.1
Q
u
u
I
.
r
i,
N.
H
t
W,
m
f.
o
0
l
I
I.
\
luntngmtjflt
t!
vovgv
h! v
7.53;?
l. -


UNIVERSITY OF
ILLINOIS LIBRARY
AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN
BOOKSTACKS








2L Zfinnvl.
BY SIR E, BULWER LYTTON,
AUTHOR OF "THE CAXTONS," i‘HAROLD," “LUCRETIA,” “EUGENE ARAM," "PELHAM," "RlENZX,"
“ERNEST MALTRAVERS," “ALICE; OR, THE MYSTERIES," “PAUL CLIFFORD," &.c., 6w.
NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
82 CLIFF STREET.
MDCCCL.





?93
L77,»
i850
NIGHT AND MORNING.
BOOK I.
flied) in mine! Babette 2mg:
22m- itb, unb id) mantert‘ and,
lint bet Sngmb frobe ‘ttintc
fiitti id) in be! items that.“
SCHILLER: Der Pilgrim.
INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER.
" Now rests our vicar. They who knew him best,
Proclaitn his life to have been entirely rest;
Nor one so old has left this world of sin,
More like the being that he entered in."
CRABII.
In one of the “’elsh counties is a small village
called A It is somewhat removed from

h the high-road, and is, therefore, but little known
'- to those luxurious amateurs of the picturesque
J“ lbs-31' '
~ 3 -Suidet‘
".-
A'A
6
T/b/Bo-s
-
who view Nature through the windows of a cer-
riage and four. Nor, indeed, is there any thing,
whether of scenery or association, in the place
itself, sutiicicnt to allure the more sturdy enthu-
siast from the beaten tracks which tourists and
guide books prescribe to those who search the
sublime and beautiful amid the mountain homes
of the ancient Britons. Still, on the whole, the
village is not without its attractions. It is
placed in a small valley, through which wmds
and l ps, down many a rocky fall, a clear, hab-
blingf‘icisy rivu , that afl'ords excellent sport
to the brethren o the angle. Thither, accord-
ingly, in the summer season, occasionally resort
theWaltons of the neighborhood—young farmers,
retired traders, with now and then a stray artist,
or a roving student from one of the Universities.
Hence the solitary hostelry of A , being
somewhat more frequented, is also more clean
and comfortable than could be reasonably antici-
pated from the insignificancc and remoteness of
the village.
At the time in which my narrative opens, the
village boasted a sociable, agreeable, careless,
half-starved parson, who never failed to introduce
himself to any of the anglers who, during the
summer months,‘passod a day or two in the little
valley. The Reverend Mr. Caleb Price had
been-educated at the University of Cambridge,
where he had contrived, in three years, to run
through a little fortune of £3500, without gain-
ing in return any more valuable mental acquisi-
tions than those of making the most admirable
milk»punch, and becoming the most redoubted
boxer in his college; or any more desirable rep-
utation than that of being one of the best-natured,
rattlinrv, open-hearted companions whom you
could desire by your side in a tandem to New-
market, or in arow with the bargemen. He had


/
I
not failed, by the help of these gifts and accom-
plishments, to find favor while his money last-
ed, with the young aristocracy of the “Gentle
Mother.” And, though the very reverse of an
ambitious or calculating man, he had certainly
nourished the belief that some one of the hats or
tinsel gowns—i.c., young lords or fellow-com-
moners, with whom he was on such excellent
terms, and who supped with him so often—would
do something for him in the way ofa living. But
it so happened that when Mr. Caleb Price had,
with a little difficulty, scrambled through his de-
gree, and found himself a Bachelor of Arts, and
at the end of hisifinances, his grand acquaint-
ances parted from him to their various posts in
the State Militant of Life. And, with the ex-
ception of one, jo ous and reckless as himself,
Mr. Caleb Price ound that, when money makes
itself wings, it flies away with our friends. As
poor Price had earned no academieal distinction,
so he could expect no advancement from his col-
le e—no fellowship—no tutorship leadin 1 here-
a ter to livings, stalls and deaneries. overty
began alread to stare him in the face, when
the only frien who, having shared his prosperity,
remained true to his adverse fate—a friend, for-
tunately for him, of hi h connections and brilliant
prospects—eucceede in obtaining for him the
humble living ofA To this primitive spot
the once jovial roister cheerfully retired—con-
trived tolive contented upon an income somewhat
less than he had formerly given to his groom—
preachcd very shortsermons to a very scanty and
ignorant congregation, some of whom onl un-
derstood Welsh—did good to the poor ant sick
in his own careless, sloyenly way—and, unchecr-
ed or unvexed by wife and children, he rose in
summer with the lark, and in winter went to bed
at nine precisely, to save coals and candles. For
the rest, he was the most skillful angler in the
whole county; and so willing to communicate
the results ofhis experience as to the most takin
color of the flies and the most favored haunts of
the trout, that he had given especial orders at the
inn, that whenever any strange gentleman came
tofish, Mr. Caleb Price should be immediately
sent for. In this, to be sure, our worthy pastor had
his usual recom cnse. First, if the stranger were
tolerably liberal,I Mr. Price was asked to dinner
at the inn; and, secondly if this failed, from the
poverty or churlishness of the obliged party, Mr.
Price still had an op ortunity to hear the last
news—to talk about the great world—in a word
to exchange ideas, and perhaps to get an old
newspaper or an odd number ofa magazine.
Now it so happened that, one afternoon in
October, when the periodical excursions of the
anglers becoming rarer and more rare, had alto-

“$24494


4
INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER.
gether ceased, Mr. Caleb Price was summoned And in this church, with you for the priest, I
from his parlor, in which he had been employed do not see a chance of discovery.”
in the fabrication of a net for his cabbages. by “ Do you marry by license 9”
a little white-headed boy, who came to say thereI “No; my intended is not of age: and we
was a gentleman at the inn who wished imme- keep the secret even from her father. In this
ately to see him: a strange gentleman, who had ‘ village you will mumble over the bans without
never been there before. lone of your congregation ever taking heed of
Mr. Price threw down his net, seized his hat, I the name. I shall stay here a month for the
and in less than five minutes he was in the best ‘ purpose. She is in London, on a visit to a rela-
room of the little inn.
The person there awaiting him was a man-
who, though plainly clad in a velveteen shooting- ‘
jacket, had an air and mien greatly above those ,
common to the pedestrian visitors of A . He
was tall, and one of those athletic forms in
which vigor in youth is too often purchased by,
corpulenee in a e. At this period, however, in}
the full prime 0 manhood, the ample chest and
sinewy limbs, seen to full advantage in their
simple and manly dress, could not fail to excite
that popular admiration which is always given
to strength in the one sex as to delicacy in the
other. The stran er was walking im aticntly
to and fro the sum l apartment when 1\ r. Price
entered; and then, turning to the clergyman a
countenance handsome and striking, but yet
more prepossessing from its expression of frank-
ness than from the regularity of its features, he
stopped short, held out his hand, and said, with
a gay laugh, as he glanced over the person’s
thread-bare and slovenly costume, “My poor
Caleb! what a metamorphosis! I should not
have known you again 1”
“ What! you! Is it possible, my dear fellow?
How glad I am to see you ! What on earth can
bring you to such a place? No! not a soul'
would believe me if Isaid I had seen you in this
miserable hole.” I
“ That is precise] the reason hyI am here.
Sit down, Caleb, an we’ll talk over matters as
soon as our landlord has brought up the materi-
als for—"
“The milk-punch,” interrupted Mr. Price,
rubbing his hands. “Ah, that will bring us
back to old times indeed !”
In a few minutes the punch was prepared,
and, after two or three preparatory glasses, the
stranger thus commenced :
“ My dear Caleb, I am in want of your assist-
ance, and, above all, of your secrecy.”
“I promise you both beforehand. It will make
me happy the rest of my life to think I have
served my patron—my benefactor—tho only 1
friend I possess."
“Tush, man! don’t talk of that: we shall
do better for on one of these days. But now ,
to the point: have come here to be married— ‘
married, old boy !—married i” |
And the stranger threw himself back in his'
chair, and chuckled with the glee of a schoolboy.
\ “ Humph !” said the parson, gravel . “It is l
a serious thing to do, and a very odd place toi
come to.”
“I admit both propositions: this punch is
superb. To proceed. You know that jny l,
uncle‘s immense fortune is at his own disposal- 1
if I disobliged him, he would be capable of
leaving all to my brother. I should disoblige
him irrevocably if he knew that I had married
a tradesman’s daughter. I am going to marry ,
a tradesman’s daughter—a girl in a million!
The ceremony must be as secret as possible.




;scend t 0 steps.
tion in the city. The bans on her side will be
published with equal privacy in a little church
near the Tower, where my name will be no less
unknown than here. Oh, I’ve contrived it fa-
mously !” '
“But, my dear fellow, consider what you
risk."
“I have considered all, and find every chance
in my favor. The bride will arrive here on the
day of our wedding: my servant will be one
witness; some stupid old Welshman, as antedi-
luvian as possible—I leave it to you to select
him—shall be the other. M servant I 'shall
dispose of, and the rest I can epcnd on.”
it But—7‘!
“I detest buts; if I had to make a lan uage,
I would not admit such a word in it. An now,
before I run on upon Catharine, a subject quite
inexhaustible, tell me, my dear friend, some-
thing about yourself."
=1! is 1ll 1‘ =1!
Somewhat more than a month had elapsed
since the arrival of the stranger at the village
inn. He had changed his quarters for the Par-
sonage; went out but little, and then chiefl on
foot-excursions among the sequestered hill; in
the neighborhood: he was, therefore, but par-
tially known by si ht even in the village; and
the visit of some ol college friend to the minis-
ter, though indeed it had never chanced before,
was not, in itself, so remarkable an event as to
excite any particular observation. The bans
had been duly, and half inaudibly, hurried over,
after the service was concluded, and while the
scanty congregation were dispersing down the
little aisle of the church, when one morning a
chaise and pair arrived at the Parsonage. A
servant out of livery leaped from the box. The
stranger opened the door of the chaise, and,
uttering a joyous exclamation, gave his arm to
a lady, who, trembling and agitated, could
scarce] ', even with that stalwart support, de-
“Ah!” she said, in a voice
choked with tears, when they found themselves
alone in the little parlor, “ah ! if you knew how
I have suffered!”
How is it that certain words, and those the
homeliest—which the hand writes and the eye
reads as trite and commonplace expressions—-
when spoken, convey so much—_so many mean-
ings complicated and refined? “Ah! if you
knew how I have suffered !"
When the lover heard these words, his gay
countenance fell—he drew back—his conscience
smote him: in that complaint was the whole
history of a clandestine love—not for both the
parties, but for the woman—the painful secrecy
l -the remorseful deceit—the shame~the fear—
the sacrifice. She who uttered those words
was scarcely sixteen. It is an early age to
leave childhood behind for ever !
“ My own love! you have suffered indeed;
but it 15 over now.”


INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER.
5
“ Over! And what will they say of me—l “You have often said that you should like, if
Over! you had some capital, to settle in Australia—
what will they think of me at home?
Ah I” .
“It is but for a short time; in the course of
*your father is an excellent farmer—you are
above the situation you hold with rue—you are
nature, my uncle can not live long: all then well educated, and have some knowledge of
will be explained. Our marriarve once madelagriculture—you can scarcely fail to make a
public, all connected with you Will be proud to fortune as a settler; and, if you are of the same
own you. You will have wealth—station—n l mind still, why, look you, I have just £1000 at
name among the first in the gentry of England. my banker’s; you shall have hqu if you like to
But, above all, you will have the happiness to sail by the first packet."
think that your forbearance for a time has saved ; “Oh, sir, you are too generous.”
me, and, it may be, our children, sweet onol “Nonsense—no thanks—I am more prudent
from poverty and—” than generous; for I agree with you that it is all
“It is enough,” interrupted the girl, and the ‘ up with me if my uncle gets hold of you. I
expression of her countenance became serene dread my prying brother, too; in fact, the obli-
and elevated. “ It; is for you—for your sake. l gotion is on my side: only stay abroad till I am
I know what you hazard: how much I must 3 a rich man and my marriage made public, and
owe you! Forgive me; this is the last murmurlthen you may ask of me what you will. It’s
you shall ever hear from these lips." , agreed, then—order the horses—we’ll go round
An hour after those words were spoken the by Liverpool, and learn about the vessels. By-
marriage ceremony was concluded. l the-way, my good fellow, I hope you see nothing
“Caleb,” said the bridegroom, drawing the l now of that good-for-nothing brother of yours? ’
clergyman aside as they were about to rc-enter‘ “ No, indeed, sir. It’s a thousand pities he
the house, "you will keep your promise, I has turned out so ill, for he was the cleverest of
know; and you think I may depend implicitly ‘ the family, and could always twist me round his
upon the good faith of the witness you have se- little finger.” _
lectcd ?” _ “That‘s the very reason I mentioned him. If
“ Upon his good faith ?—no," said Caleb, he learned our secret, he would take it to an ex-
smiling; “ but upon his deafness, his ignorance, celient market. Where is he ‘2”
and his age. My poor old clerk! he will have “Hiding, I suspect, sir.”
forgotten all about it before this day three “Well, we shall put the sea between you:
months. Now, I have seen your lady, I no so now all’s sal'e.”
longer wonder that you incur so great a risk. Caleb stood by the porch of his house as the
I never beheld so level a countenance. You bride and bridegroom entered their humble ve-
will be happy!" And t cvillnge priest sighed, hicle. Though then November, the day was
and thought of the coming winter, and his own \ exquisitely mild and calm, the sky without a
lonely hearth. cloud, and even the leafless trees seemed to
“ My dear friend, you have only seen her, smile beneath the cheerful sun. And the youn
beauty: it is her least charm. Heaven knows l bride wept no more; she was with him she love
how often I have made love—and this is the —she was his forever. She forgot the rest.
only woman that I have ever really loved. The hope—the heart of sixteen—spoke brightly
Caleb, there is an excellent living that adjoins out through the blushes that mantled over her
my uncle’s house. The rector is old ; when the fair checks. The bridegroom’s frank and manly
house is mine, you will not be long without the \ countenance was radiant with joy. As he waved
living. We shall be neighbors, Caleb, and then his hand to Caleb from the window, the post-boy
you shall try and find a bride for yourself. cracked his whip, the servant settled himself on
Smith”—and the bridegroom turned to the sor- the dickey, the horses started off in a brisk trot
vant who had accompanied his wife, and served
as a second witness to the marriace—“ tell the
postboy to put-to the horses immeI-liately.’7
“Yes, sir. May I speak a word with you?”
“ \Vell, what ‘2”
“Your uncle, sir, sent for me to come to him
the day before we left town.”
“Aha! indeed!”
“ And I could just pick up among his servants
that he had some suspicion—at least, that he
had been making inquiries—and seemed very
cross, sir."
“ You went to him 1’”
“No, sir, I was afraid. He has such a way
with him! \Vhenever his eye is fixed on mine,
I always feel as if it was im ssible to tell a lie;
and—ond—in short, I thong t it was best not to
0'?)
“You did right. Confound this fellow!” mut-
tered the bridegroom, turning away; “ he is hon-
est, and loves me; yet, if my uncle sees him, he
is clumsy enough to betray all. Well, Ialways
meant to get him out of the way—the sooner the
better. Smith I"
“Yes, sir I”
—the clergyman was left alone!
I To be married is certainly an event in life ; to
marry other people is, for a priest, a very ordi-
nary occurrence ; and yet, from that day, a rest
change began to operate in the spirits an the
. habits of Caleb Price. Have you over, my gen-
tle reader, buried yourself for some time quietly
in the lazy ease of a dull country life ? Have
you ever become giradually accustomed to its
1 monotony and inure to its solitude; and, just at
the time when you have half forgotten the great
world—that mare magnum that frets and roars
in the distance—have you ever received in your
calm retreat some visitor, full of the bus and
excited life which you imagined yburselt con-
tented to relinquish? If so, have you not per-
ceived that, in proportion as his presence and
communication either revived old memories, or
brought before you new pictures of “the bright
tumult” of that existence of which your guest
made a part, you began to compare him curi-
‘ oust with yourself; you began to feel that what
before was to rest is now to rot; that your years
,are gliding from you unenjoyed and wasted-
1that the contrast between the animal life of


