposite bank, and on looking in that direction, 
 I saw seated upon the turf at the edge of the lake, Mistress 
 Blanche, the favoured attendant of the baron’s daughter. 
 I had no cause of quarrel with the pretty Mistress Blanche, 
 and I consequently followed the pathway to give her “ good 
 even,” as was my wont; she was a gentle, blue-eyed girl, 
 with a smile like moonlight, and a voice like her mistress’s 
 — low and musical ; I never saw her look prettier ; she 
 had a vessel beside her, in which she had brought food 
 for the proud birds which were now awaiting her offering ; 
 she blushed when she saw me, and yet, not as though she 
 appropriated to herself the fact of my presence ; it was a 
 sort of blush by proxy for her lady — at least I thought so. 
 I threw myself on the turf beside her, and tossed aside 
 my hat. I know not why, but I felt flushed and fevered. 
 The shepherd of the baron was driving home his flocks, 
 and the short, quick bark of his anxious and active dog 
 fell sadly on my ear. I believe I sighed. The gentle 
 Mistress Blanche sighed also — of that at least I am sure. 
 In two minutes she spoke of her lady, and the Scotch 
 knight, and the foreign count, and of her lord the baron, 
 who hated all outlandish people from beyond seas ; and 
 
THE LADY AMABEL. 
 
 23 
 
 the pretty Blanche hated them too, and marvelled that 
 her lady could endure their smiles, and their foreign ways, 
 and their frightful mustachios. Then she ventured a doubt 
 whether her lady did- in truth favour them in her heart, 
 for she had been sadder than her wont for a week past, 
 and had sighed when Blanche was unlacing her bodice, 
 and unbraiding her hair — ay, and sometimes even wept; 
 though she was blythe enough at the hall or at the banquet, 
 and had, moreover, chidden her anxious tirewoman when 
 she deemed herself less carefully, or less becomingly dressed 
 than she was used to be ; yet Blanche was sure that the 
 chiding did not come from her lady’s heart, but only from 
 the restlessness of her spirit ; and she told me all this with 
 a sigh and a smile, as though she thought that the riddle 
 might be easily read by one who had an interest in its 
 solution. I pressed my hand on my waistcoat pocket to 
 assure myself that my pocket-book and its enclosures were 
 safe, and then I rose to depart. I was arrested by an 
 involuntary “Oh! Mr. Reginald ” in a low tone, half 
 entreaty, half reproach ; but I was proof against even that, 
 and without having once uttered the name of her mistress, 
 I said softly, “ Good even, pretty Mistress Blanche,” and 
 left her. 
 
 I had to traverse a considerable portion of the Priory 
 park, ere I reached the gate which opened on my father’s 
 grounds; and as I sped on my way, musing on the half 
 enigmatical confidence of the souhrette ; looking, I doubt 
 not, as grave and haughty as the baron himself, I came 
 suddenly on the courtly company which I had refused to join ; 
 they ^were seated in a beautiful glade, hemmed in on all 
 sides by stately trees : a banquet was spread on the soft, 
 green turf, and the revellers were reclining in groups, 
 conversing, singing, or hearkening to the music of some 
 
24 
 
 THE LADY AMABEL. 
 
 wind-instruments, stationed far away among the woods, and 
 only heard at intervals, when the breeze came freighted 
 with their breathings up the glade. Instinctively I looked 
 around for the lady Amabel, but she was not there. The 
 Polish count was sweeping the strings of his guitar, as he 
 lay listlessly along the greensward; the Scotch knight was 
 teaching a dark-eyed beauty to distinguish his clan tartan, 
 and to pronounce his gathering cry : others were there also, 
 the beautiful and the brave, the flower and the pride of the 
 country, but the lady Amabel, was not among them. Even 
 as I looked around, the stately baron beckoned me to his 
 side ; he murmured a few words in my ear — surely he spoke 
 in music — I had never heard such sounds before ! and then, 
 without waiting for my reply, he motioned with his hand 
 towards the thickest part of the wood. I obeyed the 
 implied command. I plunged amid the leafy wilderness 
 with the speed of thought; there, seated beneath a tree, 
 far from the light-hearted revellers, I found the lady 
 Amabel : roses were in her hair, but there were tears upon 
 her cheeks ; her small hand glittered with gems, but it held 
 a lock of dark, curling hair, on which she was looking with 
 tenderness and sorrow. In an instant I was by her side — 
 at her feet — I forgot the count and his guitar, the knight 
 and his tartan. I thought only of Amabel, my own 
 Amabel, who had won from her proud father a promise 
 which my stern hateful jealousy had well nigh rendered 
 useless. She had wept and sorrowed, for had not my 
 coldness endured throughout a long, long week? Might 
 it not have been eternal ? 
 
 The count had played his last bollero, and the dark-eyed 
 beauty had almost succeeded in learning Gaelic from the 
 Scotch knight, ere we again joined the revellers; and when 
 
BIRTH-DAY VERSES. 
 
 25 
 
 we did so I neither envied the one of his mustachios, nor 
 the other his clan. St. Peter’s Priory has since that evening 
 rung with a bridal peal, and its new master has now 
 forgotten the precise amount of the income of “ A Younger 
 Son/’ 
 
 BIRTH-DAY VERSES. 
 
 Good-morrow to the golden Morning 
 Good-morrow to the world’s delight 
 I’m come to bless thy life’s beginning, 
 That hath made my own so bright. 
 
 I have brought no flowers, Dearest ! 
 
 Summer lies upon her bier ; 
 
 It was when all sweets were over. 
 Thou wert born to bless the year. 
 
 But I bring thee jewels, Fairest! 
 
 In thy bonny locks to shine ; 
 
 And, if love seem in their glances. 
 They have learn’d that look of mine„ 
 
26 
 
 THE CATARACT. 
 
 By It. K. DOUGLAS. 
 
 Among the objects of curiosity to wmch the attention of 
 the traveller, through the west part of Perthshire, is direct- 
 ed, is a fall, or rather series of falls, formed by the little 
 river Devon — “ the clear-winding Devon” of Burns — the 
 loftiest of which is termed the “ Caldron Linn and a 
 bridge, that stretches its “ wearisome, but needful length” 
 over the same stream, and which, from the noise and turmoil 
 of the waters, that tear and bellow l'ke a chafed lion, some 
 forty feet below it, is called the “ Rumbling Bridge.” The 
 Rumbling Bridge no longer exists, or rather, I should say, 
 it is no longer accessible ; and the manner in which this 
 has been brought about is not a little indicative of the 
 calculating genius of the people of the “ north countrie.” 
 Some fifteen or sixteen years ago, the road, a wild and 
 rugged and neglected mountain path, after toiling up the 
 precipitous bank, dived down again almost perpendicularly, 
 until it reached the bridge; and, that once passed, a similar 
 ascent and descent awaited the traveller before he could 
 reach what was, comparatively speaking, level ground. 
 The bridge itself was, or is (I shall explain this ambiguity 
 by and bye) one 
 
 “ Where two wheelbarrows tremble when they met.” 
 
 The height of the time-worn and tottering parapet had 
 never exceeded eighteen inches; and when a way-farer, 
 
THE CATARACT. 
 
 27 
 
 whether on horse-back or in a carriage, halted on the 
 crown of the sharply-turned arch, and beheld, within 
 a foot on each side, the fence that mocked his fears 
 with the semblance of protection, and looked to the wild 
 and tangled banks and dark dripping masses of rock beet- 
 ling over, and almost shutting out the light, and listened to 
 the stream that roared beneath him in darkness all but 
 utter, and this apparatus of terror accompanied, as it at 
 all times was, by a strong blast of wind sweeping down 
 the narrow and tortuous funnel through which the waters 
 poured — he must have possessed an imagination of the 
 dullest, and a head of the hardest materials, if he did not 
 feel the grandeur and giddiness of the scene. 
 
 When the present secure and convenient fabric, which 
 joins the highway from Crieff to Stirling with the hill-road 
 to Cleish and Dunfermline, was erected, the thrifty 
 engineer, instead of hunting about for a more suitable 
 point of projection, wisely considered that it would save 
 expense to build the new bridge above the old. The 
 abutments of the latter serving as a foundation for those 
 of the former, and the old arch was used as a point 
 d’appui for the frame-work of its successor. The new 
 bridge, in consequence, struts, in all the pride of upstart 
 greatness, above the humble and hidden friend to whom 
 it owes its support ; and it is only by clambering down 
 the bank for a considerable way, that a glimpse can be 
 caught of the real Rumbling Bridge hanging in unapproach- 
 ed obscurity, some twenty feet below the structure that 
 now usurps its name. When the long and dreary nights 
 of winteT begin to settle down upon the Ochils, the inha- 
 bitants of the neighbouring hamlets have, it is said, not 
 unfrequently seen strange forms flitting about the untrodden 
 road-way, and perching on the crumbling parapets ; and 
 
28 
 
 THE CATARACT. 
 
 unearthly voices have been heard passing down the stream 
 by more than one be-lated shepherd ; but whether these 
 are illusions of the fancy merely, or whether they are the 
 real pranks of the water kelpies that, time immemorial, 
 have held their revels round the falls and in the “ wields” 
 of the Devon, I shall not take upon me to decide. — To 
 return to the Caldron Linn. Down these falls a stray 
 cow or sheep is now and then accidentally hurried ; and 
 in no case has it happened that the animal has not been 
 found at the foot of the hill, broken, and bleeding, and 
 lifeless, from dashing against the sides of the fearful rift, in 
 its descent. Human beings have also stumbled into the 
 stream, and with one very singular and providential ex- 
 ception their fate has been similar. 
 
 One fine summer day, Mr. H. (the person of whom I 
 speak is, I believe, still alive) was wandering down the 
 rugged banks below the “ Rumbling Bridge,” along with 
 an older and more staid companion. Mr. H. was then 
 a very young man, full of the vigour, activity, and joy- 
 ousness of his years, and possessing all the fearlessness 
 and dexterity of a mountaineer; in person somewhat 
 about the middle size, and slightly but compactly formed. 
 The stream had been swollen by a recent “ spate,” and 
 the roaring of the cataract was like a coniinuous peal 
 of thunder. Both parties were anxious to obtain a full 
 view of the fall, but the nature of the ground rendered 
 it a matter of considerable difficulty. They were creep- 
 ing cautiously along the giddy and over-hanging bank, 
 when Mr. H. perceived, at some distance below the spot 
 where he hung, half suspended by the roots and branches 
 of the brushwood, a flat projecting piece of rock, within 
 a few yards of the verge of the Linn ; and pointing it 
 out to his companion, and beckoning him to follow, he 
 
THE CATARACT. 
 
 29 
 
 began to move downward in that direction. His more 
 considerate friend endeavoured, by his jestures, to make 
 him desist, — to communicate by any other means was im- 
 possible, — rather from a general apprehension of danger, 
 than from any anticipation of what was to follow. The 
 admonition, however, as admonitions addressed to youth 
 usually are, was received with a laugh of ridicule at the 
 timidity in which it was supposed to originate, and only 
 served to confirm the climber’s purpose. In a few seconds 
 he reach a spot immediately above the point he aimed at, 
 and dropped lightly down ; but no sooner had his foot 
 pressed the stone, than, to the unspeakable horror of his 
 companion, whose eye followed his progress with mingled 
 terror and admiration, it trembled, loosened, and fell from 
 beneath him! The unhappy young man grasped convul- 
 sively at the root of a bush immediately over his head, and 
 had it been sufficiently strong, he would still have escaped ; 
 but root, and bush, and turf, gave way together under his 
 weight, and he fell into the water a very few feet above 
 the fall. Once, and once only, his eye met that of his 
 friend as he rose above the surface 3 the next instant 
 sped over the cataract, like an arrow shot by a vigorous 
 arm, and disappeared amid the clouds of sprey, and the 
 roaring billows of the pool below. The companion of the 
 unfortunate young gentleman, although convinced, as he 
 afterwards declared, that he should never again behold 
 him alive, did not for a moment delay to embrace what 
 he conceived to be the only chance of saving him. He 
 climbed, or rather ran, directly up the bank, a feat which 
 nothing— but the excitation of the moment would have 
 emboldened him to attempt — indeed he never was able 
 very clearly to state how he accomplished it — and shout- 
 ed an alarm to the farm-house close by. The cry was 
 d 2 
 
30 
 
 THE CATARACT. 
 
 heard, and he was immediately joined by three or four 
 of the inmates, who, seeing him alone easily guessed 
 what had happened ; and the whole, without question 
 asked or answered, rushed down the steep road that led 
 to the point where the Devon enters the plain. Here, 
 in a little bending, scooped out by the eddy of the stream, 
 was usually landed whatever floating body happened from 
 accident to pass over the falls. As they approached the 
 cove, the first of the party, a strong and active shepherd, 
 perceived a hat floating on the surface, and plunged into 
 the water, from an idea that it was the body of the 
 drowned youth. He was soon undeceived ; and wading 
 out with the hat in his hand, in a suppressed tone of 
 voice, said to the rest who were now at his side, “ He 
 is in some of the Linn-pots — we must seek up the 
 water.” — “ He had fallen with the bit whin in his hand, 
 it is like,” said another, pointing to the furze, which, 
 with the sod still in part attached to it, had slowly 
 circled round until it was arrested by the water-worn 
 pebbles that strewed the bottom of the shallow pool. 
 
 I must now return to young Mr. H. Before he recover- 
 ed his recollection, after the plunge into the water, he was 
 hurried, as I have described, over the fall, and found him- 
 self, after sinking in what seemed a bottomless abyss,, 
 whirling round with fearful and dizzy rapidity. Luckily he 
 could swim a little, and from an instinctive desire to prolong 
 life, he struck out with his hands and feet, and endeavoured 
 to gain the edge of the whirlpool. To his astonishment, 
 when his breath, and strength, and hope, were just depart- 
 ing, he found he had succeeded in reaching a spot where 
 the waters were comparatively still, and where the depth 
 was not above a few feet. The bottom, on which he had 
 found a resting-place, was however, of the loosest and most 
 
THE CATARACT. 
 
 31 
 
 yielding nature. It was, indeed, a mere ridge of sand and 
 pebbles, that had come down from the fall, and which in 
 that spot, and in it alone, the diminished agitation of the 
 water had allowed to subside. On the crown of the ridge, 
 Mr. H. had by accident stopped ; and his momentary feeling 
 of joyful surprise was followed by the bitterness of agony, 
 when he found, after remaining for a second, the mound 
 on which he stood gradually slipping away from beneath 
 him. He looked upward, as the blast swept aside the dense 
 cloud of spray, and saw afar off the line of the clear blue 
 sky, with the light fleecy clouds swiftly sweeping over it, 
 and caught a glimpse of the edge of the bank, with the 
 trees and bushes bending in the breeze, and the birds flitting 
 across the chasm, whose black and frowning and slippery 
 sides rose to a height that seemed interminable. Behind, 
 and touching him, was the whirlpool, from which he had 
 with so much difficulty escaped; and beyond it rushed 
 down, like a solid wall, the waters of the Linn, over which 
 he had been tumbled; while in front roared other falls, 
 whose height he knew not, and which nothing but a miracle 
 could enable him to pass and live. He saw all this ; and 
 he felt, at the same moment, that but a few minutes could 
 elapse ere he must see them no more ; yet he determined to 
 struggle with his fate to the last. At first he endeavoured, 
 by altering his position, to stay his feet from slipping ; but 
 a very few trials convinced him, that to shift at all only 
 accelerated his sinking, and that his best chance lay in 
 remaining as stationary as possible. Still, however, he sank 
 to the breast — the shoulders — the neck. A thought now 
 seized— him, that seemed even more bitter than the death 
 that was trembling over him. Had he sped over the falls 
 his body would at least have been recovered by his friends 
 — it would have been composed by kindly hands — pious 
 
32 
 
 THE CATARACT. 
 
 tears would have dropped over it — a mother’s lips would 
 have pressed his cold cheek — troops of kinsfolk and neigh- 
 bours would have accompanied him to his last dwelling- 
 place — the blessed sun would have looked down upon his 
 grave, and the wind of his native hills would have swept 
 over it ; but now, the bottom of the whirlpool was to be his 
 burial-place, and his bones were to bleach for ever in the 
 torrent of the Caldron Linn ! His mind began to give way 
 under these dismal fancies. Amidst the roaring of the 
 waters, he heard shrill, and unnatural howlings. The super- 
 stitions of his childhood came across him ; and he thought, 
 while he listened to those terrible voices, that he heard the 
 demons of the stream rejoicing over their anticipated victim ; 
 and in the fantastic forms of the frowning rocks, as the 
 wreaths of spray passed over them, his imagination pictured 
 the lurid aspect and goggling eyes of the water kelpie 
 glaring upon him, and its rifted jaws opened to devour him. 
 His soul was wound up to agony beyond endurance. He 
 struggled to free himself from the gravel in which he had 
 sunk, but his struggles only sank him deeper; the water 
 rose to his lips, — he gasped for air and it came not; — 
 another second, and his sufferings would have ceased for 
 ever. But the same Power which had guided him over the 
 fall, and snatched him from the whirlpool, was still watch- 
 ing over him. 
 
 As the party that were searching, not for their companion, 
 but for his body (for not one of them supposed it possible 
 that he should ever be seen alive again), the same young 
 man who had plunged into the stream, as he sprung from 
 rock to rock, along the dizzy brink of the chasm, with the 
 sharpened eye which a shepherd’s life never fails to bestow, 
 his vision rendered doubly acute by the excited state of his 
 feelings, perceived a dark stationary speck in the water, 
 
THE CATARACT. 
 
 33 
 
 which a moment’s inspection convinced him to be the head 
 and shoulders of a human being. “ Ropes! ropes !” he 
 shouted to his companions; “he is alive; I see him stand- 
 ing at the foot of the Linn.” The binding-ropes from a 
 couple of hay-wagons were knotted, and handed to him, 
 and the upper extremity being firmly secured to the trunk 
 of one of the twisted birches, at the top of the bank, the 
 adventurous sherpherd slid down with the other in his hand, 
 until the overhanging rock forbade farther descent; those at 
 the top hollowing, in the mean time, to attract the attention 
 of their half-drowned friend, with what effect I have al- 
 ready stated. 
 
 No noise, indeed, that they could make, would have been 
 sufficient ; but, luckily, the wet and dripping hat, which 
 the shepherd had fished up from the cove, was still grasped 
 in his hand ; he dropped it into the water, and the wind 
 at that moment lulling, and the spray clearing away, it 
 fell immediately before the object whose attention it was 
 designed to attract. Roused by the sudden splash, he 
 turned his despairing eyes upwards, and beholding the 
 rope his friend was endeavouring to steady, he raised his 
 arms, and by a vigorous spring, contrived to catch hold 
 of it. There was still, however, much between him and 
 safety. From the surface of the water to where the 
 shepherd had propped himself was fully twenty feet ; the 
 rock jutted over the stream, so that while drawn up, young 
 H. had to hang suspended by his hands, the power of which 
 was nearly lost, from the time he had been immersed in the 
 river. He was swung backwards and forwards at a fearful 
 rate b^ the wind, and not unfrequently struck with violence 
 against the points of the rock. The rope also rubbed 
 against the sharp edge of the precipice, and ran a momen- 
 tary risk of being cut through. By great care, and greater 
 
34 
 
 THE CATARACT. 
 
 good fortune, he at length approached the top of the rock ; 
 and his humble friend, whose encouraging voice had nerved 
 him in his dangerous ascent, stooping down, caught the 
 wrist of the exhausted youth firmly in his grasp, and placed 
 him at his side. In another instant they were both in the 
 midst of the group at the top. 
 
 Young H. sickened and fainted as soon as he was placed 
 once more on the grassy bank. He was conveyed to the 
 farm-house, where he was put to bed ; whence he arose, 
 after a few hours of heavy sleep, without any other 
 symptoms of suffering than extreme weakness, from which 
 youth, and a healthful constitution, in the course of a few 
 days, completely relieved him. For many years after, 
 however, his sleep was occasionally disturbed with dreams 
 of rocks and rushing waters; and even in his waking 
 moments, a convulsive shudder would not unfrequently 
 pass over him, when he thought of the Caldron Linn. 
 
 PAGANINI. 
 
 Paganini allows no one to touch his violin : having, in 
 his travels been requested that favour by some person, 
 who, after having examined it, was preparing to destroy 
 it, when the Signor prevented him ; and then determined 
 never to trust it in the hands of any person whatever. It 
 is a genuine Guernerius, and he has had three thousand 
 guineas offered for it. 
 
!5 
 
 AN EAST INDIAN ADVENTURE; 
 
 A TALE FOUNDED ON FACTS. 
 
 Reginald Hammond, the subject of this narrative, was the 
 only son of an English merchant, who had spent the greater 
 part of his life at Oporto, as the resident partner of an 
 eminent commercial house, established in London. His 
 mother, a Portuguese lady of an obscure family, but en- 
 lightened and accomplished, far beyond the usual measure 
 of her countrywomen, unhappily died at the critical period 
 when her son had just completed his education. He had 
 passed about four years at one of the Portuguese univer- 
 sities, where, as in some of our own northern colleges, he 
 had learned a little of every thing, and not too much of any 
 thing. In one point, however, his acquirements were uni- 
 versally admitted and admired. Under the joint tuition of 
 an accomplished mother and a well-educated father, he 
 wrote and spoke the English and Portuguese languages 
 with such an equality of perfection, that it was impossible 
 to say which of the two countries seemed to possess the 
 best right to claim him as a native. 
 
 The death of Mrs. Hammond operated most disastrously 
 on the fortune of her husband, whose mind, at first debili- 
 tated by intense sorrow, recovered its energy only to demon- 
 strate tl^at it had lost its soundness and sobriety. He entered 
 into several new commercial speculations with such a reck- 
 less contempt of calculation and of consequences, that in a 
 very short time his affairs became embarrassed, his health 
 
36 
 
 AN EAST INDIAN ADVENTURE. 
 
 ruined, and he died, in almost entire destitution, about the 
 time that his son had completed his twenty- first year. 
 Though Mr. Hammond had always professed the protes- 
 tant faith, he was faithfully attended during his last illness, 
 by a learned and pious catholic priest, a near relation of 
 his wife’s family, who had long been fixed in a small cure 
 at Castrodairo. To this reverend person, though nearly as 
 poor as himself, the dying parent solemnly committed the 
 care of his son, and the trust was cheerfully and honestly 
 accepted. 
 
 At the house of father Lamego, to which that reverend 
 person immediately removed, with his charge, after the 
 death of the English merchant, the young man appeared to 
 labour under great depression of spirits, which the monotony 
 of his new residence, not a little aggravated. The good 
 father was anxious to divert his melancholy, but knew not 
 well how to procure the means. In searching his library, 
 however, for that purpose, he found a large collection of 
 Moorish and Spanish romances, and these he immediately 
 produced for the young man’s amusement. Nothing could 
 more effectually have answered the purpose. His heart, 
 compounded of the joint materials of Portuguese inflamma- 
 bility and English enthusiasm, became deeply and per- 
 manently smitten with the grandeur of the chivalric heroes, 
 and like another Don Quixote, he felt impatient to set off in 
 quest of adventures. Father Lamego was concerned to 
 see that his object had been carried so much farther than 
 he intended. He had secretly destined young Hammond 
 for his own profession ; and he now undertook the difficult 
 task of substituting the enthusiasm of religion for the love 
 of glory. “ The Christian faith,” said he, “ is the only 
 principle of true magnanimity ; that faith, which most 
 wisely as w'cll as benevolently, holds in light estimation the 
 
AN EAST INDIAN ADVENTURE. 
 
 37 
 
 heroic virtues; and, unlike the great ones of earth, bestow 
 its promises on the poor, and its rewards on the wretched. 
 This alone is that real greatness which can, in any degree, 
 render man the image of his Maker.” But these truly 
 sublime doctrines wrought no change on the youthful heart 
 glowing with the love of action, and smit with the passion 
 for adventure. 
 
 Finding his pupil thus unmanageable, father Lamego felt 
 the necessity of submitting to circumstances. He wrote, 
 therefore, to some friends in Lisbon, describing the propensi- 
 ties of his young charge, and requesting them to look out 
 for some employment suitable to his disposition. A short 
 time elapsed before he received any answer to these appli- 
 cations. At length, he was informed, that Don Francisco 
 Idanha, with whom, in youth, he had been acquainted at 
 the university of Salamanca, had been appointed to the 
 important post of Governor of Goa, with an important mili- 
 tary command, and that in his suite there was a vacancy 
 for a respectable young man who understood drawing and 
 music. Most fortunately for young Hammond, he played 
 on the Spanish guitar like Almodavar, who then formed the 
 delight of the court of Lisbon — and knew also a little of 
 drawing. These qualifications, being modestly exaggerated 
 by the worthy priest to his quondam friend, procured at once 
 an engagement for our young adventurer, to his inexpressible 
 delight. To form part of a military expedition to the East ; 
 to visit, under such aupices, the shores of Asia, the primeval 
 nurse of gods and heroes, and the cradle of the human race, 
 afforded full scope to the wildest reveries of imagination. 
 
 The gpod father exhausted his scanty resources in the 
 equipment of his beloved ward ; and having been furnished 
 with all that was thought necessary, by his kind guardian, 
 and with much more of ghostly admonition and fatherly 
 £ 
 
38 AN EAST INDIAN ADVENTURE. 
 
 counsel than he himself thought necessary, the young man 
 departed for the capital in the highest exultation of spirits. 
 He was received by the old General with as much cordiality 
 as was becoming his own dignity and the situation of his 
 dependant. The following day he was introduced by Don 
 Francisco, to his only daughter, Senorita Madelina, who, 
 having been some years motherless, had determined to ac- 
 company her father on this expedition. The preparations 
 being completed, the fleet, which consisted of several ships 
 of the line, with a suitable number of transports and a con- 
 siderable body of troops, left the Tagus with a favourable 
 wind. 
 
 In a few days, such of the passengers as were unseasoned 
 to the sea, were totally recovered from the languor and 
 discomposure of their new position ; and as the weather was 
 fine, the usual resources of a long voyage began to be in re- 
 quisition. Amongst these, music usually holds the first rank, 
 as a solace equally delightful to both sexes, and adapted 
 to the circumstances of their situation. The General’s 
 daughter was blessed by nature with a fine voice, but from 
 some peculiar circumstance, not necessary to be related, it 
 had been left almost wholly uncultivated; and Reginald 
 soon found that it was one of the expected duties of his 
 situation to supply the deficiency. That so experienced a 
 man as the General should thus bring a young woman ot 
 perilous age, and teeming with the susceptibilities of her 
 youth and climate, into juxta-position with an attractive 
 young man, may appear somewhat strange; but it must be 
 recollected that Reginald was a protestant and the son of a 
 merchant. For the daughter of a Portuguese Grandee to 
 bestow a glance of favour on such a being would be a 
 depravity as monstrous as though she were to fall in love 
 with a negro or an ouran-outang; — such a possibility was 
 
AN EAST INDIAN ADVENTURE. 
 
 39 
 
 of course never contemplated. No such sense of incon- 
 gruity, however, existed on the other side, and Reginald, 
 whose eagerness to be falling in love was as morbid and as 
 violent as romance-reading ever generated, soon found that 
 the General’s daughter exactly suited his purpose. She was 
 young, soft, languishing, and sufficiently handsome to pass 
 for irresistible in a situation where there were no rivals, and 
 consequently no invidious comparison. In a short time they 
 were mutually and deeply smitten, but according to the 
 received phraseology used in such cases, they were uncon- 
 scious of the soft impression, and ‘ knew not that ’ twas Love .’ 
 They knew, however, enough to have an instinctive sense of 
 the necessity of concealing what they felt; and as the 
 reserve on the lady’s side, was of course the more rigid of 
 the two, Reginald began to be convinced that he was 
 nourishing a hopeless passion. 
 
 Tull of this persuasion one night, after the lovers had 
 been for some hours delighting themselves and enrapturing 
 the good General with their bewitching strains, the young 
 man retired to his “ narrow bed” to ponder on the course 
 which it became him to pursue. He debated the matter 
 with himself according to the received rules of chivalry. 
 In that code, courage, honour, friendship, and love, comprise 
 the whole circle of human duties; all these, he perceived, 
 forbade the attempt to seduce the affections of the only 
 child of his benefactor. He then began to think on the 
 means of subduing his ill-starred passion, but the very 
 possibility of such an event would disgrace the dignity of 
 his heroic constancy. As there was therefore, no chance of 
 destroying his inextinguishable love the next necessary step 
 in the process of his affair was to destroy himself. He 
 deliberated much on the magnificent exit of the Brutuses 
 and the Catos, and had just worked himself up to the deed, 
 
40 
 
 AN EAST INDIAN ADVENTURE. 
 
 and come to the resolution of throwing himself into the sea, 
 when Hamlet’s celebrated soliloquy on this grave subject 
 (which his father had taught him) occured to his mind. 
 “ To take arms against a sea of trouble” he thought might 
 be done in some better way, than encountering the sea 
 itself. A third way was open to him, which it is surprising 
 that his course of studies had not sooner pointed out. This 
 was to raise himself to the level of his august mistress, and 
 to deserve her favours by heroic deeds. For this decision 
 he found many grave authorities. He recollected innumer- 
 able instances of ignoble youths, who by splendid achieve- 
 ments, had deserved first their spurs, and then their mistresses 
 — perhaps a princess, in despite of adverse fate. The course 
 of events offered an opportunity of realising this brilliant 
 vision much sooner than he expected. 
 
 On their approaching the coast of Malabar, the weather 
 which had hitherto been favourable, suddenly changed; 
 and a violent gale of wind from the north-west, which lasted 
 several days, drove them far out of their direct course. 
 After many ineffectual attempts to get to the northward, 
 several ships of the fleet, amongst which was that of the 
 General in Chief, were obliged to take refuge in a small 
 port in the Mysore, more than a hundred leagues to the 
 south of Goa. Here, however, they met with a very kind 
 reception ; and in a few days, Don Idanha and his daughter, 
 who had suffered much from the storm, had recovered their 
 health and spirits. The weather having moderated, they 
 were preparing to prosecute their voyage, when some inhabi- 
 tants of the place, with whom they had formed an acquaint- 
 ance, strongly recommended them to visit some curious ruins 
 of a subterranean temple, which were distant not more than 
 ten or twelve miles, and which, it was said, would afford 
 them a very high gratification. The young lady, who had 
 
AN EAST INDIAN ADVENTURE. 
 
 41 
 
 been reading some books of Indian Antiquities, was eager 
 for the excursion. 
 
 Accordingly the General, with Reginald, and about a 
 dozen gentlemen of the expedition, together with a crowd of 
 guides and Indian attendants, set forward at an early hour. 
 They took with them all necessary materials for dining al 
 fresco , but were especially cautioned not to halt near 
 thickets, or jungles, which might afford concealment for 
 wild beasts. After slightly surveying the ruins, which 
 rather disappointed their expectations, they set off on their 
 return ; and as the sun approached the meridian, and the 
 heat became insupportable, they began to look out for a 
 resting place. After travelling a few miles they observed, 
 in the midst of an immense plain, a small group of tufted 
 trees, free from underwood, which exactly suited their pur- 
 pose. Unhappily they did not observe that there was, at 
 the distance of not more than one hundred yards from their 
 halting place, a deep pit or hollow, filled with short wood, 
 which, not rising above the level of the adjacent plain, at- 
 tracted no notice, except on a near approach. 
 
 The company had just seated themselves at their repast, 
 and were beginning to indulge in the hilarity which is 
 usually felt after recently landing from a long sea voyage, 
 when a monstrous tiger issued from this hiding place, and 
 cautiously approached the unsuspecting group. When 
 within a few yards, some Hindoos got sight of him, and set 
 up a yell of terror, but it was too late. Before any of 
 them could lise from their seats, he seized the unfortunate 
 General, wdio happened to be sitting a little apart, by the 
 shoulder, and darted with him across the plain with the 
 speed of a tornado. The gentlemen leaped on their feet, 
 and gazed on the terrified spectacle with amazement and 
 £ 2 
 
42 AN EAST INDIAN ADVENTURE. 
 
 consternation, whilst the young lady, uttering a scream of 
 terror, sank down insensible. 
 
 It happened most fortunately that young Hammond had 
 performed this little journey on a fine Arabian horse, which 
 he had borrowed from his Indian host. The rest of the 
 company had preferred the use of palanquins, as a better 
 protection from the heat. The horse was now tied to an 
 adjacent tree; Reginald instantly ran to him, seized a sword 
 that lay on the ground, flung himself on his back, and 
 without a moment’s hesitation set off at full speed after the 
 ferocious beast. As the General was a man of consider- 
 able bulk and stature, the Tiger, notwithstanding his 
 prodigious strength and swiftness, was necessarily a little 
 encumbered by his prey, and his pursuer visibly gained 
 on him. At length they saw him range up along-side of 
 the enemy, and for some moments they seemed to strive, 
 neck to neck, like two English racers. They were now at 
 such a distance that they could only be seen by the help of 
 pocket telescopes — but at this fearful instant, Reginald 
 threw his sword aloft, and struck the tiger with all his 
 might across one of the hind legs, in the hope of dis- 
 abling him by cutting the sinews. The tiger uttered a 
 roar which shook the air like distant thunder, and imme- 
 diately dropped his prey on the ground. For a moment 
 he looked attentively at his flying assailant and at the 
 lacerated victim lying helpless beneath his jaws, as if 
 uncertain which to prefer. At length the vengefulness of 
 his savage nature seemed to get the better, and he darted 
 after his enemy with a speed increased by his freedom from 
 impediment. Reginald, in the mean time had gained a 
 distance of perhaps somewhat more than one hundred yards 
 of his deadly adversary. A second chase now ensued, 
 more fearfully interesting, if possible, than the former. 
 
AN EAST INDIAN ADVENTURE. 43 
 
 The pursued was flying for his life, the pursuer for ven- 
 geance. The company at the halting place watched the 
 contest with an anxiety which suspended their breath. In 
 less than a minute, one of the young men who had a 
 telescope at his eye declared that the tiger was gaining on 
 the young horseman. A minute after the rest of the com- 
 pany, confessed, with trembling, that he spake but too 
 truly, and the fate of Reginald Hammond was considered 
 as sealed. The next moment however, the same clear- 
 sighted young man declared that he saw the tiger losing 
 ground, and, before his remark was well finished, the 
 deadly savage actually fell to the earth with a frightful roar. 
 In a few minutes Reginald and his horse, both of them 
 nearly sinking with terror and fatigue, arrived at the halting 
 place. 
 
 As soon as it was perceived that Don Idanha had been 
 dropped by the tiger, a few of the officers, attended by se- 
 veral of the Hindoos, instantly set off to his assistance, and 
 making a circuit, soon arrived at the spot, when they found 
 the old gentleman in a state of insensibility from terror and 
 loss of blood. He was immediately put into a palanquin, 
 and with all possible tenderness, conveyed to his quarters in 
 the port where the expedition was detained. 
 
 In the mean time the rest of the party, Reginald included, 
 set forward towards the spot where his late formidable pur- 
 suer lay sprawling on the sand. On arriving within musket 
 shot, one of the Seapoys, who was a good marksman, fired 
 a shot which seemed to take effect, as the tiger jumped on 
 his legs, and ran a few steps towards the assailant, to the 
 great terror of the party ; but his power was gone, and he 
 quickly sank down. A few shots more dispatched him. 
 On reaching the body, which they still approached with 
 extreme caution, they were astonished at his monstrous size 
 
44 
 
 AN EAST INDIAN ADVENTURE. 
 
 and prodigious limbs. Reginald’s stroke had been well 
 aimed, though not quite effectual . The sinews were so 
 nearly cut through, that a short run had been sufficient to 
 disable him. 
 
 It will easily be believed, that all the medical officers 
 exerted themselves to the utmost in behalf of a commander- 
 in-chief so universally beloved as Don Idanha. On arriving 
 at the port, the most prompt assistance was immediately 
 afforded him ; but his wounds were found to be very serious. 
 The tusks of the furious animal had pierced to the bone 
 on both sides of the shoulder; but thanks to the old 
 General’s embonpoint , the bone itself was not crushed. The 
 fever, however, was very high ; and it was some days before 
 any one but his medical attendants could be permitted to see 
 him. In the mean time, he was constantly raving about 
 his deliverer, and demanding to see him, which was con- 
 stantly refused; every kind of agitation being very danger- 
 ous. At length, the fever having considerably abated, it 
 was considered that the patient might suffer more from the 
 irritation of prolonged opposition, than from the interview 
 so passionately desired ; and it was promised that Reginald 
 should be admitted the next morning. 
 
 When the young man entered the apartment, the old 
 gentleman was sitting up in bed, considerably recovered. 
 He stretched out his arms to his young hero ; and according 
 to his natural temperament, tried to be facetious ; but it 
 would not do. The tears stood in his eyes, though he tried 
 to suppress his emotion. Reginald looked on trembling, 
 for he saw that the crisis of his fate was at hand. “ I am 
 not,” began the old gentleman, “ as thou well know r est, a 
 man of many words ; but I must do something to express 
 my gratitude ; and if I cannot find means of doing so, my 
 heart will burst.” The youth was beginning to declare that 
 
AN EAST INDIAN ADVENTURE. 
 
 45 
 
 he owed him no obligation ; but the General impatiently 
 interrupted him. “ Young man,” said he, “ the thing is too 
 serious to be treated in the style of common-place compli- 
 ment. Nothing you can say will alter the real nature of 
 things : what can I do for you ? But alas 1” continued he, 
 “ why do I ask such a question ? My designs may be 
 magnificent, but my powers are, indeed, very small. My 
 young friend,” said he, “ vast as are your claims upon me, 
 my means of acknowledgment are few and slight. I have 
 but one thing on earth which is worth a young man’s 
 acceptance ; and that,” added he, hesitatingly, “ is my 
 daughter.” The colour rushed into Reginald’s face ; he 
 trembled in every joint ; and threw himself at the old 
 General’s feet. “ 0,” cried he, “she is every thing to me. 
 The whole world has nothing to offer in comparison with 
 such a prize — all that I have done for you ; the servitude 
 and devotion of a whole life” — “ Softly, good friend,” said 
 the old Don ; “ I have, indeed, thought of such a thing ; 
 and with a father’s partiality have fancied that she alone 
 was able to pay off my immeasurable debt of gratitude ; 
 but the difficulties are great, and perhaps insurmountable. 
 In the first place, she must come to thee almost a beggar” 
 
 Reginald was again beginning his protestations — “ For 
 
 Heaven’s sake, boy,” resumed the old gentleman, “ do not 
 interrupt me. I have, indeed, a pretty estate in the 
 Alentejo, but that is entailed, and will not come to her till 
 after my death. Thou would’st have little to live upon but 
 thy two lucrative appointments of draughtsman to this 
 precious government of Goa, and dragoman to the English 
 strangers. But this is not the worst ; I have always hated 
 the French for being such knaves, and the Portuguese for 
 being such fools : and I hate the English not less for being 
 heretics.” “ But,” said Reginald, with vehemence, “ I am 
 neither Frenchman, Englishman, nor heretic. ’Tis true, 
 
46 
 
 AN EAST INDIAN ADVENTURE. 
 
 my father was an Englishman and a heretic, but my mother 
 was a Spaniard ; I was born in Portugal, and converted 
 by father Lamego, three months before I embarked.” 
 “Speakest thou the truth?” cried Don Francisco, starting 
 up in his bed. “ I have in my pocket, the good father’s 
 attestation to the truth of what I have affirmed. ” 
 " Enough,” said the old General. “ Go to my daughter, 
 and try if thou canst gain her consent. I do not recollect 
 to have even forced the inclinations, even of a brute ; and 
 I certainly shall not begin with her.” “ I have her consent 
 also in my pocket,” replied Reginald. 
 
 “ Thou art indeed an impudent young knave,” said Don 
 Idanha laughingly ; but added after a pause, “ I have for 
 some time suspected that something was going on between 
 you.” “ No, on my honour,” replied the youth, solemnly, 
 " it is only since your unfortunate accident that Donna 
 Madelina, induced doubtless by the gratitude of filial 
 affection, has shewn me any particular marks of favour.” 
 "Well,” said the old gentleman, "and pray, my good 
 friend, how do you propose to live in this land of privations ? 
 Be so good as to expound to me the catalogue of your 
 ways and means.” " I ventured to presume,” said the 
 young man, modestly, “ that he who was so fortunate as 
 to marry the only daughter of Don Francisco Idanha, 
 younger son of a grandee of Spain, Governor of the forts 
 of Elpoonah and Mandapoor, and Commander-in-chief of 
 the king of Portugal’s forces in the east, need not be very 
 anxious on the subject of fortune.” " I must confess,” said 
 the Don, “ that you do presume at a tolerable rate ; but 
 suppose I was to waive this point, what am I to think 
 of a young fellow who has thus become a renegade to his 
 national faith, and could change his religion, as easily as 
 his residence, at the suggestion of an old priest.” " Pardon 
 me, Sir,” said Reginald ; " the change to which you 
 
AN EAST INDIAN ADVENTURE. 
 
 47 
 
 allude cannot boast the dignity of a conversion. It was 
 initiation, rather than alteration. When I went to 
 reside with father Lamego, my mind was a complete 
 * tabula rasa ’ on that momentous subject. In the narrow 
 scheme of my education, the great question of religion had 
 been designedly omitted. My father and mother professing 
 different creeds ; strenuous in their respective faith, were 
 beginning to disagree on that important point, when my 
 father proposed a compromise. * Let the boy,’ said he, 
 ‘ be kept apart from these discussions till he is of mature 
 age to choose for himself. The principal differences in 
 the two religions arise from the adventitious tenets which 
 dissent or disputation have affixed to each. They are both 
 collateral branches of the great Christian Tree, under the 
 protecting shade of which can alone be found peace in this 
 world, and salvation in the next. Let my son, in the 
 fulness of time, select which of the two shall appear to 
 him better adapted to the great ends of piety and virtue, 
 that are alike the object of each ; and in the meantime, 
 teach him only a few simple forms of devotion and the 
 immutable maxims of a holy and Christian life.” 
 
 “ To this fair and rational proposal my mother could 
 offer no objection. In this condition I was found by father 
 Lamego, and my present profession of faith is the result 
 of his instructions.” 
 
 “ Enough,” said the old Don, “ I have nothing more 
 to say, for I perceive that whatever objections I may 
 raise, you are ready with a refutation. So vade in pacern ! 
 I condemn you to the blessing of living on love and five 
 hundred dollars a year ; in addition perhaps, to the scraps 
 that fall from the Governor’s table.” “ An ample abun- 
 dance !” cried Reginald, with rapture, “ With such a gift 
 and on such conditions, the world has not an additional 
 blessing to bestow 1” 
 
48 
 
 THE BACHELOR. 
 
 Lo ! with a bachelor how things miscarry ! 
 
 What must he do ( transform himself and marry. 
 
 In the present age of benevolent speculation, when a new 
 form of charity no sooner starts up before the fancy, then a 
 meeting is called at Exeter hall or the London tavern, to try 
 its effect on other minds, and give it shape, and name, and 
 diffusion, it is somewhat surprising that the numerous and 
 increasing class of the unmarried of both sexes has gained 
 so little philanthropic attention. Perhaps the cause, though 
 not the reason, of this neglect may be found in the little 
 attention which the comfort of private life generally receive, 
 compared with that which is bestowed, and too often wasted, 
 on schemes for public advantage. The class, or rather the 
 two classes, of the unmarried have not hitherto been esti- 
 mated of great importance in society ; but, if individual 
 happiness must constitute the man, they are classes which 
 should have and hold their proportionate weight in the 
 balance of charity. 
 
 There is one marked difference between the unmarried of 
 the male and the female class, much in favour of the 
 former, and to which, perhaps, may be ascribed somewhat 
 of the superior importance which the bachelors assume, if 
 they do not acquire, above those we too unceremoniously 
 call old maids. The former possess, what the latter most 
 deplorably want, a common, definite, undeviating designa- 
 tion in society — the same designation, in fact, that belongs 
 
TIIE BACHELOR. 
 
 49 
 
 to all others of their sex and age. When you meet with 
 unmarried females of years materially beyond the marriage- 
 able point, you know not how to address them. Most 
 unwilling are you to confound them with nations by giving 
 them a national title; and equally averse are you to subject 
 them to ridicule by continuing one which is no longer suited 
 to their age and appearance. Gallantry and politeness 
 have, however, contrived to retain the latter title to a period 
 much beyond all propriety, and which would be unpardon- 
 able were it not sanctioned, and sometimes demanded, by 
 the very ladies themselves who are most in danger of suffering 
 the consequent reproach. Who that has visited much has 
 not been astonished as well as disappointed, when the draw- 
 ing room door was thrown open, to hear the names of Miss 
 Gardiner and Miss Carpenter announced, evidently at their 
 own desire; when upon them entering and answering to 
 their names they are found elderly ladies of seventy, or 
 ancient ladies bordering upon fourscore ! Supposing them 
 or others thus introduced not so far advanced, their age is 
 often found at variance with their title, while their title 
 conjures up a momentary vision which their appearance 
 completely dispels. 
 
 From this inconvenience not only are bachelors generally 
 speaking exempt, but they escape it the more as they 
 become older. A bachelor, in the primary sense of the 
 term, may sometimes lack a definite title. He may have 
 seen years enough to receive with propriety the common 
 prefix ; but being still a bachelor, and not expected long 
 to remain such, that prefix may not yet with general 
 consent be assigned him— at least without itself having the 
 qualifying prefix of young. But let him disappoint society 
 by continuing in single blessedness, and the farther he 
 advances, the more he claims and receives the honourable 
 
 F 
 
50 
 
 THE BACHELOR. 
 
 title ox master — preceded, we grant, by the adjective old , 
 as grey hairs are here and there upon him. Even this, 
 however, is not to distinguish him as a bachelor, still less 
 to degrade him below married or widowed tribes of the 
 same sex and standing. 
 
 It is one of this grade of bachelors to which the present 
 narrative alludes. His date was, at least, as far back as 
 the last generation. He descended from Scottish ancestors, 
 and they of every known race were, like himself, distin- 
 guished for blending the eccentric with the amiable, and 
 much that pertained to the fancy with quite as ample a 
 portion of judicious thinking and benevolent feeling. Like 
 every other north Briton, he always spoke well of his 
 native country ; but unlike every other real patriot, he never 
 wished, at least never attempted, to return to that country. 
 He might be considered as belonging to a class of English 
 gentry now almost extinct, having merged into that from 
 which it was then with difficulty distinguished — the class 
 comprehending the diversities of the mercantile world. Our 
 upper class of traders, generally called merchants, contains, 
 in point of education and manners, very nearly those who 
 then were called country gentlemen. 
 
 As he drew near sixty years of age, the unmarried 
 among his female friends began to despair; which they 
 would have done ten years before, had they known the 
 pledge he had given to his near relations, never to burden 
 himself or impoverish them by taking a wife. Fond of 
 quaint remark and cheerful conversation, he now began to 
 render the affair one of his most frequent and even mirthful 
 themes, and to assign reasons for his state which at an earlier 
 period of life might have been met with serious arguments 
 and facts almost sufficient to overturn them. One very 
 common remark, especially to strangers, was this — “ They 
 
THE BACHELOR. 
 
 51 
 
 tell me that by remaining as I am I have lost many superior 
 pleasures; but they never hint at the multitude of painful 
 incidents I have escaped.” 
 
 A stranger once present, when, for the fiftieth time, this 
 remark was made, ventured to conclude that he referred 
 chiefly to the disputes that occurred between married gen- 
 tlemen and ladies. “ Not at all. Sir” — he answered — 
 ‘‘Not at all” — to the surprise of every one present. I 
 allude to something very different from this : to be plain 
 with you, something the very opposite to this. Domestic 
 disputes never made any great impression upon me — cer- 
 tainly never had any thing to do with my resolution to 
 continue single. So far as the mutual behaviour of hus- 
 bands and wives is concerned, I confess they are generally 
 too fond of each other to please me.” 
 
 “ Is it possible?” asked the stranger, with astonishment 
 evidently shared by the whole company — “ for persons so 
 nearly allied to love each other too much?” 
 
 “ There you mistake me again” — the bachelor replied — 
 evidently not displeased that he was mistaken, because it 
 enabled him to prolong the dispute, and diversify his own 
 remarks on the subject. “There you mistake me again” — 
 he repeated, according to his custom of uttering almost 
 every thing twice. “ I did not say that husbands and wives 
 loved each other too much ; but that they were often too 
 fond of each other. Their very alliance proves or ought to 
 prove that each loves the other better than any other object 
 in the world ; but fondness I have generally found to be a 
 different thing from love. That mutual friendship and con- 
 fidence which we call love is an inward and excellent prin- 
 ciple, at which I can never be offended ; but that fond shew 
 of it, and which for aught I know, may be its mere substi- 
 
52 
 
 THE BACHELOR. 
 
 tute as often as its genuine manifestation, is something with 
 which I never can be pleased.” 
 
 The company had now arrived by a circuitous route, in 
 which the bachelor delighted, at the true meaning of his 
 remark. But the reason of a thing is often very different 
 from its interpretation, and of much greater importance. A 
 little private reflection will generally find out the latter ; but 
 for the former you must mostly be indebted to another’s 
 wisdom. Here the bachelor was again at home, waiting to 
 assign his reason for introducing the subject, whether in 
 answer to inquiry, or in relief of a pause of solicitude and 
 silence. 
 
 The stranger broke the silence by asking, why the 
 fondness of a happy couple at all disconcerted him 1 The 
 bachelor rejoiced in the question, because he had an 
 answer ready which ensured him the victory. “ Whether 
 a couple,” he answered, “ who are so fond in company are 
 really happy, or can be so when they are left w r ith no 
 company but themselves, is a question with me and many 
 others : but let that pass. Is it possible. Sir, that I can 
 ever be pleased with conduct so pointed and personal ?” 
 “ Pointed and personal !” exclaimed several voices at once. 
 
 Nothing daunted, the bachelor repeated the charge, and 
 then proceeded thus to explain himself. “ I will take the 
 lady first. Sir, not only as generally entitled to precedence, 
 but as committing in the present case the first and greatest 
 offence. Does not every act of fondness for her husband 
 indirectly hint, nay, openly avow, that I am not the object 
 of any woman’s preference 1 And then her husband, does 
 not he declare by a return of such open fondness that I 
 have no object on which to lavish my tenderest and best 
 affections ! Such conduct, I admit, is not quite so per- 
 sonally offensive as that of a young gentleman, w r hom we 
 
THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UHWA$*TY OF ILLINOIS 
 
THE BACHELOR. 
 
 53 
 
 once elected secretary to our debating society. I was on 
 a committee of three, of which he was one, to determine 
 on a series of subjects for our winter’s discussion, when he 
 had the effrontery to propose, and in my own house too, 
 that one of the subjects should be this question. * Can that 
 gentleman he a good member of society who remains un- 
 married at the age of forty V I leave you to judge of 
 the indignation with which I left the room, and resolved 
 that either he or I should leave the institution !” 
 
 “ But is not the conclusion which you draw from the 
 fondness of a married pair, and which fondness, when 
 expressed in your presence, so much offends you, still taken 
 for granted 1” asked the stranger. 
 
 ** Certainly it is,” the bachelor replied, “ and so are a 
 thousand things taken for granted without offence, which 
 would like that be highly offensive if publicly declared. 
 You are a young man of some personal attraction, and 
 as you passed on to this house you took no notice of a 
 homely young woman who was looking at you from her 
 father’s window. Now in silently passing her you gave 
 no offence, though your conduct implied that whenever 
 you chose to marry she would not be the object of your 
 preference. But if you had halted to tell her so in words 
 or by some significant action, would she not then have 
 been offended, and with sufficient reason 1” 
 
 Another of the company now accosted the bachelor with 
 the question whether conjugal love might not as lawfully 
 and inoffensively be displayed, as a superior house, and 
 beautiful grounds, and costly furniture, and a sumptuous 
 table 1 
 
 Here the ingenuity of the bachelor was put to the test ; 
 yet it promptly and perfectly triumphed. “ I admit, Sir,” 
 he answered, “ that these things not only are to be seen, 
 f 2 
 
54 
 
 THE BACHELOR. 
 
 but that visitors are often invited, for them to be displayed 
 and admired ; nay, that silence in their praise is sometimes 
 rebuked by the proud inquiry — ‘ Don’t you think I must 
 have expended a pretty fortune about this place? yet, if 
 I am even invited more for the shew than through hos- 
 pitality and friendship, I am not so much offended as in 
 the other case. The display may be mortifying to us who 
 have no similar greatness to exhibit ; but this offence admits 
 of much relief. I may be informed by the architectural 
 beauties of the mansion — refreshed by the cool avenues of 
 the grove — pleased with the fine taste of the furniture — 
 and more than pleased with the exquisite delicacy of the 
 banquet. But what palliative like the least of these can 
 I find in the display of married fondness ? what do I see 
 or feel but an unredeemed, unqualified insult V* 
 
 This discussion took place, as every reader must judge, 
 in a party guiltless of the offensive conduct of which the 
 bachelor complained. There were, indeed, husbands and 
 wives present ; but they were well known to him, to each 
 other, and to the rest of the company ; and were so far 
 from disapproving of the theme, that they had urged him to 
 introduce it — unaware, however, of the peculiar train of 
 argument to which it would lead him. As he grew warm 
 in his last remark, a wish was expressed that the subject 
 of conversation might be changed — that the custom of 
 thrusting children on the attention of adult visitors might 
 be discussed. Had it been wished that he should, by a 
 new topic, recover his usual evenness of temper, this was 
 not the most suitable suggestion that could have been made ; 
 but it will have at least one advantage, in giving our readers 
 a more full insight into the bachelor’s peculiar character 
 and creed. He commenced this discussion with more than 
 his ordinary warmth. 
 
THE BACHELOR. 
 
 55 
 
 “ When I consider how little of a rarity children are 
 — that every city, town, and village, every street, lane, 
 and alley, swarms with them — that the poorest people 
 commonly have them in the greatest abundance — that there 
 are few marriages that are not blest with at least some of 
 these bargains — that they often turn out ill, and defeat the 
 fond hopes of their parents — I am utterly at a loss to 
 account for the frequent pride that the latter assume in 
 having them. Granting that they only force them upon 
 our attention when young, still their very commonness 
 should teach their parents a different course. A young 
 phoenix or two I should like to see, because they are seldom 
 to be found ; but let no parents think of delighting me with 
 the sight of children.” 
 
 Here a father present, who had taken the bachelor’s side, 
 on the former question, entered the lists against him in 
 defence of children. “ We were all children once,” he 
 said, “ and I may properly ask what we should have been 
 now, if then, we had been thus rigorously barred out of 
 circles of intelligence and friendship like this? like Peter 
 the wild boy, we might have been able to whistle through 
 the woods, and feed on beech-nuts and blackberries ; but 
 for the polish our civilization has received, if not for our 
 civilization itself, we are indebted to an early introduction 
 to genteel society.” 
 
 “ Between an introduction of their children to society, and 
 the forwardness which I censured in their parents,” answered 
 the bachelor, “ there is wide distinction. I blame nothing 
 but the assuming, ostentatious, unnecessary forcing of chil- 
 dren on our attention to be admired, and the demand thus 
 made upon us for a tribute of gold, frankincense, and 
 myrrh^ — once, I devoutly admit, offered literally, and with 
 the greatest propriety, to an infant.” 
 
56 
 
 THE BACHELOR. 
 
 “ Now you refer to Scripture, 1 ” said the father, “ let me 
 do the same, and remind you of the prophet’s words — ‘ As 
 arrows in the hand of a giant, even so are young children : 
 happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them.” 
 
 “ So say I,” replied the bachelor, “ happy may you be 
 with your full quiver of them ; but then don’t discharge 
 the contents of your quiver upon us who have no weapon 
 to defend ourselves. Your acquaintance with scripture 
 should have taught you that children are there often as- 
 sociated with angels ; and, to prove that I have no aversion 
 to them, it is my opinion that they should be left, much 
 more than they are, to the communion of angels, their 
 more appropriate companions. I look upon many of their 
 silent and solitary smiles as a sort of celestial converse 
 which they are carrying on with angelic spirits, and that 
 their parents are improperly disturbing them, by letting 
 them be brought into the company of earthly and mortal 
 beings !” 
 
 At least this remarkable turn in the bachelor’s speech 
 restored the good humour of the few parents present, and 
 gave them patience to listen to something not quite so 
 welcome. It was drawn forth by a young man of the 
 company quoting, with a supercilious smile, the common 
 proverb, — * Love me, love my dog,’ — which was manifestly 
 the full extent of his knowledge of proverbs or any thing 
 else. The bachelor now forgot his angels, and the mild 
 temper in which he had referred to them. Resolving to 
 chastise the Sancho of the company, as he afterwards called 
 him, he took up the proverb and gave the following com- 
 ment upon it. “ Taking the musty proverb literally, I 
 confess I do not approve of it, since many a dog almost 
 adored by its owner, may be so snarlish towards strangers, 
 as to become not only offensive but intolerable. When, 
 
THE BACHELOR. 
 
 57 
 
 however, this proverb is applied to the subject of children, 
 it is still more objectionable. You may contrive to love 
 a dog, or an inferior thing to a dog, for the sake of its 
 owner, because it may not only remind you of him, but 
 be in itself of an indifferent nature, and capable of receiving 
 whatever character your fancy may give it. Not so with 
 children ; they have a real character, and an essential being 
 of their own : they are amiable or unamiable in themselves, 
 and must be loved or not as their peculiar qualities com- 
 mend themselves to your affections or stand in opposition 
 to them.” 
 
 “Well, I confess,” said an elderly lady, “ that the ten- 
 derness and sweetness of children always charm one, and 
 I never wish to be out of their company.” 
 
 “ Madam,” replied the bachelor with great emphasis, 
 “ you have touched the very string that vibrates with my 
 own feelings. Children are indeed attractive, and there is 
 something truly charming in their tender age and playful 
 looks and motions : but on this very account I consider 
 them as entitled, on their own footing, to our attention, and 
 not to be looked upon as mere appendages to their parents, 
 to be admired for their sake. What must be the conse- 
 quence of this absurd principle in reference to the children 
 of parents for whom you have no regard! Let them be 
 ever so amiable and enchanting in themselves, and your 
 dislike of those who brought them forth must lead you 
 to despise their progeny. No ! place children of all families 
 on their own ground — give them to understand that their 
 acceptance in society depends on their own good qualities — 
 make every father and mother sensible of this rule by your 
 strict observance of it — and I will engage that every fresh 
 generation shall be a real improvement on the preceding 
 
 one. 
 
58 
 
 THE BACHELOR. 
 
 Thus the conversation on children closed ; and, with 
 the brief outline of another subject of discussion, our 
 descriptive portrait of the bachelor must be left, though 
 in a very unfinished state, to produce its own effect upon 
 the reader’s mind. It was a subject to which he attached 
 greater importance than he had done to either of the 
 preceding ones, because in this new theme he himself was 
 more immediately the object of approval or dislike. Tokens 
 of applause had followed his last remarks on children, 
 which led to a conversation, by no means ungrateful to 
 his ear, on the agreeable variety of sentiment that the 
 presence of a gentleman like him in company created. For 
 some time the conversation was diffusive, and almost every 
 one had a remark to utter in favour of the general opinion. 
 Sancho, ‘ the young man of one proverb,’ as he was now 
 intitled, was silent ; but every other individual, female as 
 well as male, was ready with a meed of praise ; and, when 
 all had presented their offerings of compliment on the 
 bachelor’s sagacity and wisdom, a pause of silence intimated 
 that he was expected again to edify them. 
 
 “ Of course a being like myself,” he said, “ can gain 
 admission to society like this only by special favour, and 
 can keep it only by the same privilege : and then, my 
 tenure is very precarious, and any important change in 
 a family may issue in my expulsion, or a reluctant toleration 
 of me the little time I have to live. I will illustrate what 
 I mean by a story of myself. — 
 
 “ I was friendly, very friendly, with a gentleman who has 
 now a large family, long before his marriage, for he married 
 late, and often said he never would marry at all, if he could 
 be sure of my society till his death. Not a day passed but 
 we were together. At length he took a wife, who signified 
 that no bachelor must be at the wedding, and that she never 
 
THE BACHELOR. 
 
 59 
 
 visited at the house of one who bore that reproachable 
 character. Still the husband hoped that so old and faithful 
 a friend would continue to be well received at his house. 
 In a month, however, she took care to remind him that 
 I did not come into the house on her side — that is, I 
 did not sneak into the family in her train, but knew the 
 way long before she did. In six weeks she added another 
 intimation, that I had better be advised to let my visits 
 be like those of angels to mortals on earth — 
 
 “ Few and far between.” 
 
 “The good man mentioned these things to me without 
 delay, with tears that he was obliged to mention them 
 at all. But this was a small thing compared with the next 
 injunction he received, and was obliged to lose no time in 
 delivering to me. Would you believe, ladies and gentlemen, 
 that she insisted on its having been presumptuous for the 
 good man, her husband, to form any friendship without first 
 consulting her ! and this was to be his final communication 
 to me, who had been his friend, his tried and faithful friend, 
 even before she was born !” 
 
 “ But this has not been a sample of the general treatment 
 
 you have received from your wedded friends,” the lady 
 
 of the house remarked. 
 
 “ Most assuredly not, madam,” he answered, “ and I 
 rejoice that it is perfectly in contrast with the treatment I 
 receive in your family. But, may I tell you, there are 
 many intermediate modes of treating me, and with some of 
 them you will be amused. When I have a regular ticket 
 of admission, I am strangely dealt with ; and I suspect that 
 in some cases I am invited, and urged to accept the invi- 
 tation, that I may afresh undergo this ordeal. In one 
 
60 
 
 THE BACHELOR. 
 
 family, I can scarcely speak but all around me laugh : not 
 with wonder at any sublimity in what I say; nor with 
 delight because it gives them pleasure ; but with a sort of 
 stare which seems to say — ‘ what an odd man he is, and 
 what oddities he utters ! In another family, the husband, 
 who once deferred to me as to an oracle, now appears to 
 think me old fashioned — fit for the by gone days of his 
 bachelorship, but not able to add to his stock of modern 
 ideas ; especially in the presence of ladies, or in any thing 
 which concerns them. In a third family, the wife has 
 plainly accustomed herself to wonder in my absence at 
 what her husband could possibly see in me to admire. 
 Nay, in my presence, she has once or twice, when I have 
 •done speaking, said to him — ‘ My dear, I thought you 
 described your friend as a wit ! The same lady afterwards 
 deigned to consult me, but it was evidently in the end to 
 insult me. I was constrained to remonstrate with her on 
 the subject of consultation, when she took the opportunity 
 of remarking that her husband had often spoken of me 
 before tbeir marriage, and from what he said, she had formed 
 a very different opinion of me to what she was constrained 
 to form now she knew me !” 
 
 At this moment supper was announced, and an end was 
 put to the writer’s opportunity of hearing more for the 
 present of this eccentric but amiable and enlightened 
 
 BACHELOR. 
 
61 
 
 A NIGHT’S ADVENTURE. 
 
 During the protectorate of Cromwell, Joel Rede, as en- 
 thusiastic a wight as ever issued from the British Isles, had 
 been indulging his wandering propensities in various regions 
 of Europe. With an odd, wild-looking little person, a stout 
 blackthorn in his hand, cut from the hedge of his father's 
 orchard, and his knapsack on his back, he had traversed 
 France and Spain ; had indulged innumerable classic 
 reveries in Italy ; had, more recently, paced the shores 
 of its northern lakes; rhapsodized in Val D’Arno, where 
 Milton, not long before, had walked, and collected imagery 
 for his scenery of Eden ; had thence diverged, into Switzer- 
 land, and, as the year was drawing to a close, was direct- 
 ing his steps towards Vienna. 
 
 It was November. He was now in the midst of the 
 mountainous forests of Bavaria. The woods and heaths 
 had assumed all the richness of their autumnal hues. The 
 sky above was bright as crystal ; the turf beneath his feet 
 was dry as at midsummer ; the wilds through which he 
 was journeying were silent and solitary, and Joel was 
 full of enjoyment. He was one of those well-meaning, 
 but eccentric beings, that, with the kindest feelings towards 
 every living thing, yet hold themselves loose from the bonds 
 of society. He wanted no kindred mind to participate in 
 the operations and emotions of his own ; he had no object 
 in filling his heart with a multitude of solemn and sub- 
 
 G 
 
62 
 
 A NIGHT’S ADVENTURE. 
 
 lime images, but the immediate delight they afforded ; 
 and, at night, he entered a hut, an inn, or whatsoever 
 place of rest presented itself, — passed a few hours of 
 lively intercourse with the persons among whom he hap- 
 pened to be thrown, — laughed, chatted, gave "way to a 
 flow of exuberant spirits, and departed without a reflec- 
 tion that he would never see one of those beings again. 
 
 As I observed, the open clearness of the season had in- 
 duced Joel to linger in the forests through which he was 
 passing ; but, suddenly, the weather changed ; strong winds 
 began to sweep, howling and sighing, through the woods, 
 and to whirl the already loosed leaves in eddying torrents 
 around him ; and heavy showers of gusty rain beat in his face. 
 These plain facts startled him from his trance, as he lay at 
 the foot of an old tree, gazing with fixed eyes on a stream 
 that foamed and dashed vigorously down the steep before 
 him; and, springing to his feet, he looked around at the 
 signs of the sky, and marched briskly forward. What 
 was the next town, or the distance to it, he scarcely 
 knew, for he often left these things to Providence ; but 
 he found the day, influenced by the alteration of the 
 weather, rapidly closing, and himself in a narrow valley 
 between woody rocks that kept winding and ascending 
 in a manner that appeared interminable. It speedily grew 
 aark ; the track became invisible ; the clouds vanished 
 from the face of heaven ; a multitude of stars shone out, 
 and a keen, frosty gale announced the sudden arrival of 
 winter. 
 
 Our wanderer, with all his experience, became alarmed. 
 In summer he could have awaited, with pleasure, the 
 return of morning ; but in the intense cold and darkness, 
 exposed to the visitations of the wolf and bear, — at a 
 perfect loss which way to direct his steps, he was struck 
 
A NIGHT’S ADVENTURE. 
 
 63 
 
 with consternation. There was no alternative, however, 
 but to push on in the most probable direction : and, stum- 
 bling over stumps and stones, he proceeded in a state 
 of mental and bodily anguish inconceivable. At length, 
 to his exquisite joy, he saw a light; — it appeared at a great 
 distance, but stationary ; and, advancing towards it, after 
 some hours of tremendous exertion, — after surmounting rocks, 
 descending valleys, passing through dense masses of wood 
 wrapped in the thickest gloom, he stood on a lofty height, 
 crowned with a pine forest. 
 
 The light now shone twinkling just before him ; it appeared 
 to issue from some lofty window ; but, as he carefully ap- 
 proached, he was astounded with the roar of waters some- 
 where far below him ; and the wind, sweeping chili and 
 gustily, convinced him that he was on the brink of some awful 
 precipice. It was indispensible, however, to approach the 
 light, if possible ; he therefore subdued his terror as well as 
 he could, and feeling his way with his stick, moved step by 
 step, as a blind man explores his track. It was singular : — 
 his path was still on the smooth and solid rock ; beneath him 
 sounded the dash of descending torrents ; yet he could not 
 conceive the existence of a bridge in such a situation. He 
 moved on, and presently was stopped by a strong gate, as of 
 an ancient castle. He knocked, and was answered by the si- 
 multaneous bark of a dozen hounds. Presently he heard a 
 hoarse voice commanding them to silence, and, a minute 
 afterwards, the same voice demanded at the gate who he 
 was. He replied, a poor traveller who had lost his way. 
 “The devil you are!” said the voice, in a tone of mingled 
 gruffness and astonishment. “ Lost your way! In the 
 name of all hobgoblins, how did you find it here ? ” “ That 
 is more than I can tell,” answered Joel; “but, in the 
 name of all good angels — nay, for God’s sake, let me in 
 
64 
 
 A NIGHT’S ADVENTURE. 
 
 for the night ! ” *' Stand there a moment,” replied the 
 
 voice ; and, in about ten minutes more, he found himself 
 scanned by the flare of a torch, from the loophole above 
 the gate ; soon after, the huge gate opened, was locked 
 behind him, and he found himself following his unknown 
 guide. A minute more, and another door flung open, 
 dashed upon his eyes a flood of light that perfectly blinded 
 him. As his vision gradually accommodated itself to the 
 glare, he beheld himself in one of the strangest scenes it 
 had ever been his lot to witness. He was, apparently, in 
 the vast hall of an old castle ; a wood fire blazed up the 
 wide, open chimney ; and a numerous group of men, wo- 
 men, and children, stood gazing on him in evident astonish' 
 ment. The wild, rough figures of the men dressed in 
 hunter-style ; the dogs on the hearth ; the arms disposed 
 on all sides, impressed Joel with an instantaneous persuasion 
 that he had fallen into a nest of freebooters. Beside the 
 arms and dresses of the men, the only furniture of the room 
 consisted of a large plank for a table, and various logs and 
 rude benches for seats. The table was furnished with ap- 
 paratus for supper, and a huge joint of venison was roasting 
 at the fire. The greatest astonishment was exhibited on 
 the countenances of the whole group at the appearance 
 of the stranger, and various interrogatories were put to him 
 to ascertain first, by what means he had arrived there, and 
 then, who and what he was. When he stated that he had 
 been led by a light, the whole crew turned, with one accord, 
 the most dark and furious looks upon one of the women, 
 who confessed that, her husband being out, she had placed 
 a light in the tower for his guidance. The display of fierce 
 countenances, and the burst of horrid words which ensued, 
 perfectly petrified Joel, and revealed to him, at once, the 
 truth of his first impressions. The poor woman, half dead 
 
A NIGHT’S ADVENTURE. 
 
 65 
 
 with fear, stole away to extinguish the light ; and the chief, 
 with surly hospitality, invited Joel to take a seat by the fire. 
 Here he was further questioned as to the whence, whither, 
 and objects of his journey. To these inquiries, he gave 
 such an explanation as immediately cleared their gloomy 
 brows ; and in return, they gave him such a description of 
 the path by which he had reached their retreat, as filled him 
 with horrible amazement. 
 
 Supper was now served up, and, as the horns of stout ale 
 and good wine of Wurtzburgh went round, a freer spirit 
 began to breathe amongst them. Joel, with his easy ac- 
 commodation to circumstances, related many of his travels 
 and adventures, and showed them so much of himself, that 
 every fear of future evil from him seemed to vanish from their 
 hearts. As the liquor warmed their bosoms, they began to 
 avow freely the nature of their occupations, and to boast of 
 the pleasures of the free life of the forest. Joel, while 
 listening to these details, contemplated with increasing in- 
 terest the various figures and countenances about him, and 
 longed, in his soul, for the power of putting upon canvass so 
 extraordinary a picture as they presented. There was one 
 individual, however, picturesque and striking as were the 
 whole, who drew his eye continually from the rest. He was 
 a tall, stout man, of a dark complexion ; his hair as black 
 as ink ; his features finely shaped ; a high, broad brow ; an 
 aquiline nose ; but the colour of his skin was sallow and 
 deathly ; and his eyes, red, wild, and generally half closed, 
 but glancing out, now and then, with a quick, fierce flash, 
 and again retiring beneath their lowering lids. He sat 
 beneath the wide chimney ; his arms crossed on his bosom ; 
 his face turned towards the ground ; and his whole air full 
 of gloom and desperation. He looked, to Joel’s eyes, 
 formed for the most terrible of assassins. He whispered to 
 c 2 
 
66 
 
 A NIGHT’S ADVENTURE. 
 
 the captain, “ I should like to know something of that 
 man.” “ So should I,” he replied ; “ he has been here 
 some months, but I know nothing more than that he is a 
 man ready to do what no one else dare undertake. Let 
 us try him. “I say, Conrad,” he added, turning to the 
 man, pray let us hear something of your life. Here you 
 live amongst us, and we open our hearts to you wide as 
 daylight, but you keep yours close as death.” 
 
 This address produced a most striking effect upon the 
 person to whom it was directed, and upon all present. A 
 sudden curiosity lit up the faces of every one. The man 
 himself seemed to have received a violent shock ; a dark 
 shade fell over his features, — a deadly pallor seized them ; 
 which was as speedily succeeded by a sullen, sanguine 
 suffusion of colour, and a flashing of his fiery eye, that was 
 perfectly appalling. For some minutes he gazed earnestly 
 upon the ground in silence ; his whole frame seemed rigid 
 with a convulsive agony which he strove to subdue. Then, 
 starting up, with clenched hands, and a voice that seemed 
 to sound in its hoarse hollowness from the very bottom 
 of his heaving chest, he exclaimed, “ Do you wish to know 
 my life ? You shall ! What is there which should not 
 be told? Why should I shrink from any pang, any ridicule 
 which the lowest creature might desire to fling upon me ? 
 I will speak ! — and if there be any who dare to taunt me, 
 so be it. I am a Jew !” “A Jew !” echoed twenty voices 
 of amazement. “A Jew! who feasts on the wild boar?” 
 “ T have said it ! Why should I regard the foolish super- 
 stitions of Jew or Gentile? I am their victim. They have 
 assailed me, — stripped me of every thing; — mocked, — cast 
 me out from the face of men ; — driven me to desperation 
 — to blood — to agony ; — why should I cling to them ? But 
 listen. 
 
A NIGHT’S ADVENTURE. 
 
 67 
 
 tJ My father left me with little wealth ; but with a mind 
 and constitution full of ardour and perseverance. I devoted 
 myself to the habits of trade, according with the spirit of 
 my nation. I soon acquired a comfortable property in 
 Vienna, my native city. I married ; had children growing 
 up around me, and looked forward to the joy of seeing them 
 all fixed in some degree of the world’s favour before my 
 death. 
 
 “Returning from a long journey, I had scarcely seated 
 myself in my house, when I was seized with a sudden shiver- 
 ing, and sank into insensibility. When I recovered my 
 consciousness, I found myself bound, in darkness, and 
 experienced a motion, as if in the act of being carried 
 from one place to another. The idea flashed upon my mind 
 that I was supposed to be dead, and that they were actually 
 bearing me to the grave. The thought filled me with a 
 horrible agony. I gave a loud yell of despairing anguish, 
 and struggled with all the might of my being. At once, 
 I felt a terrible shock — a momentary stupor — and, recover- 
 ing, I beheld the light of day. It was as I had imagined — 
 the sound of my cry, the perception of my struggle had 
 startled my bearers ; — they precipitated the coffin to the 
 earth, and fled. The fall had burst open my detested 
 prison ; — with the energy of mingled vexation and joy, I 
 succeeded in disengaging my limbs from the grave clothes, 
 and arose. What a scene was before me ! It was the 
 evening of a winter day. The ground was hard with frost, 
 and sprinkled with a slight layer of snow ; beside me I 
 beheld the grave which was to have received me, gaping 
 wide, with all its red and crumbling bones and fresh earth. 
 The sharp air pierced me as I stood in my white burial 
 dress; and I trembled through every joint with cold and 
 agitation. I turned towards the city, and in the distance 
 
68 
 
 A NIGHT’S ADVENTURE. 
 
 beheld my affrighted friends watching my motions, and 
 ready again to take flight at my approach. I lifted my 
 hand, and hailed them ; but what I meant as a means to 
 draw them towards me, only caused them to fly in a shriek- 
 ing and promiscuous crowd. They who a few days before 
 clung round me as an object of affection, — they who 
 regarded my friendship as one of the blessings of their 
 lives, now, from some mysterious notion of my contact with 
 death, rushed away from me with unconquerable terror. 
 Moved as I was with the sense of the dreadful danger I 
 had escaped — with alternate horror and gratulation — having 
 in this strange guise to enter the city, I yet could not help 
 bursting out with laughter at the folly of their terrors. 
 
 But my mirth, if mirth such an hysterical excitement 
 may be called, was of short duration. When I entered 
 the city, and passed along in my grave-garments through 
 the crowds of astonished people ; and heard the gathering 
 rabble exclaiming that a madman had broken loose; and 
 before me saw my old acquaintance run, and cry, as they 
 ran, “ A devil, a devil !” I was filled with anger and in- 
 dignation. With rapid strides I hastened to hide myself in 
 my own house from this scene of surpassing folly ; but what 
 was my astonishment — it was closed! — door and window 
 closed against me ! I heard my children screaming and 
 shrieking within; 1 saw my wife — the wife of my bosom, 
 look out of the window with a countenance disfigured by 
 grief and abhorrent dismay ; and bid me begone, as a fiend 
 that had dared to invade the sacred body of her late hus- 
 band. I stood stupefied with intolerable horror. The 
 whole extent of my misery came rushing upon my brain. 
 I recognized in the words of my wife the belief of my race 
 — a belief in which I had myself firmly participated — that 
 the dead can no more return to the earth — but that such 
 
A SIGHTS ADVENTURE. 
 
 69 
 
 appearances are only the result of demoniacal agency. It 
 was in vain to attempt to combat that which I now felt too 
 well to be an error. I knew the pertinacity of my people ; 
 and I stood at the door of mine own house, an alien to its 
 joys and affections for ever, cursing the accident which had 
 rescued me from a real death. But that death seemed likeiy 
 yet to be mine. The rabble, incited by the cries and im- 
 precations of the Jews, surrounded me in hundreds; my 
 own relations and friends, like so many furies, began to 
 stone me; and called upon the mob for help. In a few 
 seconds more, I should have been destroyed; but the police 
 came pouring in, and saved me. 
 
 It was difficult to convince the magistrates, before whom 
 I was taken, of the nature of the case ; but when they had 
 ascertained that such was the firm belief of my race in 
 that country, knowing their obstinacy gave me little hope. 
 They did not however, spare any means of persuading my 
 wife and friends ; it was useless. They summoned them 
 before them ; and my wife appeared almost dead with the 
 violence of different emotions, but recoiling with horror 
 from my presence. It was in vain I spoke — in vain I 
 implored her to use her senses ; she shrank from me as from 
 a fiend, and was carried off in a state of insensibility. 
 There wanted nothing to complete my misery. The 
 worthy magistrates did all they could to comfort me. 
 They gave me clothes and money, and counselled me to 
 quit the city ; and to wait in some distant place, for the 
 rectifying influence of time. Alas! there was little solace 
 in all this; but there was no alternative; I knew the 
 tenacity, stubborn as life itself, with which a Hebrew ad- 
 heres to his opinion. I issued once more into the street, — 
 by night. I once more approached the house which held 
 all that in the world was dear to me; — creatures that were 
 
70 
 
 A NIGHT’S ADVENTURE. 
 
 wearing out their hearts with grief for the loss of him, 
 whom, by a most amazing infatuation, they themselves were 
 spurning from them, to everlasting solitude and unmitigable 
 evil. I stood gazing at it in a fury of passions that have 
 no utterance. I cursed the brittle ties of earthly affections, 
 that could not conquer the foolish delusions of the brain ; 
 1 cursed the human understanding that, boasting of its 
 power, was thus made the dupe of the most empty chimeras : 
 I cursed God in the bitterness of my torment and fled. 
 The gates were thrown open to me, — I rushed into the 
 country, a homeless, tieless wretch, blasted by a momentary 
 accident, into everlasting hopelessness. 
 
 I need not relate the course of my life during the next 
 twelve months, I may not unfold the dry yet ever-burning 
 heart of desolation and despair that I bore with me ; — hell, 
 in its fiery vocabulary of pain has no words to imbody its 
 fulness; — it is enough that there roamed from place to 
 place, a wretch who, in his torment defied Heaven to add 
 one pang to it. Fool! who can tell the extent of misery 
 with which the spirit is empowered to torture itself. As I 
 mused one day on my strange destiny, a sudden hope arose 
 — perhaps Mabel will relent; — perhaps reason will over- 
 come educational prejudice; — perhaps even now she longs 
 once more to behold me. A hellish fear as rapidly suc- 
 ceeded it — may she not marry ? — may she not be married, 
 even now ? I sprang from the ground with the deadly 
 pang of that hideous idea, and struck my clenched hand 
 against the tree before me. Even here my torment had not 
 reached its crisis; — I know not by what fatality I coupled 
 that hateful notion with one infinitely more so. 
 
 There was a being — a Polish Jew, for whom, of all men, 
 I had, from my first knowledge of him entertained an 
 invincible loathing; — a soft, heavy, bloated creature, with 
 
A NIGHT’S ADVENTURE. 
 
 71 
 
 the yellow and speckled complexion of a frog ; with a thin, 
 pale yellow beard, and with full and blood-streaked eyes, 
 that gloated with excess of grossness and low cunning. The 
 miscreant had seemed impelled by a desire to frequent my 
 presence, as strong as mine was to avoid him. Wherever I 
 went, he persecuted me with his odious aspect — with his 
 more odious stupidity and grovelling notions. He seemed 
 of a nature made to grub in the very dust of life. The 
 meanest views, the vilest schemes, the most sordid wiles 
 perpetually occupied him 3 and, in the obtuseness of his 
 mind, he seemed impenetrable to your keenest scorn. In 
 vain did I avoid, in vain did I insult him 3 — there he was 
 for ever before me. 
 
 How could the abominable idea, that possibly this wretch 
 had married my wife, — had become the arbiter of my chil- 
 dren’s fortunes, ever enter my head? But it did, and with 
 it an inextinguishable flame. Goaded by this diabolical 
 imagination, I set off with precipitation to Vienna. Day 
 and night I went along groaning and raving beneath its 
 pauseless torture. Bloody ideas already revelled in my 
 mind, as if the phantasm which my own brain had raised 
 were truth itself. I gloried in the prospect of vengeance, 
 and broke out, at times, with exulting laughter in the soli- 
 tude of my journey. I rushed on— -my undying rage was 
 my nutriment — I reached the city. God of Jacob ! by 
 what mysterious means had the truth been already an- 
 nounced to me! It was truth! it was all truth! That 
 wretch — that bloated compound of all human hatefulness, 
 was the husband of Mabel — the father of my children. I 
 beheld them! — in his sordidness he had removed them 
 from their fair home! — not all the wealth I had left could 
 bribe him to spare it to them. He had carried them into 
 the lowest street — into one of the vilest dens of the whole 
 
72 
 
 A NIGHT’S ADVENTURE. 
 
 city. I beheld them — there — oh! — destruction! — there sate 
 that turgid monster at his sordid meal ! — there sate at the 
 same small table, the wasted faded form of my once beauti- 
 ful wife! Pest on him! By what hellish arts could he 
 have bewitched her to unite herself to a wretch like him ! 
 Behind, and in cold, in filth, and rags, sate the children of 
 my love ! Death and furies! what did I not daily behold, 
 as in mean disguises I haunted the vicinity of their abode. 
 What pitiful, what degrading, what soul-withering employ- 
 ments did I not see my children doomed to ; — what words 
 did I not hear, in hate and tyranny, poured into the ears 
 of my beloved Mabel ! 
 
 But when I learned from his own mouth — as I overheard 
 him sitting composedly on his hearth, glaring coldly but 
 fiendishly on his victims — that by these cruelties he solaced 
 himself for the contempt I had formerly and for ever shown 
 him, — wretch! it could not last! I haunted him with a 
 rage of vengeance that could not be satiated by a common 
 doom! A thousand times I could have taken his reptile 
 life as he crawled to and fro in the obscurity of his low 
 resorts ; but I scorned to suffer him thus to escape from 
 me. But the day came! I saw him set out on a journey 
 to his native country. With the fierce throb of joy which 
 gushes up from the depths of guilty despair, as fire bursts 
 forth in glorious volumes from the sullen heart of hell, I 
 watched him. For days I kept him in view, exulting in 
 my certain vengeance. On he went in the vileness of his 
 speculations. At length, as he rested in the opening of a 
 wood, in the twilight, far from human habitation, I slowly 
 stalked across his path — glared upon him in silence— and 
 disappeared. Then was the first reward of all my watchings ! 
 I saw that he recognised me; — I saw the terror that fell 
 upon him; I saw him start up, as T passed beneath the 
 
A NIGHT’S ADVENTURE. 
 
 73 
 
 trees; and, with trembling limbs, and a countenance hideous 
 in its native grossness and its present fear, often looking 
 back, wildly fly on. I pursued him. To me it was some- 
 thing like happiness to be the avenging fiend. I enjoyed 
 the cruel fear that drove him on ; and, from day to day, I 
 kept it tremblingly alive. Daylight brought him no safety ; 
 night no rest. At length he entered upon a plain towards 
 the end of his journey. Here he walked for a space in 
 ease; for, within the wide horizon, his pursuer was not 
 seen; but, before he reached its boundary, he beheld me 
 dogging his steps, and fled, with a speed which astonished 
 me, to the neighbouring hills. Alarm seized me lest J 
 should loose him : I hurried after, but found him not. I 
 rushed through the mountains with fury; — the thought of 
 his escape was madness : when lo ! from the top of a cliff 
 where I stood, I beheld him, seated by the valley stream, 
 five hundred feet below me. The intoxication of the dis- 
 covery disarmed my vengeance of its prudence. I snatched 
 up a mass of rock that lay beside me ; I held it up above 
 the unconscious wretch — I paused — I marked him with a 
 greedy eye — I loosed the stone ; a whiz ! — a sullen dash ! — 
 and he was a battered and shapeless heap ! 
 
 The triumph was complete. The terrified and tortured 
 wretch was annihilated; — but vainly had I hoped that 
 his destruction would assuage my burning heart. I had 
 added the misery of guilt to that of fortune ; and though I at- 
 tempted to laugh at the bugbear terrors of conscience, they 
 laughed at me, — they fixed their vulture talons still deeper 
 in my soul, and I fled, writhing beneath their insupport- 
 able pangs. I had glutted my vengeance; but had I 
 restored my hopes'! No! My lot was the same, — a 
 hopeless, ruthless, everlasting lopping of all the branches 
 of peace and affection. That is my life; what I have been 
 n 
 
74 
 
 A NIGHT’S ADVENTURE. 
 
 I have now told; what I am you see and know.” He 
 sate down, exhausted with the vehemence of his awful 
 passions, and a silence of horror and affright filled the 
 whole room. A bed was found in an upper chamber, for 
 Joel; but it was past the power of man to find him sleep. 
 The dreadful images which had been just poured into his 
 mind, haunted him like so many demons; and he lay tossing 
 in a phrenzied impatience, and longing for the day. 
 
 But, before daylight, he was surprised to hear a sudden 
 hurrying and commotion in the place. There was a rapid 
 running too and fro; men cursing, women lamenting; and 
 in burst the Captain, exclaiming — w r e are betrayed! I 
 believe you have nothing to do with it — but there are who 
 think otherwise. I will protect you, if I can; but take 
 these” — throwing upon the bed, whence Joel had started 
 in terror and astonishment, a sword and a brace of pistols 
 — “ secure your door, and, if you are attacked, defend 
 your life.” He disappeared. Scarcely knowing what he 
 did, Joel threw on his clothes; but, instead of keeping in 
 his room, he seized the arms, and issued forth to ascertain 
 more exactly the state of affairs. 
 
 He forced his way to a ruinous tower, — and there what 
 a scene presented itself! In the glimmering dawn he 
 discovered that the strong-hold where he was, stood on a 
 tremendous rock. On three sides the broad waters of the 
 Danube swept its inaccessible and awful precipices; on 
 the fourth a numerous body of soldiers was preparing to 
 force the gate. A desperate and simultaneous battering, 
 as of a legion of hammers, stones and crowbars was heard ; 
 — a moment after the gate gave way, and in rushed the 
 eager assailants. A fire of musquetry from a hundred loop- 
 holes in the fortress, was kept up with such spirit, that 
 they fell in heaps and confusion through the court. Then 
 
A NIGHT’S ADVENTURE. 
 
 75 
 
 the troop of bandits was seen sallying forth with the velocity 
 and fury of desperation — the tall figure of the Jew conspi- 
 cuous at their head, hewing his way with a huge axe, like 
 a raging and irresistible demon. A desperate struggle 
 ensued ; when, in the midst of the sanguinary contest, arose 
 a cry of fire! “Fire! fire!” shrieked the women through- 
 out the castle. Joel, whose attention had been rivetted on 
 the combatants, now beheld the smoke issuing from the 
 staircase of the turret where he stood. He flew down the 
 winding steps in a phrenzy of despair. All was one scene 
 of suffocating gloom. The stifling smoke, here and there, 
 lit up with red and rolling flames, filled every place. It 
 was death to remain ; it was, perhaps, equally death to go 
 forth ; the only faint hope lay in effecting a surrender to the 
 soldiers. He tried, and succeeded. 
 
 When he could a little collect his confounded faculties, 
 he beheld the body of bandits killed, or in custody ; and the 
 women rescued by the soldiers from the flames that now, 
 wild and flickering, flared forth on all sides of the tower. 
 They hastened to retreat; when lo! Joel beheld the only 
 escape was by a narrow bridge of loose stones, suspended 
 over a tremendous chasm by which the rock, whereon the 
 castle stood, was rent from the main land. On the centre 
 of this bridge stood the Jew, brandishing his axe with the 
 gesture of an exasperated maniac. A dozen men sprang on 
 to attack him ; but no sooner did they set foot on the fatal 
 bridge, than, striking with his axe the key-stone from its 
 place, they — himself — the whole skeleton fabric plunged 
 headlong together down the hideous gulf ! A murmur of 
 horror broke from the whole troop; and it was some time 
 before they sufficiently recovered themselves to advance to 
 the spot. It was a dark fissure, some fathoms deep, through 
 
7(j 
 
 SINGULAR BEQUEST. 
 
 which the river rushed, in a fierce, eddying torrent ; — the 
 Jew and his victims were swept away for ever ! 
 
 Abridge of the trunks of trees was flung across; and 
 they marched to the next town. Here Joel, through the 
 testimony of credentials on his own person, was speedily 
 liberated; and pursued his journey home, half cured of 
 his love of wandering, and perfectly convinced that the Jew 
 was, what his friends had supposed him — a devil incarnate! 
 
 SINGULAR BEQUEST. 
 
 Mr. Cowland of Chelmsford, has, by his will lately 
 made, directed, that two days after his decease his body 
 shall lie for four successive days, three hours in each day, 
 at his dwelling-house, for such surgical operation as the 
 majority of the resident medical gentlemen may think fit; 
 with permission for every practitioner in the medical depart- 
 ment, residing in this town and vicinity, to attend; but 
 that no other person shall be allowed to be present at the 
 operations except his relations and his executors. On the 
 last day of the medical and surgical attendance Mr. Cow- 
 land directs that they shall carefully place every particle of 
 his mortal remains in a coffin for interment on the following 
 day in the church-yard of Chelmsford, with the usual sacred 
 funeral rites ; and, the better to insure his wishes being 
 carried into effect, he has chosen a surgeon for one of his 
 executors. 
 
77 
 
 AN OLD WOMAN’S STORY. 
 
 Oh slippery state of things. What sudden turns. 
 
 What strange vicissitudes in the first leaf 
 Of man’s sad history. To-day most happy. 
 
 And ere to-morrow’s sun has set, most abject. 
 
 How scant the space between these vast extremes.” 
 
 Blair's Grave. 
 
 In the little narrative we are now about to present to our 
 readers, there is nought to excite astonishment, or “ to rouse 
 the wild emotions of the heart.” It is merely an “ un- 
 varnished tale,” calculated to shew the uncertainty of 
 human events, and prove, that not even the most steady 
 practice of virtue, nor the best concerted schemes, are 
 always rewarded by the attainment of our wishes. Our 
 views, however, are not confined within this narrow state 
 of existence. A merciful Creator has granted us the power 
 of looking beyond this sublunary world ; and taught us, 
 while enjoying conscious rectitude of heart and mind, to 
 view, according to their real worth, the 
 
 “ Glittering vanities of empty greatness ; 
 
 The hopes and fears, the joys and pains of life.’ 
 
 Though little infected with the pride of birth, a disorder, 
 said to have been once very prevalent amongst the natives of 
 North Britain, (to which portion of the United Kingdom I 
 have the honour to belong), I will not omit to tell you, our 
 family was one of the most respectable in Scotland, and had 
 
 ii 2 
 
78 
 
 AN OLD WOMAN'S STORY. 
 
 invariably preserved its good name and its independent pos- 
 sessions together, during several succeeding generations. My 
 father was twice married, and had children by each of his 
 wives. Those by the first, were one son, and a daughter 
 who died at an early age. By the second, my brother and 
 myself. As our father’s eldest son was sixteen years the 
 senior of my brother, he was married, and in the possession 
 of the paternal property, when Archibald was placed at the 
 High School of Edinburgh, and myself at the most respect- 
 able seminary of private education our metropolis then 
 afforded. 
 
 Our brother was the guardian of our persons and fortunes ; 
 and as Archibald was inclined to study physic as his future 
 profession, he was, at a proper age, entered at the university, 
 and in due time commenced his practice in the northern 
 capital, with the fairest prospects of celebrity and success. 
 With a heart full of sensibility, generosity and benevolence, 
 his disposition was as amiable as his manners were engaging, 
 and his understanding superior. His feelings were lively, 
 his nature ardent, and his temper hasty : but good sense and 
 sound principles directed all his actions ; and though he 
 joined in the amusements of the world, with all the anima- 
 tion which renders youth interesting, his mind was far above 
 the frivolous pursuits of the giddy, as it resisted the allure- 
 ments of pleasure, when they tended to the subversion of 
 virtue and religion, or in any manner served to debase the 
 moral character. 
 
 At the age of eighteen, I returned from school to the seat 
 of rny ancestors, where it was purposed I should remain 
 while under age, or continued in a single state. My fortune 
 was not large ; but it was what in those days was accounted 
 very respectable, as Archibald and myself jointly inherited 
 the portion of our deceased mother, and the provision 
 
AN OLD WOMAN’S STORY. 
 
 79 
 
 attached for our father’s younger children. Our brother 
 had no family; for though his wife had borne several 
 children, they partook too largely of the delicacy of her 
 own constitution to remain long inhabitants of this earth. 
 She was a woman of a truly amiable disposition and agree- 
 able manners ; but her usually indifferent state of health 
 prevented her mixing much in society ; while the nature of 
 her complaints often pressed so severely on her spirits, that 
 she would pass whole days in her chamber, attended only 
 by her husband, who appeared sincerely attached to her, 
 and to anticipate their approaching separation with the 
 liveliest regret and apprehension. 
 
 From the great disparity in our ages, and his having 
 always appeared to consider me in the light of a child, I did 
 not enjoy the same confidence with my eldest brother, nor 
 feel for him the same strong affection, as linked me in the 
 bonds of tenderest amity with Archibald, who was only four 
 years older than myself, and from whom I had never been 
 a day separated, until his removal to Edinburgh, where I had 
 still frequent opportunities of seeing him, and strengthening 
 that friendship and similarity of ideas, taste, and inclination, 
 which led us ever to participate in each other’s joys and 
 sorrows, and created the most tender affections that ever 
 glowed in the bosoms of a brother and sister. 
 
 Though residing at a considerable distance from Edin- 
 burgh, I yet enjoyed the frequent pleasure of my beloved 
 brother’s company, as there was a magnet in our house, 
 which drew him often thither, in the person of a ward of 
 our elder brother ; a young lady nearly related to both 
 our parents, and possessing in her own right a handsome 
 independence, of which, her guardian only nominally 
 charged himself with regulating, until her attainment of 
 the age of twenty-four ; at which period, by the will of 
 
80 
 
 AIM OLD WOMAN’S STORY. 
 
 her deceased parents, she was to become the sole mistress 
 of herself and ample fortune. 
 
 Placed in a situation which could scarcely fail of creating 
 habits of friendship and familiarity, my brother and Miss 
 M ‘Donald’s mutual affection might be said to have grown 
 with their growth. Their attachment was not sought to be 
 concealed from the friends of either ; who, as they advanced 
 in life, concluded the matter would only terminate in a 
 matrimonial engagement. Her father had been the early 
 friend, as well as relative, of ours, and sought the road to 
 fortune in the company’s service in India, whence he re- 
 turned to his native land in possession of a comfortable 
 independence, ere years and a broken constitution precluded 
 the possibility of his enjoying it. Having a small patri- 
 monial estate in our neighbourhood, he repaired its ancient 
 mansion-house, and marrying a lady of genteel connexions, 
 experienced for several years the sweets of independence 
 and domestic peace. At his death, which happened when 
 his daughter was only nine years of age, he bequeathed her 
 the bulk of his fortune ; and her mother being then dead, 
 he consigned her to the guardianship of my elder brother, 
 of whom he entertained a high opinion, and who, he trusted 
 (as he expressed himself upon his death-bed) “ would in 
 all respects perform the part of a parent to his beloved 
 Charlotte.” 
 
 Soon after my return to the country, I renewed a childish 
 attachment with a young officer, of the name of Hamilton, 
 a relation of our family, and the intimate friend of my 
 brother Archibald. He was the only son of a gentleman 
 of easy fortune, who approved his choice ; and at the ex- 
 piration of the third year after my return home, I became 
 the happy wife of the worthiest of mankind. As my hus- 
 band’s regiment was then quartered at Musselburgh, whither 
 
AN OLD WOMAN’S STORY. 
 
 81 
 
 I accompanied him, I had frequent opportunities of seeing 
 my brother, and the happiness of witnessing the cordiality 
 and confidence which subsisted betwixt the two beings most 
 dear to my affection. This was a period to which I often 
 cast a retrospective view, with mingled sensations of delight 
 and sorrow. But, alas ! it was not destined to remain of 
 long duration ; “ ’twas happiness too exquisite to last,” and 
 only served to prove the instability of all our worldly feli- 
 cities ; while the memory of the days that are gone yet shew 
 me, that 
 
 “ Of joys departed never to return 
 How painful the remembrance.” 
 
 At the end of seven months our regiment was ordered to 
 Ireland, and Archibald accompanied us nearly to Port- 
 Patrick, where we were to cross the channel that divides 
 the kingdoms. He was then in excellent spirits ; in the full 
 vigour of life and manly beauty. Fortune smiled upon his 
 present days, and gilded all his opening prospects. His 
 fondly beloved Charlotte had passed the last three months 
 with me ; and her affection appeared as sincere as that of 
 her lover. She was beautiful, accomplished, and possessed 
 of the most fascinating manners. Her temper was agree- 
 able, and her vivacity no less so. Admired and followed 
 wherever she appeared, her beauty and fortune drew num- 
 berless suitors in her train ; but neither admiration nor 
 flattery appeared to move her affection, nor afford the 
 slightest ground for a doubt of her constancy. 
 
 On my leaving the vicinity of Edinburgh, she returned to 
 her guardian’s, where she still continued to reside, even after 
 the decease of my sister-in-law, who died in less than a year 
 after my departure from Scotland : and the charge of my 
 
82 
 
 AN OLD WOMAN’S STORY. 
 
 brother’s domestic concerns were entrusted to an elderly 
 maiden aunt of his, by the mother’s side, whose age and 
 decorous behaviour rendered her a sufficient protectress for 
 Miss M‘Donald. 
 
 This lady, who had nearly reached her grand climacteric, 
 was a woman of an ambitious, proud, artful, and avaricious 
 disposition ; whose high opinion of her own talents, and 
 knowledge of the world, could only be equalled by her 
 whims and caprices, and her absurd fondness for her 
 nephew, whose very foibles she extolled as virtues, and on 
 whom she might, in fact, be said to doat with romantic 
 enthusiasm. At her follies and ridiculousness, Charlotte 
 had used to enjoy many a hearty laugh ; and her opinion 
 of this woman ever appeared to be the very reverse of 
 favourable. But wonderful are the changes we often find 
 arise in the minds of mortals ; and Charlotte soon displayed 
 a striking proof of the versatility of her’s, by seeming to 
 behold the person in question through a very different 
 medium. And shortly after her becoming the ostensible 
 directress of my brother’s household, she wrote me in such 
 terms of praise of Mrs. Betty’s temper, disposition and 
 understanding, that I was astonished at the change ; and 
 imagining it was only meant in irony, I replied to her letter 
 with the frankness natural to my disposition, and gave my 
 candid opinion of the character of the lady. This produced 
 another volume of commendations, intermingled with some 
 oblique reflections on the severity and injustice of my ob- 
 servations ; but, as I did not consider the subject of suffi- 
 cient importance to dispute upon, I suffered it to drop, and 
 heard, for some time afterwards, little to remind me such a 
 being was in existence. From my dear brother I often 
 heard during the twelve months which succeeded our leav- 
 ing Scotland, and his affection for Charlotte seemed even 
 
AN OLD WOMAN’S STORY. 
 
 83 
 
 more than ever ardent and sincere. Love drew the outline 
 of the picture, and a lively imagination completed it, with 
 the most vivid colouring ; but who can fix the point of 
 happiness, or say 
 
 “ To-morrow’s sun shall warmer glow, 
 
 And o’er this gloomy vale of woe 
 Diffuse a brighter ray.” 
 
 Poor Archibald had hitherto basked in the sunshine of 
 prosperity ; but the sad reverse was drawing nigh : and 
 even at the moment when he last wrote me of Charlotte’s 
 “ unaffected simplicity of heart and manners, her ingenuous 
 frankness, and sweet temper,” misfortune was advancing 
 with rapid pace ; treachery and dissimulation were under- 
 mining his peace ; and the death-blow to his prospects of 
 felicity, on this side of eternity, was wielded by the hand he 
 almost idolized. Alas ! the unworthy object of his faithful 
 attachment was indeed a base deceiver ; and three months 
 previous to the period fixed on, by her own appointment, for 
 her marriage with my brother, she actually bestowed her 
 hand upon her guardian ; and it was afterwards confidently 
 reported, was prompted only so to do from the dread of the 
 consequences likely to follow her familiarities with Mr. 
 M‘Leod, who basely triumphed over the feeble virtue of a 
 thoughtless girl, and robbed a brother of his reason and his 
 peace. 
 
 From a friend, warmly interested in the fate of Archibald, 
 my husband received the first tidings of his melancholy si- 
 tuation. A fever of the most alarming nature had succeeded 
 his knowledge of his mistress’s desertion and of his brother’s 
 perfidy; and, after many paroxysms of frantic grief, he had 
 sink into a state of stupefaction, from which the medical 
 
84 
 
 AN OLD WOMAN’S STORV. 
 
 attendants deemed it doubtful whether he ever might 
 recover. “ He is the mere wreck of what he was,” said 
 our friend, in his letter, “ a melancholy spectacle of human 
 misery. Hour after hour he passes in the same state of 
 apathy. He rarely eats ; and yet more rarely tastes the 
 blessing of repose. In conversation he cannot be brought 
 to engage, even on the subject of his griefs. Sad, silent, 
 and indifferent to all around him, his sighs are deep and 
 frequent, and convey the most distressing sound to those 
 who hear them. His pale countenance bears not a trace 
 of his wonted animation. His looks are haggard ; and tears 
 of anguish often roll in silence over his cheeks, proclaiming 
 the agonizing sensations which distract the noblest soul that 
 ever felt the pressure of misfortune.” 
 
 Ah! what were the feelings of Hamilton and myself on 
 the perusal of this heart-rending intelligence. I loved my 
 brother with the tenderest affection; I had esteemed Mr. 
 M‘Leod ; and felt for the perfidious Charlotte the regard of 
 a sister. No less interested in the fate of Archibald was 
 my dear impetuous husband. Naturally of a hasty temper, 
 warm in his friendships, and disdaining even the semblance 
 of dishonour, his heart bled for the fate of my brother; 
 while, equally keen in his resentments, he execrated the 
 authors of his wretchedness. 
 
 To fly to his relief was the first wish of his heart; and I 
 was no less anxious to become the soother of our poor 
 sufferer’s affliction. But at that time I was not sufficiently 
 recovered from the consequences of having given birth to a 
 still-born child, to quit my room, far less undertake a 
 journey to the capital of Scotland. It was therefore settled, 
 that Hamilton should set out alone, and that as soon as my 
 health admitted of my travelling, I should also hasten to 
 administer comfort to the aching bosom of the ill-fated 
 
AN OLD WOMAN’S STORY. 
 
 85 
 
 victim of ingratitude and baseness. Accordingly, my hus- 
 band, who readily obtained leave of absence from the com- 
 manding officer, commenced his journey; and having 
 scarcely allowed himself an hour’s rest upon the way, he 
 in safety reached the metropolis of Scotland, where he 
 found the much regarded object of his anxious solicitude 
 nearly insensible to every thing around him ; but who, 
 shortly after his friend’s arrival, began to evince an interest 
 in his society, which was considered a favourable omen; 
 and the event justified the physician’s expectations, as he 
 gradually, though slowly, regained a portion of health, and 
 reason seemed to be resuming her empire over his mind; 
 though it was evident his cheerfulness was fled for ever, and 
 his recollection of his sorrows too powerful to be subdued, 
 even by the healing hand of time: 
 
 “No time could e’er his banish’d joys restore, 
 
 “ For ah ! a heart once broken heals no more.” 
 
 From the accounts transmitted me by Hamilton, I had 
 the satisfaction to learn that Archibald’s condition although 
 still a melancholy one, was gradually bettering. But I 
 could perceive my husband’s resentment against the author 
 of his friend’s unhappiness was daily increasing; while so 
 conscious was he of the nature of his feelings, that in the 
 last letter I received from him, before my departure from 
 Ireland, he acknowledged it was impossible to govern his 
 ire ; and if, as he had heard was their intention, the perfidi- 
 ous pair made their appearance in Edinburgh, he dreaded 
 the warmth of his temper would lead to some act of 
 violence, or at least of insult, if it was his fortune to en- 
 counter either. “ The effrontery of that vile woman,” 
 added he, “ is indeed astonishing : but vanity and want of 
 
86 
 
 AN OLD WOMAN’S STORY". 
 
 feeling, direct her conduct: and to gratify her inordinate 
 love of admiration, and display her bridal finery (which, 
 report says, exceeds any idea that could have been formed 
 of her own extravagance and her husband’s folly) she is 
 coming hither; hopeful, no doubt, to become the leading 
 star of fashion in our capital, and silence the reports which 
 have been circulated to the disadvantage of her reputation, 
 by the splendour of her appearance, and the sumptuousness 
 of her entertainments. Do not blame me, Euphemia, 
 should such an event be followed by my forgetting even the 
 respect due to her sex, and bitterly reproaching her with 
 inhumanity and baseness. You know the warmth of my 
 temper, and my friendship for your brother; but you cannot 
 judge of my feelings when I contemplate the wreck he is 
 become, the shade of all that delighted, and rendered him 
 the admiration of whoever had the happiness of knowing 
 him. ’Tis then, my love, that not even the precepts of 
 religion, and forgiveness of our enemies, inculcated in my 
 youth by my respected parents, can allay the tumults in 
 my bosom, or overcome the ardent desire I feel to punish, 
 as they merit, those who blasted every prospect of my 
 friend’s felicity, and levelled to the dust one of the noblest 
 works of nature.” 
 
 This letter which I only received on the eve of my jour- 
 ney, occasioned me considerable uneasiness. I was aware 
 of Hamilton’s impetuosity, and trembled for the consequen- 
 ces of a meeting with M‘Leod, whose temper was also 
 warm, and rather haughty; his courage invincible: and 
 I was confident his spirit such as could not brook an insult 
 offered to himself, or the woman he had made his wife. 
 In a word, the most terrifying apprehensions took possession 
 of my mind ; and in all its increasing gloomy horrors, I ex- 
 perienced the dreadful burthen of that foreboding of impend- 
 
AN OLD WOMAN’S STORY. 
 
 87 
 
 ing evil, which often haunts us for a length of time, ere the 
 fatal blow is struck at our repose. With as much expedition 
 as my yet weak state of health permitted, I performed my 
 journey, attended by a faithful female servant, who had 
 lived many years in our family, and accompanied me to 
 Ireland. 
 
 As my eyes first caught a distant view of the city, my 
 heart seemed ready to burst with an indescribable feeling 
 of apprehension and melancholy sadness ; and tears I 
 could not repress were rolling down my cheeks, when 
 the sight of my husband’s servant, advancing upon horse- 
 back towards me arrested my attention ; and, breathless 
 with impatience, I stopped the chaise, and demanded 
 tidings of his master. With looks which I never can lose 
 the recollection of, the poor fellow, — who had been des- 
 patched to meet me, and by imparting the afflicting 
 intelligence of my husband’s situation, prevent the sur- 
 prise and horror I must necessarily have experienced, had 
 I alighted at mv brother’s without any knowledge of the 
 sad affair that had happened, — essayed to subdue the feeling 
 of his own distracted mind, and in as concise and least 
 alarming terms as possible, he related the circumstances 
 he was sent to communicate. They were briefly these : — 
 That on the preceding evening, Mr. and Mrs. M‘Leod, 
 who had been about a week in Edinburgh, made their 
 appearance at the theatre, where the latter shone in all 
 the splendour of rich and costly bridal paraphernalia. 
 That Hamilton had been prevailed on by a friend to ac- 
 company him to the house, as it was the benefit night of 
 a popular and deserving performer ; and most unfortunate- 
 ly they took possession of seats in the very box in which 
 the bride and her doting husband had engaged their places. 
 That some time after the callous-hearted Charlotte made 
 
88 
 
 AN OLD WOMAN’S STORY. ' 
 
 her appearance, undaunted by general gaze, and as she 
 well knew also the many strictures passing on her conduct, 
 which had been freely canvassed in every circle in the city, 
 and with the most unparalleled effrontery, no sooner dis- 
 tinguished Hamilton amongst the persons near her, than 
 extending her hand, in a friendly manner, she accosted him 
 by name, and inquired, with seeming interest and affection, 
 after her dear Euphemia, as she styled the sister of her 
 doating lover. Surprise, contempt, and indignation, by 
 turns arose in the mind of her hearer, who gaining at last 
 the power of utterance, tmceremoniously replied so her 
 inquiries, by asking, why, in her anxiety to be informed of 
 the welfare of her former friends, she omitted to name 
 her old acquaintance Archibald, of whose unfortunate 
 situation she had doubtless heard, and, he presumed, re- 
 gretted, as did all who knew the origin of his misfortunes, 
 or had sufficient patience to reflect upon the barbarous 
 author of his wretchedness. Conscience is a powerful 
 monitor ; and unfeeling as Mrs. M‘Leod had shewn her- 
 self, she Was unable to withstand it representations. At 
 flrst, indeed, she assumed an air of contemptuous indif- 
 ference to the language of Hamilton, but perceiving there 
 were several persons near who had heard his words, and 
 seemed to look upon her with the scorn she merited, her 
 effrontery gave way ; she blushed, hesitated, attempted to 
 smile, and at length burst into an hysterical fit of crying, sob- 
 bing, screaming, and displaying a number of Thalian attitudes, 
 to all of which my husband was a pleased spectator, and 
 calmly looked upon her distress, when he beheld M‘Leod, 
 who had not till then made his appearance, enter the box ; 
 when the cause of her disorder being explained, and 
 Hamilton avowing it was occasioned by his reproaches on 
 her conduct, words, as it may readily be imagined, arose 
 
AN OLD WOMAN’S STORV. 
 
 89 
 
 betwixt the gentlemen, which being followed by a chal- 
 lenge that was instantly accepted, a meeting was appoint- 
 ed at day-break the ensuing morning, when such was the 
 fury which actuated each party, that both were mortally 
 wounded. j\I‘Leod expired while conveying to his apart- 
 ments ; and Hamilton survived but a few days, in agonies 
 indescribable. To the moment of his dissolution he retain- 
 ed his senses, and when able to express his thoughts, 
 evinced the same affectionate solicitude for Archibald, 
 and w'arm attachment for myself, as had ever been con- 
 spicuous in his conduct. As for my poor brother, he was 
 nearly inconsolable, and could scarcely be separated from 
 the body of his friend, when death bereft him of one he 
 had long considered as a brother, and to whom he was 
 united by “ bands more firm than nature’s brittle tie.’ , 
 But I must draw a veil across the closing scene of my 
 beloved husband’s life, for even at this distant period of 
 time, when a lapse of nearly thirty years has served to 
 temper the acuteness of feeling, and reason and religion 
 have contributed to foster that tranquillity of mind which is 
 as desirable a state as mortals can enjoy, the recollection 
 almost overpowers me, and I feel that “ memory of past 
 bliss” is unsubdued by time, and creates uneasy pangs which 
 death only can assuage. 
 
 By slow degrees my brother regained the use of his 
 intellectual faculties; but a settled melancholy oppressed 
 his mind ; and though he resigned to the decrees of fate, 
 his vivacity was lost for ever; and after five years past 
 in wandering over different counties of England, during 
 which time I was constantly his companion, he sunk into 
 the grave, a victim to misfortune, perfidy, and baseness. 
 As neither of my brothers left issue, I came into possession 
 of the whole of the estates which had formerly belonged to 
 
 i 2 
 
90 
 
 AN OLD WOMAN’S STORY. 
 
 our father; and I humbly trust, have not been altogether 
 undeserving of the means of benefiting my fellow-mortals, 
 providence having thus placed it in my power. 
 
 I am now beginning to experience the “ pains and pe- 
 nalties of age but I am thankful to the God of mercies, 
 my health is yet less impaired than that of many of my 
 juniors in life ; for I am able to enjoy the society of those 
 friends who occasionally visit my Highland retirement : and 
 sometimes make excursions to Edinburgh, where I pass a 
 few weeks, and witness the progressive improvement of an 
 orphan niece and nephew of my husband’s, whom I have 
 adopted as my children, and in whose future welfare I feel 
 greatly interested. That they will one day become respect- 
 able and worthy members of the community, I firmly trust : 
 and that the liberal education I endeavoured to bestow on 
 them, will render them useful, and agreeable to themselves 
 and others, when 
 
 “ Ev’ry great event is o’er. 
 
 In life’s uncertain round 
 
 and I am mingling with the dust of those lamented objects 
 of my tenderest affection, whose spirits, I trust, I may be 
 permitted to associate with, in the regions of unfading 
 immortality — 
 
 “To part no more ; 
 
 With bliss eternal crown’d.” 
 
 Of the unworthy Charlotte little remains to be added. 
 Eor some time she gave herself up to an excess of despair, 
 which nearly terminated her existence ; from which recover- 
 ing, she again sought the notice of the world, by repairing 
 to Edinbufgh, where she engaged a handsome house, and 
 
LAWS OF NATURE. 
 
 91 
 
 endeavoured to render herself an object of notoriety, by 
 plunging into every expensive folly, and opening her doors 
 to all who chose to enter them. But the attempt proved 
 ineffectual. Her conduct rendered her despised by all who 
 were the friends of virtue, and of poor Archibald and 
 Hamilton ; and these forming a large portion of the respect- 
 able inhabitants of the city, she was ridiculed as an unfeel- 
 ing, selfish creature ; detested as the destroyer of two of the 
 worthiest of mortals; and at length so completely shunned, 
 that in order to drown recollection, and acquire a temporary 
 relief from her accusing conscience, she took to drinking, 
 and in a few years ended her life a martyr to disease, and an 
 object of universal contempt, hatred, and derision. 
 
 The vile Mrs. MTntosh, whose artifices were the principal 
 means of withdrawing Charlotte from virtue and honour, 
 died of a broken heart, soon after her nephew. 
 
 LAWS OF NATURE. 
 
 " Nature, Sir, nature,” observed a first rate ornamenter 
 of the hair, while quickly rubbing his hands together in 
 order to dissolve a knob of bear’s grease which he held 
 between them, “she defies the power of man to set her laws 
 aside ! And rest assured, this grease which has manured 
 and then matured the hair on the bear’s back, will perform 
 the self-same office on your head.” “ He’s right. Sir, he’s 
 right ; quite right, I assure you,” said a wag then standing 
 by, “ for I well know a friend of mine who was quite bald, 
 and in mistake was sold a pot of goose-grease. This he 
 applied, and in a little time his head was covered o’er and 
 o’er — aye, every bit of it, with feathers.” 
 
92 
 
 THE VICTIM, 
 
 BY THE LATE REV. JOHN LAWSON, 
 
 MISSIONARY AT CALCUTTA. 
 
 ( Written on the Atlantic Ocean.) 
 
 ** I would not enter on my list of friends, 
 
 Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.” 
 
 Copper, 
 
 My harp of the barbarous deed it shall sing, 
 
 Indignant shall swell the short strain ; 
 
 The Sea-Gull was seen on her quick glancing wing, — - 
 Her home is the wave of the main. 
 
 But the wave of the main, though her pitiless home, 
 Was treacherous, and wafted a foe; 
 
 For sudden the dark tube of death was its doom, 
 
 And the bird on the billow laid low. 
 
 And thus, my heart said, are the friends that we trust, 
 In the season of sorrow and need; 
 
 Their treachery tramples us down in the dust, 
 
 And their cruelty laughs at the deed. 
 
 How pure was the plumage that whiten’d thy breast, — - 
 Now up and now down on the wave; 
 
 And oft have the gentle winds rock’d thee to rest, 
 
 On the mariner's sorrowful grave. 
 
 Thou nursling of tempests ! — the storm was thy bed, — 
 Thy pittance the boon of the sea; 
 
 Yet happy thy moments, and thoughtless thy head — 
 W r hile a scream told thy desolate glee. 
 
THE VICTIM. 
 
 S3 
 
 How hard was the heart, how relentless the hand. 
 
 That murdered the joy of thy grief; 
 
 But the pastime of men on the far distant land, 
 
 Is — to torture who needs their relief. 
 
 The cannibal gluts on the carnage of war, 
 
 With a yell and a horrible smile; 
 
 And dim through the dusky night seen frcm afar. 
 
 Is the victim’s funereal pile. 
 
 The negro, from love, and from liberty torn, 
 
 Sadly murmurs the prayer of the slave,— 
 
 ‘ God pity poor negro that suffers forlorn, 
 
 By the hands of the white man so brave/ 
 
 But the cannibal wild, from his wildest resort, — 
 
 And the buyer and seller of blood, — 
 
 And the man that will injure the helpless in sport, — 
 Shall be judged by the all-seeing God. 
 
 Thou Eden, how fair, how unsullied thy shade! 
 
 Where innocence haunted the grove; 
 
 Oh ! when shall that spring, which thy forests array'd, 
 Soften cruelty’s winter to love? 
 
 And thus have I hurried the wild note along, 
 
 And heedless have wandered astray; 
 
 Tor the lonely bird’s fate was the theme of my song, 
 But I silence the murmuring lay. 
 
94 
 
 PAST AND PRESENT. 
 
 If some grave sages, who have slept in death 
 A hundred years, once more resum’d their breath ; 
 
 And with it sight, and sense, and curiosity, 
 
 To take a survey of the things that be, 
 
 What would they say ? as back their spirits fled. 
 
 Fill’d by strange sights, with more than mortal dread. 
 
 “ From Paradise to earth why were we hurl’d? 
 
 We never were before in that new world.” 
 
 There is a much nearer connexion between what are 
 considered ancient times, and those in which we live, than 
 is generally imagined. Two or three connecting links only, 
 lie between us and events which have long, by common 
 consent been given over to the antiquarian. The writer of 
 these pages has only just passed his fifty-fifth year; yet he 
 spent his youth with a grandfather who remembered queen 
 Anne : and what is still more remarkable, a part of his 
 childhood was spent with an old lady who had a handker- 
 chief, which she often shewed him, which her grandfather 
 had dipped in the blood of Charles the First. And yet, in 
 much shorter intervals than the least of these, what rapid 
 and almost entire changes have taken place in the customs 
 and pursuits of society ! Though the ancient and modern 
 are in reality so near each other, as to be separated only by 
 one or two generations, they differ in appearance and man- 
 ners to such a degree, that a thousand years would seem to 
 have been insufficient to effect so complete a change. 
 
 A small but remarkably varied family — strongly united 
 
PAST AND PRESENT 
 
 95 
 
 in important sentiment and by mutual affection, yet differing 
 in certain inferior habits, quite as much as a grandfather 
 of seventy-five and children of the ages of seventeen, 
 twelve, and ten, could be expected to differ — had never 
 been all together in London till the spring of 1834; when 
 they left their sweet abode in a sequestered part of Devon- 
 shire, to make an effort, as they said, to enjoy together one 
 London season. They took up their residence in the Adel- 
 phi, at a boarding house of some distinction, and proposed 
 remaining three or four months, as their health would seem 
 to admit, and their intended exercises and pursuits might 
 require. 
 
 The grandfather was a man of close reading and study, 
 with a sight somewhat impaired, but with faculties as clear 
 and vigorous as in his best days. His only daughter, the 
 mother of the family — whom he always called the child 
 of his age and the stay of his house — was an intelligent 
 and cheerful lady of thirty-five. Her husband, a man of 
 wit and of superior wisdom, was a few years older. Both 
 he and his father-in-law were fond of antiquity ; yet equally 
 disposed to do justice to modern history and discovery, and 
 withall addicted to comparisons of the past and present, 
 which were often as humorous and entertaining, especially 
 on the part of the grandfather, as they were sagacious 
 and just. 
 
 Arriving at the Adelphi about noon, the first inquiry, 
 after refreshing themselves and adjusting various matters 
 in their respective rooms, related to the hour of dinner ; on 
 which of course would turn most of the other engagements 
 of each successive day. To their regret they found it was 
 three hours later than the one they preferred and adopted 
 at home. They were offered an earlier dinner in their own 
 apartment ; but for the sake of order, and to see somewhat 
 
96 
 
 PAST AND PRESENT 
 
 of the other inmates of the house, tney agreed that they 
 would, for the present, dine at the public table at six o’clock. 
 As they took a comfortable luncheon at two, the conversa- 
 tion turned on the surprising change that six or seven cen- 
 turies at most, had effected in the dining hour of this 
 country. 
 
 “ In the eleventh and twelfth centuries ” the grandfather 
 said “ there were some lines often sung at tables of dis- 
 tinction, which shew what the barons of those days thought 
 on this subject. They were sung in Norman French, but I 
 will repeat them in plain modern English.” 
 
 “To rise at five, and dine at nine, 
 
 To sup at five, and bed at nine. 
 
 Makes a man live to ninety-nine.” 
 
 “ But, my dear father,” asked Mrs. Seymour, with her 
 usual vivacity, “ are you quite sure that the Norman barons 
 meant, by the Jive and nine, the morning or the evening 
 hours'? for if they should happen to have intended five in 
 the afternoon to rise, and nine in the evening to dine, then 
 their hours were about in conformity to the ultra fashion 
 of our own day.” 
 
 “ Yes, mamma,” said her younger daughter, “ and 
 then supping at five and going to bed at nine would be 
 those hours of the next day, and the hours that I fancy 
 are now often taken.” 
 
 “ Down to the time of Henry the eighth, I believe,” Mr. 
 Seymour remarked, “ our ancestors adhered almost to the 
 early hours of the Norman barons; and it is a remarkable 
 fact, that then shopkeepers^ mechanics, and labourers, took 
 their meals at later hours than the nobility and gentry of 
 the land !” 
 
PAST AND PRESENT. 
 
 97 
 
 “At the accession of queen Elizabeth” — the grandfather 
 observed “ the hour of dinner with people of fortune was as 
 early as eleven : but it should be added that the repast 
 often continued so long as to render the hour of rising from 
 table almost as late as it is now. An anecdote is related 
 of the archbishop of York, that he was dining with his 
 prebendaries, when an Italian gentleman wished to speak 
 with him. The Italian called at twelve, at one, at two, 
 and at three, and still the answer was his grace has not 
 yet done dinner. Disgusted at the holy epicure, the Italian 
 left his business in other hands and returned to his own 
 country. There he met an English gentleman three years 
 after, and asked if he knew the archbishop of York 1 Per- 
 fectly well, was the answer. Then tell me, said the Italian, 
 tell me, I beseech you, whether he has yet done dinner !” 
 
 Thus ended the discussion of past and present hours of 
 dining. The day was too fine for the interval to be spent 
 within doors, and therefore the family began their London 
 perambulations, and soon obtained fresh matter on which to 
 exercise their conversational talent and taste at the next 
 leisure hour. 
 
 “ And why, my dear girl,” said Mrs. Seymour to her 
 eldest daughter, in their dressing room, “ did you not pur- 
 chase the muslin for yourself and your sister, which you 
 seemed to admire 1 I left you both to your choice, and 
 engaged myself in another purchase that you might exer- 
 cise it without restraint.” 
 
 “ Indeed, mamma, we heartily appreciate your kindness,” 
 answered Miss Seymour, “but I also heartily detest the 
 fawning hypocrisy and unblushing falsehood of the man 
 who shewed it to us. We both liked it well enough ; but 
 how could we sit or stand to hear any more of his absurdi- 
 ties. He put it into all manner of forms — declared that 
 
 K 
 
98 
 
 PAST AND PRESENT. 
 
 not another shop in London had such muslin — assured me 
 that he had purchased five thousand pieces of it that 
 morning for ready money, or he could not offer it so low — 
 and then had the impertinence to say that to none but 
 ladies like us would he make such an offer. I then took 
 my sister by the hand, and we turned away in disgust.” 
 
 “ What my father will say to the present mode of con- 
 ducting the business of such a shop,” answered Mrs. 
 Seymour, “ I am at a loss to conjecture; but, if this be a 
 sample of modern London shop-keeping, I deplore its deep 
 degeneracy of both moral principle and common sense. 
 Our ancestors would have been perfectly ashamed of it.” 
 
 “ I hope, dear mamma,” replied her daughter, “ you 
 will allow us in future to purchase where females are 
 behind the counter. I hear that some large establishments 
 are adopting this better plan, and that respectable families 
 are encouraging them.” 
 