6 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER.
passionate civilization and the vegetable torpor ,heard that she regretted the forsaken lover.
of motionless seclusion is one that, if you are , Perhaps Caleb was not one of those whose place
still young, it tasks your philosophy to bear— 1 in awomari’s heart 15 never to be supplied. The
feeling all the while that the torpor may be ‘lady married, the world went round as before,
yours to yenr grave? And when your guest the brook danced as merrily through the village,
has left you, when you are afluin alone, is the j the poor worked the week-days, and the urchins
solitude the same [15' it was be em ‘2 I gamboled round the gravestones on the Sabbath,
Our poor Caleb had for years rooted his and the curatc’s heart was broken. He languish-
thoughts to his village. His guest had been, ‘ed gradually and silently away. The villagers
like the bird in the fairy tale, settling upon the ‘bbscrvcd that he had lost his old, good-humored
quiet branches, and singing so loudly and so smile—that he did not stop every saturday even-
gladly of the enchanted s ies afar, that, when it tug at the carrier’s gate, to 85k.“- there were
flew away, the tree pined, niplped and withering ,l any news stirring in the town which the carrier
in the sober sun in which be ore it had bashed , weekly Visited—that he did not come to borrow
contented. The nest was, indeed, one of those the stray newspapers that now and then found
men whose anima spirits exercise upon such as , their way into the_village-—that, as he saunterod
come within their circle the influence and power i along the brook-side, his clothes hung loose on
usually ascribed only to intellectual qualities.|his limbs— d that he no longer “whistled as
During the month he had sojourned with Caleb, be
had brought back to the poor person all the gay-
ety of the brisk and noisy novitiate that preceded
the solemn vow and the dull retreat : the social
parties, the merry suppers, the open-handed,
open-hearted fellowship of riotous, delightful,
extravagant, thoughtless room. And Caleb
was not a bookman—not a scholar; he had no
resources in himself, no occupation but his in-
dolent and ill-paid duties. The emotions, there-
fore, of the active man were easily aroused within
him. But if this comparison between his past
and present life rendered him restless and dis-
turbed, how much more deeply and lastineg
was be affected by a contrast between his own
future and that of his friend ! not in those points
where he could never hope equali —wealth and
station—the conventional distinctions to which,
after all, a man of ordinary sense must sooner or
later reconcile himself—but in that one respect
wherein all, high and low, chTchd to the same
rights; rights which a man ofmoderate warmth
o feeling can never willingly renounce, viz., a
partner in a lot however obscure; a kind face by
a hearth, no matter how mean it be! And his
hap'pier friend, like all men full of life, was full
of imself—full of his love, of his future, of the
blessings of homo, and wife, and children. Then,
too, the young bride seemed so fair, so confiding,
and so tender; so formed to grace the noblest or
to cheer the humblest home! And both were so
happy, so all in all to each other, as they left
that barren threshold! And the priest felt all
this as, melancholy and envious, he turned from
the door in that November day to find himself
thoroughly alone. He now began seriously to
muse upon those fancied blessmgs which men
wearied with celibacy see springing heavenward
behind the altar. A few weeks afterward a
notable change was visible in the good man’s
exterior. He became more careful of his dress
--he shaved every morning—he purchased a
crop-cared Welsh cob—and it was soon known
in the neighborhood that the only journey the
cob was condemned to take was to the house of
a certain squire, who, amid a family of all ages,
boasted two very pretty, marriageable daughters.
That was the second holyday-time of poor Caleb
--the love romance of his life: it soon closed.
On learning the amount of the pastor’s stipend,
the squire refused to receive his addresses; and,
short] after, the girl to whom he had attached
himsc f made what the world calls a happy
match. And perhaps it was one, for I never

he went:” a as! he was no longer in want of
thought. By degrees, the walks themselves
were suspended: the person was no longer vis-
ible: a stranger performed his duties.
One day—1t might be some three years after
the fatal visit I have commemorated—one very
wild, rough day in early March, the postman
who made the round of the district rung at the
person‘s bell. The sin le female servant, her
red hair loose in her nec , replied to the call.
“And how is the master?’
“Very bad 5” and the girl wiped her eyes.
“ He should leave you something handsome,"
remarked the postman, kindly, as be pocketed
the money for the letter.
The pastor was in bed: the boisterous wind
rattled down the chimney, and shook the ill-fit-
ting casement in its rotting frame. The clothes
be had last were were thrown carelessly about,
unsmoothed, unbrnshed; the scanty articles of
furniture were out of their proper places; slov-
enly discomfort marked the death-chamber.
And by the bedside stood a neighboring clergy-
man, a stout, rustic, homely, thoroughly Welsh
riest, who might have sat for the portrait of
arson Adams.
“ Here’s a letter for you,” said the visitor.
“ For me i” echoed Caleb, feebly. “ Ah!
well; is it not very dark, or are my eyes fail-
ing ?” The clergyman and the servant drew
aside the curtains, and propped the sick man up:
he read as follows, slowly, and with difficulty :
“DE/ts CALEB,
“ At last I can do something for you. A
friend ofmine has a living in his gift just vacant,
worth, I understand, from three to four hundred
a year; pleasant neiohborhood—small parish.
And my friend keeps t e hounds! just the thing
for you. He is, however, a very particular sort
of person; wants a companion, and has a horror
of any thing evanoclionl; wishes, therefore, to
see you before he decides. If you can meet me
in London some day next month, I‘ll present you
to him, and I have no doubt it will be settled.
You must think it strange I never wrote to you
since we parted, but you know I never was a
very good correspondent; and as I had nothing
to communicate advantageous to you, I thought
it a sort of insult to enlarge on my own happi-
ness, and so forth. All I shall say on that score
is, that I‘ve sown my wild oats; and that you
may take may word for it, there's nothing that
can make a men know how large the heart is,


INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER.
~J
and how little the world, till he comes home
(perhaps, after a hard day’s hunting), and sees
his own fireside, and hears one dear welcome;
and—oh, by-thc-way, Caleb, if you could but see
my boy, the sturdiest little rogue I But enough of
this. All that vcxes me is, that I’ve never yet
been able to declare my marriage; my uncle,
however, suspects nothing: my wife bears up
against all, like an angel as she is; still, in case
of any accident, it occurs to me, now I’m writ-
ing to you, cspeciall if you leave the place,
that it may be as we to send me an examined
cop of the register. In those remote places
registers are often lost or mislaid; and it may
be useful hereafter, when I proclaim the mar-
riage, to clear up all doubt as to the fact.
“ Good-b , old fellow,
“ ours, most truly,” 8:0. &c.

“It comes too late,” sighed Caleb, heavily,
and the letter fell from his hands. There was
a long pause. “Close the shutters,” said thel
sick man, at last ; “ I think Ieould sleep: and—
and—piclt up that letter.”
With a trembling, but eager gripe, be seized ,
the paper as a miscr would seize the deeds of an '
estate on which he has a mortgage. He smooth- I
ed the rout; looked complacently at the well-l
known hand, smiled—a ghastly smile! and then '
placed the letter under his illow, and sank.
down: they left him alone. e did not wake
for some hours, and that good clergyman, poor'
.as himself, was again at his post. The only
friendships that are really with us in the hour,
of need are those which are cemented by equality i
ofcircumsiunce. In the depth of home, in the
hour of tribulation, by the bed or death, the tichl
and the poor are seldom found side by side.l
Caleb was evidently much feebler, but his sense 1
seemed clearer than it had been, and the instincts [
of his native kindness were the last that left
him.
“ There is something he wants me to do for,
him,” he muttered. “Ah! Iremember: Jones, .
will you send for the parish register? It is some- '
where in the vestrv-room, I think—but nothing’s t
kept properly. etter go yourself—it’s im-l
portant.” 2
Mr. Jones nodded, and sallied forth. The,
register was not in the vestry, the church-5
wardens knew nothing about it; the clerk—a,
new clerk, who also was the sexton, and rather l
tt wild fellow—had gone ten miles ofi'to a wed-l
ding: every place was searched; till, at last,‘
the book was found, amid a heap of old mega-5
zines and dusty papers, in the parlor of Caleb1
himself. By the time it was brought to him the,
sufferer was fast declining; with some difficulty I

his dim eye discovered the place, where, amid,
thgl‘pothooks of the parishioners, the large, clear,
he
“ Go on.”
“ That is all I have.to say: sign your name,
and put the address—here it is. Ah, the letter,"
he muttered, “ must not lie about l If any thing
happen to me, it may get him into trouble." .
And, as Mr. Jones scaled his communication,
Caleb feebly stretched his wan hand. and held
the letter which had “come too latei’ over the
flame of the candle. As the paper dropped on
the cnrpetless floor, Mr. Jones prudently set
thereon the broad sole of his top-boot, and the
maid servant brushed it into the grate.
“ Ah, trample it out; hurry it among the
ashes. The last as the rest,” said Caleb hoarse-
ly. “Friendship, fortune, hope, love, life—a lit-
tle flame, and then—and then—”
"' Don’t be uneasy; it’s quite out i" said Mr.
Jones.
Caleb turned his face to the wall. He linger-
ed till the next day, when he passed insensibly
from sleep to death. As soon as the breath was
out of his body Mr. Jones felt that his duty was
discharged—that other duties called him home.
He promised to return to read the burial service
over the deceased, gave some hasty orders about
the plain funeral, and wits turning from the room.
when he saw the letter he had written by Caleb’s
wish still on the table. “I pass the post-office,
I’ll put it in,” said he to the weeping servant;
“andjust give me that scrap of paper.” So he
wrote on the scrap, “ P. S. He died this morn-
ing at half-past twelve, without pain.—-R. J. ;"
and, without the trouble of breaking the seal,
thrust the final bulletin into the folds of the let-
ter, which he then carefully placed in his vast
pocket, and safely transferred to the post. And
that was all that the ‘ovial and he py man to
whom the letter was is dressed ever card of the
last days of his colle e friend.
The living vacant _v the death of Caleb Price
was not so valuable as to plague the patron with
many applications. It continued vacant nearly
the whole ofthe six months prescribed by law.
And the desolate personage was committed to
the charge of one of the villagers, who had
occasionally assisted Caleb in the care of his
little garden. The villager, his wife, and halfa
dozen noisy, ragged children, took possession of
the quiet bachelor’s abode. The furniture had
been sold to pa the expenses of the funeral and
a few trifling bills; and, save the kitchen and
the two attics, the empty house, uninhabited,
was surrendered to the s ortive mischief of the
idle urchins, who prowl about the silent cham-
bers in fear of the silence and in ecstasy at the
space. The bed-room in which Caleb had died
was, indeed, long held sacred by infantine super-
stition. But one day the eldest boy having ven-
tured across the threshold, two cupboav s, the
doors standing njar, attracted the child’s curi-
of his old friend, and trembling characters; osity. He opened one, and his exclamation soon
of the bride, looked forth distinguished.
brought the rest of the children round him. Have
“ Extract this for me, will you?” said Caleb. you ever, reader, when a boy, suddenly stumbled
Mr. J ones obeyed.
l
“ Now just write above the extract:
“ Sta—By Mr. Price’s desire Isend you the
incloscd. He is too ill to write himself. But,
on that El Dorado, called by the grown-up folks
a lumber-room? Lumber, indeedl what Virlr‘t
double-locks in cabinets is the real lumber to
the boy! Lumber, reader! to thee it was a
he bids me say that he has never been quite the t treasury ! Now this cupboard had been the lum-
same man since you left him; and that, if hetbcr-room in Caleb’s household. In an instant
should not get well again, still your kind letter the whole troop had thrown themselves on_the
has made him easier in his mind.” motlcy contents. Strnyjoints of clumsy fishing-
Cfllob 510PP0d- rods, artificial baits, a pair of worn-out top‘boots,


8 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER.
in which one of the urchins, whooping and shout-
ing, bu ricd himselfup to the middle; moth-eaten,
stained, and ragged, the collegian’s gown—relic
of the dead man‘s almy time; a bag of carpen-
ter’s tools, chiefly roken, a cricket-bat, an odd
boxing-glove, a fencing-foil, snapped in the mid~
dle; and, more than all, some half-finished at-
tempts at rude toys: a, boat, a cart, at doll’s
house, in which the good-natured Caleb had
busied himself for the ounger ones of that family
in which he had found' the fatal ideal of his trite
life. One by one were these lagged forth from
their dusty slumber—profane hands stru gling
for the first right of appropriation. An now,
revealed against the wall, glared upon the start-
led violators of the sanctuary, with glassy eyes
and horrcnt visage, a grim monster. They hud-
dled b‘Rk'bne upon the other, ale and breathles
till the eldest, seeing that the creature mov
not, took heart—approached on tiptoe—twice
receded, and twice again advanced, and finally
drew out, daubcd, painted, and tricked forth in
the semblance of a griffin, a gigantic kite!
The children, alas! were not old and wise
enough to know all the dormant value of that
imprisoned aeronaut, which had cost poor Caleb
many a dull evening’s labor—the intended gift
to the false one’s favorite brother. But they
guessed that it was a thing or s irit appertaining
of right to thcm- and they reso vcd, after mature
consultation, to impart the secret of their discov-
ery to an old wooden-legged villager who had
served in the army, who was the idol of all the
children of the place; and who, they firmly be-
lieved, knew every thing under the sun except
the mystical arts of rea ing and writing. Ac-
cordin ly, havin seen that the coast was clear
—for t ey consi ered their parents (as the chil-
dren of the hard-working often do) the natural
foes to amusement—tho carried the monster
into an old outhousc, and ran to the veteran to
beg him to come up slyly and inspect its proper-
ties.
Three months after this memorable event ar-
rived the new pastor: a slim, prim, orderly, and
starch young man, framed by nature and trained
by practice to bear a great deal of solitude and
starvin . Two loving couples had waited to be
marrie till His Reverence should arrive. The
ceremony performed, where was the registry-
hook? The vestry was searched, the church-
wardens intcrrocated; the ay clerk, who, on
the demise of his deaf pre ecessor, had come
into office a little before Caleb’s last illness, had
a dim recollection of having taken the registry
up to Mr. Price at the time the vestry-room was
whitewashed. The house was searched; the
cupboard, the mysterious on board, was explor-
ed. “Here it is, sir!” crie the clerk; and he
pounced upon a pale parchment volume. The
thin clergyman opened it, and recoiled in dismay .
more than three fourths of the leaves had been
torn out.
“It is the moths, sir,” said the ardener’s
wife, who had not et removed from t e house.
The clergyman ooked round : one of the chil-
dren was trembling. . “What have you done to
this book, little one ‘3”
“ That book ?-the—hi l—hi l—”
'" Speak the truth, and you shan’t be punished.”
“ldid not know it was any harm—hi !—hi 1—"
“Well, and—”

“ And old Ben helped us.”
“ Well I” '
“ And—and—and—hi l—hi !—The tail of the
kite, sir !—-”
“Where is the kite ?"
Alas! the kite and its tail were long ago gone
to that undiscovered limbo, where all thingslost,
broken, vanished, and destroyed—things that
lose themselves, for servants are too honest to
steal: things that break themselves, for servants
are too careful to break—find an everlasting and
impenetrable refuge.
“It does not signify a pin’s head,” said the
clerk; “the parish must find a new ’un l”
“It is no fault of mine," said the pastor.
“ Are my chops ready ‘1'” '
+
CHAPTER II.
“ And soothed with Idle dreams the
Frowning fute."—Cminn|:.
“ WHY does not my father come back ? What
a time he has been away!”
" My dear Philip, business detains him: but
he will be here in a few days—perhaps to-day l"
“I should like him to see how much I am im-
proved.” '
“ Improved in what, Philip 1’” said the mother,
with a smile. “ Not Latin, I am sure 5 for l have
not seen you open a book since you insisted on
poor Todd‘s dismissal."
“Todd ! Oh, he was such a scrub, and spoke
through his nose: what could he know of Latin ‘3"
“More than you ever will, I fear, unless—”
and here there was a certain hesitation in the
mother’s voice, “unless your father consents to
your going to school.”
“Well, I should like to go to Eton !” That’s
the only school for a gentleman. I’ve heard my
father say so."
“Philip, you are too proud."
“Proud! You often call me proud, but then
you kiss me when you do so. Kiss me now,
mother."
The lady drew her son to her breast, put aside
the clustering hair from his forehead, and kissed
him; but the kiss was sad, and a moment after
she pushed him away gently, and muttercd, un-
conscious that she was overheard,
“ If, after all, my devotion to the father should
wrong the children!”
The boy started, and a cloud passedover his
brow ; but he said nothin . A light stcp entered
the room through the reach easements that
opened on the lawn, and the mother turned to her
youngest-born, and her eye brightened.
“ Mammal mamma ! here is a letter for you.
,I snatched it from John: it is papa’s handwrit-
in .II
gI‘he lady uttered a joyous exclamation, and
seized the letter. The younger child nestled
himself on a stool at her feet, looking up while
she read it; the elder stood apart, leaning on his
gun, and with something of thought, even 01
gloom, upon his countenance. _ _
There was a strong contrast in the two chil-
dren. The older, who was about fifteen, seemed
older than he was, not only from his hei ht, but
from the darkness of his complexion, an a cer-
tain proud, nay, imperious expression upon feat-
ures that, without having the soft and fluent