 “ If all respectable families had encouraged, or rather 
 insisted on such a plan from the first,” said Mrs. Seymour, 
 “ the evil of insulting customers by a regiment of impudent 
 young men, trained to a system of the most egregious 
 lying, would not have reached its present intolerable 
 height. While thousands of females, who would gladly 
 earn an honest and respectable living, are forced into the 
 paths of vice and misery by neglect, these young men are 
 educated only to deceive, and rewarded in proportion to 
 the amount of their dupes. I shall be perfectly willing to 
 comply with your request ; nay, I am resolved, myself to 
 seek the shops where my own sex are employed.” 
 
 They met the gentlemen and were summoned to dinner 
 almost at the same moment. Nothing of importance oc- 
 curred during the meal, which was shortened as much as 
 it could be with propriety, for the sake of their attending a 
 
PAST AND PRESENT. 
 
 99 
 
 lecture, for which they had tickets, at the Russel Institution. 
 As the carriage proceeded to the place of meeting, the 
 grandfather remarked, “ What an astonishing change has 
 taken place in my life in the mode of communicating dis- 
 coveries of science, as well as in the cleanness and fulness 
 of the discoveries themselves. I shall not anticipate any 
 thing you are likely to hear in the lecture room ; but I take 
 this opportunity of congratulating my dear children, of both 
 generations, on the rich mental feast which modem study and 
 art have placed before them. I remember, when I was a 
 boy, being anxious to study general science, and was told by 
 my tutor to read Pope’s comparison of the progress of a 
 student, to that of a traveller over the Alps. I read it ; and 
 he then asked me whether I thought I should ever complete 
 the journey, and if not, whether I had not better decline 
 beginning it ? Certainly I had my fears ; but I had also my 
 hopes. I began, and advanced, and you all know what 
 measure of success I have obtained. Now you — the 
 youngest of you — have neither hopes nor fears : yours is 
 all certain plain travelling, on a long, but safe and easy 
 road, and with new and more beautiful prospects opening at 
 every turn and on either hand.” 
 
 “ I rather wonder,” said Mr. Seymour, “ that a tutor, 
 even of your early days, should have been so ready to dis- 
 courage an inquiring youth ! It would have discovered 
 rather more prudence as well as reading for him to have 
 quoted the fine eulogium of the ancients on Socrates — that 
 he had drawn philosophy from the heavens to reside amongst 
 men.” 
 
 “ But now,” said Mrs. Seymour, “ we may improve on 
 this eulogium, and say of many of our modern philosophers 
 and tutors, that they have allured her from the libraries of 
 
100 
 
 PAST AND PRESENT. 
 
 men, to take up her abode in the school rooms and even in 
 the play rooms of children.” 
 
 “ You may well say this, dear mamma,” observed Miss 
 Seymour, “ when you look at such an excellent work as 
 * Evenings at home/ and find from the assurance of its 
 enlightened authors that the greater part of the mathematics 
 now taught in the university of Cambridge, may be made 
 level to the capacities of mere boys and girls !” 
 
 The grandfather remarked that this opinion was confined 
 to the mathematics of one university. The other national 
 seat of learning had always excelled in the highest branches 
 of that abstruse science, and to that circumstance must be 
 attributed the larger number of able reasoners and eloquent 
 speakers which Oxford had sent forth compared with Cam- 
 bridge. The family now arrived at the Institution. The 
 next day was Sunday, a day which the family were always 
 in the habit of treating with the respect due to a Divine 
 appointment. Without entering into the nicety of their 
 scruples in the opinion of some, or their laxity in the view 
 of others, it is sufficient to observe that they rendered it at 
 once a day of rest from the secular cares of life, and of 
 devotion according to their view of the demands of the New 
 Testament upon them. In the morning they worshipped 
 at the chapel of the late Rev. Rowland Hill, whom they 
 always held in the highest esteem, while they regretted the 
 excess to which he sometimes carried his pulpit humour. 
 The past and present were here impressed upon their minds, 
 in a comparison, or rather a contrast, of the modern elo- 
 quence of the new preacher, with the blunt and often 
 blundering address of the ancient minister of the place. 
 As this was spoken of in returning, the grandfather took the 
 opportunity of remarking that the entire outline of the 
 sermon they had heard, and much of its filling up, was 
 
PAST AND PRESENT. 
 
 101 
 
 literally taken from the works of an old divine which he had 
 often read. Miss Seymour, also, observed another pecu- 
 liarity — two of the tunes sung in the service were those of 
 the well known songs, “ Tell me, babbling echo/’ and 
 “ Water parted from the sea ! ” 
 
 As they sat down to dinner, at a much earlier hour than 
 on the other days of the week, a gentleman near them, 
 who had been at the same chapel, began praising the 
 preacher at the expence of his venerable predecessor. 
 “ Rowland Hill,” he said, “ with the truest knowledge of 
 human nature, I grant ; but not with so true an acquaint- 
 ance with divine truth, formed his sermons on the Italian 
 model, which I must agree with Voltaire in calling the 
 model of a spiritual comedy.” 
 
 The grandfather admitted that the illustrations adopted 
 by the venerable divine were often such as to appear to 
 justify such a charge; but he asserted on the best authority, 
 that “ no divine in Christendom would have shrunk with 
 more horror at the thought of being influenced by the same 
 motives as the Roman priests to whom Voltaire alluded. 
 I have heard him protest against the vile spirit of their 
 conduct in terms of indignation, while, perhaps, he incau- 
 tiously approached too near the letter of it. These were 
 the men, he used to say, that concealed the cross of Christ 
 from the Chinese and other heathens, whom they undertook 
 to convert to Christianity, lest, with such an object of mean- 
 ness, it might give them offence. These were the men who 
 affected disgust at the constant exhibition of a suffering 
 Redeemer, and who therefore, substituted pictures and 
 images of a beautiful virgin in his stead.” 
 
 In the course of the week the family had innumerable 
 opportunities of witnessing illustrations of the grandfather’s 
 *avourite exercise, comparing the present with the past, 
 k 2 
 
102 
 
 PAST AND PRESENT. 
 
 A comparison of ancient and modem literature furnished 
 him with an unfailing source of humorous and more grave 
 remark. They had made several valuable additions to 
 their library, especially of complete sets of certain periodical 
 publications, which they had either occasionally read at 
 home, or the very titles of which were perfectly new to 
 them. 
 
 “In my early days,” said the grandfather, “ there was a 
 small constellation of works of this nature, which shone for 
 some years with great brightness, and were very much 
 admired. Some of them are admired still, and all would 
 be, if fashions and amusements on which many of their 
 papers are founded, had not so completely changed. The 
 Spectator, the Rambler , and the Tatler, I believe still please ; 
 but the Adventurer , the Connoisseur , the World, and the 
 rest are almost forgotten.” 
 
 “ You have been able to mention all, or nearly all the 
 periodicals of that day in a minute,” observed Mr. Seymour, 
 “ but it would take me almost an hour to read a catalogue 
 of the quarterly, monthly, weekly, and daily productions of 
 the periodical press now. Yet, perhaps, we have lost in 
 literary value what we have gained in numerical magnitude, 
 variety of subject, and frequency of publication. At last, 
 there is scarcely above one of each class which is worth 
 reading ; and I think we have done well, in our purchase of 
 complete sets, to select the Athenaeum, the Mirror, Leigh 
 Hunt’s London Journal, Brewster’s Cyclopedia, and the 
 Saturday Magazine, in preference to others about which we 
 were in doubt. 
 
 One evening cards were offered them, and they were 
 invited by some of the other inmates to join them in a game. 
 Mrs. Seymour undertook to decline the offer for the whole 
 family, while her father availed himself of the fresh oppor- 
 
PAST AND PRESENT. 
 
 103 
 
 tunity for introducing his favourite companion. In observing 
 that cards were the common amusement of the ladies of his 
 youth, he candidly admitted the gross exaggeration of certain 
 modern invectives against them on that account. “Why,” 
 he asked, “ are the ladies of our day less fond of cards than 
 they were ? but that literary, and religious, and charitable 
 pursuits have abated the passion as well as occupied their 
 time : and ought we not injustice to infer, that, if the ladies 
 of a former age had been as well taught, and had the same 
 resources in books, and institutions, in facilities, and motives, 
 as the ladies of the present day, they would have been as 
 little disposed to spend their leisure in gaming with pictures, 
 invented for the amusement of an idiot king.” 
 
 “ Talking of cards, and gaming generally,” said the grand- 
 father, “ but what else is the trade of London than a game, 
 at which he stands the best chance who is most au fait in 
 artifice, and he succeeds the most who can cheat in the 
 cleverest manner 1 So nearly allied are cards and modern 
 trading, that they are comb at length to adopt a common 
 language. I this morning, heard an expert tradesman 
 talking of playing his cards well, of watching what was 
 trumps, of dealing into his partner’s hands, and turning the 
 tables against their adversaries. What then, is trade! I 
 mean the trade of such men, but a game of whist, in which 
 each party strives to trick and win at the other’s expense 1” 
 Another elderly gentleman present, who had listened with 
 great attention to every word, then modestly introduced a 
 remark concerning lotteries, and added “you are fond I 
 perceive. Sir, of contrasting the present with the past, and 
 in this respect we must acknowledge the moderns to have 
 the advantage of us ancients, to whom lotteries were almost 
 as essential as bread and shows to a certain race of the 
 Homans.” 
 
104 
 
 PAST AND PRESENT. 
 
 “ And yet, Sir,” the grandfather answered, “ it may have 
 escaped you that the most violent opponents of lotteries were 
 the members of the stock exchange, and the London petition 
 to abolish them was signed by a prodigious majority of that 
 gaming fraternity.” 
 
 “ And what, at last,” observed Mr. Seymour, “ is every 
 large town, especially London, but a huge lottery wheel, 
 constantly revolving, and turning up its blanks and prizes to 
 the eager speculators? If I may change the figure, the 
 metamorphoses of a pantomine are not more wonderful, and 
 scarcely more rapid, than the revolutions of the wheel of 
 fortune — the alterations of the ups and downs of life. The 
 poor of to-day are the rich of to-morrow. I knew a 
 merchant of Southwark who bought hops in abundance in 
 a cheap season, and doled them out at a dear one. He 
 thought he had realized a fortune when cheapness returned 
 and reduced him to poverty. In fact, the inhabitants of this 
 vast metropolis are all adventurers, whose faces as you pass 
 them will almost tell you the estate of their affairs. Are 
 they lengthened ? their fortune is bad : are they dilated ? it 
 is good : are they contracted ? it is doubtful.” 
 
 “ I am fearful,” observed the elderly stranger, “ that these 
 are not the worst charges merited by some dashing traders of 
 London. I once put the question to a lusty cit, whose 
 variety of speculations surprised me, whether he was not 
 fearful that stolen goods might not sometimes find their way 
 into his warehouse ? “ I might,” he answered, “ if I ever 
 
 became so curious as you are to make inquiry on the subject.” 
 He then told me of a young merchant, who in pursuit of 
 bargains had once nearly lost his life. He heard that at a cer- 
 tain house he might accomplish his purpose, and on entering 
 it at a late hour was conducted into the cellar to converse 
 with a smuggler. The smuggler happened to be asleep on 
 
THE SMUGIEKS HAUHT 
 
rue ubmrit 
 
 .. 0F the 
 
 UWWASITy OF UJinytS 
 
PAST AND PRESENT. 
 
 105 
 
 some straw ; and it was perhaps well for him, since every 
 object he beheld was an intimation that he might have been 
 compelled to surrender his money or his life. 
 
 “ If I preferred the country for no other reason,” Mrs. 
 Seymour said, “ this would be sufficient to establish my 
 preference — that every aspect is cheerful and healthy, and 
 every one seems contented with his lot. There no one lives 
 or dresses above his station, since, each being known to the 
 whole neighbourhood, such vanity could deceive no one. 
 But in London every man is seeking his fortune — is looking 
 forward to advancement — and generally dresses, if he cannot 
 afford to live, as though he had attained the object of his 
 ambition. In London this may be done with impunity, for 
 there, as Cloten says, ‘ nobody is known but by his clothes.’ ” 
 
 A new speaker of the company now claimed attention. 
 He knew some secrets of London trade and traders, which 
 either had escaped the notice, or did not escape the lips of 
 any of the others. “ I wish,” he said, “ the extravagance 
 of chess was the only extravagance to be brought against 
 the people of London. But what think you of such a fact 
 as this, which I know to be true 1 A large trader, hitherto 
 confining his residence to the house of business, discovering 
 that his affairs declined and something must be done, took a 
 villa in the country, purchased a handsome horse and chaise, 
 rode down every evening to a late dinner ; in short, made a 
 display of increasing wealth, and the consequence was” 
 
 “ Ruin and bankruptcy, of course,” the grandfather 
 answered. 
 
 “Not so, in this case,” replied the gentleman, “for it 
 gave the impression of prosperity, which restored his credit, 
 retrieved his losses, and rendered him ultimately rich. But a 
 different fate has awaited many imitators of his conduct; 
 
106 
 
 PAST AND PRESENT. 
 
 and perhaps the fraud has by this time nearly worn itself 
 out ” 
 
 “ In that particular form of deception, it may, Sir,” said 
 Mr. Seymour, “ but the spirit of display is as rife as ever ; 
 nay, it now riots in extravagant which would have been 
 thought within my short remembrance to have been impossi- 
 ble. The sums that are now expended in fitting up the 
 fronts and interior of shops, would in the days of my youth, 
 have been deemed so many little fortunes, and those who 
 could have afforded them would have set up for gentlemen, 
 and not descended to the drudgery and dependence of 
 trade.” 
 
 “ And what would those have done who could not afford 
 them V’ asked his father-in-law. “ I can tell what they did 
 universally in my earlier days. I am at a loss to know, 
 what with their Splendid London shops and country villas, 
 how the magnificent system is supported ! Certainly the 
 ridicule which the connoisseur and other works bestowed on 
 the country boxes of the citizens at that time, would not be 
 applicable to their fine rural abodes now. The very name 
 implied a minuteness of scale and plan, suited to the purpose 
 of retirement a day or two in the week, while the town 
 house was the chief abode : but now the country villas are 
 the family residences, rivalling one another in beauty and 
 taste, while the London house, more magnificent than ever, 
 is at last a mere mass of office, warehouse, and shop.” 
 
 “ You have mentioned more than once. Sir,” said a 
 stranger, “ the periodical publications of your early days. 
 I am unacquainted with them ; but I presume that, like our 
 modern ones, they give an account of the general literature 
 of the age V* 
 
 “They do, Sir,” the grandfather answered, “but the 
 general literature of that day was meagre in the extreme. 
 
PAST AND PRESENT. 
 
 107 
 
 The world complains of the superabundance of novels and 
 romances, when scarcely a new one could be obtained in 
 three months ! It classes them as those above nature, and 
 those below it ; and, if the account be true, the latter were 
 indeed inferior compositions. Then, as to works of a higher 
 order, Johnson’s Dictionary appears conspicuous and all- 
 commanding at the head of every catalogue. In fact, this 
 with about half a dozen other works, make up the whole 
 sum of the greatest bookseller’s adventure for one year at 
 least ! In this respect let the past and present be 
 compared.” 
 
 “ As you have returned to the subject of books,” the 
 elderly stranger observed, “ I am constrained to mention 
 with surprise and pleasure, the small sums at which even 
 good editions the best works are to be procured. For 
 this advantage our thanks are due to a few spirited 
 and independent publishers. The older houses, to their 
 shame, have done all they could to keep up a dear 
 monopoly. They even formed an association, excluding 
 from certain privileges those who sell below their own 
 exorbitant price. They would thus keep up a system as 
 much at variance with their own conduct as with the public 
 good. For do they never sell books at a low, a very low 
 price 1 After disposing of a few copies of a new work, or 
 a new edition, they sell the remainder at little more than the 
 value of the paper ; and then turn round upon those who 
 sell at a low price and adhere to it, and would exclude them 
 from the common privileges of the trade ! This is a dis- 
 tinction in favour of the present times for which the past has 
 no precedent.” 
 
 It turned out that the stranger had been a bookseller, and 
 that he had realized an honourable fortune by dealing with 
 equal liberality to the trade and the public. 
 
108 
 
 FOX THE QUAKER. 
 
 A selection only, and that a very brief one, has been 
 made from the conversations of this family and their new 
 friends. The enlightened views they took of every scene 
 that passed before them rendered their visit to London a real 
 pleasure, and they returned to their western retreat better 
 informed, and more observant, grateful, and happy than 
 ever. 
 
 FOX THE QUAKER. 
 
 Penn says— and his life shows it — that Fox the Quaker, 
 possessed on all occasions the most undoubted courage. 
 Though of an ardent temperament, yet he possessed so much 
 self-command as rarely if ever, to be thrown off his guard 
 by insult and outrage, and he manifested the most forgiving 
 disposition. He was simply dignified, and manly in beha- 
 viour ; grave, yet affable and pleasant in conversation ; and 
 so ready in reply as to continually baffle his most subtle 
 antagonists. One instance may be given : — He was im- 
 prisoned in Launceston jail, and brought up for trial before 
 Judge Glyn. Fie was ordered to take off his hat. Fox 
 inquired what authority there was in law or scripture for 
 this compulsion ; at which the judge fell into a passion, and 
 cried, “Take him away, jailor; I’ll ferk him.” Soon after 
 he sent for him again, and on seeing him, exclaimed, 
 “ Come, where had they hats, from Moses to Daniel — come, 
 answer me — I have you now !” Fox immediately replied, 
 “ The three children were ordered to be thrown into the 
 furnace with their coats, hose, and hats on.” The judge 
 instantly shouted, “ Take him away, jailor.” 
 
109 
 
 ON THE PLEASURES AND ADVANTAGES 
 
 TO BE DERIVED 
 
 FROM INTELLECTUAL PURSUITS. 
 
 “ The mind that never stray’d from duty’s path, 
 
 Has always found it strewed with heavenly flowers ; 
 
 Nor has its happiness been circumscribed, 
 
 But by the bounds of its capacity.” 
 
 Swain. 
 
 The human mind is so peculiarly constituted, as to be 
 capable of deriving pleasures from intellectual sources, al- 
 together different from those which had been previously 
 enjoyed by any of its own species. But these pleasures 
 would be comparatively unsatisfying, did it not also possess 
 the property of communicating them to the whole intelligent 
 universe, on certain fixed principles and laws, by which the 
 investigation of mental sciences is conducted, and which 
 will infallibly ensure to the inquirer all the pleasure and 
 advantage enjoyed by its original founder. 
 
 That the human mind is in a state of continual progres- 
 sion, is sufficiently demonstrated by the inventions and dis- 
 coveries in every department of science during the last two 
 centuries. This fact is also proved from the consideration, 
 that that which was once regarded by the most eminent phi- 
 losophers as the source of their highest satisfaction and 
 delight, now ceases to interest the most ordinary observer of 
 human occurrences. It was reserved for the mighty ener- 
 gies of a Newton’s immortal mind to explode the Aristotelean 
 system of philosophy, and to raise his own on its ruins j 
 
 L 
 
110 
 
 PLEASURE AND ADVANTAGES Otf 
 
 which has an equal tendency to improve the heart, as it 
 enlightens and astonishes the understanding. To this 
 branch of intellectual pursuits we shall confine our obser- 
 vations, holding, as we do that , knowledge of paramount 
 importance, which subdues and corrects our most inveterate 
 and corroding passions, refines our pleasures, softens our 
 hearts, ennobles our sentiments, elevates our characters, and 
 qualifies us to discharge those duties which devolve on us as 
 moral and responsible agents, and as rational beings. 
 
 A constant habit of reading and reflection will impercep- 
 tibly lead us into a comparison of our knowledge and attain- 
 ments with those of others: the comparison will scarcely 
 ever fail to convince us of the insignificancy of our own 
 acquirements. It will produce that kind of humility which 
 is the best companion in the pursuit of knowledge ; it will 
 increase our ardour, awaken our perceptions, and throw a 
 vivid and softening tint around all our investigations; and 
 though our imagination may be less, our reason will be 
 stronger : and should the medium through which we pursue 
 our inquiries appear to obscure our vision, it is only to throw 
 a more effulgent light on the distant object. A mind thus 
 actively employed, though even in the first stage of intellec- 
 tual pursuit, cannot be without pleasure ; it feels no tempta- 
 tion to indulge in the inferior enjoyments of sense, while the 
 inexhaustible treasures of science and philosophy lie un- 
 explored before him, and invites him, with all its unspeak- 
 able attractions, to avail himself of their advantages. He 
 perceives the same order and arrangement which pervade 
 the natural, govern alike the moral and intellectual world: 
 he eve-ry where recognises the presence of an Omniscient 
 Intelligence, which commands his adoration by its sublimity, 
 and his gratitude by its infinite benevolence : and however 
 low he is constrained by the force of his convictions to rate 
 
INTELLECTUAL PURSUITS. 
 
 Ill 
 
 himself in the scale of intelligent beings, he feels that he is 
 included in the natural and moral government of God ; 
 that every created being, animate or inanimate, is specifically 
 intended to increase his happiness ; the infinite variety of 
 flowers, with their diversified colours, fragrance, and foliage, 
 excite the most agreeable sensations on the senses of his 
 sight and smell. These organs are again differently operated 
 on, by contrasting a peaceful and serene woodland scenery 
 with that of the terrific and overflowing cataract; and 
 again, by contrasting the beauties of a mountainous scenery 
 with those of the mighty deep. Another train of pleasing sen- 
 sations is excited by contrasting the music of the sphere, the 
 war of elements, with the iEolian whispers of the playful 
 zephyr. He is again differently operated on by a variety of 
 agreeable sensations, in viewing the feathered tribe arrayed 
 in all the gorgeous pomp of varied beauty : his pleasure is 
 still more heightened as he hears them pour out their grate- 
 ful lays in aii the melody and harmony of song. The 
 knowledge which he thus acquires, that he is agreeably 
 operated on by these external objects of sense, is one proof 
 of the benevolence of the Creator, that He has not only 
 created with infinite skill all these animate and inanimate 
 objects, but He has manifested still more wisdom and bene- 
 volence in giving him a capacity to enjoy them. This 
 knowledge, then, befits him for the exercise of his moral 
 duties, and these teach him that his gratitude to the great 
 Author of his existence should be commensurate with his 
 capacity of enjoying every object within the grasp of a 
 finite being. As an intelligent being, he knows that, by 
 abusing his capacity, he destroys his enjoyment ; and as a 
 moral agent, to debase.it by directing it to improper objects, 
 he incurs the most imminent danger of involving ^himself 
 and others in the eternal displeasure of the great and 
 
112 
 
 AWKWARD DILEMMA. 
 
 benevolent Author of the universe : his folly is only equalled 
 by his impiety and presumption; he knows that, could he 
 possess the concentrated genius which has ever adorned the 
 intelligent universe, it would not weigh as much as an atom 
 against a myriad of worlds. This sense of his duty and 
 responsibility is one advantage derivable from intellectual 
 pursuits; and another is, it prepares him to sustain with 
 honour all the stations to which he may be advanced : it 
 will also enable him to detect the sophistry of such as would 
 deceive him ; to estimate properly the efforts of consecrated 
 genius; to live usefully under the providence of his God; 
 and to die happily in the faith of His gracious promises. 
 
 AWKWARD DILEMMA. 
 
 Tiie tragedy of King Lear was got up at Ludlow at a 
 short notice. The gentleman who personated Gloster 
 managed to say something like the author, until the 
 scene where his eyes are put out, and then he was ob- 
 liged to ask permission to read the rest of the part. 
 
113 
 
 ROYAL NUPTIALS. 
 
 Michael Fedorowitz, Czar of all the Russias, was son 
 to Philaretes, bishop of Rostow ; his mother was a lineal 
 descendant of the ancient sovereigns of Russia. Demetrius, 
 a tyrannical usurper, sent Philaretes ambassador to Poland, 
 where he was detained prisoner, under pretence that his 
 countrymen were, not long before, in rebellion against 
 king Uladislaus. This outrage was unquestionably sanc- 
 tioned by Demetrius ; for he confined the wife of Philaretes 
 in a nunnery. But the boyars entertained such a high 
 veneration for the bishop and his spouse, that they unani- 
 mously elected their son, Michael Fedorowitz, to be their 
 emperor, though he was not more than fifteen years of age. 
 Philaretes, being exchanged for some Polish captives, was 
 by his son appointed patriarch of the church : and with great 
 wisdom and prosperity assisted the inexperience of the 
 youthful czar in exercising the functions of royalty. 
 
 Michael Fedorowitz governed Russia thirty-three years ; 
 and the firmness of his administration, tempered by leni- 
 ency, established his power; while happiness and peace, 
 long unknown, endeared him to the people. Desirous of 
 choosing a consort on the ground of personal attachment, 
 the czar gave orders to collect at Moscow a vast number 
 of fat cattle and poultry, and to provide game and fish, to 
 l 2 
 
114 
 
 ROYAL NUPTIALS. 
 
 be frozen and stored, in the commencement of winter, with 
 all other necessaries for entertaining a crowd of guests at 
 the palace. At the same time he issued proclamations 
 throughout the empire, inviting, or in other words, com- 
 manding all the young and beautiful maidens in his domi- 
 nions to repair to the court. Michael visited his fair subjects 
 as an easy guest at private parties; or presided at royal 
 feasts and balls for their amusement. When the weather 
 permitted a return to their respective homes, they were dis- 
 missed with gifts beseeming regal munificence ; and the 
 lady who was honoured by preference was informed of her 
 elevation by the czar sending to her a superb wedding robe. 
 The lady’s name was Strechen. Pier father was ploughing 
 his farm when he received the announcement that he was 
 destined to be father-in-law to the emperor. 
 
 Alexius succeeded his father Michael ; and though unfor- 
 tunate in his wars with Sweden, he was a prince of eminent 
 genius. He promoted agriculture ; introduced silk and 
 linen manufactures ; and endeavoured to excite in his boyars 
 a taste for the arts and sciences ; giving them an example 
 in his own studies, and patronizing literature, with all the 
 branches of useful knowledge which had travelled to North- 
 ern Europe. He instituted and published a code of laws, 
 still referred to in the jurisprudence of Russia; and he 
 greatly improved his army by establishing a regular system 
 of discipline. He chose his first wife in the same manner as 
 his father, and was married in his seventeenth year. In ten 
 years he was a widower; and twenty months had not 
 elapsed, when, before the fairest in his extensive realms were 
 submitted to his election, his affections were fixed upon a 
 beautiful orphan named Natalia Kesilowna Narishkin. 
 This historical trait d'amour, which has more the air of 
 romance than of the sober pace appropriate to hymeneal 
 
ROYAL NUPTIALS. 
 
 115 
 
 engagements in real life, is little known out of Russia, unless 
 by foreigners who have made curious inquiries concerning 
 the ancient manners of that singular region. 
 
 Alexius purposed to win the heart of an amiable woman 
 for his own sake ; and with this aim laid aside every mark 
 of extrinsic advantages, while he made a circuit some con- 
 siderable way from Moscow, or visited the middle classes in 
 the city, as an herbalist in search of medicinal plants ; a 
 naturalist anxious to explore the salt-pits of Astracan ; or 
 one of the literati in quest of MSS. of ancient history, said 
 to be preserved in the huts of the boors. Sometimes the 
 czar passed as a trader in morocco leather from Kasan, 
 or a learned teacher belonging to one of the numerous 
 schools established in that country at a very early period. 
 A small band of trusty attendants followed at short dis- 
 tances ; and without confiding his ulterior views, he gathered 
 from them much information concerning the families he 
 visited, and regarding the actual state of his people. Many 
 months rolled on in these incognito peregrinations, and our 
 royal Calebs in search of a wife almost despaired of success, 
 when the accomplishment of his most sanguine hopes ap- 
 peared in the form of transcendent beauty and intellectual 
 graces, seldom known in a barbarous age. 
 
 A gentleman, named Matweof, had been often serviceable 
 by furnishing suggestions for the improvement of various 
 schemes adopted by the czar to correct the rugged ignorance 
 of his subjects; and having returned to Moscow, the sove- 
 reign recollected that he ought to bestow on this worthy 
 man of science the distinction of a visit, though his family 
 consisted only of sons. While revolving these thoughts as 
 he walked alone on the banks of the Moskwa, near the city, 
 he saw Matweof within call, and accosted him. After the 
 
116 
 
 ROYAL NUPTIALS. 
 
 first salutations, the czar said, “ Matweof, if thou hast no 
 strangers at thy house, I will dine with thee to-day. 
 
 “ My liege, I have not even my sons at home : they are 
 dispersed to different occupations : I have only my wife 
 and the sweet child of a deceased friend.” — “ Depend on 
 me as your guest ; but mark me, you must not tell even 
 your wife my real name. Let me pass as a merchant.” — 
 “ A merchant of Kasan, so please your highness 1” — “ Be 
 it so j and take care to treat me as such only.” 
 
 Matweof, when overtaken by the czar, was on his way 
 to ask a merchant of Kasan to spend the day with him ; 
 and had desired his wife to prepare for his reception. It 
 may be supposed that he deferred this engagement, and 
 the czar was received by Madame Matweof as the ex- 
 pected trader. He was ushered to the dining-hall by Mat- 
 weof ; and his surprise and pleasure were unbounded, when 
 he saw a young and beautiful girl, towering far above the 
 stature of his hostess. “ I fancied your ward was a child,” 
 said the reputed Merchant of Kasan. — “ She is not fifteen,” 
 answered the bustling hostess ; “ and the longer she is tract- 
 able to good advice as a child, the wiser must she be when 
 we regard her as a woman. I was good eight years older 
 than she is now, before I gave my vows to Matweof , and 
 till an hour within the change of my condition I was called 
 a child.” 
 
 The czar employed his eyes more than his ears while 
 Madame Matweof gave him a specimen of the wisdom 
 acquired in her protracted childhood. We shall leave his 
 majesty to admire the blushing Natalia, and try to give the 
 courteous reader some idea of her protectress. Madame 
 Matweof was a low-sized, corpulent person, but very lively 
 and active ; and more than commonly addicted to fluency of 
 language, as she piqued herself not a little upon the smat- 
 
ROYAL NUPTIALS. 
 
 117 
 
 tering of knowledge she had acquired on a diversity of 
 topics, during thirty-four years, in domesticating with the 
 most intelligent gentleman in the vast city of Moscow. 
 The courtly stranger paid to her all due attention ; yet his 
 eyes frequently reverted to the lovely features of her ward, 
 who, in the simple garb of her own country, dazzled his 
 imagination more than the proudest that, in embroidery, 
 ermine, and jewels, sparkled within the precincts of the 
 Kremlin. 
 
 The fine contour of Natalia’s face was partly shaded by 
 curling ringlets of pale brown hair, encircled by a wreath 
 of ivy leaves, intermingled with a few garden flowers. The 
 crown of her head was covered by a cap of black velvet, 
 which at the same age probably had been worn by her 
 grandmother, for it was rather threadbare, and the band of 
 gold lace surrounding the middle of this coiffure , was evi- 
 dently tarnished by unsparing time. A short robe- of fine 
 white linen, almost after the model of a chemise, with long 
 and wide sleeves, had these drawn up to the shoulders by 
 strips of tafiety of the same texture, with a rose-coloured 
 sash, which, compressing the linen robe, shewed the ele- 
 gance of her waist. The skirts of her linen robe hung down 
 half way over a many-coloured and checquered petticoat, 
 reaching no further than the calf of her leg, and displaying 
 the delicate symmetry of her ancles and feet. The hem of 
 the checquered petticoat had a border of old lace, seemingly 
 coeval with the bandeau on her black velvet cap. Her 
 stockings of bright blue, were topped with circles of rose 
 colour, corresponding to her sash ; and her shoes of Kasan 
 leather, were tied with strips of rose coloured taffety. The 
 checquered silk handkerchief on her neck had a faded re- 
 semblance to the hues of which the rest of her dress was 
 composed; and three rows of glass beads hung on her 
 
118 
 
 ROYAL NUPTIALS. 
 
 bosom, with an image of St. Nicholas, in silver, of curious 
 antique workmanship, appended to the upper row of beads 
 — this image being apparently the only relic of former 
 affluence undecayed by the altered fortunes of her house. 
 How exquisite must have been the personal and mental 
 attractions which subdued the heart of a mighty potentate 
 accustomed to all the glare of Asiatic magnificence, and 
 now beholding Natalia in a garniture of poverty that his 
 lowest attendant would have disdained to wear ! 
 
 The czar, according to his masquerade designation, was 
 habited in a loose coat of brown cloth, drawn about his loins 
 by a girdle of rich purple silk. His long and wide trowsers 
 were of orange-coloured Indian cotton; and he wore Kasan 
 leather boots without stockings. A silver-hilted scimetar 
 was suspended by a shoulder-belt of yellow leather on one 
 side ; and on the other under his arm, a pouch of lynx skin, 
 fastened by silver clasps, contained his money or other port- 
 able valuables. His shirt was nearly shaped like Natalia’s 
 chemise robe, and left open at the throat, to allow full scope 
 to his ample beard, a shade darker than Natalia’s ringlets. 
 His figure was tall and handsome; and his regular manly 
 features expressed a benevolent yet energetic character. 
 
 An old man and woman brought every dish to the door 
 of the dining hall, and, under the direction of Madame 
 Matwoef, they were placed on the table by Natalia.” I 
 pray you to be seated, my thrice welcome friend,” said 
 Matweof; “the beluga cools fast.” “The dinner appears 
 to be excellent,” replied the guest; “but its relish will be 
 lost to me if these ladies stand aloof, as they seem to 
 intend.” “Never mind us,” said Madame Matweof; “I 
 have no platters at home except those you see on the table. 
 Neighbour Dubrowski borrowed them yesterday for her 
 daughter’s wedding-feast ; and all our servants are lending 
 
ROYAL NUPTIALS. 
 
 119 
 
 her a helping hand but our old gardener and his wife. I 
 sent this forenoon for a few of my platters, and one or two 
 of my women ; however, my good neighbour said it would 
 be inconvenient to spare them, and it would be ill luck to 
 change her plan. I have no faith in silly omens ; but 
 would not vex an old friend by making her wait till you 
 have done.” 
 
 The czar was gratified by this unceremonious proof that 
 Matweof had not divulged his secret ; and he gaily res- 
 ponded, “ What signifies the want of platters, my good 
 lady 1 You can eat with your husband, and the fair damsel 
 will confer a zest on the nice viands by condescending to 
 share them with me.” — “ Indeed I am not in the least 
 anxious for dinner,” replied Natalia ; “ and, as the servants 
 are absent, shall with pleasure wait on you and my friends.” 
 “ Yet I warrant you,” interposed Madame Matweof, “ tha 4, 
 if you unroll a musty parchment with historical records from 
 the south-east of your country, she would be eager to devour 
 it with all her eyes. 
 
 Natalia smiled, and the czar rising, drew her gently to a 
 seat beside him. Having prevailed with her to partake of 
 the repast, he looked to Matweof, saying, “ So your fair ward 
 can read and write 1 these are rare attainments !” Madame 
 Matweof, more prompt in verbiage than her husband, re- 
 plied : “To be sure ! she reads and writes so well that she 
 might be chief secretary to the czar ; (St. Nicholas bless 
 and prosper him !) and yet her distaff produces more yarn 
 than any girl I know. She wastes not a moment from dawn 
 to a late hour at night, and was a mere infant when she 
 learnt to use her pen!” Natalia’s blushes in vain deprecated 
 these encomiums ; but Madame Matweof persisted, till in a 
 low' voice she mildly interrupted her protectress, saying, “ I 
 owe all to you, who had the goodness to teach me every 
 
120 
 
 ROYAL NUPTIALS, 
 
 kind of work ; and my indulgent guardian, who took the 
 trouble of directing me to use the pen.” — “ My dear child !” 
 said Matweof, “ you gave me no trouble, since you really 
 learned faster than I could find leisure to afford you in- 
 struction.” 
 
 The czar, enraptured, eyed the eloquent looks of Natalia, 
 in this affectionate discussion of her early studies. Matweof 
 observed that he ate very little, but would not presume to 
 urge the royal appetite ; while the assiduous hostess, quite 
 ignorant of his high quality, upbraided her husband for 
 neglecting his guest, and stretching her large arms, and 
 protruding her broad face over the table, heaped his plate 
 with choice bits. Her amplitude of countenance was the 
 more remarkable in contrast with the delicate features of 
 Natalia; and the matronly costume of Russia in the six- 
 teenth and seventeenth centuries required the hair to be 
 gathered upon the summit of the head, and wholly covered 
 by a black velvet cap. Madame Matweof’s cap was of 
 massive and new velvet, with two bandeaus of broad and 
 brilliant gold lace. The rest of her attire resembled that of 
 Natalia, except that the materials were much finer, and of 
 recent date. Matweof saw that his wife taxed the czar’s 
 good-nature by frequent interruptions to his conversation 
 with Natalia ; he therefore overcame his habitual taciturnity 
 and engaged her in talking to himself ; but the exhaustless 
 tide of her volubility was sometimes diverted from the con- 
 jugal auditor, to recommend the rye-cakes and honey, the 
 metheglin and rye-brandy, to the merchant of Kasan ; and 
 she could hardly suppress her impatient wonder that he 
 would neither eat nor drink, and yet loitered over his platter 
 and cup as if he never wished to leave the table. In truth 
 he was intent upon taking the dimensions of Natalia’s un- 
 derstanding, and penetrating every recess of her disposition, 
 
ROYAL NUPTIALS. 
 
 121 
 
 by agitating a great variety of subjects, on which she spoke 
 with artless freedom and unassuming intelligence, little 
 aware of the impression she made, or of the identity of him 
 who listened and looked as if he could be rivetted to her 
 side. Madame Matweof at length said she must see what 
 the old folks were about : and beckoning to Natalia, they 
 disappeared together. 
 
 “ That sweet maiden must be a treasure to thee,” said the 
 czar. 
 
 “ She is the balsam of my declining years. Now that my 
 sight is impaired she reads to me ; and when the shades of 
 evening suspend the delights of study, she assists my failing 
 memory by recapitulating what we have gathered from the 
 stores of the learned.” 
 
 “ Thou shouldst transfer her to the cherishing bosom of a 
 good husband ; while young and pliant she can accommodate 
 herself to his peculiarities — and all men, more or less, have 
 peculiar habits.” 
 
 “ My liege, she is too good for a sick nurse, to tend the 
 couch of an old fellow that has married her to secure for 
 himself her patient diligent cares; and may my child go 
 unmarried to the grave rather than bind herself to a young 
 giddy pate, wildly enamoured of her beauty, who will 
 v/orship her for some weeks, and then behave as if he had 
 purchased a bond-woman, and not a wife. I will not leave 
 her unportioned ; and I pray she may live single, if she is 
 not destined for a spouse that can appreciate her merits.” 
 
 “ I will help thee in searching for a tender guardian of 
 Natalia’s happiness; but I should not like to find her averse 
 to my choice, and partial to another.” 
 
 “ I am certain she has never bestowed a thought upon 
 any of the sex. She knows my fears of making her over to 
 a tyrant, and is strongly prepossessed against matrimony. 
 
 M 
 
122 
 
 ROYAL NUPTIALS* 
 
 She is perfectly satisfied to take refuge in a convent when 
 my wife and I are no more.” 
 
 “ Good. I shall be thy guest again in four days, and in 
 the mean time let us omit no exertion in behalf of the fair 
 Natalia.” 
 
 In the evening Matweof called for the real merchant of 
 Kasan, and found a note from him, purporting that he had 
 received a sudden call to deliver a large quantity of goods, 
 but he had taken upon himself to introduce the son of a 
 wealthy correspondent at Astracan. The young gentleman 
 was intrusted to deliver this note, and promised to dine with 
 Matweof the following day, 
 
 Natalia’s estimation of the supposed trader of Kasan was 
 greatly enhanced by a comparison with the awkward affecta- 
 tion of this self-important coxcomb. He was at no pains to 
 conceal that he knew himself to be very handsome ; and 
 spoke of his father’s opulence, as if he inherited from it all 
 kinds of talents and virtues. He quaffed rye-brandy till he 
 became intoxicated, and so familiar that Natalia left the 
 room. He insisted upon seeing her again, and made down- 
 right proposals of marriage. Madame Matweof considered 
 him to be a match too splendid to be lost, and compelled 
 Natalia to return and hear him plead for himself. She 
 answered with a decided rejection ; and Matweof internally 
 applauded her good sense and spirit, though he deemed 
 it right to leave her at entire liberty to accept or decline the 
 offer. 
 
 The czar came on the fourth day as he had promised. 
 Matweof took care to intercept him by the way, to mention 
 that his wife and Natalia believed the young blade from 
 Astracan to be the son of his partner. Alexius said he 
 would answer them in conformity to that notion, if they 
 asked any questions. Matweof was insensibly led to com- 
 
ROYAL NUPTIALS. 
 
 123 
 
 municate the precipitate wooing of the conceited youth, and 
 Natalia’s inflexible rejection; with which the czar seemed 
 more pleased than he allowed himself to declare, especially 
 when informed that the fair damsel withstood the solicitations 
 of Madame Matweof in behalf of the worthy admirer, and 
 with respectful determination had affirmed she was ready to 
 go to a convent, but could not give herself to a man whose 
 foibles must excite her contempt. During several weeks the 
 czar was a frequent visitor ; and his attentions to Natalia 
 were received with a timid embarrassment, from which he 
 drew the most delightful inferences. One day after dinner 
 he took from his bosom an embroidered silk handkerchief, 
 and, unfolding it, shewed three strings of amber beads, to 
 which was affixed a golden image of St. Nicholas. He 
 presented these tempting gifts to Natalia, and made an effort 
 to untie the faded wrap on her neck. She recoiled with an 
 indignant suffusion overspreading her face, and in a tremu- 
 lous voice said : — 
 
 “ If such must be the terms of your present, take it back. 
 Even our good and great sovereign lord the czar would not 
 find me passive under an insult so degrading.” 
 
 “ You will pardon a stranger to the customs of your pro- 
 vince, fair damsel, if he has unwittingly trespassed against 
 them ; and be not angry though I add that you know not 
 how the czar might prevail, unless you had seen him.” 
 
 “ Natalia, my dear child,” said Matweof, “ you will surely 
 accept the apology of a stranger.” 
 
 Natalia wiped away her tears and smiled, and the czar 
 questioned — “ Have you seen the czar, fair damsel ?” 
 
 Never, never, but I shall never cease to invoke blessings 
 on his name.” 
 
 “ What has he done to deserve such fervent predilections 1 
 Have you owed him any benefit?” 
 
124 
 
 ROYAL NUPTIALS 
 
 “ He has done more for Russia than Iwan Basilides, who 
 took three hundred cart-loads of silver from the duke of 
 Novogorod, and conquered his province. The spoils of the 
 enemy enriched only the court circle : our gracious czar 
 hath made the mass of his people wiser and better, therefore 
 they are much happier.” 
 
 “ Yet you would not allow him to uncover your lovely 
 neck 1” 
 
 “ He is too truly the father of all his subjects to require 
 from a poor girl the sacrifice of her self-respect.” 
 
 “ I now commend your spirit, my child,” said Madame 
 Matweof ; “ but it is proper to tell the stranger gentleman, 
 that it is only the privilege of an accepted lover to untie the 
 knot he attempted to loose.” 
 
 “ I humbly crave forgiveness,” said the czar. 
 
 “ Indeed, you have cruelly vexed me,” answered Natalia. 
 “ I esteemed you as one of the best men in the world — 
 always excepting our sovereign lord Alexius.” 
 
 “ Now, you are ready to be in tears again. Come away, 
 and bustle about, to forget an affront which was not 
 intended.” 
 
 So speaking, Madame Matweof retired with Natalia; and 
 the czar said, “ It is time to ask thee, Matweof, if thou hast 
 found a mate for thy pretty apprehensive dove 1” 
 
 “None, my liege, except the young Eastern she has 
 dismissed.” 
 
 “ I have been more successful. I know an admirer, 
 who will take Natalia without any dowry but her own 
 charms.” 
 
 “ God and St. Nicholas reward your highness ! My 
 utmost gratitude is a poor offering, but it is ardent and 
 sincere. I shall not presume with inquiries, since your 
 
ItOYAL NUPTIALS. 
 
 125 
 
 highness will not throw away the girl, who has been 
 honoured by your approbation; ” 
 
 “ Why should I keep thee in suspense, my good Matweof? 
 The husband I have destined for Natalia is myself. If she 
 will be mine, our nuptials shall be celebrated without 
 delay.” 
 
 Matweof fell at the feet of his sovereign with incoherent 
 bursts of gratitude. The czar desired him to rise and com- 
 pose his mind ; but Matweof said he was now master of his 
 own feelings, and besought his liege lord to grant him a 
 boon. Alexius encouraged him to ask with all freedom 
 and Matweof resumed — “ My sovereign lord ! since a faith- 
 ful and devoted servant is permitted, he most humbly implores 
 your highness not to decide finally in favour of Natalia, 
 until the noble and beautiful of the empire shall present 
 themselves at the Kremlin, in obedience to a royal summons. 
 That I desire the elevation and happiness of my ward cannot 
 be doubted ; but it is my duty first to consider the prospects 
 of my most gracious lord. All Russia will be gratified to 
 have the daughters of the land entitled to a chance for the 
 most exalted distinction; and if Natalia be still preferred, 
 she may still wait the royal mandate.” 
 
 The czar leaned his forehead on his hand some minutes, 
 and then replied : “ It is not by a mandate — it is by her 
 free consent I desire to win Natalia. I wish to talk with 
 her m private ; and before you send her hither, let me 
 satisfy your disinterested loyalty by telling you I shall 
 assemble the beauties of the empire, as you have wisely 
 counselled.” 
 
 Matweof brought Natalia to the soi-disant merchant, and 
 left her. The merchant declared his love, and with modest 
 grace was accepted, yet in broken and scarcely audible 
 words. After an effusion of tender transport, he subjoined, 
 m 2 
 
126 
 
 ROYAL NUPTIALS. 
 
 “ But there is news in the city to-day : it is reported that all 
 the beauties of the empire are to be invited to the court by 
 proclamation. My Natalia has required a month to prepare 
 for the change of her condition; and perhaps before that 
 tedious time expires, she may be raised to the throne, and 
 if bereaved of her, life will be hateful to me. If you can 
 resign the chance for royalty, and give me your hand before 
 the public call for appearing at court, it would save me un- 
 utterable bitterness of anxiety.” 
 
 “ Never shall Natalia hesitate to spare you anxiety. 
 This poor hand is yours — yours only.” 
 
 “You shall see or hear of me to-morrow, loveliest, most 
 amiable Natalia — mine, mine for ever! Dearest, I am 
 urged by business to tear myself from you, and for your 
 own precious sake I must despatch the affair.” 
 
 Early next morning the royal proclamation was heard in 
 all quarters of the city; and the czar sent messengers 
 throughout his dominions, with the same summons to the 
 young and lovely, when he returned to the palace. The 
 heralds in all parts of Moscow performed this office each 
 third hour, during seven days. The merchant came not to 
 see Natalia; and she never suspected that the sounds of 
 the proclamations came from him. He often sent for 
 Matweof, and his heart smote him when informed that 
 Natalia hoped against hope, and though uneasy and deject- 
 ed, never reflected harshly upon the seeming inconstancy 
 of her lover. When Madame Matweof blamed him, she 
 calmly asserted her confidence in his honour and faith, and 
 was assured he could explain all that seemed mysterious in 
 his conduct. She was very reluctant to appear at the court ; 
 but the czar must be obeyed. He sent her attire for the 
 occasion ; and she wore the embroidered kerchief, the amber 
 beads, and golden image of St. Nicholas, given to her by 
 
ROYAL NUPTIALS. LZ/ 
 
 the merchant of Kasan. Matweof attended her to the 
 palace. The gorgeous magnificence of the scene at first 
 bewildered her senses ; and she was stunned by the loud re- 
 verberation of some hundred female voices, speaking at once 
 in the lofty apartment. But hers was not a mind that could 
 be wholly shaken from its poise, and her thoughts were soon 
 collected, and fixed upon the merchant of Kasan. She was 
 roused from a reverie by a flourish of horns — the ancient 
 royal music of Russia. This music was produced in the 
 same style which at the present day is continued in the 
 emperor’s band, and in the band of the regiment of guards. 
 The emperor’s band consists of three hundred horns, each, 
 by the intervention of the air, vibrating a single note. The 
 performers have no written music ; but practice has given 
 them such precision in the modulations, that at some dis- 
 tance the effect may be mistaken for a grand orchestra of 
 instruments. Three prolonged flourishes announced the 
 approach of the czar. Deep silence awaited his appear- 
 ance. Natalia breathed quick with a variety of confused 
 sensations, in which a dread of being torn from her lover 
 still predominated. She sat as much out of view as could 
 be permitted by the etiquette of the presence-chamber ; 
 however, she was obliged to comply with the general order, 
 that the young ladies should stand in the front row, and 
 their friends close behind them. The folding doors were 
 thrown open, and in robes of state, embroidered with gold, 
 his girdle and the hilt of his scimetar studded with gems, 
 and a jewelled diadem on his head, the czar entered, follow- 
 ed by a multitude of boyars and gentlemen. He smiled and 
 talked to the fair circle as he passed along; yet his eyes 
 were manifestly seeking an object. When he perceived 
 Natalia, he bent his steps towards her, and Matweof 
 whispered to her, “ Look up, my child ; it is against all 
 
128 
 
 ROYAL NUPTIALS. 
 
 rules to cast down your eyes when the sovereign draws 
 near. You must look at him, or be guily of contumelious 
 demeanour.” 
 
 Natalia was all obedience to her guardian. She directed 
 her regards to the awful figure of supremacy, and instantly 
 recognised her plighted lover ; but among the highest born 
 and the most beautiful, dared she to flatter herself his heart 
 would acknowledge her 1 Her energies had been impaired 
 by the uncertainty of her fate since the reputed merchant 
 bade her farewell , her spirits were fluttered by the dazzling 
 novelties around her ; and now, to discover the ruler of her 
 destiny in a sphere so immeasurably above her, was over- 
 powering — her sight and consciousness failed. Matweof 
 was carrying her out in a swoon, when the czar sent an 
 officer of his household to shew the way to a private cham- 
 ber, to which he hastened by a shorter passage. “ Shut the 
 door, Matweof,” he said, “ and open the lattice when you 
 resign to me your lovely burthen. Now, stand by to witness 
 the renewal of my vows.” 
 
 The air soon recovered Natalia. She attempted to rise 
 from the embraces of the czar, and to apologize for giving 
 so much trouble. 
 
 “ Do not deny me the innocent joy of holding you in my 
 arms, most beloved Natalia,” said the czar. “ Say you 
 forgive the cruel proofs of attachment and fidelity I have 
 exacted. I am greatly to blame, and will make all atone- 
 ment with my heart, my hand, my throne, my whole life : 
 they are yours, my only love. Your colour comes and goes, 
 my charmer — let the air circulate round these swelling veins 
 in your neck. May your Alexius now untie the handker- 
 chief?” 
 
 Natalia’s face beamed with the most animated suffusion, 
 as in low accents she breathed a modest assent. The czar 
 
ROYAL NUPTIALS. 
 
 129 
 
 pressed her lips, her glowing cheeks, and neck; while 
 Natalia, abashed, confused, and shrinking from these im- 
 passioned caresses, implored him to release her ; but her 
 transported lover soothed her coy sensibility by the fondest 
 protestations; and concluded by addressing Matweof: — 
 “ My worthy friend, bear witness that your cherished 
 Natalia is my affianced consort. I must now leave her, and 
 return to the hall. Conduct her thither when she has 
 regained composure.” 
 
 Natalia soon reappeared in the brilliant circle. A crowd 
 of attendants brought dried fruits, cakes of roses, apricots, 
 and peaches, from Damascus; figs and comfits, from 
 Turkey; transparent apples, called navlineh , from Astra- 
 can ; liqueurs and numberless delicacies, from the south 
 western regions of Europe. The ladies were dismissed with 
 suitable presents, and the bridal robe was sent to Natalia 
 Kesilowna Narishkin. — Never did the sovereign of all the 
 Russias repent having shared his throne with the foster- 
 child of Matweof’s bounty. Her congenial mind sweetened 
 his domestic hours, and invigorated his public labours to 
 diffuse useful knowledge. She assiduously inculcated the 
 peculiar attributes that ennoble the female character, and 
 was herself a bright example of the virtues and attainments 
 she recommended. To sum up in a few words her claim 
 upon the everlasting reverence of her country — Natalia 
 Kesilowna Narishkin was the mother of Peter the Great. 
 She died in childbed when Peter was in his eighth year. 
 Alexius survived her no more than five months. After the 
 decease of his parents, his artful, ambitious sister Sophia 
 deprived Peter of all the opportunities for education, with 
 the design to unfit him for assuming the reins of govern- 
 ment : yet his extraordinary capacity surmounted all impe- 
 diments; and he was self-taught in acquirements, seldom 
 
130 
 
 FREDERICK THE GREAT. 
 
 equalled, with all the aids of instruction, in the most en- 
 lightened era of science. By his stupendous powers and 
 mighty efforts, he raised his empire from barbarism to pro- 
 gressive civilization ; and the darker shades that mingle with 
 the splendour of his achievements should be imputed to the 
 cruel sister, whose selfish policy endeavoured to corrupt and 
 debase his disposition. 
 
 It only remains for us to record that Natalia repaid the 
 kindness of Matweof with a grateful veneration truly filial. 
 He and his sons were appointed to places of trust, and 
 acquitted themselves with talent, indefatigable attention, and 
 faithful zeal. Their attachment to Peter, the son of Natalia, 
 exposed them to the rancorous hatred of Sophia. She ex- 
 tirpated their race ; but they died as they had lived, with an 
 irreproachable good name. B. G. 
 
 FREDERICK THE GREAT. 
 
 In surveying one evening some of the advanced posts of his 
 camp, Frederick discovered a soldier endeavouring to pass 
 the sentinel. His majesty stopped him, and insisted on 
 knowing where he was going. “ To tell you the truth/’ 
 answered the soldier, “ your majesty has been so worsted in 
 all your attempts that I was going to desert .” “ Were you?” 
 answered the monarch. “Remain here but one week 
 longer, and if fortune does not mend in that time, I’ll desert 
 with you too.” 
 
131 
 
 A TALE OF PENTLAND. 
 
 BY THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD. 
 
 Woodrow mentions the following story, but in a manner 
 so confused and indefinite, that it is impossible to compre- 
 hend either the connexion of the incidents with one another, 
 or what inference he wishes to draw from them. The facts 
 seem to have been these. Mr. John Haliday having been 
 in hiding on the hills, after the battle of Pentland, became 
 impatient to hear news concerning the suffering of bis 
 brethren who had been in arms, and in particular if there 
 were any troops scouring the district in which he had found 
 shelter. Accordingly, he left his hiding-place in the even- 
 ing, and travelled towards the valley until about midnight > 
 when, coming to the house of Gabriel Johnstone, and per- 
 ceiving a light, he determined on entering, as he knew him 
 to be a devout man, and one much concerned about the 
 sufferings of the church of Scotland. 
 
 Mr. Haliday, however, approached the house with great 
 caution, for he rather wondered why there should be a light 
 there at midnight, while at the same time he neither heard 
 psalms singing nor the accents of prayer. So, casting off 
 his heavy shoes, for fear of making a noise, he stole softly 
 up to the little window from whence the light beamed, and 
 peeped in, where he saw, not Johnstone, but another man, 
 whom he did not know, in the very act of cutting a soldier’s 
 throat, while Johnstone’s daughter, a comely girl, about 
 
132 
 
 A TALE OF PENTLAND. 
 
 twenty years of age, was standing deliberately by, and hold- 
 ing the candle to him. 
 
 Iialiday was seized with an inexpressible terror ; for the 
 floor was all blood, and the man was struggling in the ago- 
 nies of death, and from his dress he appeared to have been 
 a cavalier of some distinction. So completely was the 
 covenanter overcome with horror, that he turned and fled 
 from the house with all his might ; resolved to have no 
 participation in the crime, and deeply grieved that he should 
 have witnessed such an act of depravity, as a private deli- 
 berate murder, perpetrated at such an hour, and in such a 
 place, by any who professed to be adherents to the reformed 
 religion of the Scottish church. So much had Haliday been 
 confounded, that he even forgot to lift his shoes, but fled 
 without them ; and he had not run above half a bowshot 
 before he came upon two men hasting to the house of 
 Gabriel Johnstone. As soon as they perceived him running 
 towards them they fled, and he pursued them, for when he 
 saw them so ready to take alarm, he was sure they were 
 some of the persecuted race and tried eagerly to overtake 
 them, exerting his utmost speed, and calling on them to stop. 
 All this only made them run the faster, and when they came 
 to a feal-dike they separated, and ran different ways, and he 
 soon thereafter lost sight of them both. 
 
 This house where Johnstone lived, is said to have been 
 in a lonely concealed dell, not far from West Linton, in 
 what direction I do not know, but it was towards that village 
 that Haliday fled, not knowing whither he went till he came 
 to the houses. Having no acquaintances here whom he durst, 
 venture to call up, and the morning having set in frosty, he 
 began to conceive that it was absolutely necessary for him 
 to return to the house of Gabriel Johnstone, and try to re- 
 gain his shoes, as he little knew when or where it might be 
 
A TALE OF PENTLAND. 
 
 133 
 
 in his power to get another pair. Accordingly he hastened 
 back by a nearer path, and coming to the place before it 
 was day, found his shoes. At the same time he heard 
 a fierce contention within the house, but as there seemed to 
 be a watch he durst not approach it but again made his 
 escape. 
 
 Having brought some victuals along with him, he did not 
 return to his hiding-place that day, which was in a wild 
 height, south of Biggar, but remained in the moss of Craig- 
 engaur ; and as soon as it grew dark descended again into 
 the valley, determined to have some communication with 
 his species, whatever it might cost. Again he perceived a 
 light at a distance, where he thought no light should have 
 been. But he went toward it, and as he approached, he 
 heard the melody of psalm-singing issuing from the place, 
 and floating far on the still breeze of the night. The cove- 
 nanter’s spirits were cheered, he had never heard any thing 
 so sweet ; no, not when enjoying the gospel strains in peace, 
 and in their fullest fruition. It was to him the feast of the 
 soul, and rang through his ears like an hymn of paradise. 
 He flew as on hinds’ feet to the spot, and found the reverend 
 and devout Mr. Livingston, in the act of divine worship, in 
 an old void barn on the lands of Slipperfield, with a great 
 number of serious and pious people, who were all much 
 affected both by his prayers and discourse. 
 
 After the worship was ended, Haliday made up to the 
 minister, among many others, to congratulate him on the 
 splendour of his discourse, and implore “ a further supply of 
 the same milk of .redeeming grace, with which they found 
 their souls nourished, cherished, and exalted.” Indeed it is 
 quite consistent with human nature to suppose, that the 
 whole of the circumstances under which this small commu- 
 nity of Christians met, could not miss rendering their 
 
134 
 
 A TALE OF PENTLAND. 
 
 devotions impressive. They were a proscribed race, and 
 were meeting at the penalty of their lives ; their dome of 
 worship a waste house in the wilderness, and the season, 
 the dead hour of the night, had of themselves tints of sub- 
 limity which could not fail to make impressions on the souls 
 of the worshippers. The good man complied with their re- 
 quest, and appointed another meeting at the same place 
 on a future night. 
 
 Haliday having been formerly well acquainted with the 
 preacher, conveyed him on his way home, where they con- 
 doled with one another on the hardness of their lots ; and 
 Haliday told him of the scene he had witnessed at the house 
 of Gabriel Johnstone. The heart of the good minister was 
 wrung with grief, and he deplored the madness and malice 
 of the people who had committed an act that would bring 
 down tenfold vengeance on the heads of the whole perse- 
 cuted race. At length it was resolved between them, that 
 as soon as it was day, they would go and reconnoitre ; and 
 if they found the case of the aggravated nature they sus- 
 pected, they would themselves be the first to expose it, and 
 give the perpetrators up to justice. 
 
 Accordingly, the next morning they took another man 
 into the secret, a William Rankin, one of Mr. Livingston’s 
 elders, and the three went away to Johnstone’s house, to 
 investigate the case of the cavalier’s murder ; but there was 
 a guard of three armed men opposed them, and neither 
 promises, nor threatenings, nor all the minister’s eloquence, 
 could induce them to give way one inch. They said they 
 could not conceive what they were seeking there, and as 
 they suspected they came for no good purpose, they were 
 determined that they should not enter. It was in vain that 
 Mr. Livingston informed them of his name and sacred 
 
A TALE OF PENTLAND. 
 
 135 
 
 calling, and his friendship for the owner of the house, and the 
 cause which he had espoused ; the men continued obstinate : 
 and when he asked to speak a word to Gabriel Johnstone 
 himself, they shook their heads, and said, “ he would never 
 see him again.” The men then advised the intruders to take 
 themselves off without any more delay, lest a worse thing 
 should befal them ; and as they continued to motion them 
 away, with the most impatient gestures, the kind divine and 
 his associates thought meet to retire, and leave the matter as 
 it was : and thus was this mysterious affair hushed up in 
 silence and darkness for that time, no tongue having been 
 heard to mention it further than as above recited. The 
 three armed men were all unknown to the others, but 
 Haliday observed, that one of them was the very youth 
 wh m he saw cutting off the soldier’s head with a knife. 
 
 The rage and cruelty of the popish party seemed to 
 gather new virulence every day, influencing all the counsels 
 of the king ; and the persecution of the non-conformists was 
 proportionably severe. One new act of council was issued 
 after another, all tending to root the covenanters out of 
 Scotland, but it had only the effect of making their tenets 
 still dearer to them. The longed-for night of the meeting 
 in the old hay-barn at length arrived, and it was attended 
 by a still greater number than that on the preceding. A 
 more motley group can hardly be conceived than appeared 
 in the barn that night, and the lamps being weak and dim, 
 rendered the appearance of the assembly still more striking. 
 It was, however, observed, that about the middle of the 
 service, a number of fellows came in with broad slouch 
 bonnets, and watch coats or cloaks about them, who placed 
 themselves in equal divisions at the tw*o doors, and remained 
 without uncovering their heads, two of them being busily 
 engaged in taking notes. Before Mr. Livingston began the 
 
136 
 
 A TALE OF PENTLAND. 
 
 last prayer, however, he desired the men to uncover, which 
 they did, and the service went on to the end, but no sooner 
 had the minister pronounced the word Amen, than the group 
 of late comers threw off their cloaks, and drawing out 
 swords and pistols, their commander, one General Drum- 
 mond, charged the whole congregation, in the king’s name, 
 to surrender. 
 
 A scene of the utmost confusion ensued ; the lights being 
 extinguished, many of the young men burst through the roof 
 of the old barn in every direction, and though many shots 
 were fired at them in the dark, great numbers escaped ; but 
 Mr. Livingston, and other eleven, were retained prisoners 
 and conveyed to Edinburgh, where they were examined 
 before the council, and cast into prison ; among the prisoners 
 was Mr. Haliday, and the identical young man whom he 
 had seen in the act of murdering the cavalier, and who 
 turned out to be a Mr. John Lindsay, from Edinburgh, 
 who had been at the battle of Pentland, and in hiding, 
 afterwards. 
 
 Great was the lamentation for the loss of Mr. Livingston, 
 who vras so highly esteemed by his hearers : the short 
 extracts from his sermons in the barn, that were produced 
 against him on his trial, prove him to have been a man 
 endowed with talents somewhat above the greater part of his 
 contemporaries. His text that night, it appears, had been 
 taken from Genesis : “ And God saw the wickedness of man 
 that it was great in the earth, and that every imagination of 
 the thoughts of his heart is only evil continually.” One of 
 the quoted passages runs thus : 
 
 “ And while we have thus ample experience of the effects 
 of sin, we have also abundance of examples set before us 
 of sin itself, yea, in its most hideous aspect; for behold how 
 it abounds among us all, but chiefly among the rulers and 
 
A TALE OL- PENTLAND. 
 
 137 
 
 nobles of the land ! Dare I mention to you those crimes of 
 theirs which cause the sun of heaven to blush and hide his 
 head as ashamed of the sight of their abominations 1 Dare 
 I mention to you the extent of their blasphemies against that 
 God who made them, and the Saviour who died to redeem 
 them ? Their cursing and swearing, Sabbath-breaking, 
 chambering, and wantonness ; and, above all, their tramp- 
 ling upon the blood of the covenant, and pouring out the 
 blood of saints and martyrs like water on the face of the 
 earth. Because of those the land mourneth, and by these, 
 multitudes, which no man can number, are plunging their 
 souls into irretrievable and eternal ruin. But some say, O 
 these are honourable men ! Amiable, upright, and good 
 moral men — though no great professors of religion. But I 
 say, my brethren, alack and well-a-day for their uprightness 
 and honour ! which, if ever they come to be tried by the 
 test of the Divine law, and by the example of him who was 
 holiness itself, wdll be found miserably short-coming. So 
 true it is that the kings of the earth have combined to plot 
 against the Lord and his anointed. Let us therefore join 
 together in breaking their bands and casting their cords from 
 us. As for myself, as a member of this poor persecutes 
 Church of Scotland, and an unworthy minister of it, I 
 hereby call upon you all, in the name of God, to set your 
 faces, your hearts, and your hands against all such acts, 
 which are or shall be passed, against the covenanted work 
 of reformation in this kingdom - that we here declare our- 
 selves free of the guilt of them, and pray that God may put 
 this in record in heaven.” 
 
 These words having been sworn to, and Mr. Livingston 
 not denying them, a sharp debate arose in the council what 
 punishment to award. The king’s advocate urged the utility 
 of sending him forthwith to the gallows ; but some friends in 
 k 2 
 
133 
 
 A TALE OF PENTLAND. 
 
 the council got his sentence commuted to banishment 3 and 
 he was accordingly banished the kingdom. Six more, 
 against whom nothing could be proven, farther than their 
 having been present at a conventicle, were sentenced to 
 imprisonment for two months 3 among this number Haliday 
 was one. The other five were condemned to be executed at 
 the cross of Edinburgh, on the 14th of December follow- 
 ing 3 and among this last unhappy number was Mr. John 
 Lindsay. 
 
 Haliday now tried all the means he could devise to gain 
 an interview with Lindsay, to have some explanation of the 
 extraordinary scene he had witnessed in the cottage at mid- 
 night, for it had made a fearful impression upon his mind, 
 and he never could get rid of it for a moment 3 having still 
 in his minds eye a beautiful country maiden standing with a 
 pleased face, holding a candle, and Lindsay in the mean 
 time at his horrid task. His endeavours, however, were all 
 in vain, for they were in different prisons, and the jailor paid 
 no attention to his requests. But there was a gentleman in 
 the Privy Council, that year, whose name, I think, was 
 Gilmour, to whose candour Haliday conceived, that both he 
 and some of his associates owed their lives. To this gentle- 
 man, therefore, he applied by letter, requesting a private 
 interview with him, as he had a singular instance of bar- 
 barity to communicate, which it would be well to inquire 
 into while possibility of doing so remained, for the access to 
 it would soon be sealed for ever. The gentleman attended 
 immediately, and Haliday revealed to him the circumstances 
 previously mentioned, stating that the murderer now lay in 
 the Tolbooth jail, under sentence of death. 
 
 Gilmour appeared much interested, as well as astonished 
 at the narrative, and taking out a note-book, he looked over 
 some dates, and then observed : “ This date of yours, tallies 
 
A TALE OF PENTLAND. 
 
 139 
 
 exactly with one of my own, relating to an incident of the 
 same sort, but the circumstances narrated are so different, 
 that I must conceive, either that you are mistaken, or that 
 you are trumping up this story to screen some other guilty 
 person or persons.” 
 
 Haliday disclaimed all such motives, and persevered in 
 his attestations. Gilmour then took him along with him to 
 the Tolbooth prison, where the two were admitted to a 
 private interview with the prisoner, and there charged him 
 with the crime of murder in such a place and on such a 
 night; but he denied the whole with disdain. Haliday told 
 him that it was in vain for him to deny it, for he beheld him 
 in the very act of perpetrating the murder with his own eyes, 
 while Gabriel Johnstone’s daughter stood deliberately and 
 held the candle to him. 
 
 Hold your tongue, fellow !” said Lindsay, disdainfully, 
 “ for you know not what you are saying. What a cowardly 
 dog you must be by your own account ! If you saw me 
 murdering a gentleman cavalier, why did you not rush in to 
 his assistance V* 
 
 “ I could not have saved the gentleman then,” said 
 Haliday, “ and I thought it not meet to intermeddle in such 
 a scene of blood.” 
 
 “ It was as well for you that you did not,” said Lindsay. 
 
 “ Then you acknowledge being in the cottage of the dell 
 that night V* said Gilmour. 
 
 “ And if I was, what is that to you ? Or what is it now 
 to me, or any person 1 I was there on the night specified ; 
 but I am ashamed of the part I there acted, and am now 
 well requited for it ! Yes, requited as I ought to be, so let 
 it rest ; for not one syllable of the transaction shall any one 
 hear from me.” 
 
 Thus they were obliged to leave the prisoner, and forth- 
 
140 
 
 A TALE OF PENTLAND. 
 
 with Gilmour led Haliday up a stair to a lodging in the 
 Parliament Square, where they found a gentleman lying 
 sick in bed, to whom Mr. Gilmour said, after inquiring after 
 his health, “ Brother Robert, I conceive that we two have 
 found out the young man who saved your life at the cottage 
 among the mountains.” 
 
 “ I would give the half that I possess that this were true,” 
 said the sick gentleman, “ who or where is he 1” 
 
 “ If I am right in my conjecture,” said the Privy Coun- 
 sellor, “ he is lying in the Tolbooth jail, there under sentence 
 of death, and has but a few days to live. But tell me, 
 brother, could you know him, or have you any recollection 
 of his appearance ?” 
 
 “ Alas ! I have none !” said the other, mournfully, “ for 
 I was insensible, through the loss of blood, the whole time I 
 was under his protection ; and if I ever heard his name I 
 have lost it : the whole of that period being a total blank in 
 my memory. But he must be a hero of the first rank, and 
 therefore, O my dear brother, save him whatever his crime 
 may be.” 
 
 “ His life is justly forfeited to the laws of his country, 
 brother,” said Gilmour, “ and he must die with the rest.” 
 
 “ He shall not die with the rest if I should die for him,” 
 cried the sick man, vehemently, “ I will move heaven and 
 earth before my brave deliverer shall die like a felon.” 
 
 “ Calm yourself, brother ; and trust that part to me,” 
 said Gilmour, “ I think my influence saved the life of this 
 gentleman, as well as the lives of some others, and it was 
 all on account of the feeling of respect I had for the party, 
 one of whom, or, rather I should say two of whom, acted 
 such a noble and distinguished part toward you. But pray 
 undeceive this gentleman by narrating the facts to him, in 
 which he cannot miss to be interested.” The sick man, 
 
A TALE OF PENTLAND. 
 
 141 
 
 whose name it seems, if I remember aright, was Captain 
 Robert Gilmour, of the volunteers, then proceeded as 
 follows : — 
 
 “ There having been high rewards offered for the appre- 
 hension of some south-country gentleman, whose corres- 
 pondence with Mr. Welch, and some other of the fanatics, 
 had been intercepted, I took advantage of information I 
 obtained, regarding the place of their retreat, and set out, 
 certain of apprehending two of them at least. 
 
 “Accordingly I went off one morning, about the begin- 
 ning of November, with only five followers, well armed and 
 mounted. We left Gilmerton long before it was light, and, 
 having a trusty guide, rode straight to their hiding-place, 
 where we did not arrive till towards evening, when we 
 started them. They were seven in number, and were 
 armed with swords and bludgeons ; but, being apprized of 
 our approach, they fled from us, and took shelter in a 
 morass, into which it was impossible to follow them on 
 horseback. But perceiving three men more, on another 
 hill, I thought there was no time to lose ; so giving one of 
 my men our horses to hold, the rest of us advanced into the 
 morass with drawn swords and loaded horse pistols. I called 
 to them to surrender, but they stood upon their guard, de- 
 termined on resistance; and just while we were involved to 
 the knees in the mire of the morass, they broke in upon us, 
 pell-mell, and for about two minutes the engagement was 
 very sharp. There was an old man struck me a terrible 
 blow with a bludgeon, and was just about to repeat it when 
 I brought him down with a shot from my pistol. A young 
 fellow then ran at me wuth his sword, and as I still stuck in 
 the moss, I could not ward the blow, so that he got a fair 
 stroke at my neck, meaning, without doubt, to cut oft' my 
 head; and he would have done it had his sword been sharp. 
 
142 
 
 A TALE OF PENTLAND. 
 
 As it was, he cut it to the bone, and opened one of the 
 jugular veins. I fell, but my men firing a volley in their 
 faces, at that moment, they fled. It seems we did the same, 
 without loss of time ; for I must now take my narrative from 
 the report of others, as I remember no more that passed. 
 My men bore me on their arms to our horses, and then 
 mounted and fled ; trying all that they could to staunch 
 the bleeding of my wound. But perceiving a party coming 
 running down a hill, as with the intent of cutting off their 
 retreat, and losing all hopes of saving my life, they carried 
 me into a cottage in a wild lonely retreat, commended me to 
 the care of the inmates, and, after telling them my name, and 
 in what manner I had received my death wound, they 
 thought proper to provide for their own safety, and so 
 escaped. 
 
 “ The only inmates of that lonely house, at least at that 
 present time, were a lover and his mistress, both intercom- 
 muned whigs ; and when my men left me on the floor, the 
 blood, which they had hitherto restrained in part, burst out 
 afresh and deluged the floor. The young man said it was best 
 to put me out of my pain, but the girl wept and prayed him 
 rather to render me some assistance. ‘ Oh Johnny, man, 
 how can ye speak that gate?’ cried she, ‘suppose he be 
 our mortal enemy, he is ay ane o’ God’s creatures, an’ has 
 a soul to be saved as well as either you or me ; an’ a soldier 
 is obliged to do as he is bidden. Now Johnny, ye ken ye 
 war learned to be a doctor o’ physic, wad ye no rather try 
 to stop the blooding and save the young officer’s life, as 
 either kill him, or let him blood to death on our floor, 
 when the blame o’ the murder might fa’ on us?’ 
 
 “ ‘ Now, the blessing of heaven light on your head, my 
 dear Sally !’ said the lover, ‘ for you have spoken the very 
 sentiments of my heart ; and, since it is your desire, though 
 
A TALE OF PENTLAND. 
 
 143 
 
 we should both rue it, I here vow to you that 1 will not 
 only endeavour to save his life, but I will defend it against 
 our own party to the last drop of my blood/ 
 
 “ He then began, and in spite of my feeble struggles, who 
 knew not either what I was doing or suffering, sewed up the 
 hideous gash in my throat and neck, tying every stitch by 
 itself ; and the house not being able to produce a pair of 
 scissars, it seems that he cut off all the odds and ends of the 
 stitching with a large sharp gulley knife, and it was likely to 
 have been during the operation that this gentleman chanced 
 to look in at the window. He then bathed the wound for 
 an hour with cloths dipped in cold water, dressed it with 
 plaister of wood-betony, and put me to bed, expressing to 
 his sweetheart the most vivid hopes of my recovery. 
 
 “ These operations were scarcely finished, when the maid’s 
 two brothers came home from their hiding-place; and it 
 seems they would have been home there much sooner had 
 not this gentleman given them chase in the contrary direc- 
 tion. They, seeing the floor all covered with blood, inquired 
 the cause with wild trepidation of manner. The sister was 
 the first to inform them of what had happened; on which 
 both the young men gripped to their weapons, and the 
 eldest, Samuel, cried out with the vehemence, of a maniac, 
 4 Blessed be the righteous avenger of blood ! Hoo ! Is it 
 then true that the Lord hath delivered our greatest enemy 
 into our hands!’ * Hold, hold, dearest brother!’ cried the 
 maid, spreading out her arms before him, ‘Would you kill 
 a helpless young man, lying in a state of insensibility? 
 What, although the Almighty hath put his life in your 
 hand, will he not require the blood of you, shed in such a 
 base and cowardly way ?’ 
 
 “ ‘ Hold your peace, foolish girl,’ cried he, in the same 
 furious strain, ‘ I tell you if he had a thousand lives I 
 
144 
 
 A TALE OF PENTLAND. 
 
 would sacrifice them all this moment ! Wo be to this old 
 rusty and fizenless sword, that did not sever his head from 
 his body, when I had a fair chance in the open field ! 
 Nevertheless he shall die; for you do not yet know that he 
 hath, within these few hours, murdered our father, whose 
 blood is yet warm around him on the bleak height/ 
 
 “ 4 Oh ! merciful heaven ! killed our father !” screamed the 
 girl, and flinging herself down on the resting-chair, she 
 fainted away. The two brothers regarded not, but with 
 their bared weapons, made towards the closet, intent on my 
 blood, and both vowing I should die if I had a thousand 
 lives. The stranger interfered, and thrust himself into the 
 closet before them, swearing that, before they committed so 
 cowardly a murder, they should first make their way through 
 his body. A long scene of expostulation and bitter alterca- 
 tion then ensued, which it is needless to recapitulate ; both 
 parties refusing to yield. Samuel at the last got into an 
 ungovernable rage, and raising his weapon, he said furious- 
 ly, 4 How dare you, Sir, mar my righteous vengeance when' 
 my father’s blood calls to me from the dreary heights? Or 
 how dictate to me in my own house ? Either stand aside 
 this moment, or thy blood be upon thine own head !’ 
 
 “ ‘ I’ll dictate to the devil, if he will not hearken to reason,’ 
 said the young surgeon, * therefore strike at your peril.’ 
 
 “ Samuel retreated one step to have full sway for his wea- 
 pon, and the fury depicted on his countenance proved his 
 determination. But in a moment, his gallant opponent 
 closed with him, and holding up his wrist with his left hand, 
 he with the right bestowed on him a blow with such energy, 
 that he fell flat on the floor, among the soldier’s blood. The 
 youngest then ran on their antagonist with his sword, and 
 wounded him, but the next moment he was laying beside 
 his brother. He then disarmed them both, and still not 
 
A TALE OF PENTLAND. 
 
 145 
 
 thinking himself quite safe with them, he tied both their 
 hands behind their backs, and had then time to pay attention 
 to the young woman, who was inconsolable for the loss of 
 her father, yet deprecated the idea of murdering the 
 wounded man. As soon as her brothers came fairly to 
 their senses, she and her lover began and expostulated with 
 them, at great length, on the impropriety and unmanliness 
 of the attempt, until they became all of one mind, and the 
 two brothers agreed to join in the defence of the wounded 
 gentleman, from all of their own party, until he was rescued 
 by his friends, which they did. But it was the maid’s simple 
 eloquence that finally prevailed with the fierce covenanters, 
 in whom a spirit of retaliation seemed inherent. 
 
 “ Oh my dear brothers,” said she, weeping, “calm your- 
 selves, and think like men and like Christians. There has 
 been enough o’ blood shed for a’e day, and if ye wad cut 
 him a’ to inches it coudna restore our father to life again. 
 Na, na, it coudna bring back the soul that has departed frae 
 this weary scene o’ sin, sorrow, and suffering; and if ye 
 wad but mind the maxims o’ our blessed Saviour ye wadna 
 let revenge rankle in your hearts that gate. An’ o’er an’ 
 aboon a’, it appears to me that the young officer was only 
 doing what he conceived to be his bounden duty, and at 
 the moment was actually in.defence of his own life. Since 
 it is the will of the Almighty to lay these grievous sufferings 
 on our covenanted church, why not suffer patiently, along 
 with your brethren, in obedience to that will : for it is na 
 like to be a private act of cruelty or revenge that is to prove 
 favourable to our forlorn cause.” 
 
 “ When my brothers came at last, with a number of my 
 men, and took me away, the only thing I remember seeing 
 in the house was the corpse of the old man whom I had 
 shot, and the beautiful girl standing weeping over the body ; 
 o 
 
146 
 
 A TALE OF PENTLAN 1), 
 
 and certainly my heart smote me in such a manner that I 
 would not experience the same feeling again for the highest 
 of this world’s benefits. That comely young maiden, and 
 her brave intrepid lover, it would be the utmost ingratitude 
 in me, or in any of my family, ever to forget ; for it is 
 scarcely possible that a man can ever be again in the same 
 circumstances as I was, having been preserved from death 
 in the house of the man whom my hand had just deprived 
 of life.” 
 
 Just as he ended, the sick-nurse peeped in, which she had 
 done several times before, and said, “ will your honour soon 
 be disengaged d’ye think 1 for ye see because there’s a lass 
 wanting till speak till ye.” 
 
 “ A lass, nurse 1 what lass can have any business with me 1 
 what is she like ? ” 
 
 “ Oo ’deed, Sir, the lass is weel enough, for that part o’t, 
 but she may be nae better than she should be for a’ that ; 
 ye ken, I’s no answer for that, for ye see because like is an 
 ill mark : but she has been aften up, speering after ye, an’ 
 gude troth she’s fairly in nettle-earnest now, for she winna 
 gang awa till she see your honour.” 
 
 The nurse being desired to show her in, a comely girl en- 
 tered, with a timid step, and seemed ready to faint with 
 trepidation. She had a mantle on, and a hood that covered 
 much of her face. The Privy Councillor spoke to her, 
 desiring her to come forward, and say her errand ; on which 
 she said that “ she only wanted a preevat word wi’ the 
 captain, if he was that weel as to speak to ane.” He looked 
 over the bed, and desired her to say on, for that gentleman 
 was his brother, from whom he kept no secrets. After a 
 hard struggle with her diffidence, but, on the other hand, 
 prompted by the urgency of the case, she at last got out, 
 “I’m unco glad to see you so well corned round again. 
 
A TALE OF PENTLA'ND. 
 
 147 
 
 though I daresay ye’ll maybe no ken wha I am. But it 
 was me that nursed ye, an’ took care o’ ye, in our house, 
 when your head was amaist cuttit off.” 
 
 There was not another word required to draw forth the 
 most ardent expressions of kindness from the two brothers ; 
 on which the poor girl took courage, and, after several show- 
 ers of tears she said, with many bitter sobs, “There’s a poor 
 lad wha, in my humble opinion, saved your life ; an’ wha 
 is just gaun to be hanged the day after the morn. I wad 
 unco fain beg your honour’s interest to get his life spared.” 
 
 “Say not another word, my dear, good girl,” said the 
 Councillor, “ for though I hardly know how I can inter- 
 cede for a rebel who has taken up arms against the govern- 
 ment, yet for your sake, and his, my best interest shall be 
 exerted.” 
 
 “ Oh, ye maun just say, sir, that the poor whigs were 
 driven to desperation, and that this young man was misled 
 by others in the fervour and enthusiasm of youth. What 
 else can ye say ? but ye’re good ! oh, ye’re very good ! and 
 on my knees I beg that ye winna lose ony time, for indeed 
 there is nae time to lose ! ” 
 
 The Councillor lifted her kindly by both hands, and de- 
 sired her to stay with his brother’s nurse till his return, on 
 which he went away to the president, and in half an hour 
 returned with a respite for the convict, John Lindsay, for 
 three days, which he gave to the girl, along with an order 
 for her admittance to the prisoner. She thanked him with 
 the tears in her eyes, but added, “ Oh, Sir, will he and T 
 then be obliged to part for ever at the end of three days?” 
 
 “ Keep up your heart, and encourage your lover,” said 
 he, “ and meet me here again, on Thursday, at this same 
 hour, for, till the council meet, nothing further than this can 
 be obtained.” 
 
148 
 
 CONSCIENTIOUS COURIER. 
 
 It may well be conceived how much the poor forlorn 
 prisoner was astonished, when his own beloved Sally entered 
 to him, with the reprieve in her hand, and how much his 
 whole soul dilated when, on the Thursday following-, she 
 presented him with a free pardon. They were afterwards 
 married ; when the Gilmours took them under their protec- 
 tion. Lindsay became a highly qualified surgeon, and the 
 descendants of this intrepid youth occupy respectable situa- 
 tions in Edinburgh to this present day. 
 
 CONSCIENTIOUS COURIER. 
 
 By a singular regulation, the government couriers in Austria 
 are ordered, when they are charged with despatches sealed 
 with only one seal, to go at a walking pace; if with two 
 seals, to trot; and if with three, to gallop. A courier 
 bearing a despatch with three seals, passing lately through 
 a garrison town, was requested by the commandant to take 
 a despatch to the next town, to which he willingly agreed ; 
 but perceiving, when he received it, that it had but one seal, 
 he refused to take charge of it, saying, “ that the regulations 
 ordered him to walk his horse with such a despatch ; and as 
 he had another with which he was ordered to gallop, he 
 could not possibly take them both.” 
 
149 
 
 NEW YEAR’S EVE. 
 
 Old year, thou art going, and I care not where. 
 
 No sigh of regret, on thy wings shalt thou bear — 
 
 Oh, hasten away then, thou gloomy old fright, 
 
 With a face full of woe, and a heart full of blight. 
 
 Thy successor I know not, perhaps in his reign 
 We may feel more of sorrow, and know more of pain. 
 
 But welcomer this, to a heart such as mine, 
 
 Than the cold chilling blight thou hast shed over thine. 
 
 I spoke, and the wind gave a low, hollow moan, 
 
 I heard in its whisper, the cross old year’s groan, 
 
 “ Foolish daughter of Eve, I am hast’ning away, 
 
 We shall meet once again.” — “Where, Old Year?” — “At 
 doomsday. 
 
 Then think you, vain mortal, you’ll know me again?” 
 
 “ Yes, yes, you old kill-joy, ’mid thousands, I ween?” 
 
 “ Yes, you 11 know me, poor maid, when a record I read 
 Of many a folly and frivolous deed. 
 
 Of time unimproved, I hear you complain, 
 
 You have known little pleasure in my tedious reign. 
 
 But fifty-two messengers, maiden, I’ve sent, 
 
 To show you the paths the blest paths of content? 
 
 And time for repentance I’ve granted you too, 
 
 Were those hallowed messengers heeded by you? 
 
 My youthful successor may bring in his reign. 
 
 Of riot and pleasure a long worldly train, 
 o 2 
 
150 
 
 A FIUEND IN NEED. 
 
 But he’ll rise against you at Doomsday I say !” 
 
 He ceased, and the echoes repeated, “ Doomsday.” 
 
 “ Old Year,” I replied, “ I have pondered awhile. 
 
 And gone is my triumph, and gone is my smile ; 
 
 Your pardon, Old Year; I regret that we part. 
 
 Though a gloomy old fellow, still kind was your heart. 
 
 No gem of affection have you borne away, 
 
 From my dear fire-side you have robbed not a ray, 
 
 The faces I love are still smiling around me. 
 
 No tie hast thou broken of those that have bound me. 
 
 Thy last awful lesson shall ne’er be forgot, 
 
 Do not frown dear Old Year;” — the Old Year heeds me 
 not! 
 
 In anger around me his shadows he threw. 
 
 And gave one dark frown as a parting adieu. 
 
 I turned me away, a bright smile met my eye. 
 
 It arose in the east, it illumined the sky; 
 
 I hailed the new monarch, all brightly he shone, 
 
 New Year, thou art welcome! — Old Year thou art gone ! 
 
 A FRIEND IN NEED. 
 
 Henry IV. of France one day reproached the Count 
 D’Aubigne, that he still retained his friendship for M. de la 
 Tremouille, who was in disgrace, and banished the court. 
 “ Sire,” said D’Aubigne, “M. de la Tremouille is suffi- 
 ciently unfortunate ; since he has lost the favour of his 
 master, I could not abandon him in the time when he has 
 the most need of my friendship.” 
 
151 
 
 THE REPENTANT HUSBAND. 
 
 “ Say not that honest wedded love expires. 
 
 In breast of either man or woman stored ; 
 
 Say not, O say not, that its fond desires. 
 
 Like water-drops on thirsty land out-pour’d, 
 
 Can perish wholly ; or, by slow decay, 
 
 Like mould’ring flame die sullenly away.” 
 
 Robert Gloss was the son of a Rutland farmer, whose 
 hardened avarice refused to share the little that the good 
 education of an only child required, and whose reckless 
 depravity rather rejoiced than otherwise in not imposing on 
 the youthful passions of that child the least moral restraint. 
 He was sent to school indeed, to get him out of the way ; 
 but on terms cheapened by the father to so low a rate, that 
 it was mere compassion in the master which induced him to 
 receive the boy, to whom he could not afford to allow suffi- 
 cient food but at an expense exceeding the payment ; and 
 whose instruction, therefore, must have been miserably neg- 
 lected but for the master’s further gratuity, in furnishing 
 books as well as personal attention, for which the miserable 
 father would allow no extra payment. 
 
 In one respect this generous treatment was unfortunate, 
 as the boy improved faster than his father wished, and at 
 thirteen was in his estimation much more learned than a 
 farmer’s boy should ever be. At this early age, then, 
 Robert was transferred from the desk to the barn and the 
 plough. Now it became necessary that he should be well 
 fed, or he could not have risen with the lark to commence 
 
152 
 
 TIIE REPENTANT HUSBAND. 
 
 his long day’s labour, or endured half the fatigue consequent 
 on the most imperfect discharge of his daily allotment 
 of heavy service. This consideration, and this alone, in- 
 duced the wretched man to consent to an allowance of food 
 for each meal, and which Robert contrived to increase in 
 various ways that a farm must open to all cunning and 
 hungry youths. 
 
 Notwithstanding the discouragements around him, Robert 
 grew up with a comely person, a cheerful spirit, and a mind 
 at least capable of learning, and desirous of understanding 
 men and things. Yet, amidst these tokens of promise, and 
 as the sad effect of his father’s depraved example, he ad- 
 vanced in habits of vice quite as fast as in years, and even 
 in an indifference to crime which barred him from all access 
 to decent and thinking society. Twice was he apprehended, 
 because his language in public houses had been such, as to 
 induce suspicion of having been accessary to crimes recently 
 committed in the parish. To what this early habit might 
 have led, it is fearful to think. Events, however, soon 
 transpired to take him not only from the parish, but the 
 kingdom, and place him altogether in different circum- 
 stances. 
 
 He was just twenty-two when his father died, through 
 severe cold in an inclement winter, and a rigid denial of 
 himself in point of food and physic as well as fire and 
 clothing. Perhaps, too, his death was hastened by that 
 corroding anxiety of spirit which a man must ever suffer, 
 who is deeply in love with money for its own sake, and 
 never connects it with its legitimate uses in promoting indivi- 
 dual, relative, and social comfort. 
 
 The funeral over, Robert, to whom the property fell by 
 inheritance, prepared to leave a scene in which he had 
 acted so discreditable a part, and which furnished not a 
 
THE REPENTANT HUSBAND. 
 
 153 
 
 single tie to detain him. “ They all wish me gone, and 
 they shall soon have their wish,” — was a sentence that he 
 often uttered, and that none but companions depraved as 
 himself desired him not to put into practice. Their advice 
 rather accelerated than retarded his scheme, since he had 
 sagacity enough to perceive, and prudence sufficient to 
 avoid, their endeavours to share his rather large possessions. 
 “I will begin the world afresh,” he resolved “in a new 
 country, on a new farm, with new servants, and, perhaps, 
 in a new state, for I hear that in Canada a man cannot 
 make his way without a wife.” All this would have been 
 hopeful, at least, had he but appended one essential change 
 to his code of resolutions — that he would begin afresh with 
 new dispositions and a new character. 
 
 The necessity of a wife in the new world, has not always 
 occasioned one to be taken from the old. At the same time 
 many an emigrant, who had declined all engagement of the 
 kind on this side the Atlantic, has not been left to the 
 chance of making one on the other. A modern voyage to 
 America has seldom been completed without one or two 
 betrothments, which have risen into marriages as soon after 
 the landing as possible. Robert Gloss was thus successful 
 in acquiring a wife. A respectable lady of his own age was 
 on board, proceeding to Quebec under the protection of an 
 old and faithful servant of her family. For some days she 
 rather seemed to repel the efforts of Robert to enter into 
 conversation with her ; but an important service he was 
 able to render her with the captain, combined with the good 
 opinion her servant was led to entertain of him, to induce 
 her to consent to blend her small fortune with his larger 
 one, and become Mrs. Gloss on their reaching the Canadian 
 capital. There she had a brother of whom she was inde- 
 
154 
 
 TIIE REPENTANT HUSBAND. 
 
 pendent, and whose efforts to dissuade her from the marriage 
 were therefore unheeded. 
 
 Robert, or, as we must call him, Mr. Gloss, now felt, 
 not only more at ease in mind than he had been before, but 
 apparently resolved on the abandonment of every vice, and 
 devoting himself to the sober and industrious cultivation of 
 a large farm, which he had been successful in obtaining 
 about thirty miles from the city. Had this resolution been 
 the result of enlightened principle, as well as strong feel- 
 ing — had he respected divine authority, as well as paid some 
 regard to human opinion and example — had the love of 
 religion, as well as a deference to reputation, entered into 
 his motives — had he studied the will of God, and made 
 Christianity the source and standard of a virtuous life — all 
 would have been well. But his resolutions to amend his 
 life were simply the effect of an entirely novel situation, 
 appearing to promise much more comfort in moral habits 
 than he had ever found in immoral ones. Thus weak and 
 frail, they were shaken by the first temptation, and were 
 soon cast down by fresh opportunities of indulging — as he 
 thought with impunity — his former licentious pleasures. 
 His wife became aware, to her sorrow, of this moral defec- 
 tion ; and it soon after united with an increasing observation 
 of the vulgarity and vice of his character, to determine her 
 on leaving him, and taking up her abode in the city, at her 
 brother’s house. 
 
 Mr. Gloss made no great effort to prevent this step. He 
 yielded to her wish to have her property settled on her for 
 life, insisting, however, that on his surviving her it should 
 come into his hands. Of this there was little prospect, since 
 he recommenced a course of vice surpassing that which he 
 had pursued in England. His health had always been good, 
 and now the bracing air of the country, and his agricultural 
 
TIIE REPENTANT HUSBAND. 
 
 155 
 
 and sporting pursuits, seemed, amidst all his evil indulgen- 
 ces, to render it better. 
 
 But true is the proverb — “ Evil pursueth Sinners.” Ilis 
 vices soon became prolific sources of almost daily misery. 
 The prodigal son, amidst his swine and husks, his nakedness 
 and poverty, was scarcely more wretched than Mr. Gloss 
 would often acknowledge himself to be, even with abounding 
 wealth and all the luxury it could procure. At length an 
 event took place, which roused him once more to reflection, 
 and resulted in a change of character both entire and per- 
 manent. A murder was committed at a house of ill fame in 
 the nearest town, a few miles from his farm. Suspicion im- 
 mediately alighted on an individual so much in the confidence 
 of Mr. Gloss, that it was deemed expedient to arrest them 
 both, and the latter had the humiliating and distressing task 
 of bearing witness to his chosen companion having spent the 
 night in the house where and when the deed of blood was 
 perpetrated. His own escape from a participation in the 
 punishment that followed, was with some difficulty : but he 
 at last perfectly cleared himself from all suspicion. His 
 companion — friend, as he had always called him — declared 
 with his dying lips that Mr. Gloss was entirely innocent, 
 after having entreated him at their last interview in the dun- 
 geon, to amend his ways, and strive to recover the confidence 
 of his amiable and excellent wife. 
 
 He lost no time in endeavouring to accomplish this desir- 
 able purpose. Receiving no answer to two or three letters, 
 he resolved to seek an interview with her ; and at last, in the 
 neighbourhood of Quebec, saw her walking with her brother 
 and his lady, who had been recently married, at a short 
 distance. He took a slight circuit in order to meet them 
 unawares, and, as they met, the brother strove to keep him 
 from them by pointing a musket towards him.. As all parties 
 
156 
 
 TIIE REPENTANT HUSBAND. 
 
 stood surprised and silent, the brother’s wife surveyed him 
 with fixed attention, and in a minute exclaimed, “ Surely I 
 know this gentleman again ! We have nothing to fear from 
 him. I owe my life to his care ! ” 
 
 At this her husband dropped his musket, and asked for 
 an explanation ; when she said, “ But for his timely interpo- 
 sition, I had never lived to be your wife. I was passing 
 through a part of the wood in my native district, when I 
 was suddenly attacked by a stranger ; who at first offered 
 no personal violence, but insisted only that I should give up 
 my horse for a journey, while he would leave me in the care 
 of a friend just at hand. I had rode farther than I thought 
 in advance of my servant, and on looking back for his pro- 
 tection I could not see the least glimpse nor hear the least 
 sound of his approach. Turning my horse to go back to 
 meet him, the villain cut the stirrup, and I fell from the 
 saddle into his arms. He was conveying me almost sense- 
 less into a concealed part of the wood, when this gentleman 
 suddenly came up, and commanded him to release me. 
 With many imprecations he did so, and to his kind care l 
 was indebted I doubt not for my life.” 
 
 He had listened, of course, with great interest to this 
 recapitulation of an adventure which he had almost for- 
 gotten ; and he uttered not a word, nor scarcely altered his 
 fixed position, till her husband asked for a confirmation 
 of these facts, or rather for such a communication from 
 him as should establish his identity. 
 
 “ You lost something of value in the affray, madam,” 
 he said, “ and I believe I shall be able to convince the 
 gentleman of my honour by restoring it to you.” 
 
 Looking steadfastly at her husband, she said, “ It was 
 the watch you gave me when first we became acquainted , 
 and the loss of which, by means I never before had courage 
 to communicate, has been so much deplored by both of us,” 
 
iBE mm 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UHWEWITY OF lULliwS 
 
THE REPENTANT HUSBAND. 
 
 157 
 
 On its being placed by Mr. Gloss in her husband’s hands, 
 the latter, still under the influence of suspicion, asked, — 
 “ How came you, Sir, to keep this stolen article so long 
 in your possession? Three years have almost past since 
 the theft. If you declined a participation in the grosser 
 outrage, it seems you were willing to share, or rather mo- 
 nopolize, the spoil.” 
 
 “ I am not, Sir,” answered Gloss, “ the perfect villain 
 you take me to be. I have injured your sister, I admit 
 with shame; but I have been the deliverer of your wife — 
 let that plead with you for mercy for the other offence. 
 As to the watch, it came into my hands but a few days 
 ago. The unhappy murderer who then forfeited his life, 
 gave it to me at my last interview with him, and en- 
 joined me to take the earliest opportunity of restoring 
 it to its owner — an opportunity which I little expected 
 so soon to enjoy. He was the assailant of the lady, and 
 might through her resolute resistance have been her mur- 
 derer, but for my being at hand. Again I entreat mercy 
 from you and especially from your sister on her account.” 
 
 All parties appeared inclined to relent, and the repentant 
 husband proved that he was sincere by bringing forth 
 “ fruits meet for repentance .” 
 
 F 
 
158 
 
 ANNIE LESLIE, 
 
 AN IRISH STORY, 
 
 BY MRS. S. C. HALL. 
 
 “ Then think of this maxim, and cast away sorrow, 
 
 The wretched to-day may be happy to-morrow.” 
 
 Annie Leslie was neither a belle nor a beauty — a gentle- 
 woman, nor yet an absolute peasant — “ a fortune,” nor en- 
 tirely devoid of dower ; — although born upon a farm that 
 adjoined my native village of Bannow, she might almost 
 have been called a flower of many lands; for her mother 
 was a Scot, her father an Englishman ; one set of grand 
 parents Welsh; and it was said that the others were — (al- 
 though I never believed it, and always considered it a 
 gossipping story), Italians, or foreigners, “ from beyant the 
 salt sea.” It was a very charming pastime to trace the 
 different countries in Annie’s sweet expressive countenance. 
 Ill natured people said she had a red Scottish head, which 
 I declare to be an absolute story. The maiden’s hair was 
 not red ; it was a bright chesnut, and glowing as a sun-beam 
 — perhaps in particular lights it might have had a tinge — 
 but, nonsense! it was any thing but red: the cheek-bone 
 was certainly elevated, yet who ever thought of that, when 
 gazing on the soft cheek, now delicate as the bloom on the 
 early peach, now purely carnationed, as if the eloquent 
 colour longed to eclipse the beauty of the black lustrous 
 
ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 159 
 
 eyes that were shaded by long eye-lashes, delicately turned 
 up at the points, as if anxious to act as conductors to 
 my young friend’s merry glances, of which, however, I 
 must confess, she was usually chary enough. Her figure 
 was unfortunately, of the Principality, being somewhat of 
 the shortest; but her fair skin, and small delicate mouth, 
 told of English descent. Her father was a respectable 
 farmer, who had been induced, by some circumstance or 
 other, to settle in Ireland, and her mother — but what have 
 I to do with either her father or mother just now? 
 
 The sun fires had faded in the west, and Annie was lean- 
 ing on the neat green gate that lid to her cottage; her 
 eyes wandering down the branching lane ; then to the soften- 
 ing sky, and not unfrequently to a little spotted dog, Phillis 
 by name, who sat close to her mistress’ feet; looking 
 upwards and occasionally cocking her ear, as if she ex- 
 pected somebody to join their party. It was the full and 
 fragrant season of hay-making, and Annie had borne her 
 part in the cheerful and pleasant toil. 
 
 A blue muslin kerchief was sufficiently open to display 
 her well-formed throat; one or two wilful ringlets had 
 escaped from under her straw hat, and twisted themselves 
 into very picturesque, coquetish attitudes, shaded, but not 
 hidden, by the muslin folds : her apron was of bright check ; 
 her short cotton gown pinned in the national three-cornered 
 fashion behind, and her petticoat of scarlet stuff, displayed 
 her small and delicately turned ancle to much advantage. 
 She held a bunch of mixed wild flowers in her hand, and 
 her fingers, naturally addicted to mischief, were dexterously 
 employed in scattering the petals to the breeze, which 
 sported them amongst the long grass. 
 
 “ Down Phillis, down Miss,” said she at last to the little 
 dog, who, weary of rest, stood on its hind legs to kiss her 
 
160 
 
 ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 hand — “ down, do, y’er always merry when I am sad, and 
 that’s not kind of ye.” The animal obeyed and remained 
 very tranquil until its mistress unconsciously murmured to 
 herself — “ Do I really love him?” Again she looked down 
 the lane, and then, after giving a very destructive pull to 
 one of the blossoms of a wild rose, that clothed tne hedge 
 in beauty, repeated somewhat louder, the words “ Do I 
 indeed love him?” “ Never say the word twice — ye do it 
 already, ye little rogue,” replied a voice that sent an instan- 
 taneous gush of crimson over the maiden’s cheek — while 
 from amid a group of fragrant elder trees, which grew out 
 of the mound that encompassed the cottage, sprang a tall, 
 graceful youth, who advanced towards the blushing maiden. 
 
 I am sorry for it, but it is nevertheless an incontrovertible 
 fact, that women, young and old, — some more and some 
 less — are all naturally perverse; they cannot, I believe, 
 help it; but their so being, although occasionally very 
 amusing to themselves, is undoubtedly very trying to their 
 lovers, whose remonstrances on the subject, since the days 
 of Adam, might as well have been given to the winds. 
 
 It so happened that James M‘ Cleary was the very person 
 Annie Leslie was thinking about ; the one of all others she 
 wished to see; yet the love of tormenting, assisted, perhaps, 
 by a little maiden coquetry, prompted her first to curl her 
 pretty Grecian nose, and then to bestow a hearty cuff on her 
 lover’s cheek as he attempted to salute her hand. 
 
 “ Keep your distance, sir, and don’t make so free,” said 
 the pettish lady. 
 
 “ Keep my distance, Annie! Not make so free!” echoed 
 James, “an’ ye jist this minute, after talking about loving 
 me!” 
 
 “ Loving you, indeed! Mister James M'Cleary; it was 
 
ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 161 
 
 y’er betters I was thinking of, Sir ; I hope I know myself too 
 well for that.” 
 
 “ My betters, Annie, what’s come over ye 1 Surely ye 
 hav’n’t forgot that y’er father has as good as given his 
 consint, — and though y’er mother is partial to Andrew 
 Furlong, the tame negur ! jist because he J s got a bigger 
 house ; (sure it’s a public, and can’t be called his own) and 
 a few more guineas than me, and never thinks of his being 
 greyer than his ould grey mare ; — yet she’ll come round ; — 
 Jet me alone to manage the women — (now don’t look angry) 
 — and did’nt y’er own sweet mouth say it, not two hours 
 ago, down by the loch — and, by the same token, Annie, 
 there’s the beautiful curl I cut off with the reaping hook — - 
 that, however ye trate me, shall stay next my heart, as long 
 as it bates — and oh, Annie, as ye sat on the mossy stone, I 
 thought I never saw ye look so beautiful — with that very 
 bunch of flowers that ye’ve been pulling to smithereens, 
 resting on y’er lap. And it wasn’t altogether what ye said, 
 but what ye looked, that put the life in me ; though ye did 
 say — ye know ye did — ‘ James/ says you, ‘I hate Andrew 
 Furlong, that I do, and I’ll never marry him as long as 
 grass grows or water runs, that I won’t.’ Now, sure, 
 Annie, dear sweet Annie, sure ye’re not going aginst y’er 
 conscience," and the word o’ true love.” 
 
 “ Sir,” interrupted Annie, “ I don’t like to be found fault 
 with. Andrew Furlong, is what my mother says, a well-to- 
 do dacent man, staid and steady. I’ll trouble ye for my 
 curl, Mister James — clever as ye are at managing the 
 women, may be ye can’t manage me.” 
 
 James had been very unskilful in his iast speech; he 
 ought not to have boasted of his managing powers, but to 
 have put them in practice : the fact, however, was, that 
 though proverbially sober, the fatigue of hay-making, and 
 
 r 2 
 
162 
 
 ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 two or three “ noggins ” of Irish grog, had in some degree 
 bewildered his intellects since Annie’s return from the 
 meadow. He looked at her for a moment, drew the long 
 tress of hair half out of his bosom, then replaced it, 
 buttoned his waistcoat to the throat, as if determined 
 nothing should tempt it from him, and said in a subdued 
 voice — 
 
 “ Annie, Annie Leslie, like a darlint, don’t be so fractious 
 — for your sake — for ” 
 
 “ My sake, indeed, Sir ! My sake ! I’m very much obliged 
 to you, — very much, Mister James ; but let me tell ye, ye 
 think a dale too much of y’erself to be speaking to me after 
 that fashion, and ye inside my own gate ; if ye were outside 
 I’d tell ye my mind ; but I know better manners than to 
 insult any one at my own door-stone : it’s little other people 
 know about dacent breeding, or they’d not abuse people’s 
 friends before people’s faces, Mister James M‘Cleary.” 
 
 “I see how it is, Miss Leslie,” replied James, really 
 angry ; “ Ye’ve resolved to sell y’erself for y’er board and 
 lodging to that great cask of London porter, Andrew 
 Furlong by name, and a booby by nature; but I’ll not 
 stay in the place to witness y’er parjury — I’ll go to sea, 
 or — I’ll ” 
 
 “ Ye may go where ye like,” responded the maiden, who 
 now thought herself a much aggrieved, injured person, 
 “and the sooner the better.” She threw the remains of 
 the faded nosegay from her, and opened the green gate at 
 the same instant ; the gate which not ten minutes before she 
 had rested on, thinking of James M‘Cleary — thinking that 
 he was the best wrestler, the best hurler, the best dancer, 
 and the most sober lad in the country ; — thinking, moreover, 
 that he was as handsome, if not as genteel, as the young 
 ’squire ; and wondering if he would always love her as 
 
ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 163 
 
 dearly as he did then. Yet, in her perversity, she flung 
 back the gate for the faithful-minded to pass from her 
 cottage, careless of consequences, and, at the moment, 
 really believing that she loved him not. So much for a 
 wilful woman, before she knows the value of earth’s greatest 
 treasure — an honest heart. 
 
 “ Since it’s come to this,” said poor James, “ any how bid 
 
 me good bye, Annie. — What, not one * God be wid ye/ 
 
 to him who will soon be on the salt — salt seal” But Annie 
 looked more angry than before ; thinking, while he spoke, 
 that he would come back fast enough to her window next 
 morning, bringing fresh grass for her kid, or food for her 
 young linnets, or, perchance, flowers to deck her hair ; or 
 (if he luckily met Peggy the fisher) a new blue silk necker- 
 chief as a peace-offering. 
 
 “ Well, God’s blessing be about ye, Annie ; and may ye 
 never feel what I do now.” So saying, the young man 
 rushed down the green lane, frighting the wood pigeons 
 from their repose, and putting to flight the timid hare and 
 tender leveret, who sought their evening meal where the dew 
 fell thickly and the clover was most luxuriant. There was 
 a fearful reality about the youth’s farewell that startled the 
 maiden, obstinate as she was — her heart beat violently, and 
 the demon of coquetry was overpowered by her naturally 
 affectionate feelings. She called, faintly at first “ James, 
 James, dear James/’ and poor little Phillis scampered 
 down the lane, as if she comprehended her mistress’s wish. 
 Presently, Annie was certain she heard footsteps approach- 
 ing ; her first movement was, to spring forward, and her 
 next (alas ! for coquetry), to retire into the parlour and 
 await the return of her lover ; — “ what she wished to be 
 true love bade her believe /’ — there she stood, her eyes 
 freed from their tears, and turned from the open window. 
 
164 
 
 ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 Presently the gate was unlatched : in another moment a 
 hand softly pressed her arm, and a deep drawn sigh broke 
 upon her ear. 
 
 “ He is very sorry,” thought she, “ and so am I.” She 
 turned round, and beheld the good humoured rosy face of 
 mine host of the public. His yellow bob wig evenly placed 
 over his grey hair ; his Sunday suit well brushed ; and his 
 embroidered waistcoat (pea green ground, with blue roses 
 and scarlet lilies), covering, by its immense lapelles, no very 
 juvenile rotundity of figure, Poor Annie, she was abso- 
 lutely dumb : had Andrew been an horned owl she could 
 not have shrunk with more horror from his grasp. Her 
 silence afforded her senior lover an opportunity of uttering, 
 or rather growling forth his * proposal/ “ Ye see, Miss 
 Leslie, I see no reason why we two shouldn’t be married, 
 becase I have more regard for ye, tin to one, than any 
 young fellow could have ; for I’m a man of exparience, and 
 know wrong from right, and right from wrong — which is all 
 one. Y’er father, but more especially y’er mother (who has 
 oceans of sense, for a woman), are for me ; and beautiful as 
 ye are, and more beautiful for sartin than any girl in the 
 land, yet ye can’t know what’s good for ye as well as they ! 
 And ye shall have a jaunting car — a bran new jaunting car 
 of y’er own, to go to mass or church, as may suit y’er 
 conscience, for I’d be far from putting a chain upon ye, 
 barring one of roses, which Cupid waves, as the song says, 
 ‘ for all true constant loviers.’ Now Miss, machree, it being 
 all settled — for sure ye’re too wise to refuse sich an offer ! — 
 here, on my two bare knees ; in the moon bames, that 
 Romeyo swore by, in the play I saw when I was as good as 
 own man to an honourable member of parliament, (it was 
 in this service he learned to make long speeches, on which 
 
ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 165 
 
 he prided himself greatly) — do I swear to be to you a kind 
 and faithful husband — and true to you and you alone. 
 
 Mister Andrew sank slowly on his knees, for the sake of 
 comfort resting his elbows on the window sill, and took 
 forcible possession of Annie’s hand ; who, angry, mortified, 
 and bewildered, hardly knew in what set terms to vent her 
 displeasure. Just at this crisis the garden gate opened ; and 
 little Phillis, who by much suppressed growling had mani- 
 fested her wrath at the clumsy courtship of the worthy host, 
 sprang joyously out of the window. Before any alteration 
 could take place in the attitudes of the parties, James 
 M‘Cleary stood before them, boiling with jealousy and rage. 
 “ So, Miss Leslie — a very pretty manner you’ve treated me 
 in ; — and it was for that carcase (and he pushed his foot 
 against Andrew Furlong), that ye trampled me like the 
 dust ; it was because he has a few more bits o’ dirty bank 
 notes, that he scraped by being a lick-plate to an unworthy 
 mimber, who sould his country to the Union and Lord 
 Castlereagh : but ye’ll sup sorrow for it — ye will, Annie 
 Leslie, for y’er love is wid me, bad as ye are ; y’er cheek 
 has blushed, y’er eye has brightened, y’er heart has bate for 
 me, as it never will for you , ye foolish, foolish ould cratur, 
 who thinks the finest — the holiest feeling that God gives us, 
 can be bought with gould ! But I am done ; as ye have 
 sowed, Annie, so reap. I forgive ye — though my heart — 
 my heart — is torn — almost, almost broken; for I thought ye 
 faithful — I was wound up in ye — ye were the core of my 
 
 heart — and now the young man pressed his head 
 
 against a cherry tree, whose wide spreading branches over- 
 shadowed the cottage, unable to articulate. Annie, much 
 affected, rushed into the garden, and took his hand affec- 
 tionately ; he turned upon her a withering look, for the 
 jealous fit was w r axing stronger — 
 
166 
 
 ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 “ What! do you want to make more sport of me to please 
 y’er young and handsome lover? Oh! that ever I should 
 throw ye from me.” He flung back her hand, and turned 
 to the gate; but Andrew, the gallant Andrew, thought it 
 behoved him to interfere when his ladye-love was treated in 
 such a disdainful manner ; and after having, with his new 
 green silk handkerchief, carefully dusted the knees of his 
 scarlet plush breeches, came forward — 
 
 “ I take it that that’s a cowardly thing for you to do, 
 
 James M‘ Cleary — a cow 
 
 “ What do you say?” vociferated James, whose passion 
 had now found an object to vent itself on, — “ did you dare 
 call me a coward?” He seized the old man by the throat, 
 and griping him as an eagle would a land tortoise, held him 
 at arm’s length : “ Look ye, ye fat ould calf, if ye were my 
 equal in age or strength, it is’nt talking to ye I’d be - T but 
 I’d scorn to ill trate a man of y’er years — though I’d give a 
 thousand pounds this minute that ye were young enough for 
 a fair fight, that I might have the glory to break every bone 
 in y’er body — but there!” — He flung his weighty captive 
 from him with so much violence, that mine host found 
 himself extended amid a quantity of white-heart cabbages ; 
 while poor James sprang amid the elder trees, which before 
 had been his place of happy concealment, and rushed away. 
 
 Annie stood erect under the shadow of the cherry tree, 
 against which James had rested; and the rays of the clear 
 full moon flickering through the foliage, shewed that her 
 face was pale and still as marble. In vain did Phillis jump 
 and lick her hand ; in vain did Andrew vociferate, in tender 
 accents, from the cabbage bed where he lay, trying first to 
 turn upon one side, and then on the other — “ Will no one 
 take pity on me? ” — “ Will no body help me up? ” There 
 stood Annie, wondering if the scene were real ; and if all 
 
ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 167 
 
 the misery she endured could possibly have originated with 
 herself. She might have remained there much longer, had 
 not her father and mother returned from the meadows, 
 where they had been distributing the usual dole of spirits 
 to their bare-legged labourers. 
 
 “ Hey, mercy, and what’s the matter noo!” exclaimed the 
 old Scotch lady, “ why, Annie, ye’re clean daft for certain ; 
 and good man Andrew ! what has happened you, that ye’er 
 rubbing y’er clothes with y’re bit napkin, like a fury. 
 Hey ! mercy me, if my beautiful kail isn’t perfectly ruined, 
 as if a hail hogshead of yill had been row’d over it Speak, 
 ye young hizzy,” — and she shook her daughter’s arm — 
 “ What is the matter 1” 
 
 “ Annie,” said her less eloquent father ; “ tell me all 
 about it, love : how pale you are.” He led his child af- 
 fectionately into the little parlour ; while Andrew, with 
 doleful tone and gesture related to the“gude wife” the 
 whole story, as far as he was concerned. The poor girl’s 
 feelings were at length relieved by a passionate burst of 
 tears ; and sobbing on her father’s bosom, she told the truth, 
 and confessed it was her love of tormenting that had caused 
 all the mischief. 
 
 “ I do believe,” said the honest Englishman, “ all you 
 women are the same. Your mother was nearly as bad in 
 our courting days. James is too hot and too hasty — rapid 
 in word and action ; and, knowing him as you do, you were 
 wrong to trifle with him : but there love, I must, I suppose 
 go and find him, and make all right again ; shall I, Annie V’ 
 
 “ Father ! ” exclaimed the girl, hiding her face in that safe 
 resting place, a parent’s bosom. 
 
 “ Send old Andrew off, and bring James back to sup- 
 per — eh ? ” 
 
 “ Dear father.” 
 
ANNIE LESSL1E. 
 
 It >tf 
 
 “ And you will not be perverse, but make sweet friends 
 again ? ” 
 
 “ .Dear, dear father.” 
 
 r l'he good man set off* on his embassy, first warning his 
 wife not to scold Annie ; adding, somewhat sternly, he would 
 not permit her to be sold to any one. To which speech, had 
 he waited for it, he would doubtless have received a length- 
 ened reply. 
 
 As Mr. Leslie proceeded down the lane I have so often 
 mentioned, he encountered a man well known in the country 
 by the soubriquet of “ Alick the Traveller,” who, with his 
 weaned donkey, was in search of a place of rest. Alick 
 was a person of great importance, known to every body, 
 high and low, rich and poor, in the province of Leinster : 
 he w r as an amusing, cunning, good-tempered fellow, who 
 visited the gentlemen’s houses as a hawker of various fish, 
 particularly oysters, which he procured from the far-famed 
 Wexford beds : and, a r ter disposing of his cargo, he was 
 accustomed to re-load his panniers from our cockle strand 
 of Bannow, which is equally celebrated for that delicate 
 little fish. Neither shoes nor stockings did Alick wear ; no, 
 he carried them in his hand, and never put them on, until 
 he got within sight of the genteel houses ; — “ he’d be long 
 sorry to give dacent shoes or stockings such usage : sure his 
 feet were well used to the stones!” His figure was tall 
 and erect ; and the long stick of sea-weed with which he 
 urged poor Dapple’s speed, was thrown over his shoulder 
 with the careless air that in a well dressed man would 
 be called elegant. A weather-beaten chapeau de paille 
 shaded his rough but agreeable features ; and stuck on one 
 side of it, in the twine which served as a hat-band, were a 
 “ cutty pipe,” and a few sprigs of beautifully tinted sea- 
 weed and delisk. forming an appropriate but singular gar- 
 
ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 169 
 
 mature. He was whistling loudly on his way, and cheer- 
 ing his weary companion occasionally by kind words of 
 encouragement. 
 
 “ God save ye this fine evening, Mr. Leslie ; I wa9 
 jist thinking of you, and all y’er good family, which I 
 hope is hearty, as well as the woman that owns ye. And 
 I was just saying to myself that maybe ye’d let me and 
 the baste stay in the corner to-night, — for I’ve a power 
 o’ beautiful fish, and I want to be early among the gentry. 
 But if the misthress likes a taste of the news, or a ratling 
 cod 
 
 “ Alick,” said Leslie, who knew by experience the dif- 
 ficulty of stopping his tongue “ when once it was set a 
 going.” “ Go to the house ; and there’s a hearty welcome, 
 a good supper and clean straw for you both. But tell me 
 have you seen James M'Cleary this evening?” 
 
 “ Och ! is it James ye’re after ? There’s a beautiful lobster, 
 let Kenny, Paddy Kenny (may be ye don’t know Paddy the 
 fishmonger, wid the blue door at the corner of the grass- 
 market in Wexford), let Paddy Kenny bate that ! — ” 
 
 “ But James M‘ Cleary ” 
 
 “ True for ye, he’ll be glad to see ye. Now mister Leslie, 
 tell us the truth, did ye ever see sich crabs as thim in 
 England ? Where ’ud they get them and they so far from 
 the sea ? ” 
 
 (t I want ” 
 
 “ I humbly ax ye’er pardon — I saw him jist now cutting 
 off in that way, as straight as a conger eel — I had one 
 t’other day, mister Leslie (it’s as thrue as that ye’re standing 
 there), it weighed ” 
 
 " What? did he go across the fields in that direction ?” 
 
 “ Is it he ? — troth no, I skinned him as nate *” 
 
 “ Skinned who? — James M‘Cleary ? ” 
 
 Q 
 
170 
 
 ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 “ Och no ; the conger.” — 
 
 “ Will you tell me in what direction you saw James 
 M'Cleary go ? — the misfortune of all Irishmen is, that they 
 answer one question by asking another.” 
 
 “ I don’t like ye to be taking the country down, after that 
 fashion, mister Leslie : its bad manners, and I can’t see any 
 misfortune about it ; and if I did there’s no good in life of 
 making a cry about it : — but there’s an iligant cod ! there’s 
 a whopper ! there’s been no rest or peace wid that lump of 
 a fellow all the evening — whacking his tail in sich a way in 
 the face of ivery fish in the basket ; I’ll let the misthress 
 have him a bargain if she likes, jist to get rid of him — the 
 Tory ! ” 
 
 Leslie at last found that his questions were useless; so 
 he motioned “ Alick the Traveller” to his dwelling, and 
 proceeded on his way to James’s cottage ; — while Alick, 
 gazing after him, half muttered, “ there’s no standing thim 
 Englishmen : the best of them are so dead like — not a 
 word have they in their head ; not the least taste in life 
 for conversation. Catch James! — I hope it did’nt turn 
 out bad though,” he continued, in a still lower tone : 
 “ what I said a while agone was all out o’ innocence, for 
 a bit o’fun wid the old one.” He turned, and for a 
 moment watched the path taken by Leslie, then proceeded 
 on his way muttering, “ ’tis very quare though.” 
 
 At the door of James M‘Cleary’s cottage Leslie en- 
 countered the young man’s mother. “ I was jist going 
 to your place to ask what’s come over my boy,” said she, 
 “ I can’t make him out ; he came in, in sich a fluster 
 about tin minutes agone, and kicked up sich a bobbery in no 
 time : floostered over his clothes in the press, cursed all the 
 women in the world, bid God bless me, and set off, full 
 speed, like a wild deer, across the country.” 
 
ANNIE LESLIE, 
 
 171 
 
 “ Indeed !” exclaimed Leslie. 
 
 “ I know, mister Leslie, that my boy has been keeping 
 company wid your girl ; and I have nothing to say agin 
 her : she has a dale o’ the lady about her, yet is humble 
 and modest as any lamb ; but I think may be they’ve had a 
 bit of a ruction about some footy thing or other ; but men 
 can’t bear to be contradicted, though I own its good for 
 them, and more especially James, who has a dale of his 
 father in him, who I had to manage (God rest his sowl) like 
 any babby. However, James has too much sense to go far 
 I’m thinking — only to his aunt’s husband’s daughter, by the 
 Black-water, fancying, may be, to bring Annie round ; and 
 so I was going to see her, to know the rights of it.” 
 
 The kind-hearted farmer told her nearly all he knew ; 
 with fatherly feeling glossing over Annie’s pettishness as 
 much as he possibly could. Mrs. M'Cleary remained firm 
 in her opinion that he had only gone down to the Black- 
 water, and would return the next day. But Leslie’s mind 
 foreboded evil. When he arrived at home, he found “ Alick 
 the Traveller” comfortably seated in the large chimney 
 corner ; a cheerful turf fire casting its light sometimes in 
 broad masses, sometimes in brilliant flashes, over the room : 
 the neat white cloth was laid for supper; and the busy 
 dame was seated opposite the itinerant man of fish, laughing 
 long and loudly at his quaint jokes and merry stories. 
 Annie was looking vacantly from the door that was shut, 
 to the window through which she could not see ; and 
 Phillis was stretched along the comfortable hearth, rousing 
 herself occasionally to reprimand the rudeness of a small 
 white kitten, Annie’s particular pet, who obstinately per- 
 sisted in playing with the long silky hairs of the spaniel’s 
 bushy tail. When Leslie entered, the poor girl’s heart beat 
 violently ; and the colour rose and faded almost at the same 
 
172 
 
 ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 moment. She busied herself about household matters to 
 escape observation ; broke the salt-cellar in endeavouring to 
 force it into the cruet-stand, and verified the old proverb, 
 
 * spill the salt and get a scolding/ for the mother did scold, 
 in no measured terms, at the destruction of what the careless 
 hizzy had broke. — “ Did ye na ken that it had been used for 
 twenty years and mair'!” she reiterated, “and did Christian 
 woman ever see sic folly, to force a broad salt, of thick 
 glass, into a place that can na mair than haud a wee bottle ! 
 The girl’s daft, and that’s the end on’t.” Notwithstanding 
 the jests of Alick, the evening passed heavily : Annie com- 
 plained of illness, and went soon to bed ; and as her father 
 kissed her at the door of her little chamber, he felt that her 
 cheek was moist and cold. Mrs. Leslie soon followed ; and 
 the farmer replenished his long pipe as Alick added fresh 
 tobacco to his stumpy one. “ I’m sorry to see Miss Annie 
 so ill,” said the honest hawker in a kindly tone ; “ but this 
 time all the girls get tired at the hay-making ; well, it bates 
 all to think how you farmers can be continted jist wid look- 
 ing on the sky, and watching the crops, over and over again 
 in the same place. I might as well lay down and die at 
 onst, as not keep going from place to place. One sees a 
 dale more o’ life ; and one sees more o’ the tricks o’ the 
 times. Och but the world’s a fine world, only for the 
 people that’s in it ! — its them spiles it. — I had something to 
 say to you, mister Leslie, very particklar, that I came to the 
 knowledge of quite innocent. Ye mind that mister Mullag- 
 her, Maley, as he calls himself for the sake of the English, 
 has been playing the puck wid Lord Clifford’s tinnants, as 
 might be expected ; for his mother was a chimbly sweeper, 
 that had the luck to marry a dacent boy enough, only a 
 little turned three score ; and thin this beautiful scoundrel 
 came into the world, and betwixt the two, they left him the 
 
ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 173 
 
 power and all o’ hard yellow ginnees. Now he being 
 desperate cute, got into my lord’s employ, being only a slip 
 of a boy at the time. Well, lords to my thinking (barring 
 the ould ancient ones), are only foolish sort of min any 
 how. I can go bail that my Lord Clifford hadn’t a full 
 knowledge box any way, and so through one sly turn or 
 other, this fellow bothered him so, and threw dust in his 
 eyes, and wheedled him, that ye know at last he comes the 
 gintleman over us ; and tould me, t’other day, that as fine a 
 jacky dorey as iver ye set y’er two goodlooking eyes on, was 
 nothing but a fluke : the ignorant baste ! Fine food for 
 sharks he’d be ; only the cratur that ’ud ate him must be 
 hungry enough — the thief o’ the world.” 
 