NIGHT AND MORNING.
9
es of childhood, were yet re lar and strik-
rnv. His dark-green shooting- ress, with the
bedt and pouch; the cap, with its gold tassel set
upon his luxuriant curls, which had the purple
gloss of the raven’s plume, blended, perhaps,
something prematurely manly in his own tastes
with the love of the fantastic and the picturesque
which bes oaks the presiding genius of the proud
mother. he younger son ad scarcely told his
ninth year; and the soft auburn ringlcts, descend-
ing half way down the shoulders; the rich and
delicate bloom that exhibits at once the hardy
health and the gentle fostering; the large, deep
blue eves; the flexile and almost effeminate con-
tour of the harmonious features, altogether made
such an ideal of childlike beauty as Lawrence
had loved to paint or Chantrcy model.
And the daintiest cares of a mother, who, as
'yet, has her darling all to herself—her toy, her
plaything—were visible in the large fallin col-
lar of finest cambric, and the blue velvet ress,
with its filigree buttons and embroidered sash.
Both the boys had about them the air of those
whom Fate ushers blandly into life: the air of
wealth, and birth, and luxury, spoiled and pam-
pered, as if earth had no thorn for their feet, and
Heaven not a wind to visit their young cheeks
too roughly. The mother had been extreme]
handsome, and though the first bloom of yout
was now gone, she had still the beauty that
might captivate new love: an easier task than
to retain the old. Both her sons, though ditfer-
ing from each other, resembled her. She had
the featurcs of the younger; and probably any
one who had seen her in her own earlier youth
would have recognized in that child’s gay, ct
gentle countenance, the mirror of the mot er
when a girl. Now, however, especially when
silent or thourvhtful, the expression of her face was
rather that of, the elder boy; the cheek, once so
rosy, was now pale, though clear, with something
which time had given, of pride and thought, in
the curved lip and the high forehead. They who
could have looked on her in her more lonely
hours might have seen that the pride had known
shame, and the thought was the shadow of the
passions of fear and sorrow.
But now, as she read those hasty, brief, but
well-remembered characters—read as one whcse
heart was in her eyes—joy and triumph alone
were visible in that eloquent countenance. Her
eyes flashed, her breast heaved; and at length,
c usping the letter to her lips, she kissed it again
and again with passionate transport. Then, as
her eyes met the dark, inquiring, earnest gaze
of her eldest born, she flung her arms round him
and wept vehemently.
“ What is the matter, momma, dear momma?”
said the youngest, pushing himself between Philip
and his mother.
“Your father is coming back this day—this
very hour; and you—you—child—dyou, Phili ”
Here sobs broke in upon her wor s, and lo t her
speechless.
The letter that had produced this effect ran as
follows:
“ Tb Mas. Moa'rou, Fernside Cottage.
“ DEARES’I‘ KATE—My last letter prepared
you for the news I have now to relate—my poor
uncle is no more. Though I had seen so little
of him, especially of late years, his death sensibly
' affected me: but I have at least the consolation
i of thinking that there is nothing now to prevent
my doing justice to you. I am the sole heir to
,his fortune. I have it in my power, dearest
‘, Kate, to offer you a tardy recompense for all you
i have put up with for my sake; a sacred testimony
to your long forbearance, your unreproachful
love, your wrongs, and your devotion. Our
children too—my noble Philip l—kiss them, Kate
-—kiss them for me a thousand times.
“I write in great haste; the burial is just
over, and my letter will only serve to announce
my return. My darling Catharine, I shall be
with you almost as soon as those lines meet
your eyes—those dear eyes, that, for all the
tears they have shed for my faults and follies,
have never looked the less kind.
“ Yours, ever as ever,
“ PHILIP BEAUFORT."
_ This letter has told its tale, and little remains
to explain. Philip Beaufort was one of those
men of whom there are many in his peculiar
class of society—easy, thoughtless, good-hum-
ored, generous, with feelings infinitely better
than his principles.
Inheriting himself but a moderate fortune,
which was three parts in the hands of the Jews
before he was twenty-five, he had the most bril-
liant expectations from his uncle; an old bach-
elor, who, from a courticr, had turned a misan-
thrope; cold, shrewd, penetrating, worldly, sar-
castic, and imperious; and from this relation he
received, meanwhile, a handsome, and, indeed,
munifioent allowance. About sixteen years be-
fore the date at which this narrative opens,
Philip Beaufort had “run off,” as the saying is,
with Catharine Morton, then little more than a
child—a motherless child—educated at a board:
ing-school to notions and desires far beyond her
station , tor she was the daughter of a provincial
tradesmen. And Philip Beaufort, in the prime
of life, was possessed of most of the qualities
that dazzle the eyes, and many of the arts that
betray the affections. It was suspected by some
that they were privately married: if so, the
secret had been closely kept, and hafllcd all the
inquiries of the stern old uncle. Still there was
much, not only in the manner, at once modest
and dignified, but in the character of Cathariuc,
which was proud and high-spirited, to give color
to the suspicion. Beaufort, a man naturally
careless of forms, aid her a marked and punc-
tilious respect; and3 his attachment was evidently
one, not only of passion, but of confidence and
esteem. Time developed in her mental qualitics
far superior to those of Beaufort; and for those
she had ample leisure of cultivation. '_I‘o the in-
fluence derived from her mind and person she
added that of a frank, affectionate, and winning
disposition; their children cemented the bond
between them. Mr. Beaufort was passionately
attached to field-sports. He lived the greater
part of the year With Catharine at the beautiful
cottage, to which he had built hunting-stables
that were the admiration of the county; and,
though the cottage was near to Lon on, tho

.pleasures of the metropolis seldom allurcd him
ifor more than a few days—generally but a few
hours—at a time- and he always hurried back
with renewed relish to what he considered hu
1 home.


10
NIGHT AND MORNING.
Whatever the connection between Catharine
and himself (and of the true nature of that con-
nection, the Introductory Chapter has made the
reader more enlightened than the world), her
influence had at least weaned from all excesses,
and many follies, a man who, before he knew
her, had seemed likely, from the extreme jovial-
ity and carelessness of his nature, and a very
imperfect education, to contract whatever vices
were most in fashion as preservatives against,
nmui. And if their union had been openly hal-
lowed by the church, Philip Beaufort had been I
universally esteemed the model of a tender hus- |
band and a fond father. Ever, as he became
more and more acquainted with Catharine‘s nat- .
urui good qualities, and more and more attached
to his homc,'had Mr, Beaufort, with the gener-
osity of true atfcction, desired to remove from
her the ain of an equivocal condition by a pub-
lic marriage. But Mr. Beaufort, though gener-
ous, was not free from the worldliness which
had met him every where nmid thc society in
which his youth had been spent. His uncle,
the head of one of those families which yearly
vanish from the commonalty into the peerage,
but which once formed a distinguished peculiar-
ity in the aristocracy of England—families of
ancient birth, immense possessions, at once no-
ble and untitled—held his estates by no other
tenure than his own caprice. Though he pro-
fessed to like Philip, yet he saw but little of him.
When the news of the illicit connection his
nephew was reported to have formed reached
him, he at first resolved to break it off; but, ob-
serving that Philip no longer gambled nor run
in debt, and had retired from the turf to the
safer and more economical pastimes of the field,
be contented himself with inquiries which satis-
fied him that Philip was not married; and er-
haps he thought it, on the whole, more ru ent
to wink at an error that was not attende by the
hills which had heretofore charactertaed the hu-
man infirmitics of his reckless nephew. He took
care, however, incidentally, and in reference to
some scandal of the day, to pronounce his opin-
ion, not upon the fault, but upon the only mode
of repairing it.
“If ever,” said he, and he looked grimly at
Philip while he spoke, “a gentleman were to
disgrace his ancestry by introducing into his
family one whom his own sister could not re-
ceive at her house, why, he ought to sink to her ,
level, and wealth would but make his disgrace
the more notorious. If 1 had an only son, and i
that son were booby enou h to do any thing so ,
disereditable as to marry eneath him, I would
rather have my footman for my successor. You
understand, Phil?"
Philip did understand, and looked round at the l
noble house and the stately park, and his gener- ,
osity was not equal to the trial. Catharine—so ,
'reat was her power over him—might, perhaps, i
ave easily triumphed over his more selfish cal- ,
oulations; but her love was too delicate ever to
breathe, of itself, the hope that In deepest at.
her heart. And her children!— 1! for them.
she pitted, but for them she also hopcd. Before
them was a long future; and she had all confi-
dence in Philip. Of late, there had been con-
siderable doubts how far the elder Beaufort
would realize the expectations in which his
nephew had been reared. Philip’s younger ‘

brother had been much with the old gentleman,
and appeared to be in high favor; this brother
was a man in every respect the opposite of
Philip: sober, supple, decorous, ambitious, with
a face of smiles and a heart of ice.
But the old gentleman was taken dangerously
ill, and Philip was summoned to his bed of death.
vRobert, the younger brother, was there also.
with his wife (for he had married prudently)
and his children—(he had two, a son and daugh-
ter). Not a word did the uncle say as to the
disposition of his property till an hour before he
died. And then, turning in his bed, he looked
first at one nephew, then at the other, and falt-
ered out, ,
“ Philip, you are a scapegracc, but a gentle-
man : Robert, you are a careful, sober, plausible
man, and it is a great pity you were not in busi-
ness: on would have made a fortune !--you
won’t inherit one, though you think it: I have
marked you, sir. Philip, beware of your brother.
Now let me see the rson."
The old man die , the will was read, and
Philip succeeded to a rental of £20,000 a year;
Robert to a diamond rin , a old repeater,
£5000, and a curious collection of ttled snakes.
_+_
CHAPTER III.
" Stay. delightful Dream ;
Let him within his picnstlttt garden walk;
Give him her arm—of blessings let them talk,"
CllABII.
“Tunas, Robert, there! now you can see
the new stables. B Jove, they are the com-
pletest thing in the three kingdoms!”
“ Quite a pile! But is that. the house ? You
iod 3 your horses more magnificently than your-
sel .
“But is it not a beautiful cottawe ?—-to be
sure it owes every thing to Catharine’s taste.
Dear Catharine i”
Mr. Robert Beaufort—for this colloquy took
place between the brothers as their britska
rapidly descended the hill, at the foot of which
lay Fernside Cottage and its miniature demesnes
—Mr. Robert Beaufort pulled his traveling-cap
over his brows, and his countenance fell, whether
at the name of Catharine, or the tone in which
the name was littered; and there was a pause,
broken by a third occu ant of the britska, a youth
of about seventeen, w sat opposite the broth-
crs.
“ And who are those boys on the lawn, uncle ?"
‘- Who are those boys '3” It was a simple
question, but it grated on the ear of Mr. Robert
Beaufort : it struck discord at his heart. “Who
are those boys ‘1’” as they ran across the sword,
eager to welcome their father home—the west-
ering sun shining full on theirjoyous faces—their
young forms so lithe and so graceful—their mer_
ry laughter ringing in the still air. “Those
boys,” thought Mr. Robert Beaufort, “ the sons
of shame, rob mine of his inheritance.” The
elder brother turned round at his nephew’s
question, and saw the expression on Robert‘s
face. He hit his lip, and answered gravely,
“ Arthur, they are my children.”
“I did not know you were married,” replied
Arthur, bending forward to take a better view
of his cousins.


NIGHT AND MORNING.
11
Mr. Robert Beaufort smiled bitterly, and
Philip’s brow grew crimson.
The carriage stopped at the little lodge.
Philip opened the door and jumped to the
ground; the brother and his son followed. A
moment more, and Philip was locked in Catha-
rine’s arms, her tears falling fast upon his breast,
his children plucking at his coat, and the young-
cr one crying, in his shrill, impatient treble,
"‘ Papal papa! you don’t see Sidne ', papa l“
Mr. Robert Beaufort placed his and on his
son’s shoulder and arrested his steps as they con-
templated the group before them.
“ Arthur," said he, in a hollow whisper,
“those children are our disgrace and your sup-
plantcrs; they are bastards! bastards! and they
are to be his heirs!”
Arthur made no answer, but the smile with
which he had hitherto gazed on his new relations
vanished.
“ Kate," said Mr. Beaufort, as he turned from
Mrs. Morton, and lifted his youngest-hem in his
arms, “this is my brother and his son: they are
welcome, are they not?”
Mr. Robert bowed low, and extended his
hand, with stifl' afi‘ability, to Mrs. Morton, mut-
tering something equally complimentary and in-
audible.
The party proceeded toward the house.
Philip and Arthur brought up the rear.
“ Do you shoot ?” asked Arthur, observing the
gun in his cousin’s hand. -
“Yes. I hope this season to bag as many
head as my father: he is a famous shot. But
this is only a single barrel, and an old-fashioned
sort of detonator. My father must get me one
ofthe new uns. I can’t afford it myself.”
“I shoul think not,” said Arthur, smiling.
“ Oh, as to that,” resumed Philip, quickly, and
with a heightened color, “I could have managed
it very well ifI had not given thirty guineas for
a brace of pointers the other day: they are the
best dogs you ever saw.”
“ Thirty guineas !” echoed Arthur, looking
with naive surprise at the speaker, “ why, how
old are you ‘3'”
“Just fifteen last birthday. Holloa, John!
John Green!” cried the young gentleman, in
an imperious voice. to one of the gardeners who
was crossing the lawn, “see that the nets are
taken down to the lake to-morrow, and that my
tent is pitched lproperly, by tho lime-trees, by
nine o’clock. ho c you will understand me
this time : Heaven nows you take a great deal
of telling before you understand any thing i”
“ Yes, Mr. Philip," said the man, bowing ob-
se uiously; and then muttered as he went off,
“ rat the nat’rel! he speaks to a poor man as
if he warn’t flesh and blood.”
“ Does your father keep hunters 1'" asked
Philip. .
(I No ’7
IL A?"
“Perhaps one reason may be that he is not
rich enough.”
“ Oh! that’s a pity. Never mind, we'll
mount you whenever you like to pay us a visit.”
Young Arthur drew himself up, and his air.
natural] frank and gentle, became haughty and
reserve . Philip gazed on him and felt oli'endecl;
he scarce knew why, but from that moment he
conceived a dislike to his cousin.