 <l What has all this to do with me, Alick?” enquired the 
 Englishman steadily, while the traveller, incensed at the 
 remembrance of the insult offered to his fish, scattered the 
 burning ashes out of his cutty pipe, to the no small conster- 
 nation of the crickets, merry things ! who had come on the 
 hearth-stone to regale on the cold potatoe. “ I know,” he 
 continued, “ that the agent, or whatever he calls himself, is 
 no friend of mine. When my landlord came to the country 
 he did me the honour to ask my opinion. I shewed him the 
 improvements that I, as an English farmer, thought might 
 be profitable to the estate ; he desired me to give in an 
 estimate of the expense. I did so ; but the honest agent, or 
 more properly speaking, middle-man, had given one in 
 before ; his lordship found that, by my arrangements, the 
 expense was lessened one half ; but Maley persuaded my 
 
 lord that his plans were best, and so ” 
 
 “ Ay,” interrupted Alick, “ couldn’t ye have been content 
 to mind y’er farm, and not be putting English plans of im- 
 provement into an Irish head, where it’s so hard to make 
 them fit. When the devil was civil, and like a gintleman 
 Q 2 
 
174 
 
 ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 held out his paw to ye, why didn’t ye make y'er bow, and 
 take it 2 — sure that had been only manners, let alone sense 
 — don’t look so bleared! — What, ye don’t understand me?” 
 Alick advanced his body slowly forward, rested his elbows 
 on the small table, pressed his face almost close to Leslie’s, 
 whose turn it was now to lay down his pipe, and slowly said 
 in a firm, audible whisper — “ Whin Tim Mullaghar, the 
 curse o’ the poor — the thing in man’s shape, but widout a 
 heart — met ye one evening by chance, as you thought, at 
 the far corner of the very field ye cut to-day : what tempted 
 ye (for ye mind the time, my Lord thought a dale about y’er 
 English notions thin), whin he axed ye, as sweet as new 
 milk, to join him in that very estimate unknownst to my Lord, 
 and said, ye mind, that it might be made convanient to the 
 both o’ ye, and a dale more to the same purpose ; and 
 instead of seeming to come in, my jewil ! you talked some- 
 thing about ’tegrity and honour, which was as hard for him to 
 make out as priest’s Latin, and walked off as stately as the 
 tower of Hook.” 
 
 “ But I never mentioned a syllable of his falsehood to do 
 him injury,” exclaimed the astonished farmer; “I never 
 breathed it even to Lord Clifford.” 
 
 “ And more fool you — I ax y’er pardon, but more fool 
 you — that was y’er time ; and it was the time for more than 
 that, it was the time for ye to get a new laase upon the ould 
 terms, and not to be trusting to lords’ promises, which are as 
 easy broke as any body else’s.” 
 
 “ You are a strange fellow, Alick, how did you know any 
 thing about my lease 2 at all events, though it is expired, I 
 am safe enough, for I am sure that even Maley could not 
 wish a better tenant.” 
 
 “ A better tinant!” responded Alick, fairly laughing: “ A 
 better tinant! — fait that’s not bad. What does he care, 
 
ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 175 
 
 whether ye’er a good or bad tinant to my lord ; doesn’t he 
 want, man alive! to have ye body and sowl ! the riglar 
 rint, to be sure, for the master ; all fair : the little dooshure 
 for himself, the saaling money, if a laase is to the fore, and 
 a five-pound note, not amiss as a civility to his bit of a 
 wife; thin the duty-hens, duty-turkies, duty-geese, duty- 
 pigs ; thin the spinning and the knitting. Sure, if my lord 
 or my lady isn’t to the fore, they’ll save them the trouble of 
 looking after sich things ; and they, ye know, get the cash ; 
 that is as much as the agent chooses to say is their due, and 
 spend it in foreign parts, widout thinking o’ the tears and 
 the blood it costs at home : — Och, mister Leslie ! it’s no 
 wonder if we’d have the black heart to sich as them !” 
 
 Leslie, for the first time of his life, felt a doubt as to the 
 nature of the situation in which he was placed, he looked 
 around upon the fair white walls, so dear : so very dear to 
 the purest affections of his heart: every object had a claim 
 on his bosom, even the long brass peg upon which his 
 great coat hung behind the door, was as valuable to him 
 as if it were of gold. 
 
 “ I can hardly understand this,” said he at last, “ you 
 know I have always been on good terms with my neigh- 
 bours, yet I have acquired little knowledge in these matters, 
 I have always paid my rent to the moment; and as my 
 twenty-one years’ lease only expired two or three days ago, 
 I have had little opportunity of judging how Irish agents 
 behave on such occasions.” 
 
 “ Don’t be running down the country, mister Leslie,” said 
 Alick, quickly, “ there’s a dale in the differ betwixt the rale 
 gentry and such musheroons as he ; but keep a look out; for 
 he’s after no good. The day afore yesterday, whin he 
 behaved so unhandsome to my jackey dorey ; (’twould ha’ 
 done y’er heart good to look at that beautiful fish), he was 
 
176 
 
 ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 walking with another spillogue of a fellow (the gauger, by 
 the same token); and so, as they seemed as thick as two 
 rogues, whispering and nodding, and laying down the law, 
 I thought if I let the baste go on, he’d keep safe to the 
 road, and so as they walked up one side of the hedge that 
 leads to the hill, I jist streeled up the other, to see, for the 
 honour of ould Ireland, if I could fish out the rogue’s mean- 
 ing. Well, to be sure! they settled as how the rint should 
 be doubled on the land that fell, more especially yours, and 
 fines raised, and the gauger’s to act as * turney :’ but he said 
 that he knew you’d pay any thing rather than lave the house 
 ye settled up y’erself ; and then t’other said that (’twas the 
 word he spoke), ‘ the ould Scotch cat’ wouldn’t let ye spind 
 the money ; and then t’other held to it and said, ye must go, 
 for ye set a bad example of indipindence to the neighbours, 
 and a dale more ; but the upshot was, that they must get 
 rid o’ ye. And now, God be wid ye, and do y’er best ; and 
 take care of that girl o’ yours, and don’t let the mistress 
 bother her about that ould man, any more; she’s full o’ 
 little tricks — may sense, not sorrow, sober thim, say I : good 
 night, and thank ye kindly, mister Leslie, I’m the boy ’ill look 
 to ye, and don’t think bad o’ my saying that to the likes o’ 
 you; for ye remimber how the swallow brought word to the 
 eagle where the fowler stood. God’s blessing be about ye 
 all, Amin !” And the keen, wandering, good-natured fellow 
 left the house, to share, according to custom, Dapple’s 
 couch of clean straw, in the neighbouring shed. 
 
 The next morning Leslie’s family received a visit from the 
 agent, to the surprise of Annie and her mother, who wel- 
 comed him with much civility, while the farmer’s naturally 
 independent feelings, struggled stoutly with his interests. If 
 there be one thing more than another that I love in the 
 character of English yeomen, it is their steady bearing 
 
ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 177 
 
 towards their superiors : they feel that they are free-born 
 men, and they act as such ; but an Irish farmer must play 
 the spaniel to his landlord, and to all that belong to his 
 household, or bear his name: the very sound of justice is to 
 him unknown, he hardly dare believe himself a man, much 
 less fancy that from his Maker’s hand he came forth a being 
 gifted with quick and high intellect ; with a heart to feel 
 and a head to think, as well, if not better, than the lord 
 of the soil. But Mind, though it may be suppressed, can- 
 not be destroyed ; with the Irish peasant cunning frequently 
 takes the place of boldness , and he becomes dangerous to his 
 oppressors. Landlords may thank their own wretched policy 
 for the crimes of their tenantry, when they cease to reside 
 amongst, or even visit them, but leave them to the artful 
 management of ignorant and debased middle-men, who 
 uniformly have but two principles of action — to blindfold 
 their employer, and gain wealth at the expense of proprie- 
 tor and tenant. 
 
 “ Y’er house is always nate and clane, Mrs. Leslie,” said 
 Maley, “ and y’er farm does ye credit, master ; I’m sorry 
 it’s out of lase, but my duty to my employer obliges me to 
 tell you, that a new lase, if granted, must be on more 
 advantageous terms to his lordship. Y’er present payments, 
 arable and meadow land together, average something about 
 two pound five or six per acre. 
 
 “ Yes,” replied Leslie, “ always paid to the hour.” 
 
 “ And if it please ye, Sir,” said the good dame, “ when 
 his lordship was down here, he made us a faithfu’ promise, 
 on the honour of a gentleman, that he’d renew the lease on 
 the same terms, in consideration of the money and pains mv 
 husband bestowed on the land.” 
 
 The agent turned his little grey eye sharply on the honest 
 creature, and gave a grunt, that was less a laugh than a 
 
178 
 
 ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 note of preparation for one, observing, “ May-be he’s lost 
 his memory; for there, Mr. Leslie, is the proposal he 
 ordered me to make — (he threw a sheet of folded foolscap 
 on the table), so you may take it or lave it.” 
 
 “ He was preparing to quit the cottage, when his eye 
 glanced on a basket of turkey eggs, that Annie had arranged 
 to set under a favourite hen — “ What fine eggs,” he ex- 
 claimed, “ I’ll take two or three to shew my wife.” And 
 one after another he deposited all the poor girl’s embryo- 
 chickens in his capacious pockets. 
 
 Leslie really roused by the barefaced impudence of the 
 act, was starting forward to prevent it, when his wife laid 
 her hand on his arm ; not that she did not sorrow after the 
 spoil, but she had a point to gain. 
 
 “ May-be, Sir, ye’d jist tell me the laird’s present ad- 
 dress ; Annie put it down on that bit paper.” 
 
 “ Tell his address! any thing ye have to say must be to 
 me, good woman. And so ye write, pretty one, I wonder 
 what is the use of taaching such girls as you to write : but 
 ye’re up to love letters before this ; ay, ay, ye’ll make the 
 best of y’er black eyes, my dear.” With this insulting 
 speech the low man in power left the cottage. 
 
 Bitter was the anguish felt by that little party. The 
 father sat, his hands supporting his head, his eyes fixed on 
 the exorbitant demand the agent had left upon his table ; 
 large tears passed slowly down Annie’s cheek ; and if the 
 poor mother suffered less than the others, it was because 
 she talked more. 
 
 “ Dinna be cast doon, Robert,” said she, at last, to her 
 husband, “ye hae nae reason, even if he ask sae much 
 money, as ye say, as a premium, forbye other matters ; why, 
 there are as gude farms elsewhere, and landlords that look 
 after their tenants themselves. Oh that wicked, wicked 
 
ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 179 
 
 wretch, to see him pocket the eggs — and his speech to my 
 poor Annie.” 
 
 “ My darling girl ! ” exclaimed the father, pressing his 
 daughter to his bosom, where he held her long and anxi- 
 ously. 
 
 It was almost impossible for Leslie to accede to the terms 
 demanded : four pounds an acre for the land, a heavy 
 fine, and both duty-work, and duty-provisions, required in 
 abundance. 
 
 “ Dinna think o’t, Robert,” repeated the dame, “ we’ll 
 go elsewhere, and find better treatment. If ye keep it at 
 that rate, we shall all starve.” But the farmer’s heart 
 yearned to every blade of grass that had grown beneath his 
 eye : he hoped to frustrate the intended evil, and yet keep 
 the land. His crops had been prosperous, his cattle 
 healthy ; then his neighbours, when, through Alick’s 
 agency, they found how matters stood, had, with the gen- 
 uine Irish feeling that shines more brightly in adversity 
 than in prosperity, come forward, affectionately tendering 
 their services. 
 
 “ Sure the cutting the hay need niver cost ye a brass 
 fardin,’* said the kind hearted mower, “ I’m half my time 
 idle, and I may jist as well be doing something for you, as 
 nothing for myself; so don’t trouble about it. Sir, dear; we 
 like to have ye among us.” 
 
 Then came “ Nelly the Picker,” as the spokeswoman of 
 all her sisterhood, “ don’t think of laving us, Mrs. Leslie, 
 Ma’am, sure every one of us ’ill come as usual, but widout 
 fee or reward, excipt the heart love, and do twice as much 
 for that as for the dirty money ; and I’ll go bail the pratees 
 will be as well picked, and the corn as well reaped, bound, 
 and stacked, as iver. Sure, though we didn’t much like ye 
 at first, hasn’t Miss Annie grown among us, born as she is 
 on the sod, and a credit to it too, God be praised.” 
 
180 
 
 ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 These were all very gratifying instances of pure and simple 
 affection : and, indeed, Andrew Furlong forgot his somerset in 
 the cabbage-bed, and posted down to the farm with his stock- 
 ing full of gold and silver coins of ancient and modern date, 
 which were all at Leslie’s service, to pay the premium re- 
 quired by the agent for the renewal of the lease. This last 
 favour, however, the worthy farmer would not even hear of ; 
 he therefore sold a great part of his stock, and to the an- 
 noyance of the agent, obtained the lease. From this circum- 
 stance, he might be said to triumph over the machinations 
 of his enemy, but matters soon changed sadly : the family 
 was as industrious as ever ; the same steady perseverance 
 on the farmer’s part ; the same bustle and unwearying ac- 
 tivity on that of the good dame ; and though poor Annie’s 
 cheek was more pale and her eyes less bright, yet did she 
 unceasingly labour in and out of their small dwelling. 
 Notwithstanding all these exertions, the next season was a 
 bad one ; their sheep fell off in the rot, their pigs had the 
 measles, their chickens the pip, and two of their cows died 
 in calf. Never did circumstances in the little space of six 
 months undergo so great a change. Leslie’s silence amount- 
 ed almost to sullenness ; his wife talked much of their 
 ill fortune ; Annie said nothing ; but her step had lost its 
 elasticity, her figure its grace, and her voice seldom trolled 
 the joyous, or even the mournful songs of her native land 
 in the elder bower, that, before the departure of James 
 M‘Cleary, had rung again and again, with merry laughter 
 and music. James never returned after that eventful even- 
 ing ; and his mother had only twice heard from him since 
 his absence; his letters were brief — ‘‘He had gone,” he 
 said, “to sea, to enable him to learn something, and to forget 
 much.” His mother and younger brother managed the farm 
 with much skill and attention, during his absence. No 
 
ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 181 
 
 token, no word of her whom he had doatingly loved, ap- 
 peared in his letters. It was evident that he tried to think 
 of her as a heartless jilting woman, unworthy to possess the 
 affections of a sensible man ; but there must have been 
 times when the remembrance of her full beauty, of her 
 frank and generous temper, of her many acts of charity 
 (and in those she was never capricious), came upon him ; 
 then the last scene at the cottage was forgotten, and he re- 
 membered alone her sweet voice, and sweeter look in the hay 
 meadow when he cut off the curling braid of hair which 
 doubtless rested on his bosom in all his wanderings. And 
 then he refreshed his memory by gazing on it, in the clear 
 moon-light, during the night watches, when only the eye 
 of heaven was upon him. Let not any one imagine that 
 such love is too refined to throb in a peasant’s bosom ; trust 
 me it is not. The being who lives amid the beauties cf 
 nature, although he may not express, must feel the elevating, 
 yet gentle influence .of herb, and flower, and tree. Many a 
 time have I heard the ploughman suspend his whistle to 
 listen to that of the melodious blackbird ; and well do I 
 remember the beautiful expression of one of my humblest 
 neighbours, when resting on his hay fork, he had silently 
 watched the sun as it set over a country glowing in its red 
 and golden light, “ it is very grand yet hard to look upon,” 
 said he, “one can almost think it God’s holy throne.” 
 
 The last letter that reached our sailor-friend contained, 
 amongst others of similar import, the following passage” — 
 “ Ye’ll be sorry to hear, James, (though it’s nothing to ye 
 now), that times are turned bad with the Leslies ; there has 
 been a dale of underhand work by my lord’s agent ; and the 
 girl’s got a cold dismal look. My heart aches for the poor 
 thing ; for her mother is set upon her marrying Andrew 
 Furlong, which she has no mind in life to.” 
 
 R 
 
182 
 
 ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 Gale-day (as the rent-day is called in Ireland), had come 
 and gone, and much sorrow was in the cottage of Robert 
 Leslie. In the grey twilight he sat in a darkened corner of 
 his little parlour, the very atmosphere of which appeared 
 clouded 5 the dame stood at the open casement, against 
 which Annie reclined, more like a stiffened corpse, than a 
 breathing woman. Andrew Furlong was seated also at a 
 table, looking earnestly on the passing scene. 
 
 “ Haven’t ye seen,” said the mother, “ haven’t ye seen, 
 Annie, the misery that’s come upon us, entirely by my 
 advice being no minded. And are ye goin’ tamely to see 
 us turned out o’ house and hame, when we have na the 
 means of getting anither? I, Annie,” she continued, “ am 
 amaist past my labour ; ah, my bonny bairn, it was for you 
 we worked; for you we toiled ; y’er faither an’ me had but 
 the one heart in that ; and if the Lord Almighty has pleased 
 to take it frae us, its na reason why you should forget how 
 ye were still foremost in y’er parents’ love.” 
 
 Annie answered nothing. 
 
 “Speak to her Robert,” said Mrs. Leslie, “she disna 
 mind me noo.” 
 
 Annie raised her eyes reproachfully to her mother’s face. 
 The farmer came forward, — he kissed the marble brow of 
 his pale child, and she rested her head on his shoulder. As 
 he turned towards her she whispered, “ Is all indeed as bad 
 as mother says 1” 
 
 “ Even so,” w ? as his reply, “ unless something be done, to- 
 morrow we shall have no home. Annie, it is to shield you 
 I think of this ; my delicate, fading flower, how could you 
 labour as a hired servant! And — God in his mercy look 
 upon us ! — I should not be able to find a roof to shelter my 
 only child.” 
 
 “My bairn,” again commenced Mrs. Leslie, “sure the 
 
ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 183 
 
 mother that gave ye birth can wish for naething sae much as 
 y’er weel-doing. And sure sic a man as Maister Furlong 
 could na’ fail to make ye happy. All the goud y’er faither 
 wants he will gie us noo, trusting to his bare word ; to- 
 morrow, and- it will be too late ; — all these things sauld — 
 the sneers of that bitter man — the scorn (for poverty is aye 
 scorned) of a cauld warld — and, may-be, y’er faither in a 
 lanely prison ; eh, child ! — what could ye do for him then 
 
 ** Mother,” exclaimed the girl, starting with a convulsive 
 motion from her father’s shoulder ; “ say no more ; here — a 
 promise is all he wants to prevent this — here is my hand — 
 give it where you please.” She stretched out her arm to its 
 full length — it was rigid as iron. Furlong advanced to take 
 it, and whether Leslie would have permitted such a troth- 
 plight or not cannot now be ascertained, for the long form 
 of Alick the Traveller, stalked abruptly into the room. 
 
 “ Asy, asy, for God’s sake ; put up y’er hand Miss Annie, 
 dear ; keep your sate, I beg, Mister Furlong ; no rason in 
 life for y’er rising ; all of ye be asy. Will nobody quiet 
 that woman, for God’s sake 1” he continued, seeing that the 
 dame was, naturally enough, angry at his intrusion ; “ first 
 let me say my say, and be off, for sorra’ a minute have I to 
 waste upon ye. Robert Leslie by name, didn’t I, onst upon 
 a time, tell ye truth ; and a sore hearing it was, sure enough. 
 Well thin, I tell it ye agin, and if it’s not true, why ye may 
 hang me as high as Howth; — don’t let y’er daughter mum 
 herself away after that fashion. Mister Furlong, ye’re a 
 kind-hearted man, so ye are, and many a bit an’ a sup have, 
 ye bestowed upon me and the baste — thank ye kindly for 
 that same — but yarra a much sense ye have, or ye would’nt 
 be looking after empty nuts : — what the divil would be the 
 good o’ the hand o’ that cratur, widout her heart? And 
 that ye’ll niver have. Mistress Leslie, Ma’am, honey, don’t 
 
184 
 
 ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 be after blowing me up; — now jist think — sure I know that 
 ye left the bonny hills and the sweet scented broom of 
 Scotland, to marry that Englishman. And ye mind the 
 beautiful song that ye sing far before ony one I iver heard — 
 about loving in youth, and thin climbing the hill, and thin 
 sleeping at the fut of it — John Anderson ye call it: 
 wouldn’t ye rather have y’er heart’s first love, though he’s 
 ould and grey now, than a king upon his throne? Ay, 
 woman, that touches ye! And do ye think she hasn’t some 
 o’ the mother’s feel in her? Now Mister Leslie, don’t — 
 don’t any of ye make her promise to-night ; ye’ll bless me 
 for this, even you, Mister Andrew, by to-morrow sunset ; 
 
 promise, Robert Leslie ” 
 
 “ You told me truth before,” said the bewildered man, 
 “ and I have no right to doubt you now — I do promise.” 
 
 Alick strode out of the cottage ; Andrew followed, like 
 
 an enraged turkey cock, and the family were left again in 
 solitude. The words of the fisherman had affected Mrs. 
 Leslie deeply: she had truly fancied she was seeking her 
 child’s happiness ; and, perhaps for the first time, she 
 remembered how miserable she should have been with any 
 other husband than “ her ain gude-man.” 
 
 The little family passed the night almost in the very ex- 
 tremity of despair. “Such,” said Leslie afterwards, “as I 
 could not pass again ; for the blood now felt as if frozen in 
 my veins — now rushing through them with fearful rapidity 
 — and as my head rested on my poor wife’s shoulder, the 
 throbbing of my bursting temples but echoed the beating 
 of her agitated heart.” The early light of morning found 
 Annie in a heavy sleep ; and the mid-day sun glowed as 
 brightly as if it illumined the pathway of princes, on three 
 or four ill-looking men who entered the dwelling of the 
 farmer. Their business was soon commenced — it was a 
 
ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 185 
 
 work of heart-sickening desolation. On Annie’s pure and 
 simple bed sat one of the officials, noting down each article 
 in the apartment. Leslie, his arms folded, his lips com- 
 pressed, his forehead gathered in heavy wrinkles over his 
 brow, stood firmly in the centre of the room. Mrs. Leslie 
 sat, her face covered with her apron — which was soon 
 saturated by her tears, and poor little Phillis crouched 
 beneath her chair; — Annie clung to her father’s arms; her 
 energies w'ere roused as she feelingly appealed to the heart- 
 less executors of the law. What increased the wretchedness 
 of the scene was the presence of Mr. Maley himself, who 
 seemed to exult over the misery of his victims. He was 
 not, however, to have it all his own way ; several of the 
 more spirited neighbours assembled, and forgot their own 
 interests in their anxiety for the Leslies. One young fellow 
 entered, waving his shilela, and swearing, in no measured 
 terms, that “ he’d spill the last drop of his heart’s blood 
 afore a finger should be laid on a single scrap in the 
 house.” The agent’s scowl changed into a sneer as he 
 pointed to the document he held in his hand. This, how- 
 ever, was no argument to satisfy our Irish champion ; and 
 in truth matters would have taken a serious turn, but for 
 the prompt interference of an old man, who held back the 
 arms of the young hero. The door was crowded by the 
 sympathising peasantry; some, by tears, and many by deep 
 and awful execrations, testified their abhorrence of the man 
 “ dressed in a little brief authority.” “Oh,” ejaculated 
 Mrs. Leslie, “Oh! that I had never lived to see this day 
 
 of ruin and disgrace. Oh ! Annie you let it come to ” 
 
 “ Hold, woman,” exclaimed her husband, “ remember 
 what we repeated last night to each other; remember how 
 we prayed, when this poor child was sleeping as in the 
 sleep of death ; remember how we both bethought of the 
 r 2 
 
186 
 
 ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 fair names of our parents; how ^ou told me of the men of 
 your kin who fought for their faith among* your native 
 Scottish hills ; and my own ancestors, who left their posses- 
 sions and distant lands for conscience’ sake ! Oh woman, 
 Janet, remember the words, 'yet have I not seen the 
 righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.’ ” 
 
 Doubtless Mrs. Leslie felt in their full force these sweet 
 sounds of consolation; — again she hid her face and wept. 
 It is in the time of affliction that the words of Scripture 
 pour balm upon the wounded spirit; — in the world’s tur- 
 moil they are often unhappily forgotten ; but in sorrow they 
 are sought for, even as the hart seeketh for the water brook. 
 
 The usually placid farmer had scarcely given vent to 
 this extraordinary burst of feeling, when there was a bustle 
 outside the door, which was speedily accounted for. A post 
 chaise! rattling down the lane and stopping suddenly oppo- 
 site the little green gate : from off the crazy bar, propt upon 
 two rusty supporters in front of the creaking vehicle, sprang 
 our old friend, Alick the Traveller: — “ Huzza! huzza boys! 
 Ould Ireland for ever ! Och ! but the bones o’ me are in 
 smithereens from the shaking. Huzza for justice! Boys, 
 dear, wont ye give one shout for justice? — tisn't often it 
 troubles ye — Och! stand out o’ my way for I’m dancing 
 mad! .Och! by St. Patrick! — Stand back ye pack o’ bog- 
 trotters ’till I see the meeting. Och ! love is the life of a 
 nate — Och ! my heart’s as big as a whale !” 
 
 While honest Alick was indulging in these and many 
 similar exclamations, capering, snapping his fingers, jumping 
 (to use his own expressions) “ sky high,” and shouting, 
 singing and swearing, with might and main, two persons 
 had descended from the carriage. One, a tall slight gentle- 
 manly man, fashionably enveloped in a fur travelling cloak; 
 the other a jovial sailor, whose handsome face was expres- 
 sive of the deepest anxiety anu feeling*. 
 
ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 187 
 
 The sailor was James M'Cleary; the gentleman — but I 
 must carry my story decorously onwards: — 
 
 Poor Annie ! she had suffered too much to coquet it again. 
 Whether she fainted or not I do not recollect; but this I 
 know, that she leaned her weeping face upon James’s 
 shoulder ; and that the expression of his countenance varied 
 to an almost ludicrous degree : — now beaming with love and 
 tenderness as he looked upon the maiden — now speaking of 
 “ death and destruction,” to the crest-fallen agent. The 
 gentleman stood for a moment wondering at every body 
 and every body wondering at him. At last, in a firm 
 voice he said, “ I stop this proceeding ; and I order 
 you — (and he fixed a withering glance upon Maley) I 
 do not recollect your name , although I am perfectly ac- 
 quainted with your nature — I order you, Sir, to leave this 
 cottage; elsewhere you shall account for your conduct.” 
 Maley sank into his native insignificance in an instant ; but 
 then impudence the handmaid of knavery, came to his as- 
 sistance: pulling down his wig with one hand, and holding 
 his spectacles on his ugly red snub nose with the other, he 
 advanced to where the gentleman stood, and peering up into 
 his face, while the other eyed him as an eagle would a vile 
 carrion crow, inquired, with a quivering lip that ill assorted 
 with his words’ bravery, — “And who the devil are you, Sir, 
 who interferes in what does’nt by any manner of means 
 concern you !” 
 
 “ As you wish to know, Sir,” replied the gentleman, re- 
 moving his hat and looking kindly around on the peasants, 
 
 “ I am brother to your landlord !” Oh ! for a Wilkie to 
 paint the serio-comic effect of that little minute ! — the look 
 of abashed villany — the glorious feeling that suffused the 
 honest farmer’s countenance — the uplifted hands and ejacu- 
 lations of Mrs. Leslie — the joyous face of Annie, glistening 
 
188 
 
 ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 all over with smiles and tears — the hearty honest shout of 
 the villagers — and even the merry bark of little Phillis; — 
 then Alick, striding up to the late man of power, his long 
 back curved into a humiliated bend, his hand and arm fully 
 extended, his right foot a little advanced, while his features 
 varied from the most contemptuous and satirical expression 
 to one of broad and gratified humour, addressed him, with 
 mock reverence : “ Mister Maley, Sir, will ye allow me (as 
 the gintry say), the pleasure to see ye out : it’s your 
 turn now, ould boy, tho’ ye don’t know a fluke from a 
 jacky-dorey.” 
 
 “ Sir — my lord,” stammered out the unfortunate man, “ I 
 don’t really know what is meant, I acted for the best — for 
 his lordship’s interest.” 
 
 “ Peace man,” interrupted the gentleman ; “ I do not wish 
 to expose you ; there is my brother’s letter : to-morrow I 
 will see you at his house, where his servants are now pre- 
 paring for my reception.” The man and his minions shrunk 
 away as well and as quietly as they could ; and the Leslies 
 had now time to wonder how ail this change had been 
 brought about ; the neighbours lingering around the door, 
 with a pardonable curiosity, to “see the last of it.” 
 
 “Ye may thank that gentleman for it all,” said James ; 
 “ besides being brother to the landlord, I had the honour to 
 sarve under him, in as brave a ship as ever stept the sea, 
 and ye mind when matters were going hard here, A lick 
 (God for ever bless him for it) turned to at the pen, and 
 wrote me every particular, and all about the agent’s wicked- 
 ness ; and (may I say it, Annie, now)! y’er love for me: 
 and how out of divilment he sent the ould man to make 
 love to you that sorrowful evening — when I went away — 
 and then put me up to catch him ; little thinking how the 
 jealousy would drive me mad : well, his honour the captain 
 had no pride in him — ’ 
 
ANNIE LESLIE. 
 
 189 
 
 •• Stop, my brave lad, with you, I could have none,” ex- 
 claimed the generous officer ; “ where the battle raged the 
 most, you were at my side ; and when in boarding the 
 Frenchman, I was almost nailed to the deck, you, you 
 rushed forward, and amid death and danger, bore me sadly 
 wounded, in your arms, back to my gallant ship.” He 
 extended his hand to the young Irishman, who pressed it 
 respectfully to his lips. — “ To see the like o’ that now,” said 
 Alick, “ to see him shaking hands with one that’s as good as 
 a lord !” — “ I held frequent conversations with my brave 
 friend,” continued the captain, “ and at length he enlightened 
 me as to the treatment my brother’s tenants experienced from 
 the agent, and I am come down expressly to see justice done 
 to all, who I am sorry to find have suffered from the ill 
 effects of the absentee system. Miss Leslie, I am sorry to 
 lose so good a sailor, but I only increase my number of 
 friends, when I resign James M'Cleary to his rightful 
 owner.” 
 
 “ Och ! my dears,” exclaimed Alick ; “ it’s as good as a 
 play — a beautiful play : and there’s good man Andrew 
 coming over; don’t toss him in the cabbage-bed, James, 
 honey, this time. And, James, dear, there’s your ould 
 mother running up the lane, — well, ould as she is, she bates 
 Andrew at the step. Och ! Miss Annie, don’t be looking 
 down after that fashion. And, Sir, my lord, if y’er honour 
 plases, ye won’t forget the little bit o’ ground for the baste.” 
 
 “ Every thing I have promised I will perform,” said the 
 young man as he withdrew. — Which I must do also, as- 
 suring all who read my story that, however strange it may 
 appear, Annie made an excellent wife, never flirted the least 
 bit in the world, except with her husband ; and practically 
 remembered her father’s wise and beautiful text — “ I have 
 been young and now am old, yet have I not seen the righteous 
 forsaken, noi' his seed begging bread.” 
 
190 
 
 REMBRANDT’S WORK-SHOP. 
 
 Rembrandt solus. Too much light here still. I must 
 deepen the shadows even more, until the figures begin to 
 shine out as they ought. And now for Pharaoh’s Baker, 
 whose dream is not yet interpreted ; so that he looks up 
 earnestly in the face of Joseph, and receives a strong gleam 
 through the iron bars. So — and again — so. Now for the 
 shadows again. To talk to me of Guido, with his shallow, 
 gray, and trivial open lights l Ah ha ! ’tis I who am Rem- 
 brandt — and there is no other. (A knock at the door.) 
 Heaven send a purchaser ! Come in. 
 
 Dutch Trader. Good morrow, friend. I wish to have a 
 picture of yours to leave my wife, before I go to sail the 
 salt seas again. 
 
 Rem. Would you have your own face painted X 
 
 Trader. My face has seen both fair and foul, in its time, 
 and belike it may not do for a canvass, for I am no fresh 
 water pippin-cheek. 
 
 Rem. Bear a good heart. Your face is of the kind I 
 like. There is no room for tricks of the pencil upon too 
 smooth a skin. 
 
 Trader. By this hand, I know nothing of these things ; 
 but my wife shall have a picture. 
 
 Rem. A large hat would serve to shadow your eyes ; 
 and there should be no light till we come down to the point 
 of your nose, which would be the only sharp in the picture. 
 Nothing but brownness and darkness every where else. 
 Pray you, sit down here, and try on this great hat. 
 
 Trader. Nay, by your leave, X will lock at these pictures 
 on the wail first. What is this X 
 
REMBRANDT’S WORK-SHOP. 
 
 191 
 
 Rem . It is a Turk whom 1 have seen in the streets oi 
 Amsterdam. I like to paint a good beard ; and you see 
 how angrily this man’s beard is twisted. 
 
 Trader. A stout Pagan, and a good fighter, I warrant 
 you. I feel as if I could fetch him a cut over the crown ; 
 for my ship was once near being run down by an Algerine. 
 
 Rem . Look at the next. ’Tis the inside of a farmer’s 
 kitchen. 
 
 Trader. Nay, I could have told you that myself ; for 
 these pails of milk might be drunk ; and there is old gran- 
 dam twirling her spindle. When next I go to live at my 
 brother Lucas’s farm, I shall persuade him to buy this pic- 
 ture. It shows the fat and plenteous life which he lives, 
 when I am sailing the salt seas. 
 
 Rem. Here is a sea-piece. 
 
 Trader. Why, that is good also ; but this sail should 
 have been lashed to the binnacle ; — for, d’ye see, when a 
 vessel is spooning against a swell, she pitches, and it is ne- 
 cessary to 
 
 Rem. You are right : I must have it altered. How- 
 does this landscape please you ? 
 
 Trader. Why, it is a good flat country ; but exhibits 
 none of those great rocks which I have seen in foreign parts. 
 I have seen burning mountains, which would have made the 
 brush drop from your hand. I have sailed round the world, 
 and seen the waves rising to the height of Haerlem steeple, 
 and nothing but cannibals on shore to make signals to. 
 
 Rem. Well — and which of the pictures will you have? 
 you shall have your choice of them for forty ducats. 
 
 Trader. Nay, now you are joking. Who will give you 
 forty ducats ? When at dinner with the burgo-master lately, 
 I heard a collector putting prices on your works. He said, 
 if we would wait, your market would certainly fall, for you 
 had too many on hand. 
 
192 
 
 REMBRANDT’S WORK-SHOP. 
 
 Rem. My market shall not fall. I will see this collector 
 at the bottom of the ocean first. But come now, let us be 
 reasonable together. I will paint your portrait for thirty. 
 Take your seat. 
 
 Trader . Not so fast. My wife must be conferred with, 
 and, if she approves, perhaps I may come back. Mean- 
 while, good morning. (Exit.) 
 
 Rem. A curse on these picture-dealing babblers. How 
 shall I be revenged on them 1 My pictures are as good as 
 the oldest extant, and, if I were dead, every piece would 
 sell for as much gold as would cover it. But I see what 
 must be done. Come hither, wife, and receive a commis- 
 sion. Go straight to the joiner’s, and order him to prepare 
 for my funeral. 
 
 Rembrandt’s Wife. What is the meaning of this? Are 
 your wits turned ? 
 
 Rem. My wits are turned towards money-making. I 
 must counterfeit myself dead, to raise the price of my works, 
 which will be valued as jewels, when there is no expectation 
 of any more. 
 
 Wife. Now I perceive your drift. Was there ever such 
 a contrivance ! You mean to conceal yourself and have a 
 mock funeral ? * 
 
 Rem. Yes ; and when my walls are unloaded I shall 
 appear again. So that after the picture-dealers have been 
 brought to canonize me for a dead painter, and when they 
 have fairly ventured out their praise and their money, they 
 shall see me come and lay my hands upon both. 
 
 Wife. How will it be possible for me to cry sufficiently, 
 when there is no real death ? 
 
 Rem. Make good use of the present occasion to perfect 
 yourself in your part, for you will one day have to repeat it. 
 
 * This was a fact. See Rembrandt’s Life. 
 
193 
 
 THE BRIDE, 
 
 A TALE OF THE TIMES OF MARIA THERESA. 
 
 The empress and her daughter stood together : alike singu- 
 larly alike, as they were, in height, in the same high, finely- 
 cut features, the same clear blue eyes, the same fair Saxon 
 complexion, yet the likeness, which seemed so strong at the 
 first look, became almost a contrast as that look was pro- 
 longed into observation. It was not the difference of age, 
 for the mother’s eye was as bright, and her cheek as rich in 
 colour, as her daughter’s ; but the sweetness which was in 
 Maria Theresa’s smile only, was in every line of the arch- 
 duchess’s face. The azure depths of the eyes, in the one, 
 mirrored every thought and every feeling ; those of the other 
 expressed but what they chose should appear. Each had 
 the same fair broad forehead • but in the elder one a slight 
 contraction of the brow had become habitual. Both stepped 
 with the stately bearing of a noble race ; but Maria The- 
 resa moved as if over the neck of a prostrate world, while 
 Josepha seemed as if she would have turned aside rather 
 than crush the meanest worm on her path. Both were 
 splendidly dressed — the young princess as a bride ; the 
 diamond tiara was surmounted by a chaplet of orange 
 flowers, the white velvet train embroidered with pearls, 
 and a veil of silver tissue fell almost to her feet. The 
 bright and gay appearance of the youthful archduchess 
 was little in unison with the rest of the scene. The huge 
 s 
 
194 
 
 TIIE BlilDE. 
 
 and dark chamber was hung with crimson damask worked 
 with gold; but the gold had been long tarnished, and 
 the brilliancy had passed away from the crimson. Portraits 
 in massive frames, the gilding as dim as the colours, 
 covered the walls. Most of them were garbed in black 
 velvet, according to the Spanish taste, and the heavy 
 brow and thick lip all bespoke their Austrian descent. 
 At the upper end of the room was a purple canopy which 
 had been raised over a temporary altar; towards this the 
 empress led her daughter, and the shadow of the canopy 
 fell dark upon the young bride. A small group gathered 
 round — staid, grave-looking men — who, whatever of fierce 
 passion might be in the heart, had long banished all 
 betrayal of it from the face. The face of the emperor, 
 who, till summoned to give his daughter’s hand, stood 
 in the background, was the only one that had aught of 
 the expression of humanity — and that expression was 
 only of its weakness. But where was the bridegroom ? 
 Miles and miles away. The royal lover woos by an 
 envoy and wins by a treaty. In his place, his ambas- 
 sador stood forth — an aged nobleman, who, having spent 
 a whole life in the observance of forms, held them to be 
 the highest attributes of human nature. 
 
 The ceremony proceeded, and, at its close, the ambas- 
 sador dropped on his knee and kissed the hand of the 
 Duchess of Parma. Josepha turned, and would have 
 knelt to her mother, but this the empress prevented, and, 
 folding her in her arms, pressed her lips to her brow, 
 and wished her many years of happiness. Very ungrace- 
 fully. but very affectionately, the emperor pressed forward ; 
 by this time he had forgotten all the advantages of the 
 alliance, and every thing but that he was about to lose 
 his favourite child. Maria Theresa evidently endured 
 
TIIE BRIDE. 
 
 195 
 
 this display very impatiently ; her husband met her eye, 
 and — with that species of experience which must be 
 peculiarly adapted to fools, for it is they who are said 
 to learn by it — read its meaning, and shrunk back into 
 silence and himself. The Marquis di Placentia now gave 
 a signal to an attendant, and a page stepped forward 
 with a casket ; its contents the ambassador again knelt 
 to offer to his new sovereign. It was the portrait of the 
 Duke of Parma, fastened to a chain of brilliants. The 
 empress herself took the picture and placed it round 
 her daughter’s neck. 
 
 A collation was spread in the adjoining room, and 
 thither the party adjourned. Many others of the court 
 were now admitted to offer their congratulations, and it 
 was late in the day before the Duchess of Parma could 
 be permitted to retire. Weary with fatigue, and oppressed 
 by heat, Josepha gladly withdrew to her own chamber. 
 Summoning her attendants, she hastened to put off her 
 cumbrous dress. 
 
 “ I will put on my canoness robe,” said the duchess; a 
 costume frequently worn both by herself and sisters. 
 
 “ Nay,” exclaimed Pauline, a favourite attendant, “not 
 black upon your wedding-day, it is so very unlucky ! ” 
 
 The princess persisted, and, after helping her on with 
 the loose black silk robe, at her command Pauline with- 
 drew. Josepha seated herself by the open casement, and 
 for the first time gazed on the miniature she wore. The 
 duke’s face was one of uncommon beauty and intelligence ; 
 the softness of the enamel and the skill of the painter might 
 have added something to the beauty, but you felt the ex- 
 pression was copied, not given. The bride felt a sense of 
 happiness and security steal over her as she watched the 
 open and kindly meaning cf the eyes, that seemed to answer 
 
106 
 
 THE BRIDE. 
 
 to her own. Perhaps, too, the outward influences of the 
 lovely evening-time might give something of their own 
 soothing sweetness. The air came through the window, 
 with the odours’ of the garden below and the freshness of 
 the dews above — for the heat was melting in a gentle rain. 
 Suddenly a strain of music floated upon the air ; it was 
 from a band belonging to the palace, and they played a 
 slow and beautiful Italian air. There were words belong- 
 ing to the song — Josepha knew them — they spoke of pas- 
 sionate and happy love ; she blushed as she glanced at the 
 portrait, and then leaned back, half to listen to the distant 
 tones, and half to dream of the future, as the young dream 
 when hope prophesies by the imagination. She was yet 
 lost in fantasies so vivid that truth itself seemed not so 
 actual, when the door of her apartment slowly opened, 
 and she started from her seat in wonder to see the empress. 
 Maria Theresa was cold and haughty in her general manner; 
 one too who brooked not that her will should meet with 
 question, much less opposition : little maryel was it, 
 therefore, that her child rose with an attitude rather of 
 deference than of affection. But her mother’s manner was 
 kind even to softness, and when Josepha drew forwards 
 the large arm-chair she refused it, and, gently taking her 
 daughter’s hand, placed herself too in the window seat. 
 
 “ Those books are Italian, and the music I hear in the 
 distance is Italian. Ah, my child, even now you are 
 striving to forget us ! Alas ! our station too much separates 
 those gentler ties which, in lowlier life, bind so closely ! 
 How often must I, even to you, my own beloved girl, have 
 seemed stern and severe ; for I know’ a life of anxiety and 
 struggle leaves its own harshness behind. But when, 
 Josepha, in another country you think of your mother, 
 
THE BRIDE- 
 
 YJl 
 
 remember with what difficulties that mother has had to 
 contend.” 
 
 Josepha’s only answer was to catch the hand, now placed 
 caressingly amid her beautiful hair, and to cover it with 
 kisses, ay, and also tears. 
 
 “ A parting like ours,” resumed the empress, “ is like 
 one beside the grave ; let it be in all love and charity. 
 "Forgive me, my child, if aught of reproach you have 
 against your mother.” 
 
 The duchess flung herself at Maria Theresa’s feet. 
 “Nay, forgive me, my beloved and reverend parent, it 
 ever the petulance of my age has caused me to forget the 
 love and duty I owed ! Bless me, my mother !” 
 
 “ God bless you, my beloved Josepha!” said the empress 
 tenderly and solemnly. 
 
 The pause of feeling in both was broken by Maria 
 Theresa looking at the miniature of the Duke of Parma. 
 
 “ I like the expression of this face — it agrees with what 
 I have heard of his character ; and yet, when I think of 
 the distance which will be between, I seem to dread thus 
 trusting your happiness beyond my control. As yet, you 
 know so little the dangers and the difficulties of a position 
 like yours.” 
 
 “ But, my mother,” said the duchess, “ surely I might 
 be aided by your knowledge.” 
 
 “ The young submit not willingly to be guided by the 
 old. Youth has but a half experience — it has seen but the 
 bright side, and makes no allowance for the coming shadows. 
 How often have I known the sage counsels which would 
 have averted danger treated not only with indifference but 
 even scorn !” 
 
 “ But not by me,” exclaimed her hearer earnestly ; “ your 
 words will be treasured in my heart like gold.” 
 
 s 2 
 
198 
 
 THE BRIDE. 
 
 “My dearest Josepha, I doubt your will to obey as little 
 as I do your love ; but I fear the natural thoughtlessness of 
 youth. I could almost now regret that an unwillingness to 
 weigh down the bright brief period of your life has prevent- 
 ed my depressing your young spirits by ever communicating 
 the weight on my own mind. I have been over prudent. 
 I fear you are ill fitted to meet all the exigencies of your 
 novel situation. Beautiful, and with a mind like yours (I 
 have observed its powers, Josepha, more than you may 
 deem), your influence over your husband must be — will be 
 — absolute. Think not, dearest child, that I undervalue 
 your desire to know and follow the right ; but oh, that I 
 could give you some of my experience !” 
 
 “ Can you not, dear mother and sovereign? You know 
 not how reverentially I should hear, and how carefully I 
 should follow, your advice !” 
 
 This was the very point to which the empress wished to 
 bring her daughter. First kissing the beautiful face which 
 was bent towards her in the earnestness of entreaty, she 
 began speaking. Her natural gifts of persuasion were 
 great ; her voice mingled sweetness and firmness ; and her 
 smile — it was that for whose sake the gallant chivalry of 
 Hungary swore to die. At first her listener seemed to yield 
 the most earnest and confiding attention ; gradually the 
 eloquent countenance of the duchess changed to surprise, 
 wonder, doubt, and finally to almost indignation. 
 
 “Say no more!” exclaimed Josepha, throwing herself at 
 the empress’s feet : “ register every act, penetrate into every 
 thought, of my husband’s, to give prompt intelligence of 
 them to the court of Austria ! — seek affection the better to 
 betray it! Is this — can this — be my duty to my husband, or 
 my love — ” 
 
 “ Nay,” interrupted her mother, repressing the indignation 
 
THE BRIDE. 
 
 199 
 
 already darkening in her eyes, “ I was not prepared for this 
 burst of romance.” 
 
 “ Madam,” said the duchess, slowly rising from her knee, 
 “ the task of a spy is no task for your daughter.” 
 
 Her figure was drawn to its utmost height ; her brow was 
 contracted; the likeness between herself and her mother 
 was stronger than ever, and in that likeness Maria Theresa 
 saw an end to her well-laid scheme of making the bride of 
 the Duke of Parma a tool in her hands. 
 
 “Truly,” said she with a scornful smile, “this ducal 
 coronet has turned your head. Wilful and disobedient ! 
 We speak on this subject no more.” 
 
 “ Not in anger, my mother,” exclaimed Josepha, striving 
 to detain her, “ not in anger must you part from me !” 
 Coldly the empress disengaged her hand : their eyes met 
 — and the young princess staggered back, at the stefn and 
 deadly resentment in the pale face of Maria Theresa, and 
 sank on the window-seat. 
 
 “ Tt is broken!” said Josepha faintly, as the chain to 
 which hung the portrait of the Duke of Parma fell in 
 glittering fragments at her side. It had caught to the 
 empress’s dress, and was shattered. The young duchess 
 leaned against the casement and wept. 
 
 To the young it is a very bitter pang to know that their 
 best feelings have been excited merely to be worked upon ; 
 but sorrow and shame were soon merged in a vague and 
 terrible fear. The evening came on, and deepened into 
 night. Still, amid the shadows, did Josepha fancy she 
 could see the threatening brow of the empress, pale with 
 anger. Solitude became insupportable, and she called her 
 attendants. But human faces, and human voices, the cheer- 
 fulness of the lights, and even her favourite Pauline’s bird- 
 like song, were of no avail against the terror w’hich every 
 
200 
 
 THE BRIDE. 
 
 moment seemed to weigh more heavily on her spirits. With 
 hurried and yet timid steps, starting, though she knew not 
 why, at the least noise, Josepha began to pace the room. 
 A low rap at the door interrupted her walk, and the con- 
 fessor of the empress entered the apartment. Martini’s 
 features were chiselled with the perfection of sculpture, and 
 his high brow bore the impress of mental power and thought 
 far beyond his years, which were yet in their summer; his 
 step was soft and humble — his voice low and sweet; yet fear 
 was the sensation he always inspired. No one ever met his 
 cold and cruel eye — so calm, so colourless — without saying, 
 “ That man delights in human misery.” 
 
 He approached the duchess, and said, as he looked at her 
 black dress, “ I rejoice to see, my daughter, you have 
 not waited for me to remind you of the pious duty to-night 
 calls upon you to fulfil.” 
 
 “ What do you mean, father?” said the princess faintly, 
 “ I changed my dress on account of the heat.” 
 
 “ I had hoped, my daughter, it was in voluntary humilia- 
 tion ; ill do the gay robes of the bride suit with the meek 
 prayers to be offered in the presence of the dead.” 
 
 “I pray you to speak your meaning at once!” and 
 Josepha grew pale as marble. 
 
 “ Your royal highness knows it is your turn to watch 
 and pray by the tomb of the Archduchess Caroline.” 
 Josepha sank fainting against the wainscot of the room. 
 
 “ The empress will never permit it,” cried Pauline, as 
 she sprung to support her mistress ; “ why we all know that 
 the archduchess died of the small pox, and not a creature 
 will enter the chapel.” 
 
 “ I have her grace’s commands, who wills that so pious 
 a duty be not neglected. I am sent by her even now to 
 conduct the Duchess of Parma to pay the last duty to her 
 illustrious house.” 
 
THE BRIDE. 
 
 201 
 
 “Your father — appeal to him whispered the girl, “but 1 
 know that will be of no avail. I conjure you see your 
 mother yourself!” 
 
 “I have seen her,” said the duchess, “we parted just 
 now.” 
 
 Pauline hid her face in her hands. 
 
 “ I wait your highness’s pleasure to conduct you to the 
 chapel.” 
 
 Josepha rose and prepared to follow. 
 
 “ I will go with you. At night and alone — it is too terri- 
 ble !” said the affectionate girl. 
 
 “Her highness’s vigil must be solitary; thus it has ever 
 been !” replied the priest. 
 
 Josepha descended to the chapel; her attendants accom- 
 panied her to the door — as it opened it showed the thick hot 
 atmosphere, through which the dim tapers seemed scarcely 
 able to penetrate. The duchess turned round and embraced 
 Pauline, and entered the chapel. They saw her kneel 
 before the altar, and the doors were closed. Late in the 
 night was it before the royal council broke up ; then, not till 
 then, did Pauline succeed in conveying the intelligence to 
 the emperor that his favourite daughter had passed the night 
 beside the infectious tomb of her cousin. He rushed himself 
 to the chapel; and there was the duchess as they had left 
 her — kneeling before the altar, and her face bowed in 
 prayer. She had fallen a little forward, so that the steps 
 supported her. They spoke — but she answered not; they 
 raised her in their arms — but found she was dead. 
 
 [The substance of this story is true. The Archduchess Josepha died 
 from a midnight vigil in a chapel where a relative was buried: a 
 punishment, it was said, for some intiactability she had shown towards,, 
 the empress’s counsels as to the management of her betrothed husband. 
 Her next sister became Duchess of Parma.] 
 
202 
 
 ON THE GOVERNMENT 
 
 OF THE 
 
 TEMPER. 
 
 It is observed, that every temper is inclined, in some degree, 
 either to passion, peevishness, or obstinacy. Many are so 
 unfortunate as to be inclined to each of the three in turn : 
 it is necessary, therefore, to watch the bent of our nature, 
 and to apply the remedies proper for the infirmity to which 
 we are most liable. With regard to the first, it is so in- 
 jurious to society, and so odious in itself, especially in the 
 female character, that one would think shame alone would 
 be sufficient to preserve a young lady from giving way to it ; 
 for it is as unbecoming her character to be betrayed into ill 
 behaviour by passion as by intoxication, and she ought to be 
 ashamed of the one as much as of the other. Gentleness, 
 meekness, and patience, are her peculiar distinctions ; and 
 an enraged woman is one of the most disagreeable sights in 
 nature. 
 
 It is plain, from experience, that the most passionate 
 people can command themselves, when they have a motive 
 sufficiently strong — such as the presence of those they fear, 
 or to whom they particularly desire to recommend them- 
 selves : it is therefore no excuse to persons, whom you have 
 injured by unkind reproaches, and unjust aspersions, to tell 
 them you was in a passion : the allowing yourself to speak 
 to them in passion is a proof of an insolent disrespect, 
 
ON THE GOVERNMENT OF THE TEMPER. 
 
 203 
 
 which the meanest of your fellow creatures would have a 
 right to resent. When once you find yourself heated so far 
 as to desire to say what you know would be provoking and 
 wounding to another, you should immediately resolve either 
 to be silent or to quit the room, rather than to give utterance 
 to any thing dictated by so bad an inclination. Be assured, 
 you are then unfit to reason or to reprove, or to hear reason 
 from others. It is, therefore, your part to retire from such 
 an occasion of sin; and wait till you are cool, before you 
 presume to judge of what has passed. By accustoming 
 yourself thus to conquer and disappoint your anger, you 
 will, by degrees, find it grow weak and manageable, so as to 
 leave your reason at liberty : you will be able to restrain 
 your tongue from evil, and your looks and gestures from all 
 expressions of violence and ill-will. Pride, which produces 
 so many evils in the human mind, is the great source of 
 passion. Whoever cultivates in himself a proper humility, 
 a due sense of his own faults and insufficiencies, and a due 
 respect for others, will find but small temptation to violent 
 or unreasonable anger. 
 
 In the case of real injuries, which justify and call for 
 resentment, there is a noble and generous kind of anger, a 
 proper and necessary part of our nature, which has nothing 
 sinful or degrading. I would not wish you insensible to 
 this; for the person who feels not an injury, must be in- 
 capable of being properly affected by benefits. With those 
 who treat you ill, without provocation, you ought to main- 
 tain your own dignity. But, in order to do this, whilst you 
 shew a sense of their improper behaviour, you must preserve 
 calmness, and even good breeding, and thereby convince 
 them of the impotence as well as injustice of their malice. 
 You must also weigh every circumstance with candour and 
 charity, and consider whether your shewing the resentment 
 
204 
 
 A LAST FRIEND. 
 
 deserved may not produce ill consequences to innocent 
 persons — as is almost always the case in family quarrels — 
 and whether it may not occasion the breach of some duty or 
 necessary connexion, to which you ought to sacrifice even 
 your just resentments. Above all things, take care that a 
 particular offence to you does not make you unjust to the 
 general character of the offending person. Generous anger • 
 does not preclude esteem for whatever is really estimable, 
 nor does it destroy good-will to the person of its object : it 
 even inspires the desire of overcoming him by benefits, and 
 wishes to inflict no other punishment than the regret of 
 having injured one who deserved his kindness ; it is always 
 placable, and ready to be reconciled, as soon as the offender 
 is convinced of his error ; nor can any subsequent injury 
 provoke it to recur to past disobligations, which had been 
 once forgiven. 
 
 Mrs. Chapone. 
 
 A LAST FRIEND. 
 
 When Albert de la Scaia was supplanted in the government 
 of Padua, by Marsilius de Carrara, and sent a prisoner to 
 Venice, Nicoletto, his buffoon, demanded to be made a par- 
 taker in the fate of his master, and was the only person who 
 accompanied him to his melancholy end. “ A deep senti- 
 ment of attachment,” says Sismondi, “thus discovered itself 
 in one who had made a trade of foolish merriment, and 
 sought his own independence in the laughter of others.” 
 
THE LIBRARY 
 Of ™ E 
 
W3H5T 3D) @ ® B. ©AS TEX® 
 
205 
 
 THE PRINCE 
 
 AND 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN. 
 
 A TALE OF WINDSOR CASTLE. 
 
 About the decline of Henry the fourth, king of England, 
 there was, attached to the court, a certain young gentleman 
 of a most ancient family, called Henghist, possessing a great 
 spirit and an independent fortune ; though not more rich 
 than a gentleman need to be. 
 
 It happened that he fell in love with a young lady of 
 great beauty, the daughter of a farmer : Emma was the 
 lady’s name. She answered the affections of her lover 
 completely, so that they were married, and she became the 
 bride of Henghist, and of happiness. 
 
 The prince Harry was then in the full career of his wan- 
 ton and voluptuous way of life ; and having seen this lady, 
 he desired her, and began to search for means by which he 
 might get some power over her. His conduct was not so 
 much the effect of vice, as of restlessness and folly ; and 
 had he known the affection subsisting between these two, it 
 is reasonable to suppose (from the sequel) that would have 
 veiled his passions, and treated their unity of heart with 
 respect. But he gave himself no trouble to consider this ; 
 and treating them drily as man and wife, saw no reason 
 why the lady should bar his princely presence. 
 
 Henghist by some means became acquainted with his 
 desire which did not fail to disturb his mind ; fearing much 
 that his lady might be dazzled by the greatness of his rival. 
 
 T 
 
206 
 
 THE PRINCE AND THE GENTLEMAN, 
 
 And he said to himself, “ I myself will forward the prince’s 
 views (hard as it is) till I see the bent of her inclination : 
 when, if I find her honest, a world of princes shall not 
 wrest her from my arms ; if not, my end is come ; for I 
 cannot live without this woman.” 
 
 Calling her to him in the morning, he said, " Madam, I 
 have ordered my horses, and intend to ride to a certain place 
 some miles from Windsor, and as I shall like to walk a little 
 after so long a ride, I would wish you to meet me at the grove 
 of elms, in the great park at sunset ; and I request you to 
 come alone, as the business I go upon will require some 
 secresy. Knowing the prince was to pass by at that time, 
 and having arranged matters accordingly, he went out. In 
 the evening, when the sun was going down, he went with 
 two servants armed and well mounted into the grove, fearing 
 lest the prince might use some violence ; and being resolved 
 that the whole stake should be set on the virtue of his wife. 
 
 It fell out, that the prince rode by at the time Emma was 
 passing, so that he stopped her and told her of his passion ; 
 and coming down from his horse he knelt at her foot, and 
 entreated her to have some compassion on him. Emma, 
 whose heart w r as full, and not at all tainted by the great- 
 ness of his person and offers, dreaded lest her husband 
 should come up at the time, and that some quarrel would 
 happen, whereby the comfort of her family and her husband’s 
 happiness would fall under the prince’s displeasure, who 
 might choose to ruin them for his revenge. She, though 
 with great timidity and modesty, entreated him fair ; still 
 giving him no hopes to nourish his passion, nor yet enraging 
 it by a loud protestation of virtue. And he seeing the great 
 pain she was in, comforted her, and intreated her to go with 
 him ; but finding this useless, he thought it best to proceed 
 by degrees. He requested to see her soon again, which she 
 (to have him gone) partly granted. 
 
A TALE OF WINDSOR CASTLE. 
 
 207 
 
 Henghist seeing them part thus familiarly, and that the 
 prince laid his lips upon her hand, was mad with jealousy. 
 And immediately the prince had departed he rode up, anxi- 
 ous to learn the truth ; and dismounting, he sent his servants 
 home with his horse. When Emma saw him, she flew into 
 his arms, and telling him the whole of what had happened, 
 besought him to cherish her in his bosom, and to take some 
 prudential means to save her, without bringing down ruin 
 on their heads. Henghist kissed her from the fulness of his 
 satisfaction, seeing the singleness of her feeling ; and com- 
 forted her, saying, “ I have so much faith in thee, that I 
 will furnish my wit at all times to secure thy honour and 
 guard thy happiness. ,, 
 
 This circumstance, as it were, carried them back the two 
 years that they had been married, and freshened their pas- 
 sion for each other. It made them sensible how necessary 
 they were to each other’s happiness ; and shook the blossoms 
 of their affection, as the murmuring south startles yielding 
 odours from dewy splendid flowers. They felt, that as long 
 as they looked upon each other in a straight line, they were 
 above the touch of circumstance, and independent of the 
 fascinations of the surrounding world. They were like faith 
 and gentleness startled by danger. 
 
 The prince, finding that he could by no liberal way get 
 to the lady, laid a stratagem to surprise her. Henghist now 
 thought it high time to look about him, and be upon his 
 guard. So taking the habit, and affecting the manners of 
 a desperado and fortune hunter, he went to an apartment in 
 the castle, where the prince rioted away much time with his 
 companions, and demanded to see him. He came with a 
 face wrinkled with laughter, and a mouth stained with 
 rhenish, in a most fanciful and unprince-like condition ; so 
 that Henghist said to himself, “ Is this the man, who to 
 
208 THE prince and the gentleman, 
 
 gratify one corner of his fancy would debauch my wife ; 
 drive me to madness, and her to wretchedness and despair ?” 
 And turning to the prince, he said, “ I tender your highness 
 pardon, the matter between us is a short one. I hear you 
 are in love with the wife of one Henghist, but have been 
 baffled in your attempts to secure her. I am a kind of 
 lark-catcher in this way, and have it now in my power to 
 put her into thy hand at a certain time and place. How 
 much is a day’s work to finish so elegant a piece of mer- 
 chandize worth, think ye?” The prince’s eyes sparkled, and 
 he said, full of enthusiasm, “ Ask any thing in reason, and 
 thou shalt have it. On with thy bonnet : come, let us go 
 about this thing direct.” Henghist, however, was more 
 cool upon the subject, and the newness of so nettling a si- 
 tuation troubled his spleen ; but governing his feelings, he 
 said, “ It is impossible to do this thing immediately. I must 
 be hired before I do my work. I have a plan digested, but 
 not executed. If in three days space you will meet me in 
 Windsor forest, under a certain oak, at the set of sun, I will 
 engage to produce this lady and give her to thy hand, pro- 
 vided thou wilt give me a reward sufficient for the parting 
 with such a prize. If I fail, restrain your reward, and exe- 
 cute your vengeance upon me.” And the prince said, “ I 
 will meet with thee ; and upon my honour, as my blood is 
 right royal, I will either reward thee sufficiently, and fully 
 to thy satisfaction, or not receive the lady at thy hands.” 
 So they parted. 
 