CHAPTER IV.
“ For a man is helpless and vain, of a condition so ex—
posed io calamity that n rnisin is able to kill him: any
trooper out or the Egyptian army—a fly can do it, when
it [mes on God‘s errand."
Juan" Tnnoa: 0a Ma Deccitfalnesa of the Heart.
Tue two brothers sat at their wine after din-
ner. Robert sipped Claret, the sturdy Philip
quafl'ed his more generous port. Catharine and
'the boys might be seen at a little distance, and
by the light of a soft August moon, among the
shrubs and ‘bosquetq of the lawn.
Philip Beaufort was about five-and-fo . tall,
robust, nay, of great strength of frame an limb,
with a countenance extremely winning, not only
from the comcliness of its features, but its frank-
ness, manliness, and cod-nature. His was the
bronzed, rich com lexiou, the inclination towards
embonpoint, the at letio girth of chest, which de-
note redundant health, and mirthful temper, and
sanguine blood. Robert, who had lived the life
of cities, was a year younger than his brother;
nearly as tall, but pale, meager, stooping, and
with a caroworn, anxious, hungry look, which
made the smile that hung upon his lips seem
hollow and artificial. His dress, thou h lain,
was neat and studied; his manner b an and
plausible; his voice sweet and low: there was
that about him which, if it did not win liking.
tended to excite respect; a certain decorum, a
nameless propriety of appearance and bearing.
that approached a little to formality: his every
movement, slow and measured, was that of one
who paced in the circle that fenc'es round the
habits and usages of the world.
“ Yes,” said Philip, “I had always decided to
take this step whenever mv poor uncle’s death-
should allow me to do so. on have seen Cath-
arine, but you do not know half her good quali-
ties; she would grace any station: and, beside.
she nursed me so carefully last year, when I
broke m collar-bone in that cursed steeple-
chase. ad, I am getting too heavy and grow-
ing too oldgfor such schoolboy pranks."
“1 have no doubt of Mrs Morton’s excellence,
and I honor your motives; still, when you talk
of her gracing any station, you must not forget,
my dear brother, that she. will be no more re-
ccived as Mrs. Beaufort than she is now as Mrs.
Morton."
“ But I tell you, Robert, that I am really mar-
ried to her already—that she would never have
left her home but on that condition—that we
were married the very day we met after her
fli ht.”
globert’s thin lips broke into a slight sneer of
incredulity.
“My dear brother, you do ri ht to say this:
any man in your situation woul . But I know
that my uncle took every pains to ascertain if
the report ofa private marriage were true.”
“And you helped him in the search. Eh,
Bob ?”
Bob slightly blushed. Philip went on:
“ Ha, ha, to be sure you did; you knew that
such a discovery would have done for me in the
old gentleman‘s good opinion. But I blinded
you both, ha, ha! The fact is, that we were
married with the greatest prime ; that even
, now, I own, it would be difficult lor Catharine
herself to establish the fact unless I wished it.
I am ashamed to think that I have never even


12
NIGHT AND MORNING.
told her where I keep the main proof of the mar-
riage. I induced one witness to leave the coun-
try, the other must belong since dead: my poor
friend, too, who officiated, is no more. Even the
register, Bob, the register itself has been de-
stroyed; and yet, notwithstanding, I will prove
the ceremony and clear up poor Catharine’s
fame; for I have the attested copy of the regis-
ter safe and sound. Catharine not married !
Why, look at her, man l” .
Mr. Robert Beaufort glanced at the window
for a moment, but his countenance was still that
of one unconvinced. '
“ Well, brother," said he, dipping his fingers
in the water-glass, “it is not for me to contradict
you. It is a very curious tale—parson dead—
witncsscs missing. But still, as 1 said before, if
you are resolved on a public marriage, you are
wise to insist that there has been a previous pri-
vate one. Yet, believe me, Philip,” continued
Robert, with solemn earnestness, “ the world—5’
“D— the world! What do I care for the
world '? We don’t want to go to routs and balls,
and give dinners to fine people. I shall live
much the same as Ihave always done; 033‘}
shall now keep the hounds—they are very ' i -
ferently kept at present—and have a yacht, and
engage the best masters for the boys. Phil
wants to go to Eton; but I know what Eton is.
Poor fellow! his feelings might be hurt there, if
others are as skeptical as yourself. I suppose
my old friends will not be less civil now I have
£20,000 a year. And as for the society of
women, between you and me, I don’t care a
rush for any woman but Catharine: poor Katty l”
“W'ell, you are the best judge of your own
affairs : you don't misinterpret my motives ?”
“My dear Bob, no. I am quite sensible how
kind it is in you—a man of your starch habits
and strict views—coming hero to pay a mark of
respect to Kate (Mr. Robert turned uneasily in
his chair) even before you knew of the private
marriage; and I am sure I don’t blame you for
never having done it before. You did quite
ig‘ht to try your chance with my uncle.”
Mr. Robert turned in his chair again, still
more uneasily, and cleared his voice as if to
speak. But Philip tossed all" his wine, and pro-
ceeded without hecding his brother,
“ And though the poor old man does not seem
to have liked you the better for consulting his
seruples. yet we must make up for the partiality
of his will. Let me see—what, with your wife’s
fortune, you master £2000 a year ?”
“ Only £1500, Philip, and Arthur’s education
is growian expensive. Next year he goes to
college. e is certainly very clever, and I have
great h0pes—"
“That he will do honor to us all—so have I.
He is a noble young fellow; and I think my
Philip may find a great deal to learn from him.
Phil is a sad, idle dog, but with a devil of a spirit,
and sharp as a needle. I wish you could see
him ride. Well, to return to Arthur. Don’t
trouble yourself about his education: that shall
be my care. He shall 0 to Christ Church—a
gentleman commoner, 0 course—and when he’s
of age we’ll get him into Parliament. Now for
yourself, Bob. I shall sell the town-house in
Berkeley Square, and whatever it brings you
shall have. Besides that, I’ll add £1500 a year
to your £1500: so that’s said and done. Pshaw!

brothers should be brothers. Let’s come out
and play with the boys l”
The two Beauforts stepped through the open
casement into the lawn.
“You look pale, Bob—all you London follows
do. As for me, I feel as strong as a horse; much
better than when I was one of your ay dogs,
straying loose about the town! ’Ga ! I have
never had a moment’s ill health, except a fall
now and then: I feel as if I should live forever,
and that’s the reason why I could never make a
will. ’
“ Have you never, then, made your will?"
“Never as yet. Faith, till now, I had little
enough to leave. But, now that all this great
Beaufort roperty is at my own disposal, I must
think of ate s jointurc. By Jove! now I speak
of it, I will ride to to-morrow, and consult
the lawyer there both about the will and the
marriage. You will stay for the wedding 1’”
“Why, I must go into shire to-morrow
evening, to place Arthur with his tutor. But
I’ll return for the wedding, if you particularly
wish it: only Mrs. Beaufort is a woman of very
strict—”
“I do particularl wish it,” interrupted Philip,
gravely; “for I esire, for Catharine‘s sake,
that you, my sole surviving relation, may not
seem to withhold your countenance from an act
ofjusticc to her. And as for your wife, I fancy
£1500 a year would reconcile her to my marry_
ing out of the penitentia .”
Mr. Robert bowed hisrhead, coughed huskily,
and said, “I appreciate your generous affection,
Philip.”
The next mornin , while the elder parties
were still over the reakfast-table, the young
people were in the grounds: it was a lovely
day, one of the last of the luxuriant August;
and Arthur, as he looked round, thought he had
never seen a more beautiful place. It was, in-
deed, just the spot to captivate a youthful and
susceptible fancy. The villa. e of Fernside,
though in one of the counties joining Middle-
sex, and as near to London as the owner’s pas-
sionate pursuits of the field would permit, was
yet as rural and sequestered as if a hundred
miles distant from the smoke of the huge city.
Though the dwelling was called a cottage,
Philip had enlarged the original modest building
into a villa of some pretenstons. On either side
a graceful and well-proportioned portico stretched
verandahs, covered with roses and clematis; to
the right extended a range of costly conservato-
ries, terminating in vistas of trellis-work, which
formed those elegant alleys called roseries, and
served to screen the more useful gardens from
view. The lawn, smooth and even, was studded
with American plants and shrubs in flower, and
bounded on one side by a small lake, on the op-
posite bank of which limes and cedars threw
their shadows over the clear waves. On the
other side, a light fence separated the grounds
from a large paddock, in which three or four
hunters grazed in indolent enjoyment. It was
one of those cottages which bespeak the ease
and luxury not often found in more ostentatious
mansions; an abodc'which the visitor of sixteen
contemplates with vague notions of poetry and
love—which at forty he might think dull and
d—d expensive—which at sixty he would pro-
nounce to be damp in winter, and full of earwigs


NIGHT AND MORNING.
13
in the summer. Master Philip was leaning on
his favorite gun; Master Sidney was chasing a
peacock butterfl ; Arthur was silently gazing
on the shinin ake and the still foliage that
drooped over its surface. In the countenance
of this young man there was something that
excited a certain interest. He was less hand-
some than Philip, but the expression of his face
was more preposessing. There was something
of pride in the forehead ; but of good-nature, not
unmixed with irresolution and weakness, in the
curves of the mouth. He was more delicate of
frame than Philip, and the color of his complexion
was not that of a robust constitution. His move-
ments were graceful and self-possessed, and he
had his father’s sweetness of voice.
“This is really beautiful! I envy you, cousin
Philip.”
“ Has not your father got a country-house ?"
“No: we live either in London or at some
hot, crowded watering-place.”
“Yes; this is very nice during the shooting
and hunting season. But my old nurse says we
shall have a much finer‘place now. I liked this
very well till I saw Lor Belville‘s place. But
it is very unpleasant not to have the finest house
in the county: and Cesar out m'ln'l—that’s my
motto. Ah! do you see that swallow ? I’ll bet
you a guinea I hit it."
“No, poor thing! don’t hurt it.” But, ere
the remonstrance was uttered, the bird lay quiv-
ering on the ground.
“ It is just September, and one must keep
one’s hand in,” said Philip, as he reloaded his
To Arthur this action seemed a wanton cruel-
ty; it was rather the wanton recklessness which
belongs to a wild boy accustomed to gratify the
impulse of the moment; the recklessness which
is not cruelty in the boy, but which prosperity
may pamper into cruelty in the man. And scarce
had be reloaded his gun before the neigh of a
younrr colt came from a neiflhboring paddock,
and hilip bounded to the once. “He calls
me, poor fellow; you shall see him feed from
my hand. Run in for a piece of bread—a large
piece, Sidney." The boy and the animal seemed
to understand each other. “I see you don’t like
horses,” he said to Arthur. “ As for me, I love
dogs, horses—every dumb creature.”
“Except swallows i” said Arthur, with a half
smile, and a little surprised at the inconsistency
of the boast.
“Oh! that is sport—all fair: it is not to hurt
the swallow—it is to obtain skill," said Philip,
coloring; and then, as if not quite easy with his
own definition, he turned away abruptly.
“This is dull work: suppose we fish. By
Jove! (he had caught his father’s cxpletivc),
that blockhead has put the tent on the wrong
side of the lake, after all. Holla, you, sir!” and
the unhappy gardener looked up from his flower-
bods; "what ails you? I have a great mind to
tell my father of you: you grow stupidier every
day. I told you to put the tent under the lime-
trees."
“ We could not manage it, sir; the boughs
were in the wa .”
“And why did not you cut the boughs, block-
head ?"
“I did not dare do so, sir, without master’s
orders ” said the man, doggedly.

“My orders are sufficient, I should think: so
none of your impertinence,” cried Philip, with a
raised color; and lifting his hand, in which he
held his ramrod, he shook it mcnucingly over
the ardener’s head: “ I’ve a reat mind to-”
“ Vhat’s the matter, Philip?" cried the good-
humored voice of his father: “fy!”
“ This fellow does not mind what I say, sir.”
“I did not like to cut the hon hs of the lime-
trees without your orders, sir,’ said the gar-
dener.
“No, it would be a pity to cut them. You
should consult me there, Master Philip;” and
the father shook him by the collar with a good-
natured and affectionate, but rough sort of ca-
ress. '
“ Be quiet, father!” said the boy, petulantly
and proudly, “or,” he added, in a lower voice,
but one which showed emotio , “ my cousin may
thirglr you mean less kindly than you always do,
sir.
The father was touched. “ Go and cut the
lime boughs, John; and always do as Mr. Philip
tells you. ’
The mother was behind, and she sighed audi-
bly, “ Ah! dearest, I fear you will spoil him."
“Is he not your son—and do we not owe him
the more respect for having hitherto allowed
others to—"
He stopped, and the mother could say no
more. And thus it was that this boy of power-
ful character and strong passions had, from
motives the most amiable, been pampered from
the darling into the despot.
“And now, Kate, I will, as I told on last
night, ride over to and fix the ear iest day
for our marria e. I will ask the law 'er to dine
here, to talk a out the proper steps for proving
the private one."7
“Will that be diflicult ?” asked Catharine,
with natural anxiety.
“No; for, if you remember, I had the precau-
tion to get an examined copy of the register;
otherwise, I own to you, I should have been
alarmed. I don‘t know what has become of
Smith. I heard some time since from his father
that he had left the colony; and (I never told
you before—it would have made you uneasy)
once, a few years ago, when my uncle again
got it into his head that we might be married, I~
was afraid poor Caleb’s successor might, by
chance, betray us. So I went over to A—--
mysclf, being near it when I was staying with
Lord C , in order to see how far it might be
necessary to secure the person; and, only think!
I found an accident had happened to the register.
so, as the clergyman could know nothing, I kept
my own council. How lucky I have the copy!
No doubt the lawyer will set all to rights; and,
while I am making settlements. I may as well
make my will. I have plenty for both boys, but
the dark one must he the heir. Does he not look
born to be an eldest son ?”
“Ah, Philip!”
“ Pshaw! one don’t die the Sooner for making
a will. Have I the air of a man in a consump-
tion ‘2‘” and the sturdy sportsman glanced com-
plaCcntly at the strength and symmetry of his
manly limbs. “ Como, Phil, let’s go to lhe sta-
bles. New, Robert, I will show you what is
better worth seeing than those miserable flower-
beds.” So saying, Mr. Beaufort led the way to


ll
NIGHT AND MORNING.
the court-yard at the hack of the cottage. Cath-
uriue and Sidney remained on the lawn, the rest
followed the host. The rooms, of whom Beau-
fort was the idol, hasten to show how well the
horses had thriven in his absence.
“D0 see how Brown Bess has come on, sir;
but, to be sure, Master Philip keeps her in ex-
ercise. Ah, sir, he will be as good a rider as
your honor one of these days."
“ He ought to be, Tom, for I think he’ll never
have my weight to carry. \Vell, saddle Brown
Bess for Mr. Phili . What horse shall I take 1’
Ah! here’s my 01 friend Puppet.”
“I don’t know what’s come to Puppet, sir;
he's otl‘ his feed and turned sulky. I tried him
over the but yesterday, but he was-quite restitf,
like."
“ The devil he was!
shall go over the six-barred gate to-day, or we’ll
know why.” And Mr. Beaufort patted the sleek
neck of his favorite hunter. “ Put the saddle on
him, Tom."
“ Yes, your honor.
hurt in the loins somehow: he don’t take to his
leaps kindly, and he always tries to bite when
we bridles him. Be quiet, sir i”
“Only his airs,” said Philip. “ I did not know
SO, so, old boy, you
this. or I would have taken him over the gate. ,
Why did not you tell me, Tom ?”
" Lord love you, sir! because you have
such a. spurret; and if any thing had come to
ou—’
“ Quite right; you are not weight enough for
Puppet, my boy; and he never did like any one
to hack him but myself. What say you, broth-
er; will you ride with as ‘2"
“ No, I must go to to-day with Arthur. r

I sometimes think he is}
lthc paddock, and take the gate yonder—the old
’ six-bar—eh, Phil?"
“Capital! to be sure !” _
The gate was opened ; the grooms stood
watchful to see the leap; and a kindred curios-
ity arrested Robert Beaufort and his son.
How well they looked, those two horsemen;
the ease, lightness, spirit of the one, with the
' finc-limbcd and fiery steed that literally “bound-
, ed beneath him as a barb,” seemingly as gay, as
,ardcnt, and as haughty as the boy-rider. And
‘the manly and almost Herculean form of the
elder Beaufort, which, from the buoyancy of its
movements, and the supple grace that belongs
’to the perfect mastership of any athletic art,
, possessed an elegance and dignity, especially on
horseback, which rarely accompanies proportions
equally sturdy and robust. There was, indeed,
something knightly and chivalrous in the bearing
of the elder Beaufort; in his handsome, aquilino
features, the orectness of his mien, the very wave
of his hand, as he spurred from the yard.
“What a fine-looking fellow my uncle is l"
‘ said Arthur, with involuntary admiration.
“Ay, an excellent life—amazingly strong!”
returned the pale father, with a slight sigh.
“Philip,” said Mr. Beaufort, as they cantcrcd
across the paddock, “I think the gate is too
imuch for you. I will just take Puppet over,
‘ and then we will open it for you.”
l “ Pooh, my dear father! you don’t know how
I’m improved l” And slackening the rein, and
,touching the side of his horse, the young rider
l darted forward and cleared the gate, which was
l of no common height, with on case that extorted
a loud bravo from the proud father.
“ Now, Puppet,” said Mr. Beaufort, spurring

I have en a ed the post-horses at two o’clock; l his own horse. The animal cantcrcd toward
but I shal a with you to-morrow or the day, the gate, and then suddenly turned round with
after. You see his tutor expects him; and as an impatient and angry snort. “For shame,
he is backward in his mathematics, he has no ' Puppet! for shame, old boy!” said the sports-
time to lose." \man, wheeling him again to the barrier. The
“ Well, then, good-by, nephew l” and Beau-l horse shook his head, as if in romonstraneo; but
fort slipped a pocket-book into the boy’s hand. i the spur, vigorously appliedI showed him that
" Tush! whenever you want money, don’t trou- l his master would not listen to his mute reason-
ble your father—write to me; we shall be al- ings. He bounded forward—made at the gate
ways glad to see you; and you must teach Philip‘l —-struok his hoofs against the to bar—fell for-
to like his book a little better—eh, Phil?” ; ward, and threw his rider head oremost on the
“No, father, I shall be rich enough to do.road beyond. The horse rose instantly—not so
without books,” said Philip, rather coarsely; ! the master. The son dismounted, alarmed and
but then, observing the heightened color of his: terrified. His father was s echless! and blood
cousin, he went up to him, and with a onerous, ushed from the mouth an nostrils as the head
impulse said, “Arthur, you admired t is gun :, roused heavily on the boy’s breast. The by-
pray accept it. Nay, don’t be shy; I can have ' stun ers had witnessed the fall—they crowded
as many as I like for the asking: you‘re not sol to the spot—they took the fallen man from the
well 011', you know.” weak arms of the son—the head groom exam-
The intention was kind, but the manner was iucd him with the eye of one who had picked up
so patronizing that Arthur felt offended. Hef science from his experience in such casualties.
put back the gun, and said, dryly, “I shall have: "Speak, brother! where are you hurt 1’" ex.
no occasion for a gun, thank you.” 5 claimed Robert Beaufort.
If Arthur was offended by the odor, Philip} “ He will never speak more !" said the groom,
was much more attended by the refusal. “As ' bursting into tears. “ His neck is broken !”
you like: I hate pride," said he; and he gave “ Send for the nearest sur con,” cried Mr.
the gun to the groom as he vaulted into his' Robert. “Good God, boy! on’t mount that
saddle with the lightness of a young Mercury. devilish horse!"
“Come, father.” But Arthur had already leaped on the unhap-
Mr. Beaufort had now mounted his favoritel py steed which had been the cause of this ap-
hunter: a large, powerful horse, well known for‘ pulling nflliction. “ Which way ?"
its prowess in the field. The rider trotted himi “Straight on to , only two miles; every
once or twice through the spacious yard. one knows Mr. Powis’s house. God bless you!"
“Nonsense, Tom: no more hurt in tho loins said the groom.
than I am. Open that gate: we will go across Arthur vanished.