 When the day came, he took the lady with him and went 
 into the forest, leaving her at some distance from the place 
 of meeting ; and proceeding on, he saw the prince had 
 many horsemen with him. He therefore made a signal 
 and carrying him a mile off into the forest, and out of the 
 reach of his companions, fetched the lady to him, and 
 
A TALE OF WINDSOR CASTLE. 
 
 209 
 
 said, “ Lo ! Sir, I keep my promise. Here is the lady 
 Emma, wife to the Englishman Henghist ; I give her to thy 
 hand. Now, sir, keep your promise. Where is my equal 
 reward ?” The prince, full of joy, said, “ Thou time- 
 keeper, thou true one ; name it — roundly.” Henghist said, 
 “ I cannot.” And the prince answered, “ I’ll be thy 
 accountant, and thou shalt not lose : take thou five hun- 
 dred pounds. Will’t do?” Henghist shook his head and 
 said, “ No.” “Will six?” “No” “Or seven?” “No” 
 “ For so rare a jewel, man, we will not split ; nor dull its 
 lustre with a mean regard. Take thou a thousand. What 
 — still a glutton ?” and full of derision, he ironically added, 
 “ Perhaps you would be content with a bond for my next 
 year’s receipts, some seven manors, and a few estates tailed 
 with green parks. Belike I had better pawn the crown to 
 thee, when I shall be my dad and sit in the golden chair. 
 Come, sir, no more of this. Make thy demand, and waken 
 not my wrath.” Henghist still said, “ Sir, indeed I can- 
 not. I will tell thee what it cost me, and leave thee to 
 count what heaps can be enough for this prize. I am a 
 gentleman. And first, by giving up this lady to thy hands 
 I lose my honour ; — count out a sum for that. Next sir, I 
 lose the only thing in all the world that is joyful to my eye 
 sweet to my lips, ample to my arms, delicious to my senses; 
 to my heart, a hoop that keeps it staunch from breaking ; 
 to my soul, a gate that shuts all sorrow out and joy within ; 
 count out a sum for that. In fine, I lose a beautiful, high, 
 honourable, loving, loved wife. Call alchymy to aid ; turn 
 Ossa into gold ; delay the waves, and cast their lucent 
 green to wedgy diamonds ; confound the grossness of the 
 citied earth ; turn all to gorgeousness, that it may vie in all 
 its varied hues with a fiery sun-set ; make human creatures 
 gods, and me ten thousand times their king — Oh ! it would 
 t 2 
 
210 the prince and THE GENTLEMAN, &c. 
 
 not pay for a corner of my heart, nor buy a pang out ; 
 much less wipe from my brain the memory that she here is 
 my wife. Then, drawing her to himself, he said, “ Now, 
 Sir prince, ’tis my turn to begin.” And the prince assuming 
 much dignity, and checking him, said, “ Hast thou no re- 
 spect for my person V’ Henghist answered, “ God wot I 
 have had much, and have shown it patiently. Hadst thou 
 been any but whom thou art, thy death had long been 
 debtor to my sword. But it is come to this. We meet here 
 man to man ; all precedence, all title, dignity, and privilege 
 are forfeited by you. You have o’erstepped the bounds of 
 modesty, and plucked my honour by the beard : let that 
 matter rest. I part with this lady and my life at once. If 
 you so dearly love as I do, she being mine, do thus ; pluck 
 out your sword and win her. I am willing, Sir, to fight for 
 her, but not to part with her. And as thou must have got 
 some honour, I appeal to that. Let this matter end upon 
 this ground. Thy word is already engaged never to make 
 prize of this lady till thou canst amply satisfy me for the 
 loss of her ; and that will never be. But if you feel in- 
 clined to evade this promise, in God’s name o’erleap it at 
 once, and let us fight it out ; that I may live with peace 
 and honour, or die.” And after a pause, the prince said, 
 “ Henghist, put up thy sword, and fear not the recoiling of 
 my passion. Betake thee to thy house, and Heaven have 
 eyes on thee for a true gentleman.” 
 
 Some time after this the king died. And when the prince 
 was made king (not having forgotten his admiration of 
 llenghist’s spirit, and his former affection for his lady) he 
 sent for him privately ; asked pardon of the lady, and 
 bestowed a lordship and manors upon Henghist ; and ever 
 after treated him as a friend. 
 
211 
 
 THE RIVAL COUSINS. 
 
 A SICILIAN STORY. 
 
 Ji' thou remember’st not the slightest folly 
 That ever love did make thee run into, 
 
 Thou hast not lov’d. Shakspearc. 
 
 At a short distance from the port of Messina, in Sicily, 
 stood a nobleman’s castle, from a window of which, during 
 a tremendous storm that seemed to insure destruction to 
 whatever tempted the bosom of the ocean, some ladies 
 observed a man battling with the fury of the waves, and 
 striving to reach the land by means of a thick plank which 
 he grasped with tenacious firmness. They immediately dis- 
 patched an assistant to his relief, who on reaching the strand 
 found him kissing the ground in gratitude for his deliverance 
 from a watery tomb; his age appeared about four-and- 
 twenty, his figure was noble, and his dress, which the vio- 
 lence of the tempest had prevented him from discarding, 
 was green, richly brocaded with gold. 
 
 One of the servants, addressing him, said, “ that some 
 ladies having observed his dangerous situation, had sent to 
 his relief, and given order for his safe conveyance to the 
 castle.” The shipwrecked stranger received this cheering 
 intelligence with the warmest demonstrations of gratitude, 
 and threw off his waistcoat and doublet, which the wet 
 caused to hang heavily about him : any inconvenience from 
 the thinness of his apparel being prevented by the mildness 
 of the climate. The servant, observing what he nao Gone, 
 
212 
 
 *TPIE RIVAL COUSINS 
 
 whispered to another to carry the clothes home, unseen 
 by the stranger, which was done. 
 
 Being arrived at the mansion, the youth was conducted 
 into the presence of the three ladies, whose extraordinary 
 beauty struck him with astonishment, although, he thought 
 one of them far exceeded the others in that particular. 
 
 They kindly questioned him concerning his misfortune, 
 and inquired from whence he came; as he understood 
 Sicilian perfectly, he replied, that he was a Venetian trader, 
 and was on his voyage in a merchantman from Venice to 
 Sicily, when the late tempest had overtaken them, and the 
 vessel, crew, and cargo had been swallowed by the remorse- 
 less waves; that for himself, he had but just time to partly 
 undress, throw himself into the sea, and cling to a broken 
 spar, which providentially supported him to the shore, where 
 he was blessed in being permitted to receive their commise- 
 ration, for which he owed them the most unlimited obliga- 
 tion. 
 
 The ladies, being pleased and satisfied with the language 
 and appearance of the stranger, expressed a desire to be 
 acquainted with his name, which he informed them was 
 Philip (and by that name in future we shall call him), when 
 the most beautiful of the three, desired the servant who had 
 been his guide to conduct him to the wardrobe, and furnish 
 him with such clothes as he should choose. This was 
 forthwith obeyed, and in a short time Philip was satisfac- 
 torily equipped. During his toilette he inquired concerning 
 the three ladies he had just quitted; and learnt that the 
 handsomest was Beatrice, the daughter and sole heiress of 
 the Duke of Calabria, and that the other two were sisters, 
 and her cousins, their names Celestina and Sylvia. The 
 stranger was greatly pleased at finding the mistress of the 
 castle to be of such rank, as he guessed he should then be 
 
213 
 
 A SICILIAN STORY. 
 
 sure of receiving every attention while under her roof. 
 Having completed his dress, which consisted of a rich grey 
 suit, ornamented with gold, a gilt dagger, sword, and a hat 
 with a beautiful plume of feathers in it, he returned to the 
 ladies, who were charmed with the increased elegance of 
 his person, and ease of his demeanour; the fair Celestina, 
 in particular, who already began to consider him wdth ex- 
 ceeding admiration and kindness. 
 
 Philip again expressed his thanks to the lovely Beatrice, 
 for the hospitality he had experienced, to which she an- 
 swered, “ I expect my father, the Duke of Calabria, here 
 shortly; and I am sure he will not be displeased at what I 
 have done ; you must, however, remain here in the mean- 
 time ; for, as you have lost all that you had with you, you 
 would perhaps find it inconvenient at present to procure 
 another lodging; therefore, make yourself comfortable in 
 this mansion, until you have written to and heard from your 
 friends.” 
 
 “ Most beautiful Beatrice,” said Philip, “ your goodness 
 is as superior to my thanks, as it is to my merits ; I could 
 wish to forget my own country, and pass my life in your 
 service and that of my lord, your father, nor ever depart 
 from your house, until proved unworthy of its shelter.” 
 
 Beatrice now desired to see a specimen of his penman- 
 ship; and, although he took no pains to exhibit his writing 
 to advantage, yet was she so well satisfied, that she resolved 
 he should fill the office of secretary in the family; the 
 person who had formerly occupied that situation having 
 gone into Spain. As night approached, Philip was now 
 shewn to his apartments. When Beatrice was about sitting 
 down to supper, the servant who had first conducted Philip 
 to the castle, entered, and desired to speak a word to his 
 
214 
 
 THE RIVAL COUSINS, 
 
 mistress in private, whom, having retired to another room, 
 he thus addressed: 
 
 “ Your ladyship must know that, when we were about 
 bringing Philip hither, he threw off this doublet and waist- 
 coat, and supposing this was done in the hurry of the 
 moment, I ordered Lionel privately to bring them after.” 
 
 Beatrice attentively examined the waistcoat and doublet, 
 the richness of which surprised her; the former being of 
 green embroidered with gold, the latter amber-colour edged 
 with green. 
 
 “Besides,” continued the servant, “in his confusion he 
 has forgotten this purse, which I have not opened but 
 brought straight to your ladyship.” 
 
 The purse which was beautifully embroidered, contained 
 a gold relic case adorned with diamonds, in the pockets of 
 which Beatrice found two miniatures, one representing a 
 lady of exquisite beauty, the other a knight, whose counte- 
 nance strongly resembled that of Philip ; the Spanish order 
 of the Golden Fleece hung from the neck, the insignia of 
 which was well known to Beatrice, whose surprise was 
 greatly increased, as she could not but suppose that the 
 rank of Philip was superior to what it appeared; and as 
 love had from the first been timidly lurking in her heart, 
 she now ventured to give the rein to hope, although not 
 without some misgivings on account of the lady whose 
 portrait was in the purse, and who she thought must be 
 some mistress of his. She strictly enjoined the servant not 
 to mention to any one what he had seen, until she had dis- 
 covered who the stranger reaily was; she then joined her 
 cousins at the supper table, but love deprived her of ap- 
 petite, she ate little, and on retiring to rest slept still less. 
 \Ier mind was occupied with a thousand fancies, and, at 
 length, anxious to see Philip, she arose, to the great surprise 
 
A SICILIAN STORY. 
 
 215 
 
 of her woman, long before her usual hour, and descended 
 to the garden. After employing herself with forming a 
 nosegay of different flowers for some time, during which she 
 thought continually on Philip, she at length sent for him, 
 being desirous of discovering if possible, the real cause of 
 his being on board the shipwrecked vessel. 
 
 This summons was obeyed with delight by Philip, who 
 having respectfully saluted her, replied to her inquiry, if 
 he had yet recovered from his fatigue, that he was perfectly 
 so, as the attentions he had experienced could not fail to 
 restore him, and that his only wish was to dedicate his life 
 to her service, in return for the liberal benevolence she had 
 shewn him. Every action, even his very submissiveness, 
 had in it a nobleness beyond his apparent rank; and while 
 he had been speaking, the eyes of Beatrice were irresistibly 
 fixed upon him ; at length she informed him that he had the 
 charge of answering all her correspondents, even the Duke 
 of Terranova, her cousin, betwixt whom and herself a 
 treaty of marriage was in agitation. This intelligence was 
 by no means agreeable to her new secretary, who had not 
 been insensible to the charms of the fair Beatrice, and he 
 had hoped at least to find her unengaged, that he might 
 avail himself of any opportunity to ingratiate himself with 
 her. 
 
 Beatrice was delighted to observe him change colour, and 
 that the name of her cousin had affected him. 
 
 He replied that he was her servant, that she had raised 
 him to an office far exceeding his merits, and that he would 
 endeavour to satisfy her in all things. They then conversed 
 on various subjects, in which the fair Beatrice discovered 
 such good sense and understanding in Philip, that she felt 
 authorized in esteeming him highly. They were soon joined 
 by her two cousins, when Celestina, by her agitation, and 
 
216 
 
 TIIE RIVAL COUSINS, 
 
 her marked attention to the stranger, plainly discovered to 
 the equally interested -Beatrice, that she was as much en- 
 amoured as herself ; the latter, therefore, instead of con- 
 fiding to her cousin the contents of Philip’s discarded 
 doublet, as she had intended, now determined to conceal 
 that knowledge from her. 
 
 Philip was so happy at being in the duke’s service, that 
 he scarce talked of any thing else to the servants, who were 
 not a little envious at his having in so short a time obtained 
 the confidence of the lovely Beatrice ; for envy, though 
 more often found in the hearts of the rich than in the breasts 
 of the poor, yet is in some degree always excited against the 
 unfortunate advancement of those, who, for superior merit 
 or understanding, have been admitted to the confidence of 
 their masters. 
 
 Philip had not long been domesticated in the family, 
 when the old duke returned from the Sicilian court, and was 
 received by Beatrice with the warmest affection. She intro- 
 duced Philip to him, related his misfortunes, and exaggerated 
 his talents ; in consequence of which, the venerable noble- 
 man confirmed what his daughter had done, and established 
 him in his post of secretary. 
 
 When Beatrice had first begun to suspect the rank of 
 Philip, she had sent to Venice, his reputed country, to learn 
 if any merchant had had his vessel wrecked on a certain 
 day. She had commissioned the Sicilian ambassador, who 
 then resided with that powerful republic, to make this 
 inquiry ; but he could not learn that any such loss had 
 taken place, as the sailors and merchants there, who are 
 generally the first to hear of such tidings, must have knowrn 
 of it in the time that had elapsed. When Beatrice received 
 this answer, she made sure that Philip’s account of himself 
 must be false. Soon afterwards she obtained information 
 
A SICILIAN STORY. 
 
 217 
 
 that the Prince of Salerno had embarked from Naples for 
 Sicily, and having been wrecked, had. left that state without 
 a successor, he being a minor, and that two of his female 
 cousins were legally disputing which had the greatest right 
 to it. Beatrice was 'now almost ready to imagine that the 
 pretended Philip was no other than this Prince of Salerno, 
 and she waited impatiently for an opportunity of proving to 
 him that she was convinced he was of higher rank than he 
 gave out ; for she had discovered that the servant who had 
 first shewn her the jewels belonging to Philip, had revealed 
 the secret also to her cousin Celestina. 
 
 This lady giving way to the affection she felt for the 
 amiable stranger, one day when he was in his closet alone, 
 answering some letters which had been sent to Beatrice, 
 threw a billet into him through the half-open door. 
 
 Perceiving it fall, he rose hastily to discover who had 
 thrown it, but before he could reach the door, Celestina 
 (who had done it herself, that she might not be obliged to 
 confide in any one), had concealed herself, and Philip, not 
 finding any person there, took up the paper, and read as 
 follows : 
 
 “ One of her excellency’s ladies wishes you to pass an 
 uncomfortable night for her sake, trusting that your gal- 
 lantry will cause you easily to undergo this inconvenience, 
 for one who will know how to be grateful for it. She will 
 expect you at the last window of the gallery which over- 
 hangs the garden, after the family have retired to rest. 
 Heaven keep you 1” 
 
 Philip made up his mind to meet this lady at the ap- 
 pointed hour, never imagining that it could be Celestina or 
 her sister, but rather one of Beatrice’s women. He then 
 returned to his occupation, in which he was still engaged, 
 when he was summoned to attend on Beatrice, whom he 
 u 
 
218 
 
 THE RIVAL COUSINS, 
 
 found writing in her own apartment. She asked him for a 
 letter she had submitted to his consideration, when he, 
 agitated by the presence of his mistress, gave her, in mistake 
 the note he had just received, along with the right one. 
 Beatrice took all as he gave them to her, and then dismissed 
 him to finish those letters he was about. When he had 
 retired, she was surprised to see the other paper, which he 
 had given in his confusion ; but supposing it to belong to 
 her, she opened it, and immediately recognizing her cousin’s 
 hand, read the contents, which filled her with the most 
 racking jealousy. After some reflection, however, she 
 determined to take advantage of this singular mistake, and, 
 in pursuance of her plan, contrived at night effectually to 
 employ both Celestina and her sister, and lock them up 
 together in her room. 
 
 At midnight she repaired, softly, to the gallery, below 
 which she saw Philip waiting ; she beckoned, and when he 
 was close under the window, said, in a feigned voice : 
 
 “ I am sensible, Signor Philip, of the sacrifice you have 
 made, in exchanging your warm bed for the cold night-dew ; 
 but I felt sure that one so gallant as yourself, would not 
 weigh the loss of sleep against the summons of a lady.” 
 
 “ You appreciated my disposition aright,” returned Philip, 
 “ which is always to obey the fair sex ; and I should have 
 been mightily uncivil not to have come willingly the first 
 time.” 
 
 “And as to the second?” interrupted Beatrice. 
 
 “ For the second I will say nothing, except that I am so 
 faithfully bound to the service of the fair Beatrice, that I 
 could not readily do any thing that would offend her ; my 
 humble station renders me unfit for marriage with any in a 
 higher one, therefore I shall only incur the risk of forfeiting 
 the good opinion you now honour me with j tell me, there- 
 
A SICILIAN STORY. 
 
 219 
 
 fore, to-night, how I can serve you, or inform me of it 
 by the same means that you adopted to bring about this 
 meeting.’ , 
 
 “ How did the friend I entrusted the paper to, contrive to 
 convey it to you V’ asked Beatrice, who wished to learn how 
 the appointment had been sent. 
 
 “ She threw it into the closet where I was writing.” 
 
 “ I must be cautious,” resumed she, “ since, on the very 
 first night, you say you shall not come again ; how do you 
 know what I intend to do in your favour !” 
 
 “I am persuaded,” rejoined Philip, “ that you are only 
 seeking to amuse yourself with a stranger just come into the 
 family.” 
 
 “ Suppose I should be a messenger from one who secretly 
 loves you, what would you say to me then V ’ 
 
 “ That you have taken a bold step ; but that you are too 
 young for me to suppose that you came from yourself.” 
 
 “ How can you tell what I am V’ inquired Beatrice. 
 
 “ By your voice,” replied Philip, “ which assures me I 
 am right ; besides, were you old, you would not have sought 
 such an unseasonable hour for speaking to me.” 
 
 “ There,” she exclaimed, “ how you are continually tell- 
 ing me that you regret your loss of sleep. Since you find 
 midnight an unseasonable hour for a meeting, what can one 
 say to you 
 
 “ It signifies little,” said Philip, “ that you are ignorant of 
 what I am capable of when really interested, or what sleep 
 I can lose, when I love.” 
 
 “Then, doubtless, you have been in love?” said Beatrice, 
 inquiringly. 
 
 “ So deeply,” he replied, “ that I do not wish to converse 
 on the subject, it causes me such pain.” 
 
 “ But, nevertheless, I must tell you something agreeable,” 
 
220 
 
 THE RIVAL COUSINS,, 
 
 said she, “ one of her excellency’s ladies wishes to speak 
 with you in private, either at this window, or, wherever else 
 she shall, at that time, find most convenient ; she is induced 
 to do this from affection to you, therefore it will be a poor 
 return for her goodness, if fear should prevent you from 
 keeping an appointment which, I can assure you, will be 
 fortunate for you.” 
 
 “ It would be much worse if, from my humble situation, I 
 should only be able to give her the homage of my heart, 
 when she ought to be honoured by such feasts and presents 
 as dignify love ; and which cannot be in the power of an 
 unknown and unfortunate stranger, thrown, destitute of 
 every thing, upon your shore.” 
 
 “Then have you not saved one jewel from the wreck V* 
 inquired Beatrice, significantly. 
 
 Philip paused, for till that moment it had not occurred to 
 him, that in the clothes which he had thrown aside on leav- 
 ing the water, was the diamond-set relic case, and the two 
 pictures : but supposing that they had been accidentally 
 found, he replied, “ that he had indeed lost a jewel in the 
 clothes he had taken off to be more at liberty.” 
 
 “ In this affair, however, continued Beatrice, affected by 
 his manner, neither gifts nor gallantries of any sort are 
 required of you, but a faithful love. I only now desire of 
 you to be, without fail, at a low grated window which 
 opens into this garden, to-morrow night, a little later than 
 this.” 
 
 Philip would have replied, but Beatrice hastened away, 
 by no means displeased with the anticipations of the follow- 
 ing night. 
 
 Very different feelings occupied the breast of her cousin 
 Celestina, for the employment Beatrice had given her, and 
 the locked door, debarred her entirely from keeping her 
 
' A SICILIAN STORY. 
 
 221 
 
 appointment with Philip; these ideas prevented her from 
 sleeping, and, as she feared that Beatrice had some sus- 
 picions of what had passed, she resolved to quiet them by 
 not noticing Philip for some days. He, on his part, was at 
 the lattice next night, punctual to the hour named : here he 
 found Beatrice (disguised, however, so that he did not 
 recognise her), who had left a favourite woman, in whom 
 she had great confidence, to watch Celestina, and to prevent 
 interruption. 
 
 They had a long conversation, in which she told him, that 
 she was herself the lady she had spoken of, but that she 
 should not tell her name until she found he was deserving 
 of her confidence — that she wanted not those public gal- 
 lantries which it was not in his power to give, but would be 
 satisfied with a pure and faithful love ; and, at parting, she 
 threw him a handkerchief, in which were wrapped some 
 jewels of great value. As it was too dark for Philip to see 
 what she had given him, he delayed examining the parcel 
 until he reached his apartment ; when he was confounded 
 and astonished to see its magnificent contents. Ignorant of 
 the person to whom he was indebted for this sumptuous 
 present, he however discarded at once the idea of its being 
 only one of Beatrice’s women, and persuaded himself, 
 rather, that it was one of her cousins, as he did not 
 recognise the jewels ; Beatrice, however, had bought them 
 on purpose for him, fearing her own might betray her. 
 
 The Court was then at Messina, two miles from the 
 Duke’s palace; and the Duke of Terranova, wishing to 
 see his lovely cousin once more grace the court, published 
 a tournament for St John’s day, in which he was challenger. 
 As soon as this was known at the Duke’s, Philip and the 
 incognita, at their next meeting, of course, conversed $r it. 
 She said (still preserving her concealment), “ that he: ady, 
 u 2 
 
222 
 
 THE RIVAL COUSINS, 
 
 Beatrice, must doubtless appear at court, as the tournament 
 was in honour of her, and that consequently she herself 
 must attend her, which she was sorry for, as it would inter- 
 rupt their conversations.” Philip, impelled by his ardent 
 spirit, and forgetting the station which he occupied, and the 
 low rank he had assumed on his arrival, said that “ had he 
 not been a stranger, and alone, he should have wished to 
 have joined the tillers.” Beatrice was now rejoiced to hear 
 what at once proved his illustrious blood, and immediately 
 said, “ that if such was really his wish, she would take care 
 to furnish him with every thing requisite for his proper ap- 
 pearance, as she desired greatly to see him attend, and, upon 
 that occasion, he should know her name then, after ap- 
 pointing another nightly interview, she retired. 
 
 To return to Celestina. As her wish to converse with 
 Philip was not less ardent than before, and as, from the 
 extreme vigilance of Beatrice, she had not yet been able 
 to contrive it, she had recourse to another note, which 
 contained these words : 
 
 “ What I wrote before must have surprised 
 you, as I failed to be at the appointed window ; but be 
 there to-night, and you shall learn who esteems you. 
 Come early.” 
 
 This paper perplexed Philip so much, that he was at 
 a loss what to resolve upon ; the time appointed, however, 
 was convenient, therefore he determined to extricate him- 
 self as well as he could from the confusion he had got into ; 
 for, as his real inclinations led him to none but the lovely 
 Beatrice, so no other gave him any satisfaction. 
 
 Night being come, he repaired to his earliest rendezvous, 
 beneath the gallery window, where Celestina was already 
 waiting for him ; she immediately made herself known, 
 and said, 
 
A SICILIAN STORY. 
 
 223 
 
 “ I have wished for an opportunity, Philip, of excusing 
 myself for the disappointment I occasioned you by not 
 coming the first time I appointed to meet you at this window, 
 but my cousin then engaged me, and as I feared she sus- 
 pected my intention, I have since endeavoured to avoid 
 doing any thing that might alarm her suspicions. I now 
 desire to speak freely to you, and have chosen this solitude 
 that you may open yourself with confidence to me; the 
 first thing I require of you is, to tell me truly who you are, 
 for I cannot believe the account you have given of yourself, 
 when the jewels found in your dress contradict all you say ; 
 endeavour no longer, therefore, to conceal your real name, 
 for on my life I will find it out ; but be assured, if my sus- 
 picions prove just, as I hope they will, you may expect 
 further advancement.” 
 
 Philip was confounded at finding this to be Celestina, as 
 he imagined his fair incognita was her — however, he re- 
 solved to quiet her curiosity, on finding that the jewels had 
 raised her expectations that he would prove of higher rank 
 than a Venetian trader; the pictures, he feared, would 
 disclose more than he wished. 
 
 “ Most beautiful Celestina,” he replied, “ I must admit 
 that the jewels found in my clothes do seem to prove me of 
 superior rank to what I have alleged, which, nevertheless, 
 is true. In Venice, I should have been contented with my 
 real station, but in a foreign country, I wished to pass for 
 something higher than a mere trader, without absolutely 
 saying that I was, I therefore dressed myself richly; but 
 when, after receiving the greatest favours from such a lady 
 as your noble cousin, and being seriously asked the truth, 
 I should do wrong to deny it. I have now resolved your 
 question ; but if there be any thing further in my power to 
 say, that will clear your doubts, command me.” 
 
224 
 
 THE RIVAL COUSINS, 
 
 “ I am satisfied/' resumed Celestina, “ and for the pre- 
 sent, only desire that you will be here again to-morrow 
 night at the same hour.” 
 
 Philip promised to obey, and Celestina hearing a noise 
 within, and fearing it might be Beatrice, charged him to be 
 punctual, and left him. 
 
 He then hastened from the window, anxious to know who 
 his incognita really was, the idea of her being Celestina 
 being now out of the question. The value of the jewels 
 she had given him, almost led him to suppose that she must 
 be Beatrice herself, whom he had hitherto considered too 
 proud to stoop to such an action; should it prove so, he 
 felt himself obliged in honour to disclose his real name and 
 rank, which he had hitherto delayed doing, from the un- 
 certainty of the reception he should meet with from the 
 duke her father, betv/ixt whom and his own there had once 
 been a rivalship in love, which had caused challenges ; and 
 which now formed his principal reason for wishing to remain 
 unknown. 
 
 He soon reached the garden lattice, where he found the 
 unknown lady, who reproved him for his tardiness; he 
 soon, however, excused himself to her satisfaction, and said 
 so many graceful things, that she declared her resolution of 
 anticipating his request to know her name, by informing 
 him that she was Celestina. Philip smiled to himself at her 
 assumption of that lady’s name, and now felt assured that 
 she must be Beatrice, which discovery overjoyed him so 
 much as nearly to deprive him of the power of concealing 
 it: however, he dissimulated as well as he could, and 
 allowed her to cherish the idea that she could discover 
 herself whenever she chose. 
 
 In the course of conversation, the subject of the tourna- 
 ment was revived, when Beatrice asked him if it was still 
 
A SICILIAN STORY. 
 
 225 
 
 his wish to join the combatants ; he replied in the affirma- 
 tive, when, giving him at the same time a paper, she said: 
 
 “ Take this, and farewell, for it is late.” 
 
 She then left him, and when he took the paper to a light, 
 he found it to be an order for a thousand gold doubloons, 
 payable to the bearer. Astonished at this sight, Philip con- 
 cluded that he must be known to Beatrice, as appearances 
 alone could never have induced one of her rank to behave 
 so ; therefore the confidence she placed in him did not dis- 
 grace her in his eyes; however, he resolved not to make 
 himself known till the tournament was ended. 
 
 As there now only wanted three days to the entertain- 
 ment, the duke and his daughter were preparing to go to 
 their palace at Messina. During that short period, Philip, 
 with the greatest secrecy, made ready his own and his four 
 attendants’ dresses, the management of which he gave to a 
 faithful Neapolitan servant, whom he had sent for and 
 entrusted with his secret. 
 
 The day of the tournament at length arrived ; that day 
 which the Duke of Terranova hoped would assure him of 
 the hand of Beatrice, as her father had consented, the king 
 had sanctioned the union, and they only waited for a dispen- 
 sation from the Pope. 
 
 After the king had breakfasted, he went to a balcony of 
 his palace which looked into a large area, around which 
 were erected scaffolds richly adorned with cloth of the 
 handsomest description, and in the middle was the place 
 allotted for the tournament, which was a hundred feet 
 square, with four entrances for the tilters ; on one side was 
 an elegant tent for the challenger, his assistants, seconds, 
 and all the other tilters, to refresh themselves in. 
 
 When the lovely Beatrice and her cousins, richly dressed, 
 went to the palace, her carriage was attended by the 
 
226 
 
 THE RIVAL COUSINS, 
 
 noblest and most graceful of the knights; they placed 
 themselves in a balcony among the other ladies, all of 
 whom were not only elegantly attired, but most beautiful in 
 themselves. The hour for the commencement of the cere- 
 monies having arrived, the trumpets sounded, and fifty 
 drummers and fifers appeared habited in green and cloth of 
 silver, ornamented with gold laces and loops, on an edging 
 of murray, being the fair Beatrice’s colours; after these 
 came twelve attendants dressed in green, with twists of gold 
 and murray, and then entered the challenger himself, 
 dressed the same as the attendants, except that his cap, 
 and part of his clothing was ornamented with silver stars ; 
 his armour was white, striped with green, and he wore a 
 plume of green and murray feathers. His device was a 
 silver staff on the top of which was a star, with this 
 motto : — 
 
 “ He wanders in the darkness of the night, 
 
 “ While unillumined by this heavenly light.” 
 
 He made his entre gracefully, and taking his place, threw 
 down his gauntlet to invite some one to the contest. He 
 was followed by his assistant a Sicilian nobleman, not less 
 magnificently dressed than the duke himself. 
 
 Without describing minutely all the devices and mottos 
 displayed on that day, suffice it to say the tournament 
 began. 
 
 Philip had, to the great surprise of Beatrice, staid quietly 
 to see the commencement of the tilting, and she began to 
 fear he had deceived her in saying he wished to enter the 
 lists; but his intention in doing this, was merely to answer 
 Beatrice in her own way, as she had endeavoured to deceive 
 him by passing for her cousin Celestina; to add to her 
 
A SICILIAN STORY. 
 
 227 
 
 vexation, therefore he placed himself so as to be seen by 
 both ladies, and made a sign that he was going to arm. 
 
 Beatrice understood him, though not appearing to notice, 
 but it was unintelligible to Celestina, to whom he had said 
 nothing about the tournament 3 she therefore made a sign to 
 express that she did not understand him, he repeated his 
 signal, and then went away, leaving Beatrice to fret 
 at having caused this mistake by assuming her cousin’s 
 name. 
 
 When Philip left the balcony, he hastened to a house 
 where his servant was expecting him, with eight drummers 
 and lifers, and four seconds, all dressed in blue, ornamented 
 with silver, which was Celestina’s colour. His hat and 
 cloak were blue, bordered with black and silver 3 his plume 
 was blue and white 3 and his device a sun surrounded by 
 bright rays, with this motto : — 
 
 “ Can he a coward ever prove in arms, 
 
 “ Who feels the influence of Celestial charms'!” 
 
 alluding to Celestina’s name. 
 
 Philip entered the lists with such superior grace, that all 
 eyes were fixed upon him, yet none could guess who he was, 
 excepting Beatrice, who with bitterness saw him thus pub- 
 licly declare for her cousin j she now deeply regretted the 
 deceit she had practised, as that alone had given her rival 
 this public triumph, even unknown to herself. Not the 
 appearance alone of Philip exceeded other j ousters, but he 
 also so far surpassed them in skill, that when he tilted with 
 the Duke he carried off the prize, which he presented to 
 Celestina, giving another wound to the already-mortified 
 Beatrice, to whom every attention he paid her cousin w r as a 
 poisoned dart. When the skirmishing commenced, he ob- 
 
228 
 
 THE RIVAL COUSINS, 
 
 tained more prizes — that for grace, as well as the one for 
 skill, — these he laid at the feet of the fair Beatrice, who, 
 conscious that it was occasioned by herself, began to forgive 
 him for presenting the former prize to Celestina, who in her 
 turn now suffered some uneasiness. 
 
 Night finished the tournament, and torches were provided 
 for all except Philip, who, stealing away in the confusion, 
 returned to the house where he had armed; he was followed 
 unobserved, however, by a page, at the command of Celes- 
 tina, whose curiosity was raised to know who the strange 
 knight could be ; and her commission was so well executed, 
 that he was soon discovered to be the Duke’s secretary. 
 This news so soon spread through the house, that on Philip’s 
 return, he found it already known that he was the successful 
 conqueror at the tournament. The envious, who wished it 
 to be disbelieved, denied it; and when they saw him, began 
 in a scoffing manner, to congratulate him on the great luck 
 that had attended him at the tournament. Philip, though 
 somewhat confused at this attack, as he could not guess how 
 he had been discovered, pretended to enjoy the joke, by 
 thanking them gaily for their congratulation, and by this 
 means partly undid all that the page had done. 
 
 As he was attending Beatrice home, her favourite waiting- 
 woman put into his hand a paper containing these words : — 
 “ One whom you know will expect you to-night at the 
 garden lattice. Do not fail to be there. Adieu.” 
 
 Assured that Beatrice was the writer of this note, he re- 
 solved to tease her a little before he raised the veil ; and 
 going at the appointed hour, found her at the lattice. 
 
 “ I cannot deny, Philip,” said she, “ but that I am much 
 pleased with what you did for my honour at the tournament 
 to-day, where you acted 80 conspicuously ; but I will not 
 
A SICILIAN STORY. 
 
 229 
 
 believe that a Venetian trader can understand the use of 
 arms so well.” 
 
 “ We all use them,” said Philip, rather falsely ; “ but 
 was it to be wondered at, that the wish I felt to honour you 
 should inspire me with additional strength and skill, and 
 cause me to come off creditably even in what I am not ac- 
 customed to I But to one fond of the exercise, as I am, 
 a little practice is sufficient.” 
 
 “ I thank you,” said she, “ for the prize you gave me, 
 though I must complain of your more generous behaviour 
 to my cousin, to whom you presented two.” 
 
 “ I did that to avoid raising suspicion, and that, if I should 
 be known, I might not be found wanting in gratitude to one 
 to whom I owe so much.” 
 
 “ You are not aware how little you are indebted to her,” 
 said she. 
 
 “ Or rather, how much,” replied he. 
 
 “ Indeed,” continued Beatrice, “ if she was to know I am 
 here, and especially with you, she would not smile on me 
 for a month to come, and would be so harsh with you to- 
 morrow that you would be obliged to leave her service.” 
 
 “ Your’s is an uncomfortable situation, then,” said he. 
 
 “ It is intolerable,” she replied. 
 
 “ Then follow your own inclinations,” said Philip, “ and 
 do not let her hinder you, — my love for you is sincere, and 
 increases in proportion to your encouragement.” 
 
 “ What I am to blame for,” she replied, “ is that I en- 
 courage it in one whose rank is unequal to my own.” 
 
 “ Be not uneasy on that account,” resumed Philip, “ for 
 though I have hitherto kept my name concealed from you, 
 I will now tell you that I am of higher quality than I have 
 pretended.” 
 
230 
 
 THE RIVAL COUSINS, 
 
 “Who are you then?” inquired Beatrice, delighted at 
 the idea of at length learning who he was. 
 
 “I am a Spanish gentleman,” he replied, “of one of the 
 most illustrious families in Catalonia; my name is Don Augo 
 de Cardona.” 
 
 “ I have heard of that name,” said she. 
 
 “ It is one of the most respected and best known in Spain,” 
 he replied, “ there are some titles belonging to it, and I am 
 second son to one of them.” 
 
 “ Speak some Spanish to me,” said Beatrice, “ that I may 
 know you are telling the truth.” 
 
 Philip, addressing her in the purest Spanish, said, “ I 
 treat you now, lovely Celestina, as one by whom I wish to 
 be esteemed.” 
 
 Beatrice, now she had gained the truth, felt sure that he 
 loved her cousin, and therefore, by undeceiving him, hoped 
 to prevent him from proceeding with her. 
 
 “Iam satisfied with what you have told me,” said she, 
 “ and think so highly of you, that I put full confidence in 
 the truth of it ; therefore, that you may speak without re- 
 serve to me for the future, you shall know with whom you 
 have been conversing hitherto. Wait here and I will return 
 presently.” 
 
 She then left him, much pleased with the thought that 
 her love should be strong enough to make her reveal herself 
 to him ; she soon returned with the key of the lattice, which 
 opening, she led the way to the summer-house, where, her 
 favourite woman was waiting with a light; he then dis- 
 covered that the lady was certainly no other than the lovely 
 Beatrice, daughter of the duke of Calabria. He pretended 
 the utmost astonishment at finding who she was ; and 
 Beatrice, not suspecting that he had already guessed the 
 truth, said, 
 
A SICILIAN STORY. 
 
 231 
 
 ** Yes, Philip, it is I who have conversed with you by 
 night, to which I was induced by accidentally seeing a 
 paper addressed to you by my cousin, Celestina. I know 
 that you are not a Venetian trader, neither Don Augo de 
 Cardona, but Rogero, Prince of Salerno ; and that your 
 state is disputed at law, it being supposed at Naples that you 
 are drowned. Now, since I have treated you openly, treat 
 me the same, and tell me whether this be or be not true.” 
 
 Beatrice had sent privately to Naples, on purpose to learn 
 every thing concerning the Prince, and, if possible to gain 
 a likeness of him, which she had obtained, and thus dis- 
 covered him. The pretended Philip, now Rogero, could 
 not deny the truth of her assertion, and therefore confessed 
 himself to be the prince of Salerno. She then wished to 
 know the reason of his quitting Naples, and, willing to give 
 her a full account of himself, he sat down beside her, and 
 thus began his narration : — 
 
 “ I was one of the attendants on Ernest, King of Naples, 
 who was so attached to me, that I soon became the reposi- 
 tory of all his secrets ; and among others, that he was in 
 love with the Princess of Obitella, the most handsome 
 woman in the kingdom ; I wished he had not made me a 
 confidant, either in this or any other amour, as I was gene- 
 rally obliged to attend him to his lady’s every night, much 
 to the dissatisfaction of the queen, his mother. 
 
 “ This princess of Obitella was, as I have already said, the 
 most lovely and most accomplished woman in Naples, and as 
 her rank was exalted, she had even princes in her train. This 
 lady the king ordered me to visit in his name, to tell her of his 
 love, and to request her to allow him to visit her some night. 
 Cassandra, for that was the princess’s name, received me 
 with affability, heard my message, and then gave me her 
 answer, in the following words: — 
 
232 
 
 THE RIVAL COUSINS, 
 
 “ * Had the message, Senor Rogero, been from yourself 
 instead of from the king, I should have been better pleased 
 with it ; I should then have known it honoured me ; for I 
 should be prouder of a prince who wooed me for his wife, 
 than of a king who wooed me for his mistress — so much for 
 my opinion. Now tell his highness, in my own words, 
 though I fear you will not repeat them, that I am of his 
 own blood, and daughter to one of the bravest soldiers who 
 ever protected the throne of Naples against its powerful 
 enemies. My father died serving his country, and hoped 
 not for such a reward for his noble services as, by me, his 
 highness seems to intend. Tell him to look out for one 
 better suited to his purpose, among the Neapolitan beauties. 
 I abhor him for an intention so disgraceful to a just king.’ 
 
 “ In vain I endeavoured to speak ; she would hear 
 nothing ; but, as I left her, added : — 
 
 “ ‘ Senor Rogero, all intercessions for the king will be 
 useless ; come alone, and you will always be a welcome 
 guest in this house, for you will be preferred to all those 
 who now wish, but cannot gain, my favour.’ 
 
 “ I thanked her for the honour she did me, and said that 
 I should profit by it ; but as the king was wholly bent on 
 gaining her love, I should not dare to repeat to him what 
 she had said, 
 
 “ * Do not lead the king into an error,’ she exclaimed, 
 ‘let him know that I despise his proposal ; and, above all, 
 be assured that he shall never hinder me from shewing 
 favour to whomsoever I like.’ 
 
 “ She then left me, and I returned to the king, much 
 vexed at the ill success of my embassy. I repeated Cas- 
 sandra’s message to him, without, however, mentioning what 
 she had said concerning myself. He was much hurt at this 
 repulse, which served only to inflame his passion ; and from 
 
A SICILIAN STORY. 
 
 233 
 
 that day he began to pay her every sort of public attention, 
 — serenading her by night and feasting her by day. He 
 also visited her several times accompanied by me ; but she 
 always treated him with coldness, while her eyes told me 
 she wished I could love her. I pretended not to understand 
 her, dreading the king’s displeasure; but Cassandra, not 
 confining herself to the language of the eyes, sent me notes 
 at different times, inviting me to call on her ; and not find- 
 ing that corresponding affection which she hoped for in me, 
 she began to suspect I had some more favoured mistress in 
 Naples, who was the cause of my coldness. 
 
 “ It pleased the king at this time to make me champion at 
 a tournament, which he ordered in honour of Cassandra. I 
 had prepared every thing against the appointed day, when, 
 on the preceding one, I received an embroidered scarf and 
 relic-case from Cassandra ; in the latter I found her picture, 
 attached to one of my own, which she had by some means 
 or other got possession of. I could not but be grateful for 
 this mark of favour ; but while I was arming, I found I had 
 left it at home, and sent the Count Alfred (who was my 
 assistant) for it. Curiosity led him, as he was bringing it, 
 to open the relic-case, when, to his great surprise, he saw 
 the pictures. 
 
 “ The count, as well as myself, was an attendant on the 
 king, and had long been jealous of the superior favour 
 shewn me ; desirous, therefore, to make use of this oppor- 
 tunity of injuring me, he related to the king, after the joust- 
 ing was over, all that he had seen, and the favour which he 
 was led by the picture to suppose I enjoyed with the Prin- 
 cess Obitella. The king, though enraged to find that the 
 little attention he met with was owing to an affection she 
 cherished for me, yet concealed his vexation, and asked the 
 count, if possible, to gain him a sight of the relic-case, 
 x 2 
 
234 
 
 THE RIVAL COUSINS, 
 
 Alfred, aided in doing this by my sleeping at the palace, 
 soon found an opportunity of stealing it from the head of my 
 bed, and thus shewed to the king what, before any thing in 
 the world, T could have wished to have kept from him. 
 
 “ The relic-case was returned to its place without my 
 suspecting what had been done ; but one day, soon after- 
 wards, when I was alone with the king, he told me suddenly, 
 that he found the cause of Cassandra’s coldness to him was, 
 that I was her suitor, and that he had learned she gave me 
 presents of her work ; and then proceeded to inform me 
 about the relic-case. 
 
 “ ‘ My lord,’ I replied, with as much coolness as I could, 
 * your highness thinks I am to blame, but were you ac- 
 quainted with half what I have done to serve you, you 
 would feel that I rather merited praise.’ 
 
 I then related to him every thing that had passed betwixt 
 Cassandra and myself — shewed him the relic-case, and to 
 satisfy him wholly as to the truth of what I had asserted, 
 offered to set out that night for Sicily. 
 
 “ The king desirous for the sake of his own love, that I 
 should absent myself from Naples, was greatly pleased at 
 my proposal, although he wished me to remain with him, on 
 account of the real friendship he bore me ; he consequently 
 did not give me permission to go, but desired me merely to 
 remain at my own house. This, however, I did not choose 
 to do, as it would have looked like guilt ; therefore, fitting 
 out a galley, I embarked with all my retinue, for Sicily, 
 where we were encountered by that dreadful storm which 
 wrecked us, but where, by the favour of God, I reached 
 land, and found protection and assistance from you.” 
 
 Rogero here finished his narrative, through which he had 
 been followed by Beatrice with the most profound attention 
 and the deepest interest; and, in fine, the conclusion the lovers 
 
A SICILIAN STORY. 
 
 235 
 
 drew, was, that they ought certainly to continue their affection 
 for each other, till, by informing the duke, her father, of every 
 thing, they might at length be united. Before they could 
 do this, however, a discovery was effected in another 
 manner; for the king of Sicily received a letter from 
 Rogero’s sovereign, inquiring whether the Prince of Salerno’s 
 galley had been wrecked on the Sicilian coast, as a new 
 report had lately been raised that he was saved. A Nea- 
 politan gentleman, who had brought the letter, arrived the 
 night before the tournament, and by the description of him 
 found that the prince of Salerno was concealed in the Duke 
 of Calabria’s family, under the disguise of an attendant. 
 These tidings were carried to the king after the tournament, 
 when he immediately ordered Rogero to be conducted to his 
 presence. 
 
 “ What induced you, Rogero,” said he “ to conceal 
 yourself thus in my country?” 
 
 Rogero, confused by this sudden question, replied that 
 he had quitted Naples in disgrace, and therefore wished to 
 remain unknown. The king then expressed a wish to know 
 what had caused him to leave Naples, to which Rogero 
 replied, “Nothing except that he admired Sicily;” and 
 thinking this a good opportunity to prefer his petition, thus 
 continued, “ that he wished nothing so much as to remain 
 his subject, and an inhabitant of Sicily, as well as to gain 
 his permission to wed the lovely Beatrice, daughter to the 
 Duke of Calabria, as he was happy enough to possess her 
 affection.” 
 
 The king was both surprised and amused to find he had 
 made such good use of his short stay, and promised to use 
 his interest in their favour with her father, as well as with 
 the Duke of Terranova ; but if Beatrice loved another, she her- 
 self was to decide. Being assured by Rogero, that Beatrice 
 
236 
 
 AFFECTING RECOGNITION. 
 
 preferred him to her cousin, the king sent for the Duke of 
 Calabria, and related to him what had passed, soon per- 
 suading him to give his consent to the union. 
 
 The Duke of Terranova was so much offended at this 
 arrangement, that Rogero, to appease him, offered him the 
 hand of his cousin, the Princess of Conca, which he ac- 
 cepted, and the bridals were celebrated together with the 
 greatest magnificence and joy. 
 
 AFFECTING RECOGNITION. 
 
 A few years ago, in working to establish a new communi- 
 cation between two shafts of a mine at Fahkin, the capitol 
 of Delecarlia, the body of a miner was discovered in a state 
 of perfect preservation, and impregnated with vitriolic water. 
 It was quite soft, but hardened on being exposed to the air. 
 No one could identify the body; it was merely remembered 
 that the accident by which he had thus been buried in the 
 bosom of the earth, had taken place above fifty years ago. 
 All enquiries about the name of the sufferer had already 
 ceased, when a decrepid old woman, supported on crutches, 
 slowly advanced towards the corpse, and knew it to be 
 that of a young man to whom she had been promised in 
 marriage more than half a century ago. She threw herself 
 on the corpse, which had all the appearance of a bronze 
 statue, bathed it with her tears, and fainted with joy at 
 having once more beheld the object of her early affections. 
 It is easier to conceive than trace the singular contrast af- 
 forded by that couple ; the one buried above fifty years, 
 still retaining the appearance of youth ; while the other, 
 weighed down by age, evinced all the fervency of youth- 
 ful love. 
 
237 
 
 A “ DINER SUR L’HERBE.” 
 
 By W. M. TARTT, Esq. 
 
 No one will suppose that the French, by a diner sur Vherbe, 
 mean a dinner after the manner of Nebuchadnezzar. Indeed 
 if the sentence had not been rather long, and somewhat 
 difficult to English pronunciation, it is probable we should 
 ourselves have adopted the same term ; as the word picnic — 
 which has been admitted to the rights of naturalization in its 
 stead — is certainly not so descriptive of the amusements it is 
 applied to, — those rural excursions, for instance, generally 
 anticipated with delight, and almost always ending in fatigue 
 and disappointment. On the other side of the Atlantic, they 
 are called marooning parties, and I recollect joining one of 
 these which was to be celebrated on a small island, un- 
 inhabited, at that time, except by the few soldiers who 
 garrisoned its fort. I shall not soon forget the intense and 
 oven-like heat reflected from the walls of this fort as we 
 toiled past it — nor the sudden desertion of cold hams, 
 turkeys, and porter, when one of the negroes came to tell 
 us there were rattle-snakes in the myrtle bushes that formed 
 the immediate rear of our encampment. After satisfying 
 ourselves that a bad dinner here was not equal to a good 
 one at the Planter’s Hotel, we embarked on our return, the 
 bile engendered by the heat and other excitements evapo- 
 rating in a quarrel that ended according to the most ap- 
 proved principles of modern chivalry : Mr. A. apologizing 
 
238 
 
 DINER SUR L’lIEllBE. 
 
 to Mr. B. for having given him the lie, and Mr. B. begging 
 Mr. A.’s pardon in return for having horsewhipt him. All 
 this, however, is foreign to my present subject. 
 
 In the summer of 1829, I was resting upon the brow of 
 the hill of Montmorency, enjoying the magnificent extent of 
 country which seems bounded by the beautiful dome of the 
 Invalids, (the only part of Paris visible from thence) when 
 I was roused from my reverie by the rumbling of a Berline, 
 on the box of which sat an acquaintance whom I had for- 
 merly known in London as a student of the Middle Temple, 
 and as a visitor at the houses of most of the families with 
 whom I had myself been intimate. As he apprised me by a 
 theatrical i( aside ” that the party he was with would be 
 genee by any detention, I had only time to tell him I was 
 living at one of the villages in the valley, and to request him 
 to dine with me the next day. He came ; and at the close 
 of one of those pauses in the conversation over our dessert, 
 (which was caused, perhaps, by the very circumstance of 
 my having so many questions to ask him about our former 
 acquaintance, that they actually drove each other from my 
 recollection) an inquiry as to the mode in which he was 
 living at Paris produced the following narrative of the ex- 
 cursion I had found him engaged in the day before. 
 
 “ I did not come to Paris,” said he, “ merely to visit the 
 Palais Royal and the Morgue : one of my principal objects 
 was to overcome the difficulties of that confounded language 
 which, as Alfieri says, it is often impossible even to pro- 
 nounce except with labbrucci contratti che paiono sempre 
 soffiare sulla minestra bollente. With this view I went to 
 reside, en pension, with a French family in the Rue de la 
 Paix, having been assured that madame la mere was bien 
 instruite and her daughter tres-aimuble ; but 1 found that so 
 many had gone there with the same intentions as myself 
 
DINER SUR L’HERBE. 
 
 239 
 
 that, except the servants — who waited upon us in liveries of 
 white and silver that had passed from back to back through 
 a rapid succession of changes — none but Madame herself 
 spoke French ; and her maison comme il faut, as she was on 
 all occasions pleased to term it, was now like many others of 
 the same description, little more than an asylum for decayed 
 widows and desperate old maids. It is true that in an even- 
 ing des Messieurs de la garde du corps were sometimes at- 
 tracted by reports of English fortunes, but as they came 
 with other objects in view than to listen to my bad French, 
 I very soon found it necessary to change my plan of attack 
 by changing the scene of my operations. 
 
 “My next residence was with a widow on the opposite 
 banks of the Seine, who has no other inmates than her own 
 son and daughter, the nephew and niece of an Abbe who 
 is aumonier (the chaplain or confessor) to a regiment of 
 dragoons ; and here, if nature had not denied me the neces- 
 sary organs, I should certainly make some progress in the 
 attainment of my object. I am as one of the family, the 
 companion of their promenades, one of their cavaliers at the 
 theatre, a guest at the soirees of their friends, and so far from 
 the usual quarters of the English that, except in public, I 
 scarcely hear the language. Yesterday was the Abbe’s 
 birth-day, and it was kept as a fete de famille. Nothing 
 else had been talked of for a week before. We were to 
 commit the extravagance of hiring a carriage for a day ; a 
 grand pdte de volaille had been ordered as part of our eat- 
 ables : the Abbe, though he considered it somewhat deroga- 
 tory to his dignity to be seen on such an expedition, was to 
 accompany us with two additional nieces ; as a pretext, we 
 were to hear military mass performed before his regiment as 
 we passed through St. Denis where it is stationed ; and were 
 to dine sur Vherbe in the forest of Montmorency : — the pro - 
 
240 
 
 DINER Sim L’HERBE. 
 
 gramme of our entertainment was delightful. Morning came 
 without a cloud \ the Abbe was gay ; his nephews and 
 nieces were in exuberant spirits ; our dashing equipage was 
 at the door only half an hour later than the time appointed, 
 and off we set, at a pace as brisk, but as soon exhausted, as 
 the effervescence of a glass of champagne. “ Quel beau 
 terns! — Comme nous sommes heureux ! — 0 mats votre chapeau 
 est joli! et cette boucle , comme eile est gentille !” with fifty 
 other of those no-meanings that come so prettily from the 
 lips of a French-woman, were ejaculated between every 
 jolt over the pavement that forms the agreeable road from 
 Paris to St. Denis. But our pace began to slacken and our 
 spirits to subside ; the Abbe became fidgetty, looked first to 
 his watch, then at the spire of the Cathedral, and when we 
 drew up to the door we found that mass was finished and 
 the people dispersing. His reverence would have sworn if 
 he durst, and was only consoled by being able to drive off 
 so as not to be seen by his flock. Though this disappoint- 
 ment soured his temper, and bad temper is one of the most 
 infectious diseases extant, it was not sufficient to damp the 
 spirits of six young people who were determined to be 
 amused. On we went, and faint and wearily our steeds 
 dragged us, at last, up the steep hill that leads to the market 
 place of Montmorency. Here we were to leave our carri- 
 age, and proceed on ponies and donkies to the forest. The 
 Abbe, being a timid rider, preferred the latter ; and giving 
 our commissariat in charge to the purveyor of our cavalry, 
 we set out, followed by a troop of idle boys ; as goodly a 
 cavalcade as ever woke the echoes of those romantic shades. 
 All went on well till we arrived at the fountain, where a line 
 was formed as usual by the weird sisters who guard it, and 
 who levy contributions upon the passenger, upon pretence 
 of offering a bucket of water to the poor animal that carries 
 
DINER SUR L’HERBE. 
 
 241 
 
 him. Now whether it happened that the Abbe's ass was 
 that day afflicted by hydrophobia, or whether he was alarmed 
 at the laide figure of the nymph of the fountain, or whether 
 (for, as Sterne says, with a man of lively imagination there 
 is no end of suppositions in these cases) some of the idle 
 boys who followed us had played him a trick, it so fell out 
 that he took to kicking with an activity that in so dull a 
 beast was perfectly marvellous ; and the Abbe being, as 1 
 before told you, a timid rider, and a timid rider being but 
 another word for a very bad rider, he was speedily flung 
 upon his back in a part of the road which, from its vicinity 
 to the fountain, is always a puddle even in the middle of 
 summer. He was soon replaced upon his feet, uninjured 
 except in his garments ; but an angel’s tongue could not 
 have persuaded him to remount. Like the Apollo of the 
 Rejected Addresses he seemed to think u one tumble enough ” 
 and persisted in walking to our place of rendezvous. There 
 was no alternative ; we left him to plod his weary way, and 
 after threading the mazes of the forest in almost every direc- 
 tion, we still arrived at the lieu du sacrifice long before him. 
 As we all liked the old man, it was proposed to leave the 
 eatables under the grand chataignier, and go in search of 
 him. Eut it was a foolish attempt in a labyrinth like the 
 forest of Montmorency ; and after more than half an hour’s 
 walk we found him on our return, wild with hunger and red 
 with anger, at the place appointed. Then was spread our 
 table cloth ; and on its centre was placed the superb pate de 
 volaille. And who shall picture our amazement at its con- 
 tents 1 for ‘when the pie was opened,’ in place of the beau- 
 tiful white breasts of sundry pullets, a black and moving 
 mass met our astonished sight. During our absence a colony 
 of what the naturalists call * that ingenious and provident little 
 animal the Ant’ had established themselves amongst the fowls, 
 
242 
 
 inNER SUR L’lIERBE, 
 
 and made them ‘ foul indeed — even the crust was incrusted 
 with them ; and as they were too numerous to be cleared off, 
 and we had little inclination to feed either upon them or the 
 places on which they had located themselves, the pate de 
 volaille , the very prop and foundation of our dinner, the 
 spring, the head, the fountain of our feast, was altogether 
 abandoned to them. From a jour gras it became a. jour 
 maigre : we took a sparing meal from the few things that 
 remained, and promised ourselves to make amends on our 
 return to Montmorency. It was one of the days of its 
 annual fete, and the dancers had already assembled under 
 the trees that overshadow the road to Rousseau’s hermitage. 
 The music led us near one of the orchestras, where its leader 
 was beating time with both his feet as earnestly as though 
 the fate of nations depended upon a false note : our vexa- 
 tions and disappointments were forgotten ; the young ladies 
 looked wistfully at the dance — the Abbe looked gloomily on 
 the ground ; they ventured to ask his permission, he refused ; 
 they repeated their request — he walked away ; and told us 
 to join him at the carriage. We were now determined to 
 enjoy ourselves, but had scarcely taken our places in the 
 quadrille, when a person came to tell me the Abbe wished 
 to see us in the road below. We conducted our partners to 
 their seats, and then found him surrounded by strangers, ex- 
 hausted, enraged, and heaping imprecations upon his own 
 folly in having ever consented to such an expedition. 
 
 “ It appeared that he had scarcely left us when he was 
 recognized by some of the boys who had formed the rear of 
 our cavalcade. Their salutation was not the most respect- 
 ful : the Abbe angrily resented it : the boys shouted : he 
 made a hostile demonstration : they retreated — then rallied, 
 and their cries of ci has monsieur V Abbe ! a bas le jesuite! 
 being accompanied by a shower of stones, he was in his 
 turn put to flight, and ignominiously pursued till he was 
 
DINER SUR L’HERBE. 
 
 *45 
 
 rescued by the worthy people in whose care we found him. 
 There was now no alternative but to seek the young ladies and 
 return home. They had been accosted in our absence by 
 two butchers, who, in the very costume of their trade, their 
 shirt sleeves rolled up to their shoulders, had solicited 
 them to dance ; but not thinking it meet to do so, they had 
 been laughed at, and were now as anxious as the Abbe 
 himself to depart. In a few minutes we were on our return 
 to Paris. The heat was intense; and we all complained 
 bitterly of thirst : but the Abbe was inexorable, and it ap- 
 peared hopeless to stay him on his route. When we arrived 
 at St. Denis, however, one of the young ladies was so near 
 fainting, and the whole of the insides were in such a state 
 of suffocation, that he was obliged to consent to a glass of 
 lemonade, and our cocker drew up at the door of a cafe. 
 No place could have been more unhappily chosen. We 
 soon found that the tables near the windows were filled with 
 soldiers; and, what was still worse, we also found that we 
 were perceived by them , and that most of them were offi- 
 cers who formed part of the flock of wolves of which our 
 unfortunate Abbe was the pastor. Voila , monsieur notre 
 aumonier ! Ha, ha, ha! ma foi, mais ces flies sent jollies! 
 Bonjour monsieur VAbbe! et votre sante 'l — His anger and 
 vexation were now at such a pitch that I expected, like the 
 boiler of a high pressure steam engine, he would have 
 gone off' himself and torn every thing around him into 
 pieces. His nephew insisted upon getting out of the car- 
 riage to chastise the polissons who had insulted us ; the Abbe 
 held him back; the ladies screamed; the passengers who 
 were waiting for the departure of a velocifere gathered round 
 us; I called loudly to the cocker to drive on; and once 
 more passing the odoriferous faubourg of St. Denis, we thus 
 finished the happy day we had devoted to a diner sur 
 Vherbe in the forest of Montmorency.” 
 
244 
 
 A MODEST DEFENCE 
 
 OF 
 
 PORTRAIT PAINTING, 
 
 By HARTLEY COLERIDGE. 
 
 Hogarth, in his Frontispiece to the Artists’ Catalogue, 1761, 
 has committed a very whimsical bit of allegorical testiness. 
 From a lion’s head, surmounted by a bust of king George 
 the Third, there issues a stream of water, (meant to in- 
 dicate the royal bounty) which flows into a watering pot — 
 nothing more nor less; from which watering pot a pretty, 
 plump, neat looking grisette, (such as we may see similarly 
 employed in the suburban garden-plots, that indicate the 
 inextinguishable love of nature of the cockneys) is watering 
 three intertwining shrubs; one leafy and flourishing — the 
 others bare, stunted, and moribund. Now the pretty 
 damsel, whose robes succinct are tucked up in a way that 
 shews she is used to dirty streets, we are to call Britannia ; 
 and the three plants, on which she is pouring the fluid 
 favours of Majesty, are inscribed, Painting, Sculpture, and 
 Architecture : the last is in good condition, but Painting 
 looks as miserable as Wordsworth’s thorn — all except one 
 single branch, which has withdrawn the sap and sustenance 
 from its parent stem, and starved its brother branches; each 
 of which is higher than itself. This monopolizing bough is 
 Portrait Painting 
 
A MODEST DEFENCE QF, Sec. 
 
 245 
 
 Hogarth was an awkward flatterer, and seldom succeeded 
 in allegory ; but his satire is often misapplied, and hardly 
 ever feeble. In this instance however, his shaft may be 
 fairly described as “ imbelle sine ictu.” He seems to have 
 fallen into a common error — that the patronage of portrait 
 starves the higher, and more inventive branches of art. A 
 notion sufficiently confuted by the fact, that Titian was a 
 portrait painter. In truth it was the desire to preserve the 
 lineaments of eminent individuals that first brought painting 
 to Britain. The value we set on our friends’ faces and our 
 own, enables artists to live, while they are acquiring the 
 skill to execute their poetic conceptions. And to suppose 
 that the taste for individual likenesses produced an insensi- 
 bility to general beauty, is as absurd, as to ascribe to the 
 annuals and other periodical publications, the lack of pro- 
 found erudition in our modern literature. 
 