NIGHT AND MORNING.
15
“ Lift him carefully, and take him to the
house,” said Mr. Robert. “My poor brother!
my dear brother!”
He was interrupted by a cry—a single, shrill,
heart-breaking cry—and Philip fell senseless to
the ground.
No one heeded him at that hour; he one heed-
ed the fatherless nas'rann. “Gently, gently,”
said Mr. Robert, as he followed the servants
and their load. And he then muttered to him-
self, and his sullow cheek grew bright, and his
breath came short: “He has made no will! he
never made a will !”
-_.-_
CHAPTER V.
“ Coutmcc. Oh, boy, then where art thou‘!
. . . What becomes of me ’3"
King John.
11- was three days after the death of Philip
Beaufort—for the surgeon arrived only to con-
firm the judgment of the groom: in the draw-
ing-room of the cottage, the windows closed,
lay the body in its coffin, the lid not yet nailed
down. There, prostrate on the floor, tearless,
speechless, was the miserable Catharine; r
Sidney, too youn to comprehend all his oss,
sobbing at her si e; while Phili , apart, seated
beside the coffin, azed abstracts ly on that cold,
rigid face, which never known one frown for
his boyish follies.
In another room, that had been appro riated
to the late owner, called his study, sat liobert
Beaufort. Evetiy thing in this room spoke of
the deceased. artially separated from the rest
of the house, it communicated by a winding
staircase with a chamber above, to which Philip
man. He had died and made no sign. Mr.
, Robert Beaufort’s countenance was still and
composed.
A knock at the door was heard: the lawyer
entered.
“ Sir, the undertakers are here, and Mr.
,Grenves has ordered the bells to be rung: at
ithrce o’clock he will read the service.”
“I am obliged to you, Blackwell, for taking
these melancholy offices on yourself. My poor
brother! It is so sudden! But the funeral, you
say, ought to take place to-day ?”
“ The weather is so warm !” said the lawyer,
wiping his forehead. As he spoke, the death-
| bell was board.
There was a pause.
"' It would have been a terrible shock to Mrs.
Morton if she had been his wife,” observed Mr.
Blackwell. “ But I suppose persons ofthat kind
i have very little feeling. I must say that it was
,very fortunate for the family that the event hap-
‘pened before Mr. Beaufort was wheedled into so
; improper a marriage.”
“It was fortunate, Blackwell. Have you or-
dered the post-horses? I shall start immediately
vafter the uneral."
I “What is to be done with the cottage, sir ‘2"
i “ You may advertise it for sale.”
“And Mrs. Morton and the boys ?”
', “Hum—we will consider. She was a trades-
lman’s daughter. I think I ought to provide for
her suitably, ch ‘3”
g “It is more than the world could expect from
you, sir: it is very different from a wife.”
; “Oh, vc ! very much so, indeed! Just
,for a li hte candle; we will seal up these boxes.
,And— think I could take a sandwich. Poor
Philip !’7 ‘
The funeral was over—the dead shoveled


had been wont to betake himself, whenever be away. What a strange thing it does seem, that
returned late and over-exhilarated from some ‘that very form which we prized so charily, for
rural feast crowning a hard day’s hunt. Above ‘ivvhich we prayed the winds to be gentle, which
a quaint, old-fashioned bureau of Dutch work- lwo lapped from the cold in our arms, from whose
manship (which Philip had picked up at a sale ‘ footstep we would have removed a stone, should
in the earlier years of his marriage) was a por- be suddenly thrust out of sight—an abomination
trait of Catharine, taken in the bloom of her , that the earth must not look n—a despicable
youth. On a peg on the door that led to the loathsomeness, to be coneeale and to be forgot,-
staircase still himg his rough drivin -coat. The - ten! And this same composition of bone and
window commanded the view of t e paddock, ‘musclc, that was yesterday so strong—which
in which the worn-out hunter or the unbroken men respected, and women loved, and children
colt razed at will. Around the walls of the I clung to—to-day so lamentany powerless, una-
“stn y" a strange misnomer!) hung prints of ‘ ble to defend or rotect those who lay nearest to
celebrate fox-hunts and' renowned steeple- 5 its heart; its ric es wrestcd from it, its wishes
chases. Guns, fishing-rods, and foxes’ brushes, !spatupon, its influence expiring with its last si h!
ranged with a sportsmnn’s neatness, supplied ; A breath from its lips making all that migity
the place of books. On the mantlepieee lay a idifl'erencc between what it was and what it is!
cigar-case, a well-worn vohune on the Veterin- f The post-horses were at the door as the funeral
ary Art, and the last number of 17!: Sporting fprocession returned to the house.
Magazine. And in that room—thus witnessing ; Mr. Robert Beaufort bowed sliflhtly to Mrs.
of the hardy, masculine, rural life that bed pass- 1 Morton, and said, with his pocket-llinndkerehicf
ed away—sallow, stooping, town-worn, set, I 1still before his eyes.
say, Robert Beaufort, the heir-at-law—alorie:§
for the very day of his death he had remanded
his son home with the letter that announced to
his wife the change in their fortunes, and di-‘
reeled her to send his lawyer post-haste to the
house of death. The bureau, and the drawers, ‘
and the boxes which contained the papers of the
deceased were open; their contents had been
ransacked; no certificate of the private mar-
riage, no hint of such an event; not a paper
found to signify the last wishes of the rich, dead
“I will write to you in a few days, mn‘am;
you will find that I shall not forget you. The
cottage will be sold; but we shahi’t hurry you.
Good-bv, ma’arn; good-by, my boys," and he
patted his nephews on the head.
Philip winced aside, and scowlcd baughtily at
his uncle, who mattered to himself, “That he
will come to no good!" Little Sidney put his
hand into the rich man’s, and looked up plead-
ingly into his face: “ Can‘t you say something
pleasant to poor momma, Uncle Robert ?"


16
NIGHT AND MORNING.
Mr. Beaufort hemmed huskin and entered the
britska—it had been his brother’s: the lawyer
followed, and they drove away.
A week after the funeral, Philip stole from the
house into the conservatory to gather some fruit
for his mother: she had scarcely touched food
since Beaufort’s death. She was worn to a
shadow: her hair had turned gray. Now she
had at last found tears, and she wept noiselessly,
but uneeasingly.
The boy had plucked some grapes, and placed
them carefully in his basket: he was about to se-
lect a neetarine that seemed riper than the rest,
when his hand was roughly seized, and the gruff
voice of John Green, the ardener, exclaimed,
“What are you about, aster Philip? You
must not touch them ’ere fruit!”
“How dare you, fellow!” cried the youn
gentleman, in a tone of equal astonishment and
wrath.
“None of your airs, Master Philip! What 1
means is, that some great folks are coming to
look at the place to-morrow, and I won’t have
my show of. fruit spoiled by being pawed about
by the like of you : so, that’s plain, Master Philip l”
The boy grew very pale, but remained silent.
The gardener, delighted to retaliate the insolence
he had received, continued,
“ You need not go for to look so spiteful, mas-
ter; you are not the great man you thought you
were; you are nobody now, and so you will find,
ere long. So, march out, if you please: I wants
to lock up the glass.”
As he spoke, he took the lad roughly by the
arm; but Philip, the most irascible of mortals,
'was strong for his years, and fearless as a young
lion. He caught up a watering-pot, which the
gardener had deposited while he expostulated
with his late tyrant, and struck the man across
the face with it so violently and so suddenly that
he fell back over the beds, and the glass crackled
and shi\'cred under him. Philip did not wait for
the foe to recover his equilibrium; but, taking
up his grapes, and possessing himself quietly o
the disputed neetarine, quitted the spot: and the
grardencr did not think it prudent to pursue him.
0 boys, under ordinary circumstances—boys
who have biitfeted their way through a scolding
nursery, a wranglin family, or a public schodl
—there would havegsecn nothing in this squab-
ble to dwell on the memory or vibrate on the
nerves after the first burst of passion; but to
Philip Beaufort it was an era in life; it was the
first insult he had ever received; it was his initi-
ation into that changed, rough, and terrible ca-
reer, to which the spoiled darling of vanity and
love was henceforth condemned. His pride and
his self-esteem had incurred a fearful shock. He
entered the house, and a sickness came over him ;
his limbs trembled; he sat down in the hall, and,
placing the fruit beside him, covered his face
with his hands and wept. Those were not the
tears of a boy, drawn from a shallow source;
they were the burning, agonizing, reluctant tears
that men shed, wrung from the heart as if it
were its blood. He had never been sent to
school, lest he should meet with mortification.
He had had various tutors, trained to show rather
than to exact respect; one succeeding another
at his own whim and caprice. His natural quick-
ness, and a very strong, hard, inquisitive turn
of mind, had enabled him, however, to pick up

more knowledge, though of a desaltory and mis-
cellaneous nature, than boys of his e gener-
ally poasess; and his roving, indepen em, out-
of-doer existence had served to ripen his under-
standing. He had certainly, in spite of every
precaution, arrived at some, though not very dis.
tinct, notions of his peculiar position; but none
of its inconveniences had visited him till that
day. He began now to turn his e es to the fu-
ture; and vague and dark foreb ings—a con-
sciousness of the shelter, the protector, the sta-
tion he had lost in his father’s death—crept coldly
over him. While thus musing, a ring was heard
at the bell—he lifted his head—it was the post-
man with a letter. Philip hastily rose, and,
averting his face, on which the tears were not
yet dried, took the letter; and than, snatching
up his little basket of fniit, repaired to his moth-
er’s room.
The shutters were half closed on the bright
day—0h, what a mockery is there in the smile
of the happy sun when it shines on the wretched!
Mrs. Morton sat, or, rather, crouched in a dis‘
taut corner, her streaming eyes fixed on vacancy
—listless, drooping—a very image of desolate
woe: and Sidney was weaving flower-chains at
her feet.
“Mammal mother!" whispered Philip, as he
threw his arms round her neck; look up! look
up ! My heart breaks to see you. Do taste this
fruit: you will die too if you go on thus; and
what will become of us—of Sidney ‘2”
Mrs. Morton did look up vaguely into his face,
and strove to smile.
“See, too, I have brought you a letter;
ha good news: shall I break the seal?’
firs. Morton shook her head gently, and took
the letter—alas! how different from that one
which Sidney had placed in her hands not two
short weeks since: it was Mr. Robert Beaufort's
handwritin . She shuddei'ed and laid it down.
And then t ere suddenly, and for the first time,
flashed across her the sense of her strange posh
tion—the dread of the future. What were her
sons to be henceforth? What herself? What-
ever the sanctity of her marriage, the law might
fail her. At the disposition of Mr. Robert Beau-
fort the fate of three lives might depend. She
gasped for breath, again took up the letter, and
hurried over the contents : they ran thus :
per-
“ DEAR Manna—Knowing that you must
naturally be anxious as to the future prospects
of your children and yourself, left, by my poor
brother, destitute of all provision,I take the ear-
liest opportunity which it seems to me that ro-
priety and decorum allow, to apprize you 0 my
intentions. I need not say that, properly speak-
ing, you can have no kind of claim upon the re-
lotions of my late brother; nor will I hurt your
feelings by those moral reflections which at this
season of sorrow can not, I hope, fail involunta-
rily to force themselves upon you. Without more
than this mere allusion to your peculiar connec-
tion with my brother, I may, however, be per-
mitted to add, that that connection tended very
materially to separate him from the legitimate
branches of his: family; and in consulting with
them as to a provision for you and your children,
I find that, besides scruples that are to be re-
spected, some natural degree of soreness exists
upon their minds. Out of regard, however, to


NIGHT AND MORNING.
17
my peor brother (though I saw very little of him
of late years), I am Willing to waive those feel-
ings which, as a father and a husband, you may
conceive that I share with the rest of my family.
You will probably nowdeeide on living with some
of your own relations; and that you may not be
entirely a burden to them, I beg to say that
I shall allow you a hundred a. year; paid, if you
prefer it, quarterly. You may also select certain
articles of linen and plate, of which I inclose a
list. With regard to your sons, I have no obice-
tion to place them at a grammar-school, an , at
a proper age to apprentice them to any trade
suitable to their future station, in the choice of
which your own family can give you the best ad-
vice. If they conduct themselves properly, they
may always depend on my protection. I do not
wish to hurry your movements; but it will prob-
ably be painful to you to remain longer than
you can help in a place crowded with unpleasant
recollections; and as the cot e is to be sold—
lndeed, my brother-in-law, Lor Lilburne, thinks
it would suit him—you will be liable to the in-
terruption of strangers to see it; and, indeed,
your prolonged residence at Fernside, you must
be sensible, is rather an obstacle to the sale. I
beg to inclose you a draught for £100 to pay any
' present expenses; and to request, when you are
settled, to now where the first quarter shall be
'd
pai‘l shall write to Mr. Jackson (who, I think,
is the bailiff), to detail my instructions as to
selling the crops, &c., and discharging the
servants, so that you may have no farther trouble.
“I am, madam,
“Your obedient servant,
“ ROBEBT Bannron'r.
“ Berkeley-square, Sapunber 12, 18—"
The letter fell from Catharine’s hands. Her
. grief was changed to indignation and scorn.
“ The insolcnt l" she exclaimed, with flashing
eyes. “This to me! to me ! the wife, the law-
ful wife of his brother! the wedded mother of his
brother’s children l”
“Say that again, mother! igain—again l”
cried Philip, in a loud voice. “ is wife! wed-
ded l”
“I swear it,” said Catharine, solemnly. “I
kept the secret for your father’s sake. Now, for
. yours, the truth must beéiroclaimed.”
“ Thank God! thank od 1” murmured Phil-
ip, in a quiverin voice, throwing his arms reund
his brother. “ e have no brand on our names,
Sidney.”
At those accents, so full of sup ressed joy and
ride, the mother felt at once al that her son
ad suspected and concealed. She felt that be-
neath his haughty and wayward character there
had lurked delicate and generous forbearance for
her; that from his equivocal position his very
faults might have arisen; and a pang of remorse
for her long sacrifice of the children to the fa-
ther shot throu h her heart. It was followed by
a fear, an nppa ling fear,‘more painful than the
remorse. The proofs that were to clear herself
and them! The Words of her husband that last
awful morning rang in her ear. The minister
dead—the Witness absent—the register lost!
But the copy of that 1'08ng ! the copy! Might