 Yet many are there at this day, malcontents in art, and 
 sons of Zoilus in criticism, who decry portraiture as a w r en, 
 a fungus, a parasitical sucker, a pampered menial, a slave, 
 that has usurped dominion over its master ; as a poor, 
 base, sordid, mechanical, bowing, cringing, interest-making, 
 money-getting handicraft ! Aye, money-getting ! — There’s the 
 rub! 
 
 Let us hear the the testimony of Johnson, who, in matters 
 that came home to the business and bosoms of men, was 
 seldom wrong; and only erred, when comprehensive imagi- 
 nation, and subtle philosophy were required. Hence he 
 was one of the best critics of manners, and worst of poetry, 
 that ever existed. “ Genius is chiefly exerted in historical 
 pictures; and the art of the painter of portraits is often lost 
 in the obscurity of the subject. But it is in painting as it is 
 in life — what is greatest is not always best. I should grieve 
 to see Reynolds transfer to Heroes and Goddesses, to empty 
 y 2 
 
246 
 
 A MODEST DEFENCE OF 
 
 splendour and to airy fiction, that art, which is now em- 
 ployed in diffusing friendship, in renewing tenderness, in 
 quickening the affections of the absent, and continuing the 
 presence of the dead. Every man is always present to him- 
 self, and has therefore, little need of his own resemblance ; 
 nor can desire it but for the sake of those he loves, and by 
 whom he hopes to be remembered. This use of the art is a 
 rational and reasonable consequence of affection ; and 
 though, like all other human actions, it is often complicated 
 with pride, yet even such pride is more laudable than that 
 by which palaces are covered with pictures that, however 
 excellent, neither imply the owner’s virtue nor excite it.” 
 But is it true that the portrait is a work of mere mechanic 
 dexterity, in which the hand and the eye alone are em- 
 ployed; and all that constitutes the man in man, is out of 
 office? A portrait may be produced mechanically, as an 
 air may be composed — by rule, and rote, and memory; but 
 it may safely be assumed that a good portrait cannot be 
 painted, without some of the best talents of the poet and of 
 the philosopher. It does not indeed demand the fancy, 
 the invention, the constructiveness, that enter into the com- 
 position of an epic, a tragic, or a comic picture, but these 
 are faculties which many poets of no trivial name, have 
 either not possessed, or never exerted. But if it be a func- 
 tion of philosophy to discover, amid the ceaseless flux of 
 phenomena, the permanent, the essential, the ideal — to 
 form abstractions which are not mere words, but the bonds 
 and regulations of true knowledge ; if it be the business of 
 a shaping imagination, to invest such abstractions with an 
 appropriate body, and congruous circumstances; to bestow 
 a vital unity, organized in coherent members — if to arrest a 
 moment, and make it an adequate symbol of a total being, 
 be the more peculiar constituent of pictorial genius, then 
 
PORTRAIT PAINTING. 
 
 247 
 
 we say, that the man who delineates a satisfactory likeness, 
 even of an undistinguished child of earth, proves that he 
 has evoked and educated the finest powers of his intellect. 
 
 Perhaps these positions require to be applied and illus- 
 trated, in order to be intelligible. It must be observed, that, 
 to draw the living person, even with technical accuracy, is 
 a very different thing from copying a picture, which may 
 be done by rule and measurement. In the picture, not 
 only is all that belongs to proportion and perspective 
 ready made, but the aspect is unchangeable; the copyist 
 may work and look again ; and inquire of his model, and 
 receive the same invariable faithful answer. But copying 
 will go but a very little way with a human countenance. 
 There a novice might look and look, and be so far from 
 getting his lesson by heart, that he will find each previous 
 impression impaired and modified by the succeeding. He 
 will not be able to note down one feature in just keeping; 
 and will probably, throw the blame on the restlessness of 
 the sitter : and at last either produce a plan instead of a 
 portrait, or such an anarchy of lineaments as it would have 
 puzzled Munden to realize. The fact is, that the represen- 
 tative image, the impression on the brain, which corresponds 
 with each person of our acquaintance, is abstracted from 
 many continuous or successive acts of vision; and may 
 probably, be different in different individuals, according to 
 the perfection of their organs. But as the substratum to 
 these uncertain representatives, there must be an intelligible 
 and therefore, communicable form ; which the portrait 
 painter transfers to the canvass. He will paint you — not 
 as you do look at this or that particular time, — but as you 
 must, and ought to look to answer the best possible idea of 
 yourself. This is what Vandyke, Lely, Reynolds, and 
 
248 
 
 A MODEST DEFENCE OF, &c. 
 
 Lawrence have done, for the great and the fair of their 
 respective ages. 
 
 Much is said about the vanity of plain-looking, insignifi- 
 cant people, sitting for their pictures, as if forsooth, any 
 body was insignificant by his own fire-side; or as if we 
 would have no affection for our friends’ visages or our own, 
 without fancying them handsome. Or suppose we did, it 
 is one of the most harmless of mortal errors. Imaginary 
 beauty breeds far kindlier feelings than conscious ugliness. 
 It were well if all could believe themselves comely, till they 
 are content to be otherwise. But the philosopher — the 
 feeling investigator of human nature, who loves his species 
 as the children of his Almighty Parent, and therefore thinks 
 all that belongs to man important and interesting, will form 
 a very different opinion. He will not despise the meanest 
 sketch, profile or outline, that presents a human face; he 
 will smile benignantly at the veriest daub that ever stared 
 from the smoky walls of a club room — if it represent an 
 honest man ; for he cannot but know that there are, or have 
 been, some of his fellow-creatures to whom it was dear. 
 Were the Jus Imaginum limited, as at Home to the great 
 and noble, not only would many worthy citizens, limners, 
 oilmen, colourmen, dealers in canvass, &c. be deprived of 
 their bread, but a vast store of innocent pleasure would be 
 lost to good people ; and what is worse, our hearts would 
 miss many profitable hints and salutary influences. We are 
 all too apt to forget the absent and the dead, and yet, did 
 we keep them in our thoughts, from how much evil would 
 they preserve us ! How many things should we do — how 
 many should we leave undone, if but once a day, for one 
 short quiet space, a departed mother, a friend, a sister, that 
 is far away, in silent visitation communed with our souls. 
 Who, that bears his true love’s token in his bosom, even 
 
ORPHAN PROTECTOR. 
 
 249 
 
 in a foreign land, would break his plighted faith'! Who, 
 with a father’s picture looking from his walls, would disobey 
 that father’s parting charge? Could he, who has changed 
 bibles with his sweetheart ever be an infidel. 
 
 Hence the value of all art, all means and instruments 
 that made the absent present — constructing in sense itself 
 a counterbalance to the despotism of sense : as letters, 
 keepsakes, crooked sixpences, bibles mutually given and 
 received, braided locks of hair, busts, portraits and epitaphs. 
 
 Winter’s Wreath. 
 
 ORPHAN PROTECTOR. 
 
 M. S , a gentleman attached to the court of France, 
 
 lost a very intimate friend, who, in dying, left his debts, and 
 two children of a tender age, quite unprovided for. His 
 friend, who survived, immediately reduced his establish- 
 ment and his equipage, and took apartments in the suburbs 
 of Paris; whence he came every day to the palace, at- 
 tended only by a footboy, and discharged the duties of his 
 office. He was immediately suspected of avarice, or of 
 bad conduct, and had to endure many calumnies. At 
 length, at the end of two years, M. S. mixed again in the 
 busy world. He had accumulated the sum of twenty 
 thousand livres, which he had laid out for the support and 
 future fortune of the children of his friend. 
 
250 
 
 THE MORDAUNTS, 
 
 A TRUE STORY OF FIFTY YEARS SINCE, 
 
 BY MISS M1TFORD. 
 
 Above half a century ago — for to such a date does my little 
 story refer — Red Lion Square was accounted a genteel, if 
 not a fashionable, place of residence, and numbered amongst 
 its inhabitants some of the principal London attorneys — soli- 
 citor was not the phrase in those days — to whom its vicinity 
 to the inns of court rendered that neighbourhood particularly 
 convenient. Amongst the most respectable of these respect- 
 able persons was Mr. Mordaunt, a widower with five chil- 
 dren, whose mingled strength and kindliness of character 
 rendered him the very man to educate and bring out his 
 motherless family ; just as the union of acuteness and in- 
 tegrity, for which he was distinguished in his professional 
 life, had placed him deservedly at the head of one of the 
 most flourishing firms in the metropolis. He was not rich, 
 for he had begun the world with nothing but industry and 
 talent, had married a lady in the same predicament with 
 himself, and had preferred giving his children the unalienable 
 possession of an excellent education to the accumulation of 
 money for their immediate portions ; but, in the prime of life 
 with an excellent income and still brighter prospects, he 
 lived as became a man of liberal habits and elegant tastes ; 
 and generous, both from temper and principle, refused no 
 indulgence to his family, except such as appeared to him 
 
A STORY OF FIFTY YEARS SINCE. 
 
 251 
 
 inconsistent with their station, or with that wise and liberal 
 economy which is as essential, perhaps even more so, to the 
 affluent as to the poor. 
 
 The young people were all of high promise. The eldest, 
 Charles, a youth of extraordinary ability, bringing up to the 
 bar, was on the point of leaving Oxford, where he had dis- 
 tinguished himself greatly, and had recently been entered at 
 the Temple. George, the second son, was in his father’s 
 office : and of the three daughters, Catherine, the elder, a 
 girl of eighteen, was eminently pretty ; Sarah, two years 
 younger, and less handsome, had something of her brother 
 Charles’s talent ; and little Barbara, the pet and plaything 
 of the whole house, was that charming creature — a lively 
 and good-humoured spoilt child. 
 
 One evening, in the beginning of July, this amiable family 
 were assembled in their pretty drawing-room, fresh hung with 
 India paper, where gorgeous birds were perched amongst 
 gorgeous flowers, and Chinese processions, gorgeous and im- 
 moveable as the birds, stuck amidst gay pagodas and gilded 
 temples — a bright but unmeaning pageant. The furniture 
 consisted of French chairs and settees covered with blue 
 damask, at once handsome and uncomfortable, with window 
 curtains to match ; a japan cabinet; a mahogany bureau, of 
 which the top formed a small bookcase with glass doors ; a 
 harpsichord — for pianos were not yet in use ; two large 
 looking-glasses between the windows, and marble tables 
 with gilt legs underneath them ; a Pembroke table in the 
 middle of the room, and a large fire-screen, with a stu- 
 pendous bunch of flowers in embroidery, the elaborate work 
 of the fair Catherine, in one corner. 
 
 Mr. Mordaunt was writing a letter at one table ; his eldest 
 daughter working, or, to use her brother’s phrase, flourishing, 
 an apron at another ; the young men were lounging at the 
 
252 
 
 TIIE MORDAUNTS, 
 
 windows ; and Bab (for the dignity of that aristocratic name 
 so often seen in the peerage, and so seldom elsewhere, was 
 in this young lady’s case sadly pretermitted — the very house- 
 maid who dressed her called her Miss Bab) was playing 
 with her doll on the floor. 
 
 Sarah’s employment was different from the rest. She was 
 standing at the harpsichord, busjed in arranging, in China 
 vases, a quantity of flowers with which it was strewed, and 
 which had just arrived from a small country house, which 
 Mr. Mordaunt called his farm, on Enfield Chase. With 
 intuitive taste Sarah had put the honeysuckles, so pretty by 
 themselves and which mix so ill with gayer flowers, in a 
 large jar on the centre of the mantle-piece, flanking it with 
 a smaller pot filled with white Provence roses — so elegant 
 and delicate amongst their own green leaves — on one side, 
 and one of that rose called the maiden’s blush on the other ; 
 whilst the rest of the old-fashioned beau-pot, pinks, lilies, 
 larkspurs, sweet-williams, and sweet-peas, she gathered 
 together in a large China bowl, and deposited on the 
 harpsichord between a pile of music-books and a guitar- 
 case. 
 
 “ How I wish these flowers had arrived before poor Mrs. 
 Sullivan went away !” exclaimed Sarah, after standing before 
 them for some minutes to survey and admire her own handy 
 work. “ She seemed so out of spirits — poor woman ! — and 
 some of these beautiful flowers would have comforted her 
 and done her good ; at least,” added she, seeing her elder 
 brother smile and shake his head, “ I am sure they would 
 always have cheered me, let me be as melancholy as I 
 might ; and she is as fond of them as I am, and was always 
 used to them in her father’s fine garden.” 
 
 “ Kindness must always do good under any form, my dear 
 S *ah.” observed her father, looking up from his letter ; 
 
A STORY OF FIFTY YEARS SINCE. 
 
 253 
 
 “ but I fear that poor Mrs. Sullivan’s depression is too 
 deeply seated to be touched by your pretty remedy, and that 
 any thing which reminds her of her father’s house is more 
 likely to increase than to remove her dejection.” 
 
 “Mr. Darrell, then, continues implacable V\ enquired 
 Charles, with much interest. 
 
 “ Yes,” replied Mr. Mordaunt, “ and I fear will remain 
 so. I am writing to him now in his daughter’s behalf, but I 
 have no hope from the result. He sent for my partner 
 yesterday to make his will, evidently to avoid my importunity 
 in favour of these poor Sullivans. Her elopement was a 
 most foolish act — a wrong, a foolish act ; but ten years of 
 penitence and suffering might have softened my old friend 
 towards his only child, and one who, spoilt by his indulgence 
 and her own position in society — a beauty and an heiress — 
 can so ill support the penury and neglect under which she 
 now languishes.” 
 
 “Was she beautiful!” asked Catherine: “I see no 
 remains of former loveliness.” 
 
 “ She is much changed,” answered Charles ; “ but even I 
 can remember her a most splendid woman. She had the 
 presence and air of a queen, or rather of a young lady’s 
 notion of a queen. Fancy a stately and magnificent crea- 
 ture, with high features ; a dark, clear, colourless com- 
 plexion ; a proud, curling lip • large black eyes — some- 
 times soft and languishing, but which could light up with a 
 fire as bright as the glow of a furnace ; a broad, smooth 
 forehead ; a dark, flexible brow ; and a smile exquisitely 
 sweet, and you will have some idea of Sophia Darrel before 
 her imprudent and unfortunate marriage. Poverty and her 
 father’s displeasure have wrought this change, and perhaps 
 her husband’s death.” 
 
 “ Chiefly want of money,” observed Mr. Mordaunt, sealing 
 z 
 
254 
 
 THE MORDAUNTS. 
 
 and directing his letter. “ She had pretty well got over the 
 loss of Captain Sullivan. Want of money is the pressing 
 evil.” 
 
 “ I wish I were as rich as Mr. Darrell !” cried Sarah ; 
 and then she blushed and stopped, adding, in a hesitating 
 voice, “ what a pity it is that good wishes can do no real 
 good !” 
 
 “ Except to the wisher, Sarah,” replied her father : “ the 
 slightest emotion of disinterested kindness that passes through 
 the mind improves and refreshes that mind, producing gene- 
 rous thought and noble feeling, as the sun and rain foster 
 your favourite flowers. Cherish kind wishes, my children ; 
 for a time may come when you may be enabled to put them 
 in practice. In the meantime,” added he, in a gayer tone, 
 “ tell me, if you were all very rich, what you would wish 
 for yourselves — for your own gratification, ladies and gentle- 
 men 1” 
 
 “ Oh, papa,” exclaimed Sarah, “ a great library !” 
 
 “And I,” said Miss Bab, from the floor, “I’d have a 
 great doll.” 
 
 “ I’d go to Italy,” said Charles. 
 
 “ I to Oxford,” cried his brother. 
 
 “ And I to Banelagh,” said Catherine, laughing. “ In 
 the meantime,” added she, as the footman — it being now six 
 o’clock, for they had dined at the usual hour of three — 
 brought in the tea equipage, followed by the silver kettle 
 and lamp : — “ in the meantime, we may as well go to tea, 
 and afterwards take a walk in Gray’s Inn Garden as we 
 meant to do, for the evening is beautiful, and my new hat is 
 just come home.” 
 
 About two months after, the same party, with the excep- 
 tion of Mr. Mordaunt, were assembled at nearly the same 
 hour in a very different scene. They were then passing 
 
A STORY OF FIFTY YEARS SINCE. 
 
 255 
 
 the long vacation at the farm, and, it being Bab’s birthday, 
 had adjourned to the root-house, a pretty rustic building at 
 the end of the garden, to partake of fruit, and cakes, and a 
 syllabub from the cow, which the enchanted little girl had 
 been permitted to compound herself, under the direction 
 and superintendance of the housekeeper. It was a scene 
 beautiful in itself, and full of youthful enjoyment. The 
 somewhat sombre root-house, with its Gothic painted win- 
 dows, its projecting thatch, supported by rough pillars 
 clothed with ivy, clematis, passion-flowers, and the virgin-in 
 the-bower, looked out on a garden, gay with hollyhocks, 
 balsams, China asters, African marigolds, the rich scarlet 
 geranium, and the sweet marvel of Peru. The evening sun 
 gleamed brightly around, shining on the old farm house, 
 whose casement windov/s peeped, through a clustering vine, 
 on a small piece of water at the end of the garden, and 
 the green common and forest beyond, with an effect of 
 light and shadow, just, as Sarah observed, “ like a real 
 picture;” and the figures scattered about would have 
 pleased a painter’s eye almost as well as the landscape 
 in which they were placed. 
 
 Catharine, radiant with innocent gaiety, blooming as 
 Hebe, and airy as a sylph, stood catching, in a wicker 
 basket, the large bunches of grapes which her younger 
 brother, with one foot on a ladder, and one on the steep 
 roof of the house, threw down to her and Charles, who 
 was at once steadying the ladder and directing the steps of 
 the adventurous gatherer. Little Bab, the heroine of the 
 day, was marching in great state down a broad gravel 
 w r alk, leading from, the house to the root-house, preceding 
 a procession consisting of John, the footman, with a tray 
 of jingling glasses — the housekeeper bearing the famous 
 syllabub, her own syllabub — and the housemaid, well-laden 
 
256 
 
 THE MORDAUNTS, 
 
 with fruit and cakes. Sarah, faithful to her flowers, was 
 collecting an autumn nosegay — cloves, jessamine, blossomed 
 myrtle, mignionette, and the late musk-rose — partly as an 
 offering to Miss Barbara — partly for her father, whose return 
 from town, whither he had been summoned on business, was 
 anxiously expected by them all. 
 
 Just as the young people were collected together in the 
 root-house, Mr. Mordaunt arrived. He was in deep mourn- 
 ing, and although receiving with kindness Sarah’s offering 
 of flowers, and Bab’s bustling presentation of a glass of 
 syllabub, which the little lady of the day insisted on filling 
 herself, was evidently serious, pre-occupied, almost agitated. 
 He sat down without speaking, throwing his hat upon the 
 table, and pushing away Catherine’s guitar, which had been 
 brought thither purposely to amuse him. He had even for- 
 gotten that it was poor Bab’s birth-day, until reminded of 
 it by the child herself, who clambered upon his knees, put 
 her arms round his neck, and demanded clamorously that 
 her dear papa should kiss her and wish her joy. He then 
 kissed her tenderly, uttered a fervent benediction on her, 
 and on all his children, and relapsed into his former silence 
 and abstraction. 
 
 At length he said, “ My sadness saddens you, my dear 
 boys and girls, but I am just come from a very solemn 
 scene, from Mr. Darrell’s funeral.” 
 
 “ Good gracious I” exclaimed Charles, with much emo- 
 tion : “ I did not even know that he was dead.” 
 
 c ‘ Nor I, till I reached London yesterday,” returned 
 Mr. Mordaunt. 
 
 “ Poor Mrs. Sullivan !” cried Sarah : “ did her father 
 forgive her before he died!” 
 
 “ He sent her his forgiveness on his death-bed — an un- 
 speakable comfort ! — but still his angry will remains unre- 
 
A STORY FIFTY YEARS SINCE. 
 
 257 
 
 voked. She and her children are starving, whilst his 
 immense fortune descends to one unconnected with him by 
 blood or alliance, or any tie save that of an old friendship. 
 After a few trifling legacies to friends and servants, I am left 
 residuary legatee. The property is large, my children ; larger, 
 perhaps, than with your moderate views and limited expecta- 
 tions you can readily apprehend. You may be rich, even 
 beyond the utmost grasp of your wishes, and Catherine may 
 revel in innocent amusement, and Charles in tasteful travel; 
 college with all its advantage is open to his brother ; Sarah 
 may have endless books, and Barbara countless dolls; 
 luxury, splendour, gaiety, and ambition, are before ye — the 
 trappings of grandeur, or the delights of lettered ease ; ye 
 may be rich, my children, beyond the dreams of avarice — 
 or ye may resign these riches to the natural heir, and return 
 to peaceful competence and honourable exertion, reaping 
 no other fruit from this unsought-for legacy than a spotless 
 reputation and a clear conscience. Choose, and choose 
 freely. My little Sarah has, I think, already chosen. 
 When, some weeks ago, she wished to be as rich as Mr. 
 Darrell, I read her countenance ill, if the motive of that 
 wish were not to enrich Mrs. Sullivan. Choose, my dear 
 children, and choose freely !” 
 
 “ Oh, my dear father, we have chosen ! Could you 
 think that we should hesitate! I answer for my brothers 
 and sisters, as for myself. How could your children waver 
 between wealth and honour!” And Charles, as he said this, 
 threw himself into his father’s arms, the other young people 
 clinging round them — even little Bab exclaiming, “ Oh, 
 dear papa, the money must be all for Mrs. Sullivan !” 
 
 The relator of this true anecdote had the gratification of 
 hearing it from one of the actors in the scene— the Sarah of 
 her little story, who is now in a green old age, the delight 
 
258 
 
 PivLOPIDAS. 
 
 of her friends, and the admiration of her acquaintances. 
 Her readers will probably be as glad to hear as she was, 
 that the family, thus honourably self-deprived of enormous 
 riches, has been eminently happy and prosperous in all its 
 branches — that the firm distinguished by the virtues of its 
 founder still continues one of the first in London — and that 
 a grandson of Mr. Mordaunt’s, no less remarkable for talent 
 and integrity than his progenitor, is at the present time a 
 partner in the house. 
 
 PELOPIDAS. 
 
 Epaminondas and Pelopidas, remarkable for their inviolable 
 friendship, accompanied each other to assist the Lacedaemo- 
 nians and Thebans in their war against the Arcadians ; and 
 being posted in the Spartan wing, which was forced to give 
 way, they resolved to prefer death to flight, and therefore 
 opposed the enemy alone, until Pelopidas fell down among 
 a crowd of the slain, covered with wounds. Epaminondas 
 perceived this ; and although he thought his friend had been 
 killed, stepped before him, and with redoubled vigour de- 
 fended his body and his armour, till he was also wounded in 
 the body with a pike, and in the arm with a sword ; when 
 Agesipolis, King of Sparta, came in with the other wing, and 
 rescued from death these two celebrated friends. 
 
hie imm 
 
 OF THE 
 
 *5»**V?RS»T¥ «| ll^OIS 
 
H SEYIULE 
 
259 
 
 THE ALCAZAR OF SEVILLE, 
 
 AND THE 
 
 TALE OF THE GREEN TAPER. 
 
 My favourite haunt, while a student at Seville, was the 
 Alcazar, the ancient abode of her kings, both Moors and 
 Christians. It is a palace originally erected by the Arabs, 
 at a short distance from the principal mosque, now the ca- 
 thedral ; and rebuilt upon a more extensive plan by Peter 
 the Cruel, in 1360. The Spanish tyrant made it answer the 
 double purpose of a mansion and a fortress, adding a wall, 
 on the side of the town, which, though now concealed in 
 many places by houses, shews, in its strength, how much he 
 has to fear whom every body fears. 
 
 The gates in this inclosure marked to me the boundary 
 between ancient and modern Seville, — I do not use the 
 words ancient and modern in the precise sense of the anti- 
 quarian : with dates I neither had nor wished to have any 
 thing to do, — they have plagued me through life, so readily 
 do they glide off my memory. Of the books which contain 
 the history of my native town, not one had then been in my 
 hands ; yet the Alcazar with its neighbourhood was more 
 than history to me ; for the traditional tales which I had 
 heard from the dear lips that taught me Castillian, made it an 
 enchanted spot, where, scarcely noticing the present inhabit- 
 ants, I mixed with the shades of both Moors and Spaniards 
 who had dwelt there in the ages of love and romance. 
 
260 
 
 THE ALCAZAR OF SEVILLE. 
 
 I should indeed pity that Andalusian youth, who, on a 
 summer’s day, could enter at the Huntsmens Gate;* cast a 
 look at the arabesque fretwork of the palace ; pass in front 
 of the grand ' saloons, which stretch on one side of the 
 gardens ; proceed to the King’s Mews ; and lastly, take 
 shelter from the burning but enlivening heat of the sun in 
 the labyrinth of Moorish streets at the back of the Alcctzar, 
 and be deaf the while to those sweet tales which language is 
 too gross to translate from the whispers of fancy : — such as 
 I heard from that ethereal babbler had a charm which time 
 cannot destroy. When, descending fast into the vale of 
 years, I strongly fix my mind’s eye on those narrow, shady, 
 silent streets, where I breathed the scented air which came 
 rustling through the surrounding groves ; where the footstep 
 re-echoed from the clean, watered porches of the houses, and 
 every object spoke of quiet and contentment, — of bare suffi- 
 ciency of fortune enlarged by cheerfulness and moderation 
 of wishes, — of modest gentility, supporting its claims to 
 respect, not by riches and power, but by inherited nobleness 
 and delicacy of feeling ; the objects around me begin to 
 fade into a mere delusion, and not only the thoughts but the 
 external sensations which I then experienced revive with a 
 reality that makes me shudder ; — it has so much the charac- 
 ter of a trance or vision ! Alas ! what is there left of the 
 objects themselves but these mental traces, these deep and 
 painful impressions, which, like unhealed w r ounds, must in 
 the heart of many an exile bleed anew whenever they are 
 examined ! 
 
 The approach to the gardens of the Alcdzar is through a 
 long, low, narrow passage, whose darkness and confined 
 dimensions add to the effect of light and space on passing 
 the iron gate of the first parterre. An Englishman would 
 
 * Puerta de los Monteros. 
 
TII£ ALCAZAR OF SEVILLE. 
 
 261 
 
 find here little but the novelty of the scene to gratify him. 
 Every thing, even the plants and flowers, bears an artificial 
 look. The high myrtle hedges, inclosing the square plots 
 into which the ground is divided, are kept in the most precise 
 shape by the smoothing shears of the gardener. The thyme, 
 lavender, and boxwood, are seen in rows, forming grotesque 
 designs of animals, mottoes, and heraldic figures. The walks 
 are paved with bricks ; and iron railings separate the different 
 portions, which go by the names of the Queen’s, the Prince’s, 
 the Alcove, the Labyrinth, and the Ladies’ Gardens. The 
 centre of the last is occupied by two lines of dancers, cut 
 out of the myrtle hedge on which they stand, all with heads 
 and hands carved in wood ; the rest of the body and dress 
 formed of the living plant. A band of musicians, of the 
 same vegetable growth, with harps, pipes, and tabors, is seen 
 at one end ; and two colossal savages, with maces of enor- 
 mous dimensions, all connected by the same roots, and living 
 on the same earth, stand sentinels at the entrance. 
 
 Such are the objects which might disgust the fastidious 
 and unaccommodating taste of some travellers. But, oh ! 
 how different are the feelings of a native, taught by the 
 climate and nature of his soil, not to expect rural pleasure 
 within the walls of a town, forest scenery on thirsty plains, 
 or soft turfs under a fierce sun, which would leave no traces 
 of vegetable green, were it not for the hardiness of some 
 plants, and the artificial streams that water them ! The in- 
 habitant of the south looks in a garden for cool shade, and 
 balmy breezes, and the refreshing murmurs of fountains ; the 
 intoxicating breath of the orange flowers in their season ; the 
 thick, though invisible, clouds of odours which rise from 
 millions of roses ; the sighs of the south wind ; and, sweeter 
 than they, the warblings of the nightingale. Such pleasures 
 cannot be enjoyed in the cold open solitude of a park : but 
 
262 
 
 THE ALCAZAR OF SEVILLE. 
 
 how wonderfully are they enhanced by the privacy of a 
 Moorish garden ! 
 
 Lost in the sensations just described, I used to sit, hour 
 after hour, in a favourite corner where I could hear the 
 sound of a copious stream, which, from the mouth of a 
 marble lion, gushed into a large reservoir ; and would not 
 have exchanged the tall grey wall, incrusted with rustic 
 work above, and clothed below with trained orange and 
 lemon trees, for the finest park scenery which I have learnt 
 to admire in England. There, with scarcely any one in 
 view (for this place is frequented only three or four days in 
 the year), and listening to the shears of the gardeners, which 
 forced out the sweet cool scent of the box and myrtle, and 
 awaked feelings not unlike the whetting of the scythe, where 
 it announces the long-expected summer ; my fancy fluttered 
 like a bird hatched in an aviary, beyond whose wire-work 
 there is not a wish to tempt him. Had I not room enough 
 for every dream of youthful happiness ? Did not those very 
 limits seem to secure me from intrusion, that bane and blight 
 of the hearts which early learn to shrink from the gaze of 
 the petty tyrants who subdivide the oppressive power of 
 church and state in those countries ! Oh no ! liberty never 
 smiles there but within walls and gates. The monarchs 
 themselves, who contrived these bowers, felt the necessity of 
 guards and inclosures. As to myself, who derived my best 
 pleasures from fancy, I never passed between the threatening 
 maces of the green savages who stood at the entrance, with- 
 out imagining that the blow which they suspended, as I 
 chose to believe, out of pure good-will towards me, would 
 fall upon the first intruder who should dare to break in upon 
 my privacy. 
 
 The vegetable guards seemed, however, to be in collusion 
 with many occasional visitors. Parties of strangers from the 
 
THE ALCAZAR OF SEVILLE. 
 
 263 
 
 country used, now and then, to visit the gardens ; but though 
 their presence could not but disturb the enjoyment of my 
 oriental reveries, they never staid long within view ; while, 
 on the other hand, the play of the water-spouts which, upon 
 such occasions, is invariably the consequence of a small fee 
 given to the chief gardener, made me full amends by adding 
 freshness and brilliancy to the scene. 
 
 The reader should indeed be informed, that the brick 
 walks, and the rustic incrustation of the walls, with all the 
 artificial coral and shell rocks of which the decorations of 
 the fountains consist, are perforated with innumerable small 
 apertures, communicating with leaden pipes, which convey a 
 large body of water from a much higher level. Upon turn- 
 ing a cock, walls, walks, and rocks are bristled over with a 
 crop of streamlets, rising to the height of eight or ten feet, 
 and preserving in their directions the outline of the figures 
 from which they issue. Those in the walks are so contrived, 
 that, rising on both sides with a certain obliquity, arches of 
 shining drops are formed, under which any one might walk 
 without being exposed to more than a light spray. Hydrau- 
 lic organs were formerly connected with these water-works, 
 of which nothing remains but a figure blowing a trumpet. 
 The sound it utters has a peculiar softness, and appears to 
 proceed, not from the figure itself, but from a wind instru- 
 ment behind the wall, or rather under ground. The quaint- 
 ness of these contrivances, and the coolness produced by the 
 rapid evaporation which follows the play of the diminutive 
 fountains, are in perfect harmony with the character of the 
 whole place : they certainly never failed to freshen my 
 thoughts and invigorate my fancy 
 
 It was on one of these occasions that I made the acquaint- 
 ance of an excellent man — one of the best specimens of the 
 Sevillian gentry, at a period when Spanish manners were 
 
264 
 
 THE ALCAZAR OF SEVILLE. 
 
 making progress towards refinement, and just before the 
 introduction of the affected ease and rude frankness, which 
 now contrast so offensively with the remains of their cere- 
 monious politeness. Don Antonio Montesdeoca was seldom 
 seen in the modern French coat : his dress, except on a few 
 church festivals, was the long Spanish cloak, of light-brown 
 stuff, in summer, and of cloth of the same colour in winter. 
 The hat was about ten inches broad in the brim, with a 
 crown from three to four in height. His unshorn grey hairs 
 were gathered into an oblong black silk net, with a string of 
 tassels not unlike the tail of a paper kite, which hung over 
 his back. He was tall, lean, and walked remarkably erect, 
 bearing the left arm bent upon the breast, as if it still sup- 
 ported the long sword which, sixty years ago, all gentlemen 
 carried about in the evening. I knew Don Antonio by 
 name, and he knew me ) yet, with the natural modesty of a 
 boy, I used only to touch my hat to him, according to the 
 good old style of Spanish civility, and pass on to my fa- 
 vourite seat. Both of us, however, being thus thrown daily 
 together on the same spot, it was not long before the old 
 gentleman, telling me that he had known my family many 
 years, asked what brought me so often to the gardens. He 
 was highly delighted with the similarity of our tastes at such 
 distant periods of life. From that day we often met to con- 
 verse under the shade of the same tree. He knew a great 
 deal about the palace, and all the antiquities of the town. 
 I listened with much interest to his accounts of days long 
 past ; and will try to repeat such parts of them as I believe 
 to be worthy of attention, by their having left the deepest 
 impression on my memory. 
 
 There is an object in the gardens which, from my earliest 
 childhood, I had looked upon with a mixture of awe and 
 curiosity : it is a dark, dismal, subterraneous hall, supported 
 
THE ALCAZAR OF SEVILLE. 
 
 265 
 
 by rows of double columns, and very scantily lighted from 
 a few square apertures in the ceiling, secured by strong iron 
 grates, as if they had been contrived for a keep or dungeon. 
 In the middle of this hall is seen a large oblong tank of 
 marble. The tank, at that time I am speaking of, was per- 
 fectly dry; though two large spouts, at the upper end, still 
 shewed the purpose for which it was constructed. The 
 recollection of its original use is preserved in the name 
 which the place bears to this day, of the Baths of Donna 
 Maria Padilla. This lady, who is generally believed to 
 have been, from her earliest youth to her death, the mistress 
 of Peter the Cruel, was the butt of the party who set on 
 the throne the bastard Henry of Transtamare, the same that 
 murdered the king, his brother, with his own hand, after 
 the battle of Montiel. Such, however, were Maria’s beauty, 
 goodness of heart, and natural talents, that even the chro- 
 nicles written during the reign of the successful usurper are 
 forced to speak of her with respect; while, on the other 
 hand, malice and calumny were employed in spreading the 
 most shocking reports, which, in the shape of popular tra- 
 ditions, are still preserved among the Sevillians. I had 
 once obtained admission to the baths, through the influence 
 of my friend Don Antonio, when he asked me how many 
 old gossips’ stories of Donna Maria Padilla I had heard. 
 I acknowledged that, like every other child in Seville, I 
 had, in fact, heard the whole series: that I had often been 
 frightened to bed by the nurserymaid’s story of the coach of 
 fire in which Donna Maria was said, on certain nights, to 
 parade the town ; and many other tales equally ridiculous 
 and extravagant. “ Absurd,” interrupted my old friend, 
 “ very absurd and wicked ! I cannot endure calumny even 
 against those who have been many centuries among the 
 dead. Maria Padilla, to tell you the truth, is one of my 
 2 A 
 
266 
 
 THE ALCAZAR OF SEVILLE. 
 
 historical favourites: she, from pure disinterested love Oi 
 Peter, bore the reproach of being his mistress, though she 
 was the true and lawful queen of Castille. The most in- 
 dubitable proofs of the marriage were given to the Cortes 
 at Seville soon after her death : and no man would now 
 pretend to doubt the fact, had not such a doubt been neces- 
 sary to justify the usurpation of Henry. Heaven, in mercy 
 to her virtues and sufferings, spared her seeing the last years 
 of Peter’s reign, and saved her (whatever the Spanish 
 ballads say to the contrary) the humiliation of falling at 
 the feet of her husband’s murderer. Peter himself scarcely 
 deserves compassion ; yet few tyrants could say more in ex- 
 tenuation of their crimes. Placed on the throne a mere 
 boy, two powerful and violent parties strove to make him 
 the tool of their ambition. His wicked mother harassed a 
 naturally violent character into downright ferocity ; and the 
 crowd of Peter's brothers almost deserved the death which 
 the enraged despot inflicted upon them : yet the amiable 
 Padilla, whose enemies they were, exerted herself to the 
 last to save them. The power of her charms must have 
 been surprising, since they could bind through life a man 
 of the most unbridled passions. But Peter, who, in the 
 wantonness of youth, pampered by the unprincipled rivals 
 of the Padilla family, tried often to break the spell which 
 bound his heart to Maria’s, returned to her as often, de- 
 claring that she was the loveliest of all women. Do you 
 see that beautiful gallery of arches supported on groups of 
 small columns, which runs over the city wall that terminates 
 these gardens'?” “ Yes,” said I ; “ it joins the Alcazar with 
 the ancient tower called del Oro , which rises on the brink 
 of the river.” 
 
 “ In that tower,” continued my friend, “ did Peter keep 
 for some time one of the rivals whom the enemies of Maria 
 
THE ALCAZAR OF SEVILLE. 
 
 261 
 
 Padilla contrived to set up against her. The lady’s name 
 was Aldonza Coronel, a sister of Maria Coronel, the cele- 
 brated foundress of the convent of Santa Clara, in this 
 town; who, to avoid the dangers which threatened her 
 virtue, destroyed her charms in a manner too shocking to 
 relate. You have, no doubt, seen her body, in a glazed 
 coffin, occupying the seat of honour in the choir of that 
 nunnery. Well ; Aldonza, a frailer beauty, came to implore 
 the king’s forgiveness for her husband, Alvar Perez de 
 Guzman, who had been declared a traitor. The king was 
 struck with her beauty ; and the enemies of Maria Padilla 
 procured interviews which proved the ruin of Aldonza. 
 Maria was deserted in the Alcazar, while the faithless wife 
 of Alvar Perez drew the whole court to the tower del Oro. 
 The triumph of Aldonza was, however of short duration. 
 Maria’s meek endurance of neglect soon rekindled affection 
 in the heart of the king; and Aldonza had to bury her 
 shame in the cloister which her sister had just erected, as 
 a retreat for herself and such females as wished to secure 
 their virtue from the violence and profligacy of the times. 
 The ill treatment and death of Blanche of Bourbon, gene- 
 rally supposed the legitimate queen of Castille, have in 
 modern times been attributed to the direct influence of Maria 
 Padilla. That the ever returning affection of Peter for the 
 woman of his first love was the occasion of that barbarous 
 treatment cannot be doubted ; but the real cause of Blanche’s 
 misfortunes was the intrigues of the queen dowager, who 
 made her defence a pretext for her own ambitious purposes. 
 Maria Padilla appears to have loved Peter with the purest 
 attachment. The tone and temper of her mind may be 
 inferred from the fact that, during a temporary coolness in 
 the king, she obtained a bull for the foundation of a convent, 
 of which she was appointed abbess by the Pope. Yet she 
 
268 
 
 THE ALCAZAR OF SEVILLE. 
 
 possessed towns and estates whither she might have retired, 
 and maintained a splendid independence. But to return to 
 the baths : they are to me in their present state an object of 
 regret and vexation. I recollect them, when in my youth 
 they preserved the original form which they received from 
 the Moorish architect ; for this place was the only unaltered 
 remnant of the Mahometan palace. What you now behold 
 a dismal dungeon, was an orange grove of the same dimen- 
 sions as the square yard which now stands over it. The 
 upper branches of the trees rose to the level of the palace. 
 These rows of columns supported two corridors which, cross- 
 ing at right angles, gave access to the grand saloon, and 
 afforded a delightful walk on the sides of the four squares 
 into which they divided the garden below. I cannot con- 
 ceive any thing more delicious in our hot climate, than a 
 large bath, shaded by luxuriant trees, perfumed by numerous 
 flower-plots ; open to light and air, and yet scooped like a 
 grot in the centre of a palace.” 
 
 I once asked Don Antonio’s opinion of the real character 
 of Peter. “ Some have of late represented him,” said my 
 friend, “ as a man of great severity of character, but not 
 cruel by nature. That he was goaded into ferocity, I have 
 already told you. But it cannot be denied that in the latter 
 part of his reign he grew faithless and treacherous to his 
 friends, and a blood-thirsty monster to his enemies. Even 
 in his best years, he at times gave way to fierce anger; 
 though there still appeared a mixture of candour and justice 
 in his character. Every body in this town knows the bust 
 of Peter the Cruel, which still marks the spot where he 
 killed a man in a chance affray, while walking in the night 
 alone and in disguise. 
 
 To believe the traditional story, the murderer would never 
 have been suspected but for an old woman, who, hearing 
 
THE ALCAZAR OF SEVILLE. 
 
 269 
 
 the clash of swords looked out with a lamp from her window. 
 She soon withdrew the lamp in great fright, without seeing 
 the man who had slain his adversary. When questioned by 
 the magistrates the next day, she declared her persuasion 
 that the murderer was no other than the king himself, whom 
 she had discovered by the well-known rattling of his knees. 
 Peter heard the accusation with composure, and neither con- 
 tradicted nor injured the poor woman. Unable, however, 
 to remove the suspicion which lay at his door, he ordered his 
 own bust to be fixed in a niche upon the spot, as the heads 
 of malefactors are set up to mark the scene of their crimes. 
 The name of the narrow street which opens in front of the 
 bust, bears still, as we all know, the name of Candilejo , 
 from the lamp said to have been brought out by the old 
 woman. 
 
 “ The state of public morals at that period, and the weak- 
 ness of the law against the privileged orders, may be con- 
 ceived from another traditional story which the annalists of 
 Seville have preserved. A prebendary of the cathedral 
 was, in the early part of Peter’s reign, trying to seduce a 
 beautiful woman, the wife of a mechanic. The frequency 
 of the lover’s visits roused the jealousy of the husband, and 
 he desired the clergyman to desist from troubling the peace 
 of his household. The prebendary, incensed at what he 
 conceived to be an insult, waylaid and killed the man. He 
 then took sanctuary in the cathedral, and was soon after set 
 free by the archbishop under a very slight punishment. A 
 son of the murdered man, who though young and poor 
 possessed a high spirit, appeared before the king, in an 
 open space with seats, built of stone, near one of the gates 
 of the palace, where he used daily to hear the complaints 
 and petitions of his subjects. The structure I allude to was 
 pulled down so lately as the middle of the seventeenth 
 
270 
 
 THE ALCAZAR OF SEVILLE. 
 
 century. The orphan youth complained bitterly of the 
 archbishop, who had allowed the murderer of his father to 
 go unpunished. Peter heard the lad with great attention, 
 and, taking him aside, asked him if he felt courage enough 
 to avenge his father? The lad declared, he wished for 
 nothing so ardently. * Go, then,’ said the king, * and come 
 to me for protection/ The heart-blood of the murderer 
 dripped soon after from the orphan’s dagger. He was 
 hotly pursued to the palace, where, being given in charge 
 to the crossbowmen, a day was appointed for the trial. 
 Peter, in open court, heard the archbishop’s counsel against 
 the prisoner; and asked the sentence of the ecclesiastical 
 judge against the prebendary. ‘ He was, please your 
 highness,’ answered the prosecutor, 4 suspended a whole 
 year from his office.’ 4 What is your trade or occupation, 
 young man?’ said the king. * I am a shoemaker,’ was the 
 answer. 4 Then, let it be recorded as the sentence of this 
 court, that, for the space of a whole year, the prisoner shall 
 not be allowed to make shoes.’ 
 
 On another occasion I questioned Don Antonio con- 
 cerning a report of a large serpent having once attacked 
 Peter the Cruel. 44 You mistake the story, my young 
 friend,” said he. 44 The allusion you have heard is to a 
 very grave charge of sorcery, preferred by some writers of 
 the fourteenth century against Maria Padilla. They assert 
 that Blanche of Bourbon gave Peter, at their wedding, a 
 beautiful belt, with which he was highly pleased. Maria, 
 if we believe these writers, fearing to lose the king’s affec- 
 tion, put this belt into the hands of a Jew, a great magi- 
 cian ; and replaced it in her lover’s wardrobe, after having 
 had it exposed to the influence of a powerful spell. In full 
 court the next day, the king, wearing the belt, was receiving 
 the homage of the grandees, who came to congratulate him 
 
THE ALCAZAR OF SEVILLE. 
 
 27] 
 
 upon his marriage: suddenly a hideous serpent appeared 
 coiled round the middle of his body. During the first 
 alarm the monster glided rapidly out of sight: with it the 
 king's belt, the gift of his bride, had disappeared. It is 
 added, that from that moment Peter could not endure the 
 sight of Blanche.” 
 
 “ It would be desirable,” said I, “ to have a collection of 
 tales of enchantment, from the traditionary legends of this 
 part of the country.” — “ It would, indeed,” answered Don 
 Antonio, “ and this quarter of the town would, I am sure, 
 furnish a considerable contribution. All the streets to the 
 south-east of the Alcctzar were, from the conquest of Seville, 
 allotted to the Moors who wished to remain under the 
 dominion of the Christians. There is another portion of 
 the town, on the same side, which, as you know, is still 
 called the Jewry. The superior knowledge possessed by these 
 two classes of people, when the Spaniards were almost ex- 
 clusively employed in the arts of war, exposed them to the 
 suspicion of their ignorant neighbours. Medicine, I believe, 
 was at one time practised in Spain by none but Jews and 
 Moors; and, as this science is intimately connected with 
 chemistry, the vials, alembics, and furnaces of a laboratory, 
 could not fail to confirm the prejudices of the Christians on 
 the score of magic. These prejudices were, besides, indus- 
 triously kept alive and strengthened by impostors, who, 
 finding themselves already suspected, were glad to derive 
 some profit from popular fear and credulity. I recollect 
 that in one of the plays of Lope de Rueda, (the first who 
 introduced acting in Spain), a Moriscoe is consulted as the 
 regular magician of the place. In latter times, when all 
 the descendants of Spanish Moors were, with as much 
 cruelty as impolicy, expelled from the country, the notion 
 that they had left their money concealed and secured by 
 
272 
 
 THE ALCAZAR OF SEVILLE. 
 
 supernatural means became general. Stories of enchanted 
 treasures are as common among us as in some parts of 
 Germany. We are just in view of a house which, in my 
 youth, I saw for a long time uninhabited, because it was 
 said to be haunted by an unfortunate Moorish woman, whose 
 ghost was bound in suffering to a concealed treasure.” — 
 
 “ I know the house very well,” said I, “ but having heard 
 it called Casa del Duende * was led to believe that the 
 supernatural story connected with it, belonged to the ludi- 
 crous part of the world of spectres.” — “ By no means,” 
 replied my friend, “ the story, whether of itself, or from 
 my having heard it when a child, has something melancholy 
 and impressive to my mind. I will tell it you as we walk 
 home.” 
 
 TALE OF THE GREEN TAPER. 
 
 “Among the unfortunate families of Spanish Moriscoes 
 who were forced to quit Spain in 1610, there was one of a 
 very rich farmer who owned the house we speak of. As 
 the object of the government was to hurry the Moriscoes 
 out of the country without allowing them time to remove 
 their property, many buried their money and jewels, in 
 hopes of returning from Africa at a future period. Muley 
 Hassem, according to our popular tradition, had contrived 
 a vault under the large Zagudn, or close porch of his 
 house. Distrusting his Christian neighbours, he had there 
 accumulated great quantities of gold and pearls, which, upon 
 his quitting the country, were laid under a spell by another 
 Moriscoe, deeply versed in the secret arts. 
 
 “The jealousy of the Spaniards, and the severe penalties 
 enacted against such of the exiles as should return, pre- 
 cluded Muley Hassem from all opportunities of recovering 
 
 * The Goblin house. 
 
THE ALCAZAlt OF SEVILLE. 
 
 273 
 
 his treasure. He died, intrusting the secret to an only 
 daughter, who, having grown up at Seville, was perfectly 
 acquainted with the spot under the charm. Fatima married, 
 and was soon left a widow, with a daughter whom she 
 taught Spanish, hoping to make her pass for a native of 
 our country. Urged by the approach of poverty, which 
 sharpened the desire to make use of the secret trusted to 
 her, Fatima, with her daughter Zuleima, embarked on board 
 a corsair, and were landed secretly in a cove near Huelva. 
 Dressed in the costume of the peasantry, and having as- 
 sumed Christian names, both mother and daughter made 
 their way to Seville on foot, or by any occasional convey- 
 ance which offered on the road. To avoid suspicion, they 
 gave out that they were returning from the performance of 
 a vow to a celebrated image of the Virgin, near Moguer. 
 I will not tire you with details, as to the means by which 
 Fatima obtained a place for herself and daughter in the 
 family then occupying her own paternal house. Fatima’s 
 constant endeavours to please her master and mistress suc- 
 ceeded to the utmost of her wishes : the beauty and inno- 
 cence of Zuleima, then only fourteen, needed no studied 
 efforts to obtain the affection of the whole family. 
 
 “ When Fatima thought that the time was come, she pre- 
 pared her daughter for the important and awful task of 
 recovering the concealed treasure, of which she had con- 
 stantly talked to her since the child could understand her 
 meaning. The winter came on ; the family moved to the 
 first floor as usual, and Fatima asked to be allowed one of 
 the ground-floor rooms for herself and Zuleima. About the 
 middle of December, when the periodical rains threatened 
 to make the Guadalquivir overflow its banks, and scarcely a 
 soul stirred out after sunset, Fatima, provided with a rope 
 and a basket, anxiously awaited the hour of midnight to 
 
274 
 
 THE ALCAZAR OF SEVILLE. 
 
 commence her incantation. Her daughter stood trembling 
 by her side m the porch, to which they had groped their 
 way in the dark. The large bell of the cathedral clock, 
 whose sound, you are well aware, has a most startling effect 
 in the dead silence of the night, tolled the hour ; and the 
 melancholy peal of supplication ( Plegaria ) followed for 
 about two minutes. All now was still, except the wind and 
 rain. Fatima, unlocking with some difficulty, the cold hands 
 of her daughter out of hers, struck a flint, and lighted a 
 green taper not more than an inch long, which she carefully 
 sheltered from the wind in a pocket-lantern. The light had 
 scarcely glimmered on the ground, when the pavement 
 yawned close by the feet of the two females. “ Now Zulei- 
 ma, my child, the only care of my life,” said Fatima, “ were 
 you strong enough to draw me out of the vault where our 
 treasure lies, I would not entreat you to hasten down by 
 these small perpendicular steps, wffiich you here see. Fear 
 not, my love, there is nothing below but the gold and jewels 
 deposited by my father.”—" Mother,” answered the tremu- 
 lous girl, “ I will not break the promise I have made you, 
 though I feel as if my breathing would stop, the moment I 
 enter that horrible vault. Dear mother, tie the rope round 
 my waist — my hands want strength — you must support the 
 whole weight of my body. Merciful Allah ! my foot slips ! 
 Oh, mother, leave me not in the dark !” 
 
 “The vault was not much deeper than the girl’s length ; and 
 upon her slipping from one of the projecting stones, the chink 
 of coins, scattered by her feet, restored the failing courage 
 of the mother. “There, take the basket, child, — quick! 
 fill it up with gold — feel for the jewels, — I must not move 
 the lantern. — Well done, my love! Another basketful, 
 and no more. I would not expose you, my only child, for — 
 yet, the candle is long enough : fear not, it will burn five 
 
THE ALCAZAR OF SEVILLE. 
 
 275 
 
 minutes — Heavens ! the wick begins to float in the melted 
 wax : out, out, Zuleima ! — the rope, the rope ! — the steps 
 are on this side !” 
 
 “ A faint groan was heard. Zuleima had dropped in a 
 swoon over the remaining gold. At this moment all was 
 dark again ; the distracted mother searched for the chasm, 
 but it was closed. She beat the ground with her feet ; and 
 her agony became downright madness on hearing the hollow 
 sound returned from below. She now struck the flints of the 
 pavement, till her hands were shapeless with wounds. Lying 
 on the ground a short time, and having for a moment re- 
 covered the power of conscious suffering, she heard her 
 daughter repeat the words, “ Mother , dear mother, leave me 
 not in the dark !” The thick vault, through which the words 
 were heard, gave the voice a heart- freezing, thin distant, yet 
 silvery tone. Fatima lay one instant motionless on the flints ; 
 then raising herself upon her knees, dashed her head with 
 something like supernatural strength, against the stones. 
 There she was found lifeless in the morning. 
 
 “ On a certain night in the month of December, the few 
 who, ignorant that the house is haunted, have incautiously 
 been upon the spot at midnight, report that Fatima is seen 
 between two black figures, who, in spite of her violent strug- 
 gles to avoid the place where her daughter is buried alive, 
 force her to sit over the vault, with a basket full of gold at 
 her feet. The efforts by which she now and then attempts 
 to stop her ears, are supposed to indicate that, for an hour, 
 she is compelled to hear the unfortunate Zuleima crying, 
 “ Mother, dear mother, leave me not in the dark !” 
 
276 
 
 THE VENTRILOQUIST 
 
 OF MARSEILLES. 
 
 What guilt 
 
 Can equal violations of the dead i 
 The dead how sacred I 
 
 Young's Night Thoughts. 
 
 The beauty of the evening, which succeeded to a very sultry 
 day, tempted Colonel Kielholm to sit, surrounded by his 
 little family, on the stone bench placed before the door of 
 the noble mansion he had recently purchased. In order to 
 become acquainted by degrees with his new tenants, he took 
 pleasure in questioning on their occupations and conditions, 
 the greater part of those who passed by ; he alleviated their 
 little sufferings by his advice as well as by his bounty. His 
 family enjoyed particular pleasure in seeing the little inn 
 situated in front of the chateau, which instead of presenting 
 a disgusting object, as when the late owner lived there, 
 became each succeeding day better and more orderly. 
 Their pleasure was heightened from the circumstance that 
 the new landlord who had been many years a servant in the 
 family, was loud in praises of its amended condition, and 
 delighted himself in his new calling, with the idea of the 
 happy prospects it held forth to himself, his wife, and his 
 children. 
 
 Formerly, though the road was greatly frequented, nobody 
 ventured to pass a night at this inn ; but now each day there 
 was a succession of travellers; carriages were constantly 
 
THE VENTRILOQUIST, &c. 
 
 277 
 
 seen at the door or in the court yard ; and the air of general 
 satisfaction of each party as they proceeded on their route, 
 incontestably proved to the landlord (who always, hat in 
 hand, was at the door of their carriages as they drove off,) 
 that his efforts to please the various travellers were com- 
 pletely successful. 
 
 A moving scene of this nature had just disappeared, which 
 furnished conversation for the moment, when a whimsical 
 equipage, which arrived from another quarter, attracted the 
 attention of the colonel and his family. A long carriage, 
 loaded with trunks and all sorts of luggage, and drawn by 
 two horses, whose form and colour presented the most gro- 
 tesque contrast imaginable, but which in point of meagreness 
 were an excellent match, was succeeded by a second long 
 and large vehicle, which they had, most probably at the 
 expense of the adjacent forest, converted into a travelling 
 thicket. The four steeds which drew it, did not in any 
 respect make a better appearance than the two preceding. 
 But the colonel and his family were still more struck by the 
 individuals who filled this second carriage : it was a strange 
 medley of children and grown persons, closely wedged toge- 
 ther ; but not one of their countenances bore the slightest 
 mark of similarity of ideas. Discontent, aversion, and 
 hatred, were legible in the face of each of these sun-burnt 
 strangers. It was not a family, but a collection of indivi- 
 duals, which fear or necessity kept together without uniting. 
 
 The colonel's penetrating eye led him to discover thus 
 much, though the distance was considerable. He at length 
 saw descend from the back part of the carriage a man of 
 better appearance than the others. At something which he 
 said, the whole troop turned their eyes towards the inn ; they 
 assumed an air of greater content, and appeared a little 
 better satisfied. 
 
 2 n 
 
273 
 
 THE VENTRILOQUIST 
 
 The first carriage had already stopped at the door of the 
 inn, while the second was passing the chateau ; and the 
 extremely humble salutations from the passengers in the 
 latter, seemed to claim the good-will of the colonel and his 
 family. 
 
 The second carriage had scarcely stopped, ere the troop 
 were out of it, each appearing anxious to quit those next to 
 whom they had been sitting with all possible speed. The 
 spruce and agile manner in which they leaped out of the 
 vehicle, left no doubt on the mind what their profession was, 
 — they could be none other than rope-dancers. 
 
 The colonel remarked, that “ notwithstanding the humble 
 salutations they had made, he did not think they would 
 exhibit in these parts ; but according to appearances, they 
 would proceed to the capital with all possible dispatch ; as 
 it was hardly to be expected that they would be delayed a 
 single day, by the very trivial profit to be expected from 
 exhibiting in a mere country village. 
 
 “ We have,” said he, “ seen the worst side of these gentry, 
 without the probability of ascertaining whether they have 
 any thing to recommend them to our notice.” 
 
 His wife was on the point of expressing her dislike to all 
 those tricks which endanger the neck, when the person whom 
 they had observed as being superior to the rest, advanced 
 towards them, and after making a low bow, asked permission 
 to remain there a few days. The colonel was unable to 
 refuse this request, as he shewed him a passport properly 
 signed. 
 
 “ I beg you,” replied the colonel, “ to declare most posi- 
 tively to your company, that every equivocal action is 
 punished in my villages : as I am anxious to avoid all 
 possibility of quarrels.” 
 
 “ Do not in the least alarm yourself, monsieur ; an 
 
OF MARSEILLES. 
 
 279 
 
 extremely severe discipline is kept up in my troop, which 
 has in some respects the effect of a secret police among 
 ourselves : all can answer for one, and one can answer 
 for all. Each is bound to communicate any misconduct on 
 the part of another to me, and is always rewarded for such 
 communication ; but on the contrary, if he omits so to do, 
 he is severely punished.” 
 
 The colonel’s lady could not conceal her aversion to such 
 a barbarous regulation , which the stranger perceiving, 
 shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 “ We must all accommodate our ideas to our condition. 
 I have found that if persons of this stamp are not so treated, 
 there is no possibility of governing them. And you may the 
 more confidently rely on my vigilance, as I had the happi- 
 ness of being born in this place, and, in consequence, feel a 
 double obligation : first, to the place of my birth ; secondly, 
 to his worship.” 
 
 “ Were you born here!” demanded the colonel's wife, 
 with surprise. 
 
 “ Yes, my lady ; my father was Schurster, the school- 
 master, who died lately. Eut I call myself Calzolaro, find- 
 ing that my profession succeeds better under an Italian 
 than a German name. 
 
 This explanation redoubled the interest the colonel and 
 his lady already felt for this man, who appeared to have 
 received a tolerable education. They knew that the school- 
 master, whose profession had been pretty lucrative, owing to 
 the numerous population of the village, had died worth some 
 considerable property, but that he had named a distant 
 female relation as his sole heiress, leaving his only son an 
 extremely scanty pittance. 
 
 “ My father,” continued Calzolaro, “ did not behave to 
 me as he ought : and I cannot but think I should be jus- 
 
280 
 
 THE VENTRILOQUIST 
 
 tified in availing myself of some important informalities in 
 his will, and endeavouring to set it aside, which is my pre- 
 sent intention. But excuse I pray you, my having tired 
 your patience with relations to which the conversation 
 has involuntarily given rise. I have still one more request 
 to make : permit me to return you my best thanks for your 
 gracious condescension, and to shew you some of the exer- 
 cises for which my troop is famous.” 
 
 The colonel acceded to Calzolaro’s request, and a day 
 was fixed for the performance. 
 
 Calzolaro went that very evening to the village pastor, 
 and communicated to him his intentions relative to his 
 father’s will. The worthy minister condemned such a proce- 
 dure, and endeavoured to convince Calzolaro, that his 
 father’s anger was just. “ Picture to yourself, young 
 man,” said he, “ a father who has growm old in an honest 
 profession, and who rejoices in having a son to whom he 
 can leave it: added to which, this son has great talent, a 
 good understanding, and is well disposed. It was natural 
 that the father should use every possible exertion to obtain 
 for this son his own situation at his death. The son is in 
 truth nominated to succeed him. The father, thinking him- 
 self secure from misfortune, feels quite happy. It was at 
 this period that the son, enticed by hair-brained companions, 
 gave up a certain and respectable, though not very brilliant 
 provision. My dear Schurster, if, when shaking off the 
 salutary yoke, and quitting your venerable father, to ramble 
 over the world, you could lightly forget the misery it would 
 occasion him, you ought at least in the present instance to 
 behave differently; or, in plain terms 1 shall say you are 
 a good-for-nothing fellow. Did not your father, even after 
 this, do all he could to reclaim you ? but you were deaf to 
 his remonstrances. 
 
OF MARSEILLES. 
 
 281 
 
 “ Because the connexion which I had formed imposed 
 obligations on me, from which I could not free myself, as 
 from a garment of which one is tired. For had I then been 
 my own master, as I now am ” 
 
 “ Here let us stop, if you please : I have only one re- 
 quest to make of you. You ought, from respect to your 
 father’s memory, not to dispute his will.” 
 
 This conversation, and the venerable air of the pastor 
 had a little shaken Calzolaro’s resolutions ; but the next 
 day they returned with double force ; for he heard several 
 persons say, that shortly before his death, his father was 
 heard to speak of him with great bitterness. 
 
 This discourse rendered him so indignant, that he would 
 not even accede to a proposal of accommodation with the 
 heiress, made to him by the pastor. 
 
 The colonel tried equally, but without success, to become 
 a mediator, and at length determined to let the matter take 
 its course. 
 
 He however assisted at the rehearsals made by the troop ; 
 and took so much pleasure in the performances prepared 
 for the amusement of himself and his family by Calzolaro, 
 that he engaged him to act again, and invited several of 
 his neighbours to witness them. 
 
 Calzolaro, said to him on this occasion : “You have as 
 yet seen very trifling proofs of our abilities. But do not 
 fancy that I am an idle spectator, and merely stand by to 
 criticize ; I, as well as each individual of my troop, have a 
 sphere of action ; and I reserve myself to give you, before 
 we take our leave, some entertaining experiments in electri- 
 city and magnetism.” 
 
 The colonel then told him, that he had recently seen in 
 the capital a man who exhibited experiments of that sort, 
 2 b 2 
 
282 
 
 THE VENTRILOQUIST 
 
 which had greatly delighted him; and above all, he had 
 been singularly astonished by his powers of ventriloquism. 
 
 “ It is precisely in that particular point/’ replied Calzo- 
 laro, “ that I think myself equal to any one, be they whom 
 they may.” 
 
 “I am very glad of it,” answered the colonel. “But 
 what would produce the most astonishing effect on those 
 who have never heard a ventriloquist, would be a dialogue 
 between the actor and a death’s head : the man of whom I 
 made mention gave us one.” 
 
 “ If you command it, I can undertake it.” 
 