_
not that suffice? She oancd, and closed her
eyes as if to shutout the uture : then starting up,
she hurried from the room, and went straight to
Beaufort’s study. As she laid her hand on the
latch of the door, she trembled and drew back.
But care for the living was stronger, at that
moment, than even anguish for the dead; she
entered the apartment; she passed with a firm
step to the bureau. It was locked; Robert
Beaufort’s seal upon the lock: on every cup-
board, every box, every drawer, the same seal,
that spoke of rights more valued than her
own. But Catharine was not daunted: she
turned and saw Philip by her side; she pointed
to the bureau in silence; the boy understood the
appeal. He left the room, and returned in a few
moments with a chisel. The look was broken:
tremblineg and eagerly Catharine ransacked the
contents; opened paper after paper, letter after
letter, in vain; no certificate—no will—no me-
morial. Could the brother have abstracted the
fatal proof? A word sufficed to explain to Phil-
ip what she sought for, and his search was more
minute than hers. Every possible receptacle
for papers in that room, in the whole house, was
explored, and still the search was fruitless.
Three hours afterward they were in the same
room in which Philip had brought Robert Beau-
fort’s letter to his mother. Catharine was seat-
ed, tearless, but deadly pale, with heart-sickness
and dismay.
“ Mother,” said Philip, “ mayI now read the
letter ‘3”
“ Yes, boy, and decide for us all." She
paused, and examined his face as he road. He
felt her eye was upon him, and restrained his
emotions as he proceeded. When he had done,
he lifted his dark gaze upon Catharine’s watch-
ful countenance.
“ Mother, whether or not we obtain our rights,
you will still refuse this man’s charity. I am
young—a boy; but I am strong and active. I
will work for you day and nig t. I have it in
me—I feel it; any thing rather than eating his
bread.”
“Philip! Philip! you are indeed my son—
your father’s son! And have you no reproach
for your mother, who so weakly, so criminally
concealed your birthright, till, alas! discove
may be too late ? Ohl reproach me, reprooc
me! it will be kindness. No! do not kiss me!
I can not bear it. Boy! boy! if, as may heart
tells me, we fail in proof, do you on erstand
what, in the world’s eye, I am—what you are 1’"
“I do !” said Philip, firmly; and he fell on his
knees at her feet. “ Whatever others call you,
you are a mother, and I your son. You are, in
the judgment of Heaven, my father’s wife, and
I his heir.”
Catharine bowed her he and with a gush of
tears, fell into his arms. Si ney crept up to her,
and forced his lips to her cold cheek. “ Mamma !
what vexes you ? Momma, mamma !"
“Oh, Sidne l Sidney! How like his father!
Look at him, hilip! shall we do right to refuse
even this pittance ? Must be be a beggar too?"
“ Never a beggar !” said Philip/With a pride
that showed what hard lessons he had, yet to
learn. “ The lawful sons of a Beaufort wore not
born to beg their bread I"


18
NIGHT AND MORNING.
pared for Catharine’s short, haughty, but tem-
perate reply to his letter: a repy which con-
veyed a decided refusal of his offers—asserted
positivel her own marriage, and the claims of
her chil rem—intimated legal proceedings—and
was signed in the name of Catharine Beau ort !
Mr. Beaufort put the letter in his bureau, abel-
Mn. Roar-:n'r Bamrroa'r was generally con', ed “Impertinent answer from Mrs. Morton,
sidered by the world a very worthy man. He, Sept. 14,” and was quite contented to forget the
had never committed any excess—never gambled- extstence of the writer, until his lawyer, Mr.
or incurred debt—or fallen into the warm errors, Blackwell, informed him that a, suit had been
most common with his sex. He was a good hus-I instituted by Catharine, Mr. Robert turned
band—a careful father—an agreeable neighborl pale, but Blackwell composed him.
—rathcr charitable than otherwise to the poor. “Pooh, sir! you have nothing to fear. It is
He was honest and methodical in his dealings, and] but an attempt m extort money ; the attorney is
CHAPTER VI.
“ The storm above. and frozen world below.
The olive bough
Fnded and cast upon the common wind.
And earth a dovcless ark."
Lnns Buscnmn.
had been known to behave handsomely in difi'er-
en! relations of life. Mr. Robert Beaufort, in-
deed, always meant to do what was right—in the
eyrs afthe world! He had no other rule ofaction
but that which the world supplied: his religion
was decorum—his sense of honor was regard to
opinion. His heart was a dial to which the world
was the sun : when the great eye of the public
fell on it, it answered every purpose that a heart
.could answer; but, when that eye was invisible,
the dial was mute—a piece of brass and nothing
more.
It is 'ust to Robert Bcahfort to assure the
reader t at he wholly disbelieved his brother’s
story of a private marriage. He considered
that tale, when heard for the first time, as a mere
invention (and a shallow one) of a man wishing
to make the im rudent step he was about to
take as res eta le as he could. The careless
tone of his rother when speaking upon the sub-
ject—his confession that of such a. marriarrc ;
there was no distinct proofs, except a copy olpa.I
register (which copy Robert had not found)—
made his incredulity natural. He therefore ]
deemed himself under no obli'ration of delicacy,
or respect to a woman through whose means he 1
had very nearly lost a noble succession—a wom- i
an who had not even borne his brother‘s name—l
a woman whom nobody knew. Had Mrs. Mor- I
ton been-Mrs. Beaufort, and the natural sons 10- '
gitimate children, Robert Beaufort, supposing \
their situation of relative power and dependence I

a low practitioner, accustomed to get up bad
cases : they can make nothing of it.”
This was true: whatever the rights of the
case, or Catharine had no proofs—n0 evidence
—whtch could justify a respectable lawyer to
advise her proceeding to a suit. She named
two witnesses of her marriage: one dead, the
other could not be heard of. She selected for
the alleged place in which the ceremony was
performed a very remote vill e, in which it ap-
peared that the register ha been destroyed.
No attested copy thereof was to be found; and
Catharine was stunned on hearing that, even if '
found, it was doubtful whether it could be re-
ceived as evidence, unless to corroborate actual
personal testimony. It so happened that when
Philip, many years ago, had received the copy.
he had not shown it to Catharine, nor mentioned
Mr. Jones’s name as the co yist. In fact, then
only three years married to atharinc, his world-
ly caution had not yet been conquered by confi-
dent experience of her generosity. As for the
mere moral evidence dependent on the publica-
tion of her bans in London, that amounted to no
proof whatever; nor, on inquiry at A , did
the Welsh villagers remember any thing farther
than that, some fifteen years ago, a handsome
gentleman had visited Mr. Price, and one or two
rather thought that Mr. Price had married him
to a lady from London - evidence quite inadmis-
sible against the deadly, damning fact, that for
fifteen years Catharine had openly borne another

to have been the same, would have behaved with name, and lived with Mr. Beaufort ostensibly as
careful and scrupulous generosit '. The world his mistress. Her generosity in this destroyed
would have said, “Nothing coul be handsomerl her case. Nevertheless, she found a low rac-
thnn Mr. Robert Beaut'ort’s conduct l" Nay, if “'titioncr, who took her money and neglecte her
Mrs. Morton had been some divorced wife of cause; so her suit was heard and dismissed with
birth and connections, he would have made very
different dis ositions in her favor: he would not
have allowe the connections to have called him
shabby. But here he felt that, all circumstances
considered, the world, if it spoke at all (which
it would scarcely think it worth while to do),
would be on his side, An artful woman—low-
born. and, of course, low-bred—who wanted to
inveigle the rich and careless paramour into
marriage : what could be expected from the man ;
she had sought to injure—the rightful heir?
“'as it not very good in him to do any thing for
her; and, if he provided for the children suitably
to the original station of the mother, did he not
gp to the very utmost of reasonable expectation?
e certainly thought in his conscience, such as
it was, that he had acted well; not extravagantly,
not foolishly, but well. He was sure the world
would say so if it knew all: he was not bound'
to do any thing- He was not, therefore, pre-i

contempt. Henceforth, then, indeed, in the eyes
of the law and the public, Catharine was an im-
pudent adventurer, and her sons were nameless
outcasts.
And now, relieved from all fear, Mr. Robert
Beaufort entered upon the full enjpyment of his
splendid fortune. The house in Be clay—square
was furnished anew. Great dinners and giay
routs were given in the ensuing spring. r.
and Mrs. Beaufort became persons of consider.
able importance. The rich man had, even when
or, been ambitious; his ambition now centered
in his only son. Arthur had always been con-
sidered a boy of talents and promise: to what
might he not new aspire? The term of his
probation with the tutor was abri ed, and Ar-
thur Beaufort was sent at once to xford.
Before he went to the University, durin a
short preparato visit to his father, Art or
spoke to him oft e Mortons.


NIGHT AND MORNING.
19
“What has become of them, sir? and what
have you done for them '2”
9. “ Done for them !" said Mr. Beaufort, opening
his eyes. “ What should I do for persons who
have just been harassing me with the most un-
pzincipled litigation? My conduct to them has
en too generous—that is, all things consid-
ered. But when you are my age you will find
there is very little gratitude in the world, Ar-
thur."
“Still, sir," said Arthur, with the goodness
that belonged to him, “still, my uncle was
greatly attached to them; and the boys, at least,
are uiltless.”
“ Vell, well !” replied Mr. Beaufort, a little
impatiently, “I believe they want for nothing;
I fancy the are with the mother’s relations.
Whenever they address me in a proper manner,
they shall not find me revengeful or hard-heart-
ed; but, since we are on this topic,” continued
the father, smoothing his shirt-frill with a care
that showed his decorum even in trifles, “I hope
you see the results of that kind of connection,
and that you will take warning by your poor
uncle’s example. And now let us change the
subject: it is not a very pleasant one, and, at
your age, the less your thoughts turn on such
matters the better.”
- Arthur Beaufort, with the careless generosity
of youth, that gauges other men’s conduct by
its own sentiments, believed that his father, who
had never been niggardly to himself, had really
acted as his words implied; and, engrossed by
the pursuits of the new and brilliant career
opened, whether to his leasures or his studies,
suffered the objects of his inquiries to pass from
his thoughts.
Meanwhile Mrs. Morton, for by that name we
must still call her, and her children were settled
ina small lodging in an humble suburb, situated
oaths,th road between Fernside and the me-
tropolis. She saved from her hopeless lawsuit,
after the sale of her jewels and ornaments, a
sutlicient sum to enable her, with economy, to
live respectany for a year or two at least, dur-
ing which time she might arrange her plans for
the future. She reckoned, as a sure resource,
upon the assistance of her relations; but it was
one to which she applied with natural shame and
reluctance. She had kept up a correspondence
with her father during his life. To him she
never revealed the secret of her marriage,
though she did not write like a person conscious
of error. Perhaps, as she always said to her
son, she had made to her husband a solemn
promise u'everato divulge or even hint that se-
cret until he himself should authorize its disclos-
ure. For neither he nor Catharine ever con-
templated separation or death. Alas! how all
of us, when happy, sleep secure in the dark
shadows which ought to warn us of the sorrows
that are to come! Still Catharine’s father, a
man of coarse mind and not rigid principles, did
not take much to heart that connection which he
assumed to be illicit. She was rovidcd for,
that was some comfort: doubtless r. Beaufort
would act like a gentleman—perha . at last,
make her an honest woman apd a l y. Mean-
while, shc had a fine house, and a fine carriage,
and fine servants; and, so far from appl ~ing to
him for money, was constantly sending lit-
tle presents. But Catharine only saw, in his
I

permission of her correspondence, kind, forgiv-
ing, and trustful afi‘ection, and she loved him
tenderly: when he died, the link that bound her
to her family was broken. Her brother suc-
ceeded to the trade : a man of probity and
honor, but somewhat hard and unamiable. In
the only letter she had received from him—the
one announcing her father’s death—he told her
plainly, and very ro erly, that he could not
countenance the ' e slie led—that he had chil-
dren growing up—that all intercourse between
them was at an end, unless she left Mr. Bean-
fort; when, if she sincerely re ented, he would
still prove her affectionate brot cr.
Though Catharine had at the time resented
this letter as unfceling, now, humbled and sor-
rowmtricken, she recognized the ropriety of
principle from which it emanated. Il‘lcr brother
was well oil for his station; she would explain
to him her real situation, and he would believe
her story. She would write to him, and beg him,
at least, to give aid to her poor children.
But this step she did not take till a considera-
ble portion of her pittance was consumed—till
nearly three parts of a car since Beaufort’s
death had expired—and ti 1 sundry warnin s, not
to be lightly heeded, had made her foreb e the
probabilit of an early death for herself. From
the age 0 sixteen, when she had been placed by
Mr. Beaufort at the head of his household, she
had been cradled, not in extrava once, but in an
easy- luxury, which had not broug t with it habits
of economy and thrift. She could grudge any
thing to herself, but to her children—his children,
whose every whim had been anticipated, she had
not the heart to be saving. She d have
starved in a garret had she been alon , but she
could not see them wanting a comfort while she
possessed a guinea. Philip, to do him justice,
evinced a consideration not to have been expected
from his early and arrogant recklessness. But
Sidney—who could expect consideration from
such a child ? Vl'hat could he know of the
change of circumstances—of the value of money?
Did he seem dejected, Catharine would steal out
and spend a week’s income on the lapful of toys
which she brou ‘ht home. Did he seem a shade
more pale, did 0 complain of the slightest ail-
ment, a doctor must be sent for. Alas! her own
ailments, neglected and unheeded, were growing
beyond the reach of medicine. Anxious—fearful
—-gnawed by regret for the past, the thought of
famine in the future, she daily fretted and wore
herself away. She had cultivated her mind dur-
ing her secluded residence with Mr. Beaufort,
but she had learned none of the arts b which
decayed gentlewomen keep the wolf rom the
door; no little holiday accomplishments, which
in the day of need turn to useful trade; no water-
color drawings, no paintings on velvet, no fabri-
cation of 'prett gewgaws, no embroidery and
fine needlewor . She was helpless—utterly
hel less—not strong enough even for a servant;
and: even in that capacity, could she have got a
character? A great change at this time was
apparent in Philip. Had he fallen then into kind
hands and guiding eyes, his passions and energies
might have ripened into rare qualities and eat
virtues. But perhaps, as Goethe has somew ere
said, “Experience, after all, is the best teacher."
He kept a constant guard on his vehement tem-
per, his wayward will; he would not have vexed


20
NIGHT AND MORNING.
his mother for the world. But, stramre to say
(it was a great in story in the woman s heart),
in pro iortion as e became more amiable, it
seem that his mother loved him less. Perhaps
she did not, in that change, recognize so close y
the darling of the old time; perhaps the very
weaknesses and importunities of Sidney, the
hourly sacrifices the child entailed upon her, on-
deared him more to her from that natural sense
of dependence and protection which forms the
great bond between mother and child; perhaps,
too, as Philip had been one to inspire as much
pride as afl'ection, so the pride faded away with
the ex cctntions that had fed it, and carried off
in its ecay some of the affection that was inter-
twined with it. However this be, Philip had
formerly appeared the more spoiled and favored
of the two, and now Sidney seemed all in all.
Thus, beneath the younger son’s earossing gon-
tleness, there grew up a certain regard for self;
it was latent, it took amiable colors, it had even
a certain charm and grace in so sweet a child,
but selfishness it was not the less: in this he
differed from his brother. Philip was self-willed,
Sidney self-loving. A certain timidity of char-
acter, endearing, perhaps, to the anxious heart
of a mother, made this fault in the younger boy
more like] to take root; for in bold natures
there is a avish and unealculating recklessness,
which seems self unconsciously: and what is
fear, but, when physical, the regard for one’s
own erson; when more], the anxiety for one’s
own interests?
It was in a small room in a lodging-house in
the suburb of H , that Mrs. Morton was
seated the window, anxiously awaiting the
knock o the postman, who was expected to
bring her brother’s reply to her letter. It was,
therefore, between ten and eleven o’clock—a
morning in the merr month of June. It was
hot and sultry, which is rare in an English June.
A fly-trap, red, white, and yellow, suspended from
the ceiling, swarmed with flies; flies were on
the ceiling, flies buzzed at the windows; the
sofa and chairs of horse-hair seemed stuffed with
flies. There was an air of heated discomfort in
the gaudy paper, in the bright-staring carpet, in
the very looking-glass over the chimney-piece,
where a strip of mirror lay in an embrace of
frame covered with yellow muslin. We may
talk of the dreariness of winter—and winter, no
doubt, is desolate—but what in the world is more
dreary to eyes inured to the verdure and bloom
of nature—“ the pomp of groves and garniture
of fields”--thau a close room in a suburban
lod ing-house; the sun piercin every corner;
not ing fresh, nothin cool, not ing fragrant to
be seen, felt, or inha ed, all dust, glare, noise,
with a chandler’s shop, perhaps, next door?
Sidney, armed with a pair ofscissors, was cutting
the pictures out of a story-book which his mother
had bought him thaday before. Philip, who, of
late, had taken much to rambling about the
streets—it my be, in hopes of meeting one of
those benevolent, eccentric elderly gentlemen he
had read of in old novels, who suddenly come to
the relief ofdislressed virtue; or, more probably,
from the restlessness that belonged to his ad-
venturous temperament—Philip had left the
house since breakfast.
“Oh! how hot this nasty room is !” exclaimed
Sidney, abruptly looking up from his employ-


ment. “Sha’n’t we ever go into the country
again, mamma ‘3"
“ Not at present, my love.”
“I wish 1 could have my pony: why can’t I
have my pony, mamma 5’”
“ Because—because—the pcry is sold, Sid-
ne ."
“ Who sold it '3”
“Your uncle.”
“ He is a very naughty man, my uncle : is not
he ‘? But can’t I have another pony ‘3 It would
be so nice this fine weather 1” "
“Ah! my dear, I wish I could afl'ord it: but
you shall have a ride this week! Yes,” contin-
ued the mother, as if reasoninu with herself in
excuse of the extravagance, “T18 does not look
well: poor child ! he must have exercise.”
“A ride! Oh! that is my own, kind mam-
mal” exclaimed Sidney, clapping his hands.
“Not on a donkey, you know! a pony. The
man down the street, there, lets ponies. I must
have the white pony with the long tail. But, I
say, momma, don’t tell Philip—pray don’t—he
would be jealous.”
“ No, not jealous, my dear: why do you think
so ‘2”
“ Because he is always angry when I ask you
for any thine. It is very unkind in him, for I
don’t care il he has a pony too—only not the
white one.”
Here the pnstman’s knock, loud and sudden,
startled Mrs. Morton from her seat. She pressed
her hands tightly to her heart as if to still its
beating, and went nervously to the door, thence
to the stairs, to anticipate the lumbering step of
the slipshod maid-servant.
“ Give it me, Jane! give it me 1”
“ Ono shilling and eightpence—charged double
—if you please, ma’am! Thank you.“
“Mamma, may I tell Jane to engage the
ny ?”
“Not now, my love : sit down—he quiet : I—
I am not well.”
Sidney, who was affectionate and obedient,
crept back peaceably to the window, and, after
a short, impatient sigh, resumed the scissors and
the story-book. I do not apologize to the reader
for the various letters I am obliged to lay before
him, for character often betrays itself more in
letters than in s eech. Mr. Roger Morton’s re-
ply was couche in these terms :
“ DEAR. CATHARINE—I have received your
letter of the 14th inst., and write per return. I
am very much grieved to hear of .your afflic-
tions; but, whatever you say, I dun not think the
late Mr. Beaufort acted like a conscientious man
in forgetting to make his will, and leaving his
little ones destitute. It is all very well to talk
of his intentions; but the proof of the pudding is
in the eating. And it is hard upon me, who
have a large family of my own, and get my living
by honest industry, to have a rich gent eman’s
children to maintain. As for your story about
the private marriage, it may or may not be.
Perhaps you were taken in by that worthless
man, for a rral marriaire it could not be. And
as you say the law has decided that point, there-
fom the less you say on the matter the better.
It all comes to the same thing. People are not
bound to believe what can’t be proved. And
even if what you say is true, you are more to be


NIGHT AND MORNING.
21-
blamed than pitied for holding your tongue so
many years, and discrediting an honest family,
as cars has always been oonsidered. I am sure
my wife would not have thought of such a thing
for the finest gentleman that ever wore shoe-
leather. However, I don’t want to hurt your
feelings; and I am sure I am ready to do what-
ever is right and proper. You can not expect
that I should ask you to my house. My wife,
you know, is a very religious woman—what is ,
called evangelical; but that's neither here nor
there: I deal with all people, churchmen and
disenters—even Jews—and don’t trouble my,
head much about ditferences in opinion. .I dare ,
say there are many ways to heaven, as I said the
ot er day to Mr. Thwaites, our member. Buti
it is right to say my wife will not hear of your
coming here; and, indeed, it might do harm to'
my business; for there are several elderly single 5
gentlcwomen who buy flannel for the poor at my ‘
shop, and they are very particular—as they I
ought to be, indeed; for morals are very strictf
in this county, and particularly in this town,
where we certainly do pay very high church-,
rates. Not that I grumble; for, tho h I am as ‘
liberal as an man, I am for an stablished
Church—as ought to be, since the dean is m ‘
best customer. With regard to yourself, I wifl
inclose you £10, and you will let me know when
it is gone, and I will see what more 1 can do.
You say you are very poorly, which I am sorry
to hear; but you muustluck up your spirits, and
take in plain work; I reall ' think you ought
to apply to Mr. Robert Beaufort. He hears a
high character; and notwithstanding your law-
suit, which I can not approve of, I dare say he
might allow you .640 or £50 a year, if you ap-
ply properly, which would be the right thing in
him. so much for you. As for the boys poor,
Mherless creatures! it is very hard that they
should be so punished for no fault of their own;
and m_ wife, who, though strict, is a good-
hurte woman, is ready and willin to do what
I wish about them. You say the e dest is near
sixteen, and well come on in his studies. I can
get him a very good thin in a light, genteel
way. My wife’s rother, 1\ r. Christopher Flush-
with, is a bookseller and stationcr, with pretty
practice, in R He is a clever man, and
has a newspaper, which he kindly sends me every
week; a , though it is not my county, it has
some very sensible views, and is_ often noticed in
the London papers as ‘our provincial contempo-
rary.’ Mr. Plaskwith owes me some money,
which 1 advanced him when he set up the paper,
and he has several times most honestly offered
to pay me in shares in the said paper. But, as‘
the thing might break, and I don’t like concerns i
I don't understand, I have not taken advant e
of his very handsome proposals. Now Plani
with wrote me word two days ago, that he want- 1
ed a genteel, smart lad, as assistant and ’prentice, |
and offered to take my eldest boy; but we can’t ,'
spare him. -I write to Christopher by this post;
and if your youth will run down on the to of the
coach, and inquire for Mr. Plaskwith—t e fare,
is trifling—I have no doubt he will be engaged!
atoncc. But youwill say, ‘There’s the remium‘
to consider!’ No such thing; Kit wil set off



so that’s off your mind. As to the little chap,
I‘ll take him at once. You say he is a pretty
boy, and a pretty boy is always a help in a linen-
draper’s shop. He shall share and share with
my own young folks, and Mrs. Morton will take
care of his washing and morals. I conclude
(this is Mrs. M.’s suggestion) that he has had
the measles, cowpock, and whooping-cough,
which please let me know. If he behave well,
which, at his age. we can easily break him into,
he is settled for life. So now you have got rid
of two mouths to feed, and have nobody to think
of but ourself, which must be a great comfort-
Don’t orget to write to Mr. Beaufort; and if he
don’t do something for you, he’s not the gentle-
man I take him for: but you are my own flesh
and blood, and sha’n’t starve; for, thoughI don’t
think it right in a man in business to encourage
what’s wron , yet, when a person‘s down in the
world, I thing an ounce of help is bettdr than a
pound of preaching. My wife thinks otherwise,
and wants to send you some tracts; but every
body can’t be as correct as some folks. How-
ever, as I said before, that’s neither here nor
there. Let me know when your boy comes
down, and also about the measles, cowpock, and
whooping-cough; also if all’s right with Mr.
Plaskwith. So now I hope you will feel more
comfortable; and remain,
“ Dear Catharine,
“ Your forgiving and affectionate brother,
' “ Roman. Monro".
“ High-strut, .N'—-, June 13.
“RS—Mrs. M. says that she will be a mother
to your little b0 ', and that you had better mend
up all his linen efore you send him.” ,
As Catharine finished this epistle, she lifted
up her eves and beheld Philip. He had entered.
noiseless y, and he remained silent, leaning
against the wall, and watching the face of his
mother, which crimsoned with painful humilia-
tion while she read. Philip was not now the
trim and dainty stripling first introduced to the
reader. He had outgrown his faded suit of
funereal mourning; his long, neglected hair
hung elf-like and matted down his cheeks; there
was a gloomy look in his bright dark eyes. Pov-
erty never betra s itself more than in the feat-
ures and form 0 Pride. It was evident that his
spirit endured rather than accommodated itself
to his fallen state; and notwithstanding his soil-
ed and threadbare garments, and a huggardness
that ill becomes the years of palmy youth, there
was about his whole mien and person a wild and
savage Hgrandeur, more impressive than his for~
mer rn ing arrogance of manner.
“ Well, mother,” said he, with a strange mix-
ture of sternness in his countenance and pity in
his voice, “well, mother, and what says your
brother ?"
“ You decided for us once before, decide
again. But I need not ask you: you would,
never—" '
“I don’t know,” interrupted Philip, vaguely;
“ let me see what we are to decide on.”
Mrs. Morton was naturally a .woman of high
courage and spirit, but sickness and grief had
worn down both; and, though Philip was but
the premium against his debt to me, so you will f sixteen, there is something in the ver nature
have nothing to pay. ’Tis a very pretty busi- of woman, especially in trouble, whlc makes
mess, and the lads education will get huu on; I her seek to lean on some other wrll than her


22
NIGHT AND MORNING.
own. She gave Philip the letter, and went
quietly to sit down by Sidney.
“ Your brother means well,” said Philip, when
he had concluded the epistle.
“Yes, but nothiu is to be done: I can not,
can not send poor Sidney to—to—” and Mrs.
Morton sobbcd.
“ No, my dear, dear mother, no; it would be
terrible, indeed, to part you and him. But this
bookseller—Plaskwith—perhaps I shall be able
to support you both.”
“Why, you do not think, Philip, of being an
apprentice! you, who have been so brought up!
you, who are so proud 1”
“Mother, I would sweep the crossings for
your sake! Mother, for your sake I would go
to my uncle Beaufort. with my hat in m hand,
for halfpence. Mother, I am not proud; would
be honest if I can; but when I see you pining
away, and so changed, the devil comes into me,
and I often shudder lest I should commit some
crime—what, I don’t know l”
“Come here, Philip—my own Philip, to son
my be , my firstborn !” and the mother’s eart
gushe forth in all the fondncss of early days.
“Don’t speak so terribly; you fri hten me!”
She threw her arms round his nee , and kissed
him soothingly. He laid his burning temples on
her bosom, and nestled himself to her, as he had
been wont to do after some stormy paroxysm of
his passionate’ and wayward infancy. So there
they remained, their lips silent, their hearts
speaking to each other—each from each taking
strange succor and holy strength—till Philip
rose, calm, and with a quiet smile, “Good-by,
mother; I will go at once to Mr. Plaskwith.”
“But You have no money for the coach-fare:
here, Philip,” and she placed her purse in his
hand, from which he reluctantly selected a few
shillings. “And, mind, if the man is rude, and
you dislike him—mind, you must not subject
yourself to insolence and mortification.”
“Oh, all will go well, don’t fear,” said Philip,
cheerfully; and he left the house.
Toward evening he had reached his destina-
tion. The shop was of goodly exterior, with a
private entrance; over the shop was written,
“ Christopher Plaskwith, Bookseller and Sta-
tioner;” on the private door a brass plate, in-
scribed with “R— and '1‘“ Mercury Office,
Mr. Plaskwith." Philip applied at the private
entrance, and was shown by a “neat-handed
Phillis" into a small office-room. In a. few
minutes the door opened, and the bookseller
entered.
Mr. Christopher Plaskwith was a short, stout
man, in drab-colored breaches, and guitars to
match—a black coat and waistcoat—a lar e
watch-chain, with a prodigious bunch of sea s,
alternated by small keys and old-fashioned
mourning-rings. His complexion was pale and
sodden, and his hair short, dark, and sleek.
The bookseller valued himself on a likeness to
Bonaparte, and afl‘ected a short, brusque, por-
emptory manner, which he meant to be the in-
dication of the vigorous and decisive character
of his prototype.
“ So you are the young entleman Mr. Roger
Morton recommends ‘2” Iere Mr. Plaskwith
took out a huge pocket-hook, slowly unelasped
it, staring hard at Philip, with what he design-
ed for a piercing and penetrative survey.


“This is the letter—no! this is Sir Thomas
Champerdown’s order for fifty copies of the last
Mercury, containing his speech at the county
meeting. Your age, young man? Only six-
teen !—look older—that’s not it--that’s not it—
and this is it! Sit down. Yes, Mr. Roger
Morton recommends you—a relation—unfortu-
nate circumstances—well educated—my benev-
olence—hum! Well, young man, what have
you to say for yourself ‘2"
“ Sin?"
“Can you cast accounts—know book-keep-
ing ‘1‘"
“I ow somethin of al ebr sir.”
“ Algebra! Oh, ughat elge 1”?!
“French and Latin.”
“Hum! may be useful. Why do you wear
your hair so long? Look at mine. What’s
your name ‘2”
“ Philip Morton.”
“ Mr. Philip Morton, you have an intelli-
gent countenance—I go a great deal by counte-
nances. You know the terms?—most favorable
to you. No premium—I settle that with Roger.
I give board and bed—dfind your own washing.
Habits regular—’prenticeship only five years;
when over, must not set up in the same town.
I will see to the indentnres. When can you
come ‘2"
“When you please, sir.”
“Day after to-morrow, by six o’clock coach."
“But, sir," said Philip, “ will there be no sal-
ary? Something, ever so small, that I could
send to my mother?”
“Salary at sixteen! Board and bed—no
premium! Salary! what for? ’Prentices have
no salary ! You will have every comfort.”
“ Give me less comfort, that I may give my
mother more, a little money, ever so little, and
take it out of my board: I can do with one meal
a do , sir."
The bookseller was moved; he took, a huge
pinchful of snuff out of his waistcoat pocket, and
mused a moment. He then said, as he re-ex-
amined Philip—
“ Well, young man, I’ll tell you what we will
do. You shall come here first upon trial—see
if we like each other before we sign the indent-
ures—allow you, meanwhile, 5a. a week. If
you show talent, will see if I and Roger can
settle about some little allowance. That do,
eh?
“1“1 thank yod, sir, yes," said Philip, grate~
1
“Y Settled, then. Follow me—present you to
Mrs. P.”
Thus saying, Mr. Plaskwith returned the let-
ter to the pocket-book, and the pocket-book to
the pocket; and, putting his arms behind his
coat-tails, threw up his chin, and strode through
the passage into a small parlor, that looked upon
a small "arden. Hero, seated round the table,
were a thin lady, with a squint, Mrs. Plaskwith;
two little 'rls, the Misses Plaskwith, also with
squints an pinafores; a young man of three or
four and twenty, in nankeen trousers, a little the
worse for washing, and a black velveteen jacket
and waistcoat. This young gentleman was very
much freckled; wore his hair, which was dark
and wiry, up at one side, down at the other;
had a short, thick nose, full lips, and, when close
to him, smelt of cigars. Such was Mr. Plim-


. NIGHT IND MORNING.
23
\
mins, Mr. Plaskwith’s factotum, foreman in the | Mrs. Plaskwith breathed more easily when he
shop, assistant-editor to the Mercury. Mr. Plask-
with formal] went the round of the introduc-
u'on: Mrs. nodded her head; the Misses P.
nudged each other and grinned; Mr. Plimmins
passed his hand through his hair, glanced at the
glass, and bowed very politely.
“ Now, Mrs. P., my second cup, and give Mr.
Morton his dish of tea. Must be tired, sir—hot
day. Jemima, ring—no, go to the stairs, and.
call out, ‘More buttered toast.’ That’s the
shorter way—promptitude is my rule in life,
Mr. Morton. Pray—hum, hum-have you ever,
b chance, studied the biography of the great
Napoleon Bonaparte ?”
Mr. Plimmins gul down his tea, and kicked
Philip under the tab e. Philip looked fiercely at
the foreman, and replied sullenly—
“ No, sir."
“That’s a pity. Napoleon Bonaparte was a
very great man—very! You have seen his cast?
There it is, on the dumb waiter! Look at it!
See a likeness, ch '3"
“ Likeness, sir! I never saw Napoleon Bona-
parte.”
“ Never saw him I No! just look round the
room. Who does that bust put you in mind of?
who does it resemble ‘3”
Here Mr. Plaskwilh rose and at himself into
an attitude; his hand in his waistcoat, and his
face pensirely inclined toward the tea-table
“ Now fancy me at St. Helena—this table is th
ocean. Now, then, who is that cost like, Mr.
Philip Morton ‘1‘" ‘
“I sup , sir, it is like you !”
“ Ah, t at it is! Strikes every one! Does
it not, Mrs. P., does it not? And, when you
have known me lon er, you will find a moral
similitude—a mora , sir! Straightforward—
short—to the point—bold—detcrmmed !"
“ Bless me, Mr. P. !” said Mrs. Plaskwith, very
querulously, “ do make haste with your tea: the
y gentleman, I suppose, wants to go home,
and t e coach passes in a quarter of an hour."
“ Have you see Kean in Richard the Third,
Mr. Morton ?" asked Mr. Plimmins.
“I have never seen a play.”
“ Never seen a lay! How very odd !”
“Not at all d, Mr. Plimmins,’7 said the
stationer. “ Mr. Morton has known troubles—
so hand him the hot toast.”
Silent and morose, but rather disdainful than
and, Philip listened to the babble round him, and
observed the ungenial characters with which he
was to associate. He cared not to please (that,
alas! had never been especially his study); it
was enough for him if he could see, stretching
to his mind’s eye beyond the walls of that dul
room, the long vistas into fairer fortune. At
sixteen, what sorrow can freeze the hope, or
what prophetic fear whisper “fool”7 to the am-
bition? He would hear back into ease and
prosperity, if not into affluence and station, the
dear ones left at home. From the eminence of
five shillings a week he looked over the Prom-
ised Land.
At length Mr. Plaskwith, pulling onthis watch,
said, “Just in time to catch the coach—make
your bow and be otf—Smart’s the word l” Philip
rose, took up his hat, made a stifi‘ how that in-
cluded the whole group, and vanished with his
best.