 “Delightful!” exclaimed the Colonel. And Calzolaro 
 having given some unequivocal proofs of his powers as a 
 ventriloquist, the colonel added : “ The horror of the scene 
 must be augmented by every possible means : for instance, 
 we must hang the room with black ; the lights must be ex- 
 tinguished ; we must fix on midnight. It will be a species 
 of phantasmagoria dessert after supper ; an unexpected 
 spectacle. We must contrive to throw the audience into a 
 cold perspiration, in order that when the explanation takes 
 place they may have ample reason to laugh at their fears. 
 For if all succeeds, no one will be exempt from a certain 
 degree of terror.” 
 
 Calzolaro entered into the project, and promised that 
 nothing should be neglected to make it successful. — They 
 unfurnished a closet, and hung it with black. 
 
 The colonel’s wife was the only one admitted to their con- 
 fidence, as they could rely on her discretion. Her husband 
 had even a little altercation on the subject with her. She 
 wished, that for the ventriloquist scene they should use the 
 model of a head in plaster, whi h her son used to draw 
 from ; whereas the colonel maintained that they must have 
 a real skull: “ Otherwise,” said he, “ the spectators’ illusion 
 
OF MARSEILLES. 
 
 283 
 
 will speedily be at an end ; but after they have heard the 
 death's head speak, we will cause it to be handed round, 
 in order to convice them that it is in truth but a skull.” 
 
 “ And where can we procure this skull 1” asked the colo- 
 nel’s wife. 
 
 “ The sexton will undertake to provide us with it.” 
 
 “ And whose corpse will you thus disturb, for a frivolous 
 amusement V 
 
 “ How sentimental you are !” replied Kielholm, who did 
 not consider the matter in so serious a light: “We may 
 easily see you are not accustomed to the field of battle, 
 where no further respect is paid to the repose of the dead, 
 than suits the convenience of the labourer in the fields where 
 they are buried.” 
 
 “ God preserve me from such a spectacle!” exclaimed the 
 colonel’s lady in quitting them, when she perceived her 
 husband was insensible to her representations. 
 
 According to the orders which he received, the sexton 
 one night brought a skull in good preservation. 
 
 The morning of the day destined for the representation, 
 Calzolaro went into the adjacent forest to rehearse the 
 dialogue which he was to have with the death’s head. He 
 considered in what way to place the head, so as to avoid 
 all suspicion of the answers given by it being uttered by a 
 person concealed. In the mean while the pastor arrived at 
 the spot from a neighbouring hamlet, where he had been 
 called to attend a dying person : and believing that the 
 interposition of Providence was visible in this accidental 
 meeting, the good man stopped, in order once again to 
 exhort Calzolaro to agree to an accommodation with the 
 heiress. 
 
 “ I yesterday,” said he, “ received a letter from her, in 
 which she declares that, rather than any disrespect should 
 
284 
 
 THE VENTRILOQUIST 
 
 be paid to your father’s last will and testament, she will 
 give up to you half the inheritance to which she is thereby 
 entitled. Ought you not to prefer this to a process at law, 
 the issue of which is doubtful, and which at all events will 
 never do you credit?” 
 
 Calzolaro persisted in declaring that the law should decide 
 between him and the testator. — The poor young man was 
 not in a state to see in a proper point of view his father’s 
 conduct towards him. — The pastor, finding all his repre- 
 sentations and entreaties fruitless, left him. Calzolaro pro- 
 ceeded slowly to the inn, to assign to each of his band their 
 particular part. He told them that he should not be with 
 them ; but notwithstanding he should have an eye over their 
 conduct. He was not willing to appear as the manager of 
 these mountebanks, to the party assembled at the colonel’s 
 thinking that if he appeared for the first time in the mid- 
 night scene, as an entire stranger, it would add still more 
 to the marvellous. 
 
 The tumblers’ tricks and rope-dancing were performed to 
 admiration. And those of the spectators whose constant 
 residence in the country prevented their having witnessed 
 similar feats, were the most inclined to admire and praise 
 the agility of the troop. The little children in particular 
 were applauded. The compassion excited by their un- 
 happy destiny, mingled with the approbation bestowed on 
 them • and the ladies were subjects of envy, in giving birth 
 to the satisfaction depicted in the countenances of these 
 little wretches by their liberal donations. 
 
 The agility of the troop formed the subject of general 
 conversation the whole afternoon. They were even speak- 
 ing in their praise after supper, — when the master of the 
 house said to the company assembled : 
 
 “ I am rejoiced, my dear friends, to see the pleasure you 
 
OF MARSEILLES. 
 
 285 
 
 have received from the little spectacle that I have been 
 enabled to give you. My joy is so much the greater, since 
 I find you doubting the possibility of things which are very 
 natural ; for I have it in my power to submit for your 
 examination something of a very incomprehensible nature. 
 At this very moment I have in my house a person who 
 entertains a most singular intercourse with the world ot 
 spirits, and who can compel the dead to answer his 
 questions.” 
 
 “ O!” exclaimed a lady, smiling, “ don’t terrify us.” 
 
 “ You jest now,” replied the colonel ; “ but I venture to 
 affirm your mirth will be a little changed when the scene 
 takes place.” 
 
 “ I accept the challenge,” answered the incredulous fair 
 one. All the party was of her opinion, and declared them- 
 selves so openly and so loudly against the truth of these 
 terrific scenes, that the colonel began to be really appre- 
 hensive for the effects likely to be produced by those he 
 had prepared. He would have even relinquished his pro- 
 ject, if his guests, one and all, had not entreated him to 
 the contrary. They even went further : they besought him 
 not long to delay the wonderful things he promised. But 
 the colonel, keeping his own counsel, feigned ignorance 
 that they were laughing at him ; and with a grave air 
 declared that the experiment could not take place till 
 midnight. 
 
 The clock at length struck twelve. The colonel gave 
 his servants orders to place chairs facing the door of a closet 
 which had been hitherto kept shut; he invited the company 
 to sit down, and gave orders for all the lights to be put out. 
 While these preparation were making, he thus addressed the 
 company : 
 
 “ I entreat you, my friends, to abstain from all idle curio- 
 
286 
 
 THE VENTRILOQUIST 
 
 sity.” The grave and solemn tone in which he uttered these 
 words made a deep impression on the party, whose incredu- 
 lity was not a little lessened by the striking of the clock, and 
 the putting out the lights one after the other. Presently 
 they heard from the closet facing them the hoarse and sin- 
 gular sounds by which it is pretended spirits are conjured 
 up ; and which v/ere interrupted at intervals by loud strokes 
 of a hammer. All on a sudden the door of the closet 
 opened : and as by slow degrees the cloud of incense which 
 filled it evaporated, they gradually discovered the black 
 trappings with which it was hung, and an altar in the middle 
 also hung with black drapery. On this altar was placed a 
 skull, which cast its terrifying regards on all the company 
 present. 
 
 Meanwhile the spectators’ breathing became more audible 
 and difficult, and their embarrassment increased in proportion 
 as the vapour gave place to a brilliant light issuing from an 
 alabaster lamp suspended from the ceiling. Many of them 
 indeed turned their heads away in alarm on hearing a noise 
 behind them ; which, however, they discovered simply pro- 
 ceeded from some of the servants, whom the colonel had 
 given permission to be present during the exhibition, at a 
 respectful distance. 
 
 After a moment of profound silence, Calzolaro entered. 
 A long beard had so effectually altered his youthful appear- 
 ance, that though several of the spectators had previously 
 seen him, they could not possibly recognise him under this 
 disguise. And his Oriental costume added so much to the 
 deceit, that his entrance had an excellent effect. 
 
 In order that his art should impose the more, the colonel 
 recommended to him a degree of haughtiness in addressing 
 the company ; and that he should not salute them according 
 to any prescribed forms of politeness, but to announce him- 
 
OF MARSEILLES. 
 
 287 
 
 self in terras foreign from all ordinary modes of conversation. 
 They both agreed that a mysterious jargon would best 
 answer their purpose. 
 
 In consequence of such determination, Calzolaro assuming 
 a deep sepulchral tone, thus began : — “ After our present 
 state of existence, we are swallowed up in the obscure abyss 
 which we call death, in order that we may become incor- 
 porated in an entirely new and peaceful state. It is in order 
 to emancipate the soul from this state, that the sublime arts 
 are exercised ; and to create among fools and weak persons 
 the idea of its being impossible ! The wise and learned pity 
 them for their ignorance, in not knowing what is possible and 
 impossible, true or false, light or dark ; because they do not 
 know, and cannot comprehend the exalted spirits, who from 
 the silence of the vault and the grave, from the mouldering 
 bones of the dead, speak to the living in a voice no less 
 formidable than true. As to you, who are now here assem- 
 bled, listen to a word of advice. Avoid provoking by any 
 indiscreet question the vengeance of the spirit, who at my 
 command will be invisibly stationed beneath this human 
 skull. Endeavour to moderate your fear : listen to every 
 thing with calmness and submission ; for I take under my 
 especial care all those who are obedient, and only leave the 
 guilty as a prey to the destruction they merit.” 
 
 The colonel remarked with secret satisfaction the impres- 
 sion produced on the company, hitherto so incredulous, by 
 this pompous harangue. 
 
 “ Every thing succeeds better than I could have hoped,” 
 said he, in an under tone to his wife, who was not at all 
 amused by the performance, and who was only present to 
 please her husband. 
 
 Meanwhile Calzolaro continued : “ Look on this pitiful 
 and neglected head : my magic art has removed the bolts of 
 
283 
 
 THE VENTRILOQUIST 
 
 the tomb to which it was consigned, and in which reposes a 
 long line of princes. The owner of it is now actually there, 
 rendering up to the spirits an exact account of the life he 
 had led. Don’t be alarmed, even though it should burst 
 forth in terrible menaces against you : and against me his 
 impotency will be manifest, as, spite of his former grandeur, 
 he cannot resist the power I have over him, provided no 
 culpable precipitation on your part interrupt the solemnity of 
 my questions.” 
 
 He then opened a door of the closet hitherto concealed 
 from the company, brought a chafing dish filled with red-hot 
 coals, threw thereon some incense, and walked three times 
 round the altar, pronouncing at each circle a spell. He 
 then drew from its scabbard a sword which hung in his 
 girdle, plunged it in the smoke issuing from the incense, and 
 making frightful contortions of his face and limbs, pretended 
 to endeavour to cleave the head, which, however, he did not 
 touch. At last he took the head up on the point of his 
 sword, held it up in the air before him, and advanced towards 
 the spectators a little moved. 
 
 “ Who art thou, miserable dust, that I hold at the point 
 of my sword 1” demanded Calzolaro, with a confident air 
 and a firm voice. — But scarcely had he uttered this question, 
 when he turned pale ; his arm trembled ; his knees shook ; 
 his haggard eyes, which were fixed on the head, were horror 
 struck: he had hardly strength sufficient to place the head 
 and the sword on the altar, ere he suddenly fell on the floor 
 with every symptom of extreme terror. 
 
 The spectators, frightened out of their wits, looked at the 
 master of the house, who in his turn looked at them. No 
 one seemed to know whether this was to be considered part 
 of the scene, nor whether it was possible to explain it. The 
 curiosity of the audience was raised to its utmost pitch : they 
 
OF MARSEILLES. 
 
 289 
 
 waited still a considerable time, but no explanation took 
 place. At length Calzolaro, half-raising himself, asked if his 
 father’s shadow had disappeared. 
 
 Stupefaction succeeded astonishment. The colonel was 
 anxious to know whether he was still attempting to impose 
 on the company by a pretended dialogue with the death’s 
 head 'l 
 
 Calzolaro answered that he would do any thing, and that 
 he would willingly submit to any punishment they chose to 
 inflict on him for his frightful crime : but he entreated 
 they would instantly carry back the head to its place o 
 repose. 
 
 His countenance had undergone a complete change, and 
 only resumed its wonted appearance on the colonel’s wife 
 acquiescing in his wish ; she ordered the head to be instantly 
 conveyed to the church-yard, and to be replaced in the 
 grave. 
 
 During this unexpected denouement, every eye was turned 
 on Calzolaro ; he, who not long ago was talking with so 
 much emphasis and in such a lofty strain, could now scarcely 
 draw his breath ; and from time to time threw supplicating 
 looks on the spectators, as if entreating them to wait patiently 
 till he had recovered strength sufficient to continue his per- 
 formance. 
 
 The colonel informed them in the meanwhile of the species 
 of jest that he had projected to play on them, and for the 
 failure of which he could not at that moment account. At 
 last Calzolaro, with an abashed air, spoke as follows : — 
 
 “The spectacle which I designed to have given, has ter- 
 minated in a terrible manner for me. But, happily for the 
 honourable company present, I perceive they did not see the 
 frightful apparition which caused me a temporary privation 
 of my reason. Scarcely had I raised the death’s head on 
 2c 
 
290 
 
 THE VENTRILOQUIST 
 
 the point of my sword, and had begun to address it, than it 
 appeared to me in my father’s features ; and whether my ears 
 deceived me or not, I am ignorant ; neither do I know how 
 I was restored to my senses ; but I heard it say, ‘ Tremble, 
 parricide, whom nothing can convert, and who wilt not turn 
 to the path thou hast abandoned !’ ” 
 
 The very recollection produced such horror on Calzolaro’s 
 mind as to stop his respiration and prevent his proceeding. 
 The colonel briefly explained to the spectators what appeared 
 to them mysterious in his words, and then said to the penitent 
 juggler : 
 
 “ Since your imagination has played you so strange a trick, 
 I exhort you in future to avoid all similar accidents, and to 
 accept the arrangement proposed to you by the person whom 
 your father has named as his heir.” 
 
 “No, monsieur,” answered he, “no agreement, no bar- 
 gain ; else I shall only half fulfil my duty. Every thing 
 shall belong to this heiress, and the law-suit shall be 
 abandoned.” 
 
 He at the same time declared that he was weary of the 
 mode of life he had adopted, and that every wish of his 
 father’s should be fulfilled. 
 
 The colonel told him that such a resolution compensated 
 for what had failed in the evening’s amusement. 
 
 The company however, did not cease making numberless 
 inquiries of Calzolaro, many of which were very ludicrous. 
 They were anxious to know, among other things, whether 
 the head which had appeared to him, resembled that of a 
 corpse or a living being. 
 
 “ It most probably belongs to a corpse,” he replied. “ I 
 was so thunderstruck with the horrible effect of it, that I 
 cannot remember minutiae. Imagine an only son, with the 
 point of a sword which he holds in his hand, piercing his 
 
OF MARSEILLES. 
 
 291 
 
 father’s skull ! The bare idea is sufficient to deprive one of 
 one’s senses.” 
 
 “ I did not believe,” answered the colonel, after having 
 for some time considered Calzolaro, “that the conscience 
 of a man, who like you has rambled the world over, 
 could still be so much overcome by the powers of imagi- 
 nation.” 
 
 “ What ! monsieur, do you still doubt the reality of the 
 apparition, though I am ready to attest it by the most sacred 
 oaths 1” 
 
 “Your assertion contradicts itself. We have also our 
 eyes to see what really exists ; and nobody, excepting your- 
 self, saw any other than a simple skull.” 
 
 “ That is what I cannot explain : but this I can add, that 
 I am firmly persuaded, although even now I cannot account 
 for my so thinking, that as sure as I exist, that head is 
 actually and truly the head of my father : I am ready to 
 attest it by my most solemn oath.” 
 
 “ To prevent your perjuring yourself, they shall instantly 
 go to the sexton, and learn the truth.” 
 
 Saying this, the colonel went out to give the necessary 
 orders. He returned an instant afterwards, saying : — 
 
 “ Here is another strange phenomenon. The sexton is in 
 this house, but is not able to answer my questions. Anxious 
 to enjoy the spectacle I was giving my friends, he mixed 
 with some of my servants, who, possessing the same degree 
 of curiosity, had softly opened the door through which the 
 chafing-dish was conveyed. But at the moment of the con- 
 juror falling on the floor, the same insensibility overcame the 
 sexton ; who even now has not recovered his reason, although 
 they have used every possible method to restore him.” 
 
 One of the party said, that, being subject to fainting him- 
 self, he constantly carried about him a liquor, the effect of 
 
292 
 
 THE VENTRILOQUIST 
 
 which was wonderful in such cases, and that he would go 
 and try it now on the sexton. They all followed him : 
 but this did not succeed better than the methods previously 
 resorted to. 
 
 “ This man must indeed be dead,” said the person who 
 had used the liquor without effect on him. 
 
 The clock in the tower had just struck one, and every 
 person thought of retiring ; but slight symptoms of returning 
 life being perceptible in the sexton, they still remained. 
 
 “ God be praised I” exclaimed the sexton awaking ; “ he 
 is at length restored to rest !” 
 
 “ Who, old dad V’ said the colonel. 
 
 “ Our late schoolmaster.” 
 
 “ What then, that head was actually his?” 
 
 “ Alas ! if you will only promise not to be angry with me, 
 
 I will confess It was his.” 
 
 The colonel then asked him how the idea of disturbing 
 the schoolmaster’s corpse in particular came into his head. 
 
 “ Owing to a diabolical boldness. It is commonly be- 
 lieved, that when a child speaks to the head of its deceased 
 parent at the midnight hour, the head comes to life again. 
 I was anxious to prove the fact, but shall never recover from 
 its effects ; happily, however, the head is restored to rest.” 
 They asked him how he knew it. He answered, that he 
 had seen it all the while he was in a state of lethargy; that 
 as the clock struck one, his wdfe had finished reinterring the 
 head in its grave. And he described in the most minute 
 manner how she held it. 
 
 The curiosity of the company assembled was so much ex- 
 cited by witnessing these inexplicable events, that they 
 awaited the return of the servant whom the colonel had 
 dispatched to the sexton’s wife. Every thing had happened 
 
OF MARSEILLES. 
 
 293 
 
 precisely as he described ; — the clock struck one at the very 
 moment the head was laid in the grave. 
 
 These events had produced to the spectators a night of 
 much greater terrors than the colonel had prepared for 
 them. Nay, even his imagination was raised to such a 
 pitch, that the least breath of wind, or the slightest noise 
 appeared to him as the forerunner to some disagreeable 
 visitor from the world of spirits. 
 
 He was out of bed at dawn of day, to look out of his 
 window and see the occasion of the noise which at that hour 
 was heard at the inn-door. He saw the rope-dancers seated 
 in the carriage, about to take their departure. Calzolaro 
 was not with them, but presently afterwards came to the 
 side of the vehicle, where he took leave of them : the chil- 
 dren seemed to leave him behind with regret. 
 
 The carriage drove off; and the colonel made a signal to 
 Calzolaro to come and speak to him. 
 
 “ I apprehend,” said he to him, when he came in, “ that 
 you have taken entire leave of your troop.” 
 
 “ Well, monsieur, ought I not so to do'!” 
 
 “ It appears to me a procedure in which you have acted 
 with as little reflection as the one that tempted you first to 
 join them. You ought rather to have availed yourself of 
 some favourable occasion for withdrawing the little capital 
 that you have in their funds.” 
 
 “ Do you then, monsieur colonel, forget what has hap- 
 pened to me; that I could not have enjoyed another 
 moment of repose in the society of persons who are only 
 externally men? Every time I recall the scene of last 
 night to my recollection, my very blood freezes in my veins. 
 From this moment I must do all in my power to appease 
 my father’s shade, which is now so justly incensed against 
 me. Without much effort I have withdrawn myself from a 
 2 c 2 
 
294 
 
 THE VENTRILOQUIST 
 
 profession which never had any great charms for me. Re- 
 flect only on the misery of being chief of a troop, who, to 
 earn a scanty morsel of bread, are compelled every moment 
 to risk their lives! — and even this morsel of bread not always 
 attainable. Moreover, I know that the clown belonging to 
 the troop, who is a man devoid of all sentiment, has for a 
 long while aspired to become chief : and I know that he has 
 for some time been devising various means to remove me 
 from this world; therefore it appears to me that I have not 
 been precipitate in relinquishing my rights to him for a 
 trifling sum of money. I only feel for the poor children ; 
 and would willingly have purchased them, to save them 
 from so unhappy a career ; but he would not take any 
 price for them. I have only one consolation, which is, 
 the hope that the inhuman treatment they will experience 
 at his hands will induce them to make their escape, and 
 follow a better course of life.” 
 
 “ And what do you purpose doing yourself?” 
 
 “ I have told you that I shall retire to some obscure 
 corner of Germany, and follow the profession to which my 
 father destined me.’ 
 
 The colonel made him promise to wait a little; and, if 
 possible, he would do something for him. 
 
 In the interim, the heiress to his father’s property arrived, 
 to have a conference on the subject with him. As soon as 
 he had made known his intentions to her, she entreated him 
 no longer to refuse half the inheritance, or at least to receive 
 it as a voluntary gift on her part. The goodness, the sweet- 
 ness of this young person (who was pretty also), so pleased 
 Calzolaro, that a short time afterwards he asked her hand 
 in marriage. She consented to give it to him. And the 
 colonel then exerted himself more readily in behalf of this 
 
OF MARSEILLES. 
 
 295 
 
 man, who had already gained his favour. He fulfilled his 
 wishes by sending him to a little property belonging to his 
 wife, to follow the profession his father had fixed on for 
 him. 
 
 Ere he set off, Calzolaro resumed his German name of 
 Schurster. The good pastor, who had so recently felt 
 indignant at his obstinacy, gave the nuptial benediction to 
 the happy couple, in presence of the colonel and his family, 
 who on this occasion gave an elegant entertainment at the 
 chateau . 
 
 In the evening, a little after sunset, the bride and bride- 
 groom were walking in the garden, at some little distance 
 from the rest of the company, and appeared plunged in a 
 deep reverie. All on a sudden they looked on each other, 
 for it seemed to them that some one took a hand of each and 
 united them. They declared, at least, that the idea of this 
 action having taken place came to them both so instanta- 
 neously and so involuntary, that they were astonished at it 
 themselves. 
 
 An instant afterwards, they distinctly heard these words : — 
 
 “May God bless your union !** pronounced by the voice 
 of Calzolaro’s father. 
 
 The bridegroom told the colonel, some time afterwards, 
 that without these consolatory words, the terrible apparition 
 which he saw on the memorable night, would assuredly 
 have haunted him all his life, and have impoisoned his 
 happiest moments. 
 
'296 
 
 THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 “ Hark ! peals the thunder of the signal gun,” Byron. 
 
 The day had been particularly fine, and I stood admiring 
 the departure of the sun as he was rapidly retiring from the 
 surface of the ocean, whose watery ridges were beautifully 
 crimsoned with his parting beams, when my attention was 
 attracted by a group of peasants, who were silently watch- 
 ing the appearance of something on the boundless deep, 
 though its distance rendered it as yet scarcely discernible. 
 I turned my eyes towards the object which had so firmly 
 fixed their attention, and in a short time beheld a vessel 
 sailing in gallant trim before the breeze, which filled her 
 canvass. After observing it for a considerable time, I saw 
 it stop suddenly in its course, and the sails, which but a 
 minute before were swelled out by the wind, hang motion- 
 less, while the streaming pennon curled itself round the 
 mast. From the conversation of some old men who stood 
 by me, I found her situation was by no means enviable. 
 One, who by his silver hairs and hoary look seemed to be 
 the senior of the party, was remarking to his neighbour — 
 “ Say what you will, Davy, but I like not the look of 
 yon sky : those little clouds bode no good to the dweller on 
 the salt seas; and, for my part, I’d rather pass a week of 
 nights in St. Edmund’s turret, where the ghost of Esterling 
 is for ever crying out, ‘Beware! Edmund, beware!’ than 
 I would be now upon those sleepy waves.” 
 
 The person who stood next him, and whom I had con- 
 
THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 297 
 
 eluded to be a fisherman, from the old and tattered jacket 
 which he wore, added to the foreboding- remarks of the first 
 speaker, “ Ay, ay; I ween ye speak the truth, and may I 
 never draw net again if some harm comes not to yon brig 
 before midnight. I well remember when, forty years ago 
 last March, the 4 Bonny Gilderoy’ struck in the same place. 
 She little knew her danger, nor thought that rocks were 
 there ; but the first squall pitched her bows under, and in 
 half an hour she was shivered plank from plank. I shall 
 never forget that day, nor the song which mad Wilson, as 
 he was called, made the same day. Hold now, you shall 
 hear it, unless my memory be buried with him who made it. 
 
 The old fisherman proceeded to sing, in a tone by no 
 means musical, yet suited well to the song itself, and to the 
 scenery around : — 
 
 THE BONNY GILDEROY. 
 
 The winter’s snow was on the ground, 
 
 The winds of March blew cold, 
 
 The gallant sun refused to shine, 
 
 To waste his beams of gold. 
 
 The sea look’d wild, the sky look’d dark, 
 
 Loud was the sea-guil’s joy; 
 
 When from the west, on the billows breast 
 Came the Bonny Gilderoy, 
 
 Anon the slumb’ring winds arose 
 And swept the briny sea, 
 
 The waves that long lay still and dead, 
 
 Now danced right merrily; 
 
 They beat against the rugged rocks. 
 
 Aye threat’ning to destroy. 
 
 But careless still, of good or ill, 
 
 Sailed the Bonny Gilderoy. 
 
298 
 
 THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 The thunders shook the murky sky, 
 
 The forked lightnings flashed, 
 
 While loud the sparkling billows roar’d 
 That o’er the Swiskers* dashed. 
 
 The danger bids all hands aloft, 
 
 And finds them full employ, 
 
 For the lightning past, and struck the mast, 
 
 Of the Bonny Gilderoy. 
 
 And then the piercing shriek was heard, 
 
 Mix’d with the ocean’s roar, 
 
 For all was lost; and the gallant ship 
 Shall plough the waves no more. 
 
 Full many a corse was cast on shore, 
 
 The ravens to decoy, 
 
 Which hovering flew round the lifeless crew 
 Of the Bonny Gilderoy. 
 
 The song was scarcely ended, when a rough-looking 
 sailor, who had been all along gazing from the heavens to 
 the sea, and then to the ship, exclaimed aloud, *' Hold your 
 tongue, Tom, we shall have enough noise presently, for 
 there goes the cormorant and the gull ; and if the black 
 clouds deceive me not, we shall soon hear the cries of man 
 mixed with their cursed croaking, and the roar of the dash- 
 ing breakers ; so bear a hand, let’s down and make safe the 
 skiffs; there’s no time to lose with so wild a sky above, and 
 so still a sea below us.” With that he bounded oif, follow- 
 ed by his companion, and they were soon lost amidst the 
 winding of the rocks. 
 
 This seemed a. signal for the whole to depart, and in a 
 short time I was the only one left, except, indeed, a young 
 
 * The name of a chain of hidden rocks, where the scene of the pre» 
 sent narrative is laid. 
 
THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 299 
 
 man, who till now had escaped my observation, and who 
 was leaning against an old wall a short way off, with his 
 arms folded and apparently regardless of every thing, save 
 the vessel, upon which he had fixed his eyes immoveably. 
 But the darkness of the night, which now came on apace, 
 concealed him from me, and I fancied he had, following 
 the example of the rest, retired to his home. The moon 
 now rose, but the scud which swept wildly over the horizon, 
 only permitted it to be seen at intervals, while the largeness 
 and the paleness of the halo with which it was surrounded, 
 evidently indicated the approach of a storm ; which was 
 confirmed by the awful stillness which reigned on earth. 
 The few withered leaves which clung to the branches, rustled 
 with a fearful motion 3 while the waves came slowly to the 
 shore, and sent forth a low and hollow sound as they beat 
 against the cliffs, or flowed over the shells and pebbles of 
 the coast. 
 
 Darkness now asserted her power uncontroled. No ob- 
 ject could be discerned, save here and there a faint glimmer 
 which shone through the window of the cottager, and even 
 that was hardly distinguishable ; for the inmates had well 
 nigh excluded all light, by crowding round its source, 
 where they sat either silently gazing at each other, or else 
 relating some doleful narrative, of itself sufficient to terrify 
 the superstitious peasants, without the assistance of the 
 portending elements. Many a tale of most terrifying des- 
 cription had already been told, when that but half related 
 was deprived of its conclusion, and cut short on the verge 
 of its melancholy catastrophe by a loud blast of wind, 
 which threatened destruction to half the village, and forcing 
 open the doors, announced to those within the arrival of the 
 storm they had been fearfully expecting. The rain, at the 
 same time, began to descend ; at first in a few large drops 
 
300 
 
 THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 which pattered mournfully against the windows, but increas- 
 ing in a minute to the tempest shower; the lightning flashed 
 faintly along, and the rumbling of the thunder was heard 
 at a distance, though every flash grew more vivid than that 
 which had preceded it, and every peal became louder and 
 louder ; while the interval between each was filled up with 
 the whistling of the wind, and the roar of the breakers, 
 which had now risen to considerable violence. 
 
 Nothing could well be greater than the contrast which 
 at this time existed between the tumult without, and the still- 
 ness within doors! for each sat silent and motionless as a 
 statue ; or if any one ventured to speak, it was done in so 
 subdued a tone, that it sounded but as a whisper ; and even 
 then the speaker seemed afraid of infringing upon the rights 
 of the maddened elements. But this lethargy was not 
 doomed to last long, for we were soon roused by the thrill- 
 ing report of the signal gun, which broke upon the ear 
 with an awful echo, and seemed possessed of an electric 
 power — again, once — twice — thrice, the signals were heard 
 in rapid succession ; and now the idea of fellow-beings in 
 danger roused all from the stupor which the first report cast 
 them into. Each forgot for a while the tempest which a 
 few minutes before had filled them with fear, and rushed 
 toward the shore. By the time I had reached it, the beach 
 was covered with those who, being better acquainted with 
 the ways, had got there before me. But no one could do 
 more than express his feelings in sudden ejaculations, as the 
 lightning, or the flashes from the guns, which now kept up 
 an incessant firing, revealed the vessel to his view, where 
 she might be seen struggling between two sharp rocks, which 
 rose upon each side of her, and against which the angry 
 breakers beating caused the surf to cover the ship every 
 minute. The people on the shore either stood motionless 
 
THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 301 
 
 with fear, or ran madly from place to place along the rocks 
 to catch a glimpse if possible, of the stranger vessel, for, to 
 render her any assistance in her present situation was alto- 
 gether impossible. However, to do all that might be done, 
 two small boats were brought forward, and a liberal reward 
 offered to any who would be hardy enough to risk their lives 
 for the preservation of others. Instantly, one of them was 
 occupied by a young man whom, by the glare of the torch, 
 I recognized to be the same that I had seen at nightfall 
 gazing so attentively on the vessel. The boat darted over 
 a wave, and was lost from sight in a moment. By the flash 
 of guns we could still distinguish the brig whenever the surf 
 which now rose to a tremendous height, presented a clear 
 passage ; but the little skiff seemed to have disappeared foi 
 ever, and it was given up for lost by most persons. How- 
 ver, after working in painful suspense for several minutes, it 
 was again observed wearing to its object, and a shout from 
 the vessel announced that the crew had recognised the in- 
 trepid hero who had come to their assistance. But fate 
 seemed determined to thwart all human efforts, for a heavy 
 swell, accompanied with a resistless squall of wind, forced 
 the ill-fated vessel against one of the rocks she had so long 
 avoided; and, from the confused noise which ensued, we 
 understood, alas! too well, that she was wrecked — that all 
 was past ! 
 
 Darkness now completely veiled every object from our 
 sight, and the next flash of lightning shewed us the ship, 
 though still together, yet laid completely on her beam-ends, 
 and washed by every wave. 
 
 About an hour after, the storm began to abate, and the 
 moon peeped through the clouds at intervals. We still con- 
 tinued on the beach, in hopes of being able every minute to 
 gain some information concerning the wreck ; but we waited 
 
 2 D 
 
302 
 
 SCHOOL BOY FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 in vain ; the vessel still remained immoveable ; and the frag- 
 ments which floated ashore had nothing on them from which 
 we might learn her name or place of destination. Mid- 
 night arrived, and we were well repaid for all our anxiety 
 by the appearance of our little skiff, emerging from the 
 waves with its gallant charge and two other persons. We 
 hailed it with all our might, but our joy was considerably 
 damped on receiving no answer. A minute brought it to 
 where we stood, but its cargo was inanimate ; one had 
 ceased to breath, — the generous youth, indeed was still 
 alive, but the power of utterance was gone, and ere morn- 
 ing he was also a corpse; while the third, the maid he 
 loved, and whom he had rescued from a watery grave at 
 the expense of his own life, survived but a week, and now 
 rests beside him in the churchyard of St. D . 
 
 SCHOOL BOY FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Earl Stanhope, Secretary of State to George the First, was 
 educated at Eton school with one of the Scotch noblemen, 
 who was afterwards condemned for participating in the 
 rebellion of 1715. The earl, while the Privy Council were 
 deliberating upon signing the warrant of execution of these 
 unfortunate noblemen, requested the life of his school 
 fellow, whom he had never seen since they left Eton. His 
 request was refused, till he threatened to give up his place 
 if the council did not grant it. This menace procured 
 him the life of his associate in early life, to whom he after- 
 wards sent a handsome sum of money. 
 
303 
 
 MISCHIEFS OF A SARCASTIC TEMPER. 
 
 Yonder he drives — avoid that furious beast: 
 
 If he may have his jest, he never cares 
 At whose expense ; nor friend nor patron spares. 
 
 Francis. 
 
 DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 The laws of social benevolence require that every man 
 should endeavour to assist others by his experience. He 
 that has at last escaped into port from the fluctuations of 
 chance and the gusts of opposition, ought to make some 
 improvements in the chart of life, by marking the rocks on 
 which he has been dashed, and the shallows where he has 
 been stranded. 
 
 The error into which I was betrayed, when custom first 
 gave me up to my own direction, is very frequently incident 
 to the quick, the sprightly, the fearless, and the gay ; to all 
 whose ardour hurries them into precipitate execution of 
 their designs, and imprudent declaration of their opinions ; 
 who seldom count the cost of pleasure, or examine the 
 distant consequences of any practice that flatters them with 
 immediate gratification. 
 
 I came forth into the crowded world with the usual 
 juvenile ambition, and desired nothing beyond the title of a 
 wit. Money I considered as below my care ; for I saw 
 such multitudes grow rich without understanding, that I 
 could not forbear to look on wealth as an acquisition easy 
 to industry directed by genius, and therefore threw it aside 
 
304 
 
 MISCHIEFS OF 
 
 as a secondary convenience, to be procured when my prin- 
 cipal wish should be satisfied, and my claim to intellectual 
 excellence universally acknowledged. 
 
 It was not long before I fitted myself with a set of com- 
 panions who knew how to laugh, and to whom no other re- 
 commendation was necessary than the power of striking out 
 a jest. Among those I fixed my residence, and for a time 
 enjoyed the felicity of disturbing the neighbours every night, 
 with the obstreperous applause which my sallies forced from 
 the audience. The reputation of our club every day in- 
 creased, and as my flights and remarks were circulated by 
 my admirers, every day brought new solicitations for admis- 
 sion into our society. 
 
 I can scarcely believe, when I recollect my own practice, 
 that I could have been so far deluded with petty praise, as 
 to divulge the secrets of trust, and to expose the levities of 
 frankness, to w’aylay the walks of the cautious, and surprise 
 the security of the thoughtless. Yet it is certain that, for 
 many years, I heard nothing but with design to tell it ; and 
 saw nothing with any other curiosity than after some failure 
 that might furnish out a jest. 
 
 My heart, indeed, acquits me of deliberate malignity or 
 interested insidiousness. I had no other purpose than to 
 heighten the pleasure of laughter by communication, nor 
 ever raised any pecuniary advantage from the calamities of 
 others. I led weakness and negligence into difficulties, 
 only that I might divert myself with their perplexities and 
 distresses; and violated every law of friendship with no 
 other hope than that of gaining the reputation of smartness 
 and waggery. 
 
 I would not be understood to charge myself with any 
 crimes of the atrocious or destructive kind. My delight was 
 only in petty mischief and momentary vexations, and acute- 
 
A SARCASTIC TEMPER. 
 
 305 
 
 ness was employed not upon fraud and oppression which it 
 had been meritorious to detect, but upon harmless ignorance 
 or absurdity, prejudice or mistake. 
 
 This inquiry I pursued with so much diligence and saga- 
 city that I was able to relate, of every man whom I knew, 
 some blunder or miscarriage; to betray the most circum- 
 spect of my friends into follies, by a judicious flattery 
 of his predominant passion ; or expose him to contempt, by 
 placing him in circumstances which put his prejudices into 
 action, brought to view his natural defects, or drew the 
 attention of the company on his airs of affectation. 
 
 The power had been possessed in vain if it had never been 
 exerted; and it was not my custom to let any arts of jocu- 
 larity remain unemployed. My impatience of applause 
 brought me always early to the place of entertainment ; 
 and I seldom failed to lay a scheme with the small knot 
 that first gathered around me, by which some of those whom 
 we expected might be made subservient to our sport. Every 
 man has some favourite topic of conversation, on which, by 
 a feigned seriousness of attention, he may be drawn to ex- 
 patiate without end. Every man has some habitual contor- 
 tion of body, or established mode of expression, which never 
 fails to raise mirth if it be pointed out to notice. By premo- 
 nitions of these particularities, I secured our pleasantry. 
 Our companion entered with his usual gaiety, and began to 
 partake of our noisy cheerfulness, when the conversation 
 was imperceptibly diverted to a subject which pressed upon 
 his tender part, and extorted the expected shrug, the cus- 
 tomary exclamation, or the predicted remark. A general 
 clamour of joy then burst from all that were admitted to the 
 stratagem. Our mirth was often increased by the triumph 
 of him that occasioned it : for as we do not hastily form 
 
306 
 
 MISCHIEFS OF, &c. 
 
 conclusions against, ourselves, seldom any one suspected that 
 he had exhilarated us otherwise than by his wit. 
 
 You will hear, I believe with very little surprise, that by 
 this conduct I had in a short time united mankind against 
 me, and that every tongue was diligent in prevention or re- 
 venge. I soon perceived myself regarded with malevolence 
 or distrust, but wondered what had been discovered in me 
 either terrible or hateful. I had invaded no man’s property ; 
 I had rivalled no man’s claims ; nor had ever engaged in 
 any of those attempts which provoke the jealousy of ambition 
 or the rage of faction. I had lived but to laugh and make 
 others laugh ; and believed that I was loved by all who 
 caressed, and favoured by all who applauded me. I never 
 imagined that he, who, in the mirth of a nocturnal revel, 
 concurred in ridiculing his friend, would consider, in a 
 cooler hour, that the same trick might be played against 
 himself ; or that, even where there is no sense of danger, 
 the natural pride of human nature rises against him, who 
 by general censures lays claim to general superiority. 
 
 I was convinced, by a total desertion, of the impropriety 
 of my conduct ; every man avoided, and cautioned others to 
 avoid me. Wherever I came, I found silence and dejection, 
 coolness and terror. No one would venture to speak, lest he 
 should lay himself open to unfavourable representations ; the 
 company, however numerous, dropped off at my entrance, 
 upon various pretences; and if I retired, to avoid the shame 
 of being left, I heard confidence and mirth revive at my 
 departure. 
 
 If those whom I had thus offended could have contented 
 themselves with repaying one insult for another, and kept up 
 the war only by reciprocation of sarcasms, then they might 
 have perhaps vexed, but would never much have hurt me ; 
 for no man heartily hates him at whom he can laugh. But 
 
THE TRUCE OF VIRTUE. 
 
 307 
 
 these wounds, which they give me as they fly, are without 
 cure ; this alarm, which they spread by their solicitude to 
 escape me, excludes me from all friendship and from all 
 pleasure. I am condemned to pass a long interval of my 
 life in solitude, as a man suspected of infection is refused 
 admission into cities ; and must linger in obscurity, till my 
 conduct shall convince the world that I may be approached 
 without hazard — 
 
 Rambler. 
 
 THE TRUCE OE VIRTUE. 
 
 An emperor of Japan had secretly put to death a meritori- 
 ous oiflcer, who had a very fine wife. Some days afterwards 
 the prince visited the lady, and wished to compel her to live 
 in the palace. “ I ought to rejoice and esteem myself 
 happy,” said she, “ that you have judged me worthy of 
 your friendship. I receive this favour as I ought ; but I 
 venture to take the liberty of asking an interval of thirty 
 days, to mourn the death of my husband. Permit me this; 
 and after the delay, I shall be able to assemble his parents, 
 and to feast them in one of the towers of your castle.” The 
 emperor acceded to her prayers. 1’he day of the feast ar- 
 rived and it was given with the greatest sumptuousness. 
 The emperor drank to excess. The lady profited by the 
 moment ; and saying she would take the air on one of the 
 balconies of the tower, she rather than dishonour the me- 
 mory of her husband, precipitated herself from the top to 
 the bottom. 
 
308 
 
 THE RUNAWAY, 
 
 A JUVENILE REMINISCENCE. 
 
 It was on the 5th of November, one thousand seven hun- 
 dred and ninety , when I wanted two months of com- 
 
 pleting my fifteenth year, that being seriously in love with 
 six ladies (four in their teens, one a widow of thirty, and the 
 other a bouncing lass of two-and-twenty,) I made my elec- 
 tion, and ran away from home to follow the last, who had 
 gone down to Nottinghamshire to reside with her mother. 
 But though Fanny (that was the dear creature’s name) had 
 played the very deuce with my heart, I do not think I should 
 have deserted the other five, had she not possessed one charm 
 which all the rest wanted. She could perform in tragedy as 
 well as in courtship, and we made love in acting, before love 
 made me commit the rash act of running away. She was 
 my Juliet and my Desdeniona , my Belvidera and my Calista. 
 The glowing language and impassioned sentiments of Shak- 
 speare, Otway, and Howe, had breathed from my lips in 
 mimic rapture ; I had sighed and languished, sued and 
 swore, in ten-syllable heroics; she had done the same 
 except the swearing ; and when, at last, I “ threw off my 
 disguise and appeared myself,” she did the same too. Then 
 it was we both vowed eternal fidelity : and in the cruel 
 moment of separation she promised to fly with me and take 
 to the stage, if I would take the stage and fly to her. 
 
 I did so : but I was three weeks getting ready. First, I 
 
THE RUNAWAY. 
 
 309 
 
 had to collect my travelling wardrobe, which, as I was not 
 old enough to have the care of my own things, required due 
 circumspection. I had to abstract from the family chest of 
 drawers what I wanted, at convenient opportunities, and 
 without exciting suspicion. However, by the end of three 
 weeks, I collected two shirts, one pocket handkerchief, a 
 best waistcoat, and three pairs of stockings. These, with 
 what I knew I should have upon my back, would be suffi- 
 cient, I thought ; they were deposited in a trunk, big enough 
 to hold them and myself too, which I had concealed behind 
 the water-butt in the back kitchen. The next thing was 
 money. I had pocket-money to be sure ; but it would have 
 taken a year to save enough out of eighteen pence a w r eek 
 for my journey ; so (with shame and contrition I write it) I 
 paid a visit one morning to a corner drawer in my father's 
 bureau, where, finding five bank-notes, of ten pounds each, 
 lying neglected as it were, and confined in a silk purse, I 
 took pity upon one of the captives and released him. 
 
 Now I w'as equipped ; and now I only wanted every body 
 out of the way, that I might get out of the w r ay myself. A 
 favourable opportunity occurred. I seized it. With my 
 trunk on my shoulder, and dressed in indigo blue silk stock- 
 ings, nankeen fyfor-shames, a white dimity waistcoat, a snuff- 
 coloured jacket, and a hat quite good enough for travelling 
 in the dark (and that is the most I can say for it), I sallied 
 forth about eight o’clock in the evening, on the 5th of No- 
 vember, running as fast as two short legs would carry me, to 
 the George and Blue Boar in Holborn. I was in the very 
 nick of time. The coach was just setting off. My luggage 
 was thrown into the basket ; I paid my fare ; took my seat 
 on the roof ; and in five minutes was fairly on the road to 
 my fair. 
 
 It was a bitter cold night ; something between a bleak 
 
310 
 
 THE RUNAWAY. 
 
 misle and a black frost. At first, I was in good spirits and 
 chattered to the coachman : but before we had gone ten 
 miles, my teeth chattered so, that I could not chatter myself, 
 and the coachman advised me to take some spirits where we 
 changed horses. I tossed off a glass of brandy, like one 
 who had been used to it ; and though it set my throat on 
 fire, it brought plenty of water into my eyes to quench it. 
 It had this good effect, however, that I grew warm to the 
 tips of my toes and fingers. But nankeen, silk, and dimity, 
 are not adapted for outside travelling in winter. I was soon 
 as cold again all over as a greyhound’s nose ; and the next 
 time we stopped to change horses, which was at the Crown 
 at St. Alban’s, I changed half-a-crown for another glass of 
 brandy. I tossed it off like the former. It must have been 
 capital ; for it got into my head, and had nearly been the 
 cause of tossing me off the coach. However, I kept my 
 seat, though the state of the poll was decidedly against me ; 
 and though during the rest of my journey, I got no rest 
 myself, save a few nods, which like angels’ visits were few 
 and far between. 
 
 Until this moment I had never been further from London 
 than a rural excursion to Putney on Sunday, or a visit to 
 Greenwich Hill on Easter Monday. Judge, then, what my 
 sensations were when the coachman told me, at three o’clock 
 in the morning, that St. Paul’s was sixty miles behind us ! 
 I shall not attempt to describe them. I believe Columbus 
 himself (or Dr. Robertson for him) has told us what he felt 
 when he first saw the shores of the new world. They were 
 very like what I felt when I first saw a milestone sixty miles 
 from London. 
 
 I arrived at my journey’s end about nine o’clock the next 
 morning ; and having enquired the road to where my Fanny 
 lived, 1 flew, not only on the wings of love, but in a pair of 
 
THE RUNAWAY. 
 
 311 
 
 new top boots, which I bought before I set out from the inn 
 to seek her. We met ! Ah Fanny ! your form was not 
 moulded by the graces, I confess : for of the three geo- 
 metrical properties essential to all solids, nature had been 
 more prodigal of breadth and thickness. And you had a 
 developement of head, Fanny, with a circumference of 
 throat, which could not be called symmetrical. These are 
 things I now remember . I saw them not then. But what 
 I did see, and what I still recollect with emotion, was that 
 you had your hair screwed up in whity-brown paper. No 
 woman, not if she were cinctured with the cestus of Venus 
 herself, should ever let her lover see her head barked with 
 crackers, and the roots of her hair straining from the skin, as 
 if imploring relief from the twisted torture. It is particularly 
 ugly ; and therefore to be particularly avoided. As to hus- 
 bands, I do not see how the danger can be averted. So it 
 must be left to take its chance, along with all the other 
 dangers which menace love after it has been to church. 
 
 We met. Such a meeting! And we talked. “Oh ye 
 gods, how we talked !” With a delighted ear, Fanny 
 listened to all the perils I had encountered in my daring 
 enterprise, which I took especial care to magnify, that she 
 might have a sufficiently exalted notion of what it was I 
 would dare for her sake. A man may not be a hero to his 
 valet de chambre ; but a school-boy has a right to be con- 
 sidered one by his mistress, when he runs away from home 
 to run after her. I claimed her promise ; and I told her the 
 
 gods were propitious to our purpose : for the theatre at 
 
 was then open, and we should be able to get an engagement 
 immediately. I had no more doubt of the perfect truth of 
 what I said, than I had that, though both Garrick and Mrs. 
 Siddons were extraordinary persons, two other persons were 
 then conversing together infinitely surpassing either. 
 
312 
 
 THE RUNAWAY. 
 
 Upon me devolved the task of astonishing the manager. 
 I resolved, however, before I let him know what a golden 
 harvest Fortune was preparing for him, to witness what he 
 was capable of doing with the company he had ; so I re- 
 paired that same evening to the theatre. The play an- 
 nounced for representation was Othello ; but how it would 
 have been represented I was not fortunate enough to ascer- 
 tain. Yet I had an excellent seat, in the centre of the pit ; 
 and it was my own fault, if there was a better one, that I 
 did not occupy it, for I had the whole pit to myself. Indeed, 
 except myself, three fiddlers in the orchestra (who played 
 “ God save the King,” “ Buie Britannia,” and “ Hearts of 
 Oak,” backwards and forwards for about an hour), and a 
 boy in a smock-frock who enjoyed the same undisturbed 
 monopoly of the gallery which I did of the pit, not another 
 human being was visible. I waited patiently. At length 
 Othello came to me, his face and hands ready blacked, and 
 something which looked marvellously like a pillow-case on 
 his head for a turban ; but his nether man displayed dirty 
 leather-breeches, and boots still dirtier. With a polite bow 
 he tendered me the shilling I had paid, and then addressing 
 the rest of the audience, said “put out the candles, Jem : 
 we shan’t hact to-night.” I quitted the theatre with a pro- 
 phetic consciousness swelling at my heart, that ere long they 
 would have to refuse, not to return money, and wish that 
 days were nights, for the sake of double receipts at the 
 doors. 
 
 The next morning I was to breakfast with the future 
 partner of my histrionic glory, and be introduced to her 
 mother. Mine, however, were no “ obedient slumbers that 
 could wake and weep.” Quite the reverse. I was very 
 much in love ; that is a point no man shall dispute with me 
 and have the best of argument, except it be in his own 
 
THE RUNAWAY. 
 
 313 
 
 opinion. But I had an arrear of sleep to settle, and I was 
 still busy with the account when, at noon, and not before, 
 the chambermaid rapped at my bed-room door, to announce 
 that it was twelve o’clock. Minute circumstances are often 
 the sources whence flow, the obstructions that turn awry, the 
 currents of a man’s life. Sir William Jones ascribed his 
 ardour for knowledge to an accident that befel him while at 
 Harrow ; which, preventing him for many months from 
 participating in the sports of his school-fellows, threw him 
 upon himself for amusement, and books were the means. I 
 once knew a man, too, who died immensely rich, who traced 
 all his good fortune to a rusty nail, which he preserved with 
 a sort of pious veneration. The links between what he was 
 and what he had been, he concatenated thus. 
 
 He had been a small carpenter; and being employed 
 upon a small job at a gentleman’s house, when he had com- 
 pleted it, he received his money and went about his business. 
 But he had not proceeded far on his way home, ere he re- 
 collected that he had forgotten to draw a large crooked nail 
 which protruded very awkwardly, and he returned to remove 
 it. Just as he was approaching the door, he heard a loud 
 scream. Looking up, he saw the infant and only child of 
 the gentleman falling from one of the attic windows, where 
 the nursery-maid had been carelessly playing with it, when 
 by a sudden spring it escaped from her grasp. With equal 
 presence of mind and dexterity, he received the child in his 
 arms, broke the shock of its descent, and saved it from being 
 dashed to pieces. The grateful father requited the invalua- 
 ble service (for he doated on the babe, because it was the 
 sole memorial of the dead mother who bore it) by a munifi- 
 cent sum of money, which enabled him to embark largely 
 in his business, and thus lay the foundation of the great 
 wealth he afterwards accumulated. But he always main- 
 2 E 
 
314 
 
 THE RUNAWAY. 
 
 tained that it was the rusty nail which, in reality, made his 
 fortune. 
 
 And so, I opine, it was entirely owing to the chambermaid 
 
 at the Spread Eagle at , leaving me to sleep till 
 
 twelve o’clock in the day, not only that I and Fanny never 
 met again, but that I, in my own individual person, never 
 eclipsed the fame of Garrick. For, alas ! when I returned 
 to the abode of my beloved, at dinner instead of breakfast 
 time, I was met by her mother, a tall, thin, stately old lady, 
 in a mob-cap, and a green silk gown, (I think I see her 
 now !) who conducted me into a closet where she kept her 
 best china and crcmkery. She bade me sit down. I had an 
 awful presentiment of what was coming ; or, rather, I knew 
 something was coming, and I felt in such a twitter — I got 
 into such a cold sweat, down to my very fingers’ ends, that 
 she might have tied me hand and foot where I was, had she 
 been so disposed, and sent me back to London by the 
 waggon, like a two-year-old fatted calf. 
 
 My conscience-stricken apprehensions were soon realized. 
 The old lady drew a letter from her pocket. I had no man- 
 ner of doubt it was all over with me. I had no mariner of 
 doubt it was a hue-and-cry after a certain person who 
 devoutly wished himself at that moment in another country. 
 What a disarming thing guilt is ! I can well remember I 
 felt afraid of this old woman ; of one whom I had never 
 seen before, who had no sort of control over me, and of 
 whom, but that I was consciously a criminal, I should have 
 stood in no more fear, than of a finger-post. 
 
 My calamity was complete. It was overwhelming. Peo- 
 ple should never keep love-letters. After they have once 
 read them, and wept or smiled, kissed or crumpled them up, 
 according as the nature of their contents may require, the 
 very next moment they should be consigned to Vulcan, and 
 
THE RUNAWAY. 
 
 315 
 
 suffered to flit up the chimney as parsons, clerks, and regi- 
 ments of soldiers. He is the only safe custos of such 
 records. Dilaceration leaves behind it a potentiality of 
 discovery which may become a positive esse , by the aid 
 of gum and curiosity. The world is full of instances of un- 
 lucky proofs, supplied by that tender indiscretion which 
 hoards bits of paper, because they express in ink, what has 
 been said in words a hundred and a hundred times before. 
 Love’s tablet should be the heart. It has “ ample room and 
 verge enough” for as much as would fill a ream of gilt- 
 edged vellum Bath letter paper ; and all other, save that 
 invisible writing, should be treated as the ancient philoso- 
 pher advised us to treat our best friends ; like something 
 that may one day become our worst enemy. In short the 
 very best of Bramah’s patent locks, are as patent as the 
 doors of the Freemasons’ Tavern compared with the inflam- 
 matory process of combustion. Burn — burn — burn, I say 
 
 to every discreet lover ; as to indiscreet lovers, who can pity 
 them, when they sometimes burn their own fingers by neg- 
 lecting to burn their love-letters 1 
 
 I was the victim of this neglect, and I “ own the soft 
 impeachment.” Three letters of Fanny’s, “ warm from the 
 heart and faithful to its fires,” which I had concealed, as I 
 hoped, in the bottom of a punchbowl, never usec^except at 
 christenings (and it was not likely to be so used again), 
 were discovered. How, I know not ; any more than I 
 know how I came to leave them behind me. These letters 
 betrayed my plans, my retreat, and the immediate object of 
 my flight ; and the letter which the old lady drew from her 
 pocket, and which was no billet-doux, was from my father ! 
 One side of it was addressed to Fanny’s mother : the other 
 to Fanny’s culprit sweetheart; which was torn off and put 
 into my hands. I can suppose a criminal at the Old Bailey, 
 
316 
 
 THE RUNAWAY. 
 
 when he sees the only witness step into the box who can 
 hang him, must feel very much as I did at that moment. 
 The end of the matter was, I looked very sheepish while the 
 old lady read me a lecture upon filial obedience, and all 
 that. ; very disconsolate when I heard my sentence, which 
 was, never to return to the house in the expectation of seeing 
 Fanny again ; and very foolish as I sidled out of the crock- 
 ery-closet, with “ sweet reluctant amorous delay,” and saun- 
 tered back to the Spread Eagle. 
 
 Behold me then — I was going to say, like our first parents, 
 driven forth from Paradise : — but I was worse off ; for they 
 had each other, and I had nobody with me but myself. 
 They went “ hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow 
 1 “ took my solitary way ” alone. The only points of re- 
 semblance between us were, that they “ dropp’d some natural 
 tears, but wiped them soon ;” (and so did I, for I could 
 not help snivelling); and that I, like them, had all 
 
 “ The world before me, where to choose 
 My place of rest.” 
 
 My first choice, however, was soon made. I returned to 
 the Spread Eagle, dejected, miserable, almost heart-broken, 
 and as ravenous as a wolf. Boys at fifteen are not apt to be 
 satisfied, like Octavian in the Mountaineers , with “ drinking 
 huge draughts of sorrow down, and banqueting on tears.” 
 Their appetites are their masters, and keep company w'ith 
 grief in a; very amicable &ort of way. So 1 ordered a duck 
 and pancakes for dinner, and then sighed and meditated till 
 it was ready. “ What is life without a friend 1” says Gold- 
 smith’s sentimental cobler ; and what is a lover without his 
 mistress ? occurred naturally to me, in my then forlorn con- 
 dition. I thought if I could have seen Fanny, instead of that 
 
THE RUNAWAY. 
 
 317 
 
 hard-hearted old woman in the mob-cap, and green silk 
 gown, I might have persuaded her, like another Belvidera , 
 to “ share our wayward fate together and I reflected that 
 I should have seen Fanny, instead of the green dragon (as I 
 called her in my soliloquies, to sooth my mortification), if 
 my love had been of the Macbeth quality, and “murdered 
 sleep.” Then I mused upon the five other loves I had left 
 behind me in London ; upon home ; upon what was once 
 ten pounds, but now reduced to the skirts of four; and I 
 was fast yielding to that penitence, which the perspective of 
 a pennyless pocket so feelingly awakens. Heaven only 
 knows, however, whether all or any one of these consider- 
 ations would have led me back to the parental hearth, if I 
 had not fallen into better hands than my own. 
 
 The landlady of the Spread Eagle, a mother herself, and 
 a kind, benevolent, good-hearted woman into the bargain, 
 had penetrated my secret. Not that I mean to say it re- 
 quired any extraordinary sagacity to suspect, from my ex- 
 treme youth, and to discover from my utter ignorance of the 
 world and its ways, that I had not been sent on my travels, 
 to a place where I knew nobody, and where, since the affair 
 at the green dragon, I seemed to have nothing to do. On 
 the following morning, therefore, after I had breakfasted, she 
 came into my room, and taking hold of my hand, “ Young 
 gentleman,” said she, “ I am sure you have run away from 
 home.” This sudden accusation produced all the confession 
 she required ; the mantling blood in my cheeks, and a con- 
 fused denial from my tongue. She then sat down, and 
 leached the inmost depths of my heart, as she tenderly, but 
 earnestly, besought me to return. For a long time I listened 
 to her persuasions, in abashed and involuntary, rather than 
 wilful silence, till at last she seemed so like my own mother, 
 entreating me to my good, that with tears in my eyes, and a 
 2 e 2 
 
313 
 
 THE RUNAWAY. 
 
 faltering voice, I acknowledged the truth of her assertion, 
 and consented to follow her advice. Pleased with her suc- 
 cess, the good woman next strove to cheer my spirits 3 and 
 finished by telling me that a coach for London would pass 
 through in the evening, and that she would book me a place 
 inside. And she did so : nor did she suffer me to be once 
 out of her sight, during the rest of the day 3 but made me 
 dine with her own family, and remain with them, till the 
 
 hour when the coach arrived, and I set -off in it. 
 
 A 
 
 It was about six o’clock in the morning when I reached 
 London. The inn at which we stopped was somewhere in 
 the city, and the passengers were shown into a large room 
 which had the appearance of a kitchen, where there was a 
 blazing fire, candles lighted, and breakfast ready for those 
 who cared to take it. I did not 3 I had other cares on my 
 mind 3 and, above all, I was anxious to reach home before 
 daylight, that my return might not be witnessed by the neigh- 
 bours. I was ashamed to bid any one go for a coach 3 but 
 a gentleman and lady, who had been my fellow passengers, 
 ordered one. In a few minutes the porter came back and 
 announced that the coach was ready. But they were not : 
 they were getting their luggage together, settling for the 
 fare, and finishing a glass of boiling-hot brandy and water 
 by sips. It was the thought of a moment. I took up my 
 box, walked down the yard, stepped into the coach that was 
 waiting, and gave the man his directions where to drive. It 
 was within one street of my own. There I got out 5 and 
 just as the dawn of a chill November morning was breaking 
 I stood at the threshold of my home ! 
 
 All the windows were closed. I had not courage to 
 knock 3 yet it could hardly be called fear that withheld me. 
 It is true, my father was a stern and austere man 3 but I 
 had passed the age at which I dreaded him as a child, and 
 
ABERNETHY. 
 
 319 
 
 had not arrived at those years when my reason would have 
 taught me to respect the displeasure I had so unjustly pro- 
 voked. 
 
 At length I resolved to wait till some one should be stir- 
 ring, and I seated myself at the door, upon my box, shiver- 
 ing with cold, and a little perhaps with agitation, I can 
 w T ell remember the strange satisfaction it seemed to give me 
 at that moment, to think I had not destroyed the rest of 
 those from whom I had so wantonly fled. The profound 
 stillness within was a consolation, as it were, to my sense of 
 transgression. 
 
 Oh ! but there was one who both watched and wept. It 
 was my mother! She had passed sleepless nights, and 
 anxious days during the absence of her wayward son. She 
 had sought no bed that night; and heard, or thought she 
 heard, sounds that told her of his return. Gently the door 
 unclosed ; and pale and care-worn, my mother stood before 
 me. The smile that brightened her pallid features was my 
 welcome and my pardon. She folded me in her arms, and 
 wept for very joy. Nor then, nor ever, did an upbraiding 
 word fall from her lips: but then, and ever, my own heart 
 smote me and as you may judge there was the end of my 
 rambling and the beginning of my reformation. 
 
 ABERNETHY. 
 
 In the year 1818, Lieutenant D fell from his horse in a 
 
 paved street in London, and fractured his skull and arm, 
 whilst his horse trod on his thigh, and grievously injured the 
 limb. Mr. Abernethy was the surgeon nearest to the young 
 man’s lodgings ; he was sent for : he came and attended 
 
320 
 
 ABERNETHY. 
 
 daily. After the lapse of months convalescence took place, 
 amidst great weakness, when Abernethy enjoined the- adop- 
 tion of shell-fish diet at Margate. His grateful patient re- 
 quested information as to the amount of his pecuniary debt 
 for professional aid and care. Abernethy smiled, and said, 
 “ Who is that young woman V ’ — “ She is my wife.” “ What 
 is your rank in the army ?” — “ I am a half-pay lieutenant.” 
 “ Oh ! very well, when you are a general come and see me, 
 and we’ll talk about it.” — “ Pray Mr. Abernethy, what is a 
 cure for the gout 1” was the question of an indolent and 
 luxurious citizen. “ Live upon six-pence a day — and earn 
 it was the pithy answer. On another occasion, this emi- 
 nent surgeon was highly amused with the course pursued by 
 a lady who was aware of his detestation of ignorant loquacity 
 and silly affectation. Abruptly entering his consulting-room, 
 without uttering a word, she thrust towards him her finger, 
 which he dressed ; and the fair patient instantly and silently 
 withdrew. In a few days she called again, and again pro- 
 truded the affected part. — “ Better ?” asked Mr. Abernethy ; 
 “ Better,” answered the lady ; again the finger was dressed, 
 and again the lady left the apartment. After several similar 
 visits, at length she held out her finger free from all 
 bandages, and in fact healed. “ Well?” enquired Mr. 
 Abernethy : — “ Well,” echoed the lady. — “ Upon my soul. 
 Madam,” exclaimed the delighted surgeon, “you are the 
 most rational woman I ever met with !” — 
 
 * 
 
 FINIS. 
 
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