was gone.
“I never seed a-moro odd, fierce, ill-bred
looking young man! I declare I am quite
afraid of him. What an e e he has!”
“ Uncommon] dark; w at, I may say, gipsy-
like,” said Mr. limmins.
“He! be! You always do say such good
thinos, Plimniins. Gipsy-like! he! he! So he
is. wonder if he can tell fortunes ?"
“. He’ll be long before he has a. fortune of his
own to tell. Ha! he!” said Plimmins.
“ He! he! how very good! You are l0 pleas-
ant, Plimmins.”
While these strictures on his a pearance were
still going on, Philip had alre y ascended the
roof of the coach; and, waving his hand with
the condescension of old times to his future mas-
ter, was carried away by the “Express” in a
whirlwind of dust.
“A very warm evening, sir,” said a passen-
ger seated at his right, pufiing, while he spoke,
from a short German pipe, a volume of smoke
into Philip’s face.
“Very warm. Be so good as to smoke into
the face of the entleman on the other side of
you,” returned lghilip, petulantly.
“Ho! he!” replied the passenger, with a
loud, powerful laugh—the laugh of a strong
man. “You don’t take to the pipe yet; you
will by-and-hy, when you have known the cares
and anxieties that I have gone through. A.
pipe! It is a great soother! a leasant com-
forter! Blue devils fly before its onest breath!
It ripens the brain—it opens the heart; and the
man who smokes, thinks like a sage and acts
like a Samaritan !”
Roused from his revery by this quaint and
unexpected declamation, Philip turned his quick
glance at his neighbor. He saw a man of great
ulk and immense physical power—broad-shoul-
dered—deep-chested—not corpulent, but taking
the same girth from bone and muscle that a cor-
pulent man does from flesh. He wore a blue
eoat'—frogged, braided, and buttoned to the
throat. A broad-brimmed straw hat, set on
one side, gave a jaunty appearance to a counte-
nance which, notwithstandin its jovial com-
plexion and smiling mouth, End, in repose, a
old and decided character. It was a face well
suited to the frame, inasmuch as it betokoned a
mind capable of wielding and mastering the
brute physical force of body. Light eyes of
piercing intelligence; rough, but resolute and
striking features, and a jaw of iron. There was
thought, there was power, there was passion in
the shaggy brow, the deep-plowcd lines, the di-
lated nostril, and the restless play of the lips.
Philip looked hard and gravely, and the man
returned his look.
“ What do you think of me, young gentleman ?”
asked the passenger, as be replaced the pipe in
his mouth. “I am a fine-looking man, am I
not 7” -
“You seem a strange one.”
u'Strange ! Ay, I puzzle you, as I have done,
and shall do many. You can not read me as
easily as I can read you. Come, shall I guess
at your character and circumstances ? You are
a gentleman, or something like it, by birth—
thut the tone of your voice tells me. You are
poor, devilish poor—that the hole m your coat


‘24
NIGHT AND MORNING.
assures me. You are proud, fiery, discontented,
and unhappy—all that I see in your face. It
was because I saw those signs that I spoke to
ygu. I volunteer no acquaintance with the
WW
I!
“I dare say not; for, if you know all the
unhappy, you must have a sufficiently large
acquaintance,” returned Philip.
“Your wit is beyond your yearsl What is
your calling, if the question does not otfend
you ?”
“I have none as yet,” said Philip, with
slight sigh and a deep blush.
“ More’s the pity l” grunted the smoker, with
a long, emphatic, nasal intonation. “I should
have judged that you were a raw recniit in the
camp of the enemy.”
“ Enemy! I don’t understand you.”
“ln other words, a plant growing out of a
lawyer’s desk. I will explain. There is one
class of spiders, industrious, hard-working octo-
pedes, who, out of the sweet of their brains (I
take it, by-the-by, that a spider must have a fine
craniological development), make their own webs
and catch their own flies. There is another
class of spiders who have no stufl‘ in them where-
with to make webs; they, therefore, wonder
about, lookin out for food provided by the toil
of their neigh ors. Whenever they come to the
web of a smaller spider, whose larder seems
well supplied, they rush u on his domain—pur-
sue him to his hole—eat iim up if they can—
reject him if he is too ton h for their mews—.-
and quietly possess themse ves of all the legs
and win rs they find dangling in his meshes:
these spiders I call enemies—the world calls
them lawyers !”
Philip laughed. “ And who are the first class
of spiders?”
“Honest creatures, who openly confess that
they live upon flies. Lawyers fall foul upon
them, under pretense of deliverinrv flies from
their clutches. They are wonderfiil bloodsuck-
.ers, these lawyers, in spite of all their hypocrisy.
Ha! ha! Ho! ho!"
And with a loud, rough chuckle, more ex-
pressive of malignity than mirth. the man turned
himself round, applied himself vigorously to his
pipe, and sank into a silence which, as mile
after mile glided t the wheels, he did not
seem disposed to reak. Neither was Philip
inclined to be communicative. Considerations
for his own state and prospects swallowed up
the curiosity he might otherwise have felt as to
his singular neighbor. He had not touched food
since the early morning. Anxiety had made
him insensible to hunger till he arrived at Mr.
Plaskwith’s; and then, feverish, sore, and sick
at heart, the sight of the luxuries gracing the
tea-table only rcvolted him. He did not now
feel hunger, but he was fatigued and faint. For
severrd nights, the sleep which youth can so ill
dis use with had been broken and disturbed;
now, the rapid motion of the coach, tutti the
free current of a fresher and more exhausting
air than he had been accustomed to for many
months, began to operate on his nerves like the
intoxication of a narcotic. His eyes grew heavy;
indistinct mists, throuch which there seemed to
glare the various squints of the female Plask-
withs, succeeded the gliding road and the danc-
ing trees. His head fell on his bosom, and
‘thence, instinctively seeking the strongest sup-‘
port at hand, inclined toward the stout smoker,
and finally nestled itself eomposcdly on that gen-
tleman‘s shoulder. The passenger, feeling this
unwelcome weight, took the pipe, which he had
already thrice refilled, from his lips, and emittedv
an angry and impatient snort; finding that this
‘ produced no effect, and that the load grew hea-
vier as the boy’s sleep grew deeper, he cried,
in a loud voice, “Hello! I did not pay my fa
to be 'our bolster, young man!” and shoe
himseldlustily. Philip started, and would have
fallen sidelonc from the coach, if his neighbor
had not griped him hard with a hand that could
have kept a youne oak from falling.
“Rouse yourse ! You might have had an
ugl tumble." ,
hilip muttered something inaudible between
sleeping and waking, and turned his dark eyes
toward the man; in that glance there was so
much unconscious, but sad and dee re reach,
that the passenger felt touched a is mad.
Before, however, he could say any thing in
apology or conciliation, Philip had again fallen
asleep. But this time, as if he had felt and
resented the rebufi' he had received, he inclined
his head away from his neighbor, against the
edge of a box on the roof: a dangerous pillow,
from which any sudden jolt might transfer him
to the read below.
“Poor lad! he looks pale I” muttered the
an; and he knocked the weed from his pipe,
and placed it gently in his pocket. “Perhaps
the smoke was too much for him? he seems ill
and thin ;" and he took the boy’s long, lean fin~
ers in his own. “ I-Iis check is hollow! What
0 I know but it may be with fasting? Pooh!
I Was a brute. Hush, coachee, hush! Don’t
talk so loud, and be d—d to you—he will cer-
tainly be off ;” and the man softly and creepingly.
encircled the boy’s waist with his huge arm.
“Now, then, to shift his head; so—so—that’s
right." Philip’s sallow cheek and long hair
were now tenderly lapped on the soliloquist’s
bosom. “ Poor wretch! he smiles: erhaps he
is thinking of home, and the butter ies he ran
after when he was an urchin; they never come
back, those days—never—never—never! I think
the wind veers to the east; he may catch cold,”
and with that, the man, gliding the head for a
moment, and with the tenderness of a woman,
from his breast to his shoulder, unbottonod his.
coat (as he replaced the weight, no longer
unwelcome, in its former part), and drew the
luppets closely round the slender frame of the
sleeper, exposing his own sturdy breast—for he
were no waistcoat—to the sharpening air. Thus
cradled on that stranger’s bosom, wrapped from
the present, and dreaming, perhaps—while a.
heart scorched by fierce and terrible struggles
with life and sin made his pillow—of a fair and
unsullied future, slept thc l'atherless and friend-
less boy.
-_._._
CHAPTER VII.
“ Constance. My life, my joy, my food. my all the world,
My widew-comfort."—King John.
Am» the glare of the lamps, the rattle of car-
: riagcs, the lumbering of carts and wagons—the
‘, throng, the clamor, the reciting life and dissonant




NIGHT AND MORNING.
25
roar of London, Philip woke from his happy
sleep. He woke, uncertain and confused, and
saw strange eyes bent on him kindly and watch-
fully.
“ You have slept well, my lad l" said the pas-
senger, in the deep, ringing voice which made
itself heard above all the noises round.
“And you have suffered me to incommode
you thus 2"” said Philip, with more gratitude in
his voice and look than, perhaps, he had shown
to any one out of his own family since his birth.
“ You have had but little kindness shown you,
my poor bo , if you think so much of this?”
“No—a1 people were very kind to me once.
I did not value it then." Here the coach rolled
heavily down the dark arch of the inn-yard.
“Take care of yourself, my boy! You look
ill ;” and in the dark the man slipped a sovereign
into Philip’s hand.
“I don’t want money, thou h I thank you
heartily all the same; it would be a shame at
my age to be a beggar. But can you think of
an employment where I can make something?
what they offer me is so trifling. I have a
mother and a. brother—~11 mere child, sir—at
home.”
“Employment!” re eatcd the man; and, as
the coach new steppe at the tavern door, the
light from the lamp fell full on his marked face.
“Ay, I know of employment; but you should
apply to some one else to obtain it for you! As
for me, it is not likely that we shall meet again l”
“I am sorry for that! What and who are
you ?” asked Philip, with rude and blunt curiosity.
“ Me I” returned the passenger, with his deep
laugh; oh ! I know some people who call me an
honest fellow. Take the employment offered
you, no matter how trifling : keep out of harm's
way. Good-night to you!”
So saying, he quickly descended from the roof;
and, as ho was directing the coachman where to
look for his carpet bag, Philip saw three or four
well-dressed-looking men make up to him, shake
him heartily by the hand, and welcome him with
great seeming cordiality.
Philip sighed. “ He has friends,” he muttered
to himself; and, paying his fare, he turned from
the bustling yard, and took his solitary way
home.
A week after his visit to R , Philip was
settled on his probation at Mr. Plaskwith’s, and
Mrs. Morton’s health was so deeidedl worse,
that she resolved to know her fate, an consult
a physician. The oracle was at first ambiguous
in its response. But when Mrs. Morton said
firml , “l have duties to perform: upon your
candid answer rest my plans with rcs ect to my
children—left, if I die suddenly, destitute in the
world,” the doctor looked hard in her face, saw
its calm resolution, and replied frankly,
“ Lose no time, then, in arranging your plans:
life is uncertain with all—with you especially;
you may live some time yet, but your constitution
is much shaken; I fear there is water on the
chest. No, ma'am, no fee. I will see you
again.”
The physician turned to Sidney, who played
with his watch-chain, and smiled up in his face.
“And that child, sir '1‘" said the mother,-\'ist-
fully, forgetting the dread fiat pronounced against
herself; “ he is so delicate !’
“ Not at all, ma’am—a very fine little fellow,"


and the doctor patted the boy’s head, and abruptly
vanished.
“All! mamma, I wish you would ride—I wish
you would take the white pony !”
“Poor boy! poor boy l” muttered the mother;
“I must not be selfish.’1 She covered her face
with her hands, and began/to think.
Could she, thus doomed, resolve on declining
her brother’s offer? Did it not, at least, secure
bread and shelter to her child ? When shth'ns
dead, might not a tie between the uncle and
nephew be snapped asunder? Would he be as
kind to the boy as now. when she could commend
him with her own lips to his care—when she
could place that precious charge into his hands?
With these thoughts, she formed one of these
resolutions which have all the strength of self-
sacrificing love. She would put the boy from
her, her last solace and comfort; she would die
alone—alone!
o
._--+_-
CHAPTER VIII.
“ Constance. VVhen I shall meet him in the court of
Heaven,
I shall not know ltim."—-King John.
Our; evening, the shop closed and the business
done, Mr. Roger Morton and his family sat in
that snug and comfortable retreat which gener-
ally backs the ware-rooms of an English trades-
man. Happy often, and indeed happy, is that
little sanctuary, near to, had yet remote from,
the toil and care of the busy mart from which
its homely ease and peaceful security are drawn.
Glance down those rows of silenced s'ho s in a
town at night, and picture the glad on quiet
groups gathered within, over that ni _htly and
social meal which custom has banishe from the
inore indolent tribes who neither toil nor spin.
Placed between the two extremes of life, the
tradesmen who ventures not beyond his means,
and sees clear books and sure ains, with
enough of occupation to give healt ful excite-
ment, enough of fortune to greet each new-born
child without a sigh, mi ht be envied alike by
those above and those below his state—if the
restless heart of man ever envied content!
“ And so the little boy is not to come ?” said
Mrs. Morton, as she crossed her knife and fork,
and pushed away her plate, in token that she had
done supper.
“I don’t know. Children, go to bed; there—
thére—that will do. Good-night! Catharine
does not say either yes or no. She wants time
to consider. ’
“It was a very handsome ofi'er on our part:
some folks never know when they are well off."
“ That is very true, my dear, and you are a
very sensible person. Kate herself might have
been an honest woman, and, what is more, a
very rich woman by this time. She might have
married Spencer,'the 'oung brewer—an exceL
lent man, and well to o l"
“ Spencer! I don’t remember him."
“ No : after she went off, he retired from busi-
ness and left the lace. Idon’t know what’s be-
come of him. e was mightily taken with her,
to be sure. She was uncommonly handsome, my
sister Catharine.” ‘
“Handsome is as handsome docs, Mr. Mor-


26
NIGHT AND MORNING.
ton," said the wife, who was very much marked
with the small-pox. “We all have our tempta-
tions and trials: this is a vale of tears, and with-
out "race we are whited sepulchers.”
r. Morton mixed his brandy and water, and
moved his chair into its accustomed corner.
“ You saw your brother’s letter,” said he,
after a pause; “he gives young Philip :1. very
good character.”
“The human heart is very deceitful,” replied
Mrs. Morton, who, by-the-way, spoke throu h
her nose. “Pray Heaven he may be what e
seems; but what’s bred in the bone comes out
in the flesh.”
“We must hope the best,” said Mr. Morton,
mildly; “and—put another lump into the grog,
my dear.”
“It is a mere , I’m thinking, that we didn’t
have the other ittle boy. I dare say he has
never even been taught his catechism: them peo-
ple don’t know what it is to be a mother. And,
besides, it would have been very awkward, Mr.
M.; we could never have said who he was; and
I’ve no doubt Miss Pryinall would have been very
curious.”
“ Miss Pryinall be !” Mr. Morton-cheek-
ed himself, took a large draught of the brandy
and water, and added, “Miss Pryinall wants to
have a fin er in every body’s pie.”
“But s e buys a deal of flannel, and does
great good to the town: it was she who found
out that Mrs. Giles was no better than she
should be.
“Poor Mrs. Giles! she came to the work-
house.”
“ Poor Mrs. Giles, indeed! I wonder, Mr.
Morton, that you. a married man, with a. family,
should say poor Mrs. Giles I”
“My dear, when people who have been well
ofi‘ come to the workhouse, they may be called
r: but that’s neither here nor there; only;
if the boy does come to us, we must look sharp
upon Miss Pryinall.”
“I hope he won’t come; it will be very un-
leasant. And when a man has a wife and fam-
ily, the less hc meddles with other folks and their
little ones, the better. For, as the Scripture says,
‘A man shall cleave to his wife, and-J ”
Here a sharp, shrill ring at the bell was heard,
and Mrs. Morton broke off into—
“Well! I declare! at this hour—who can
that be? And all gone to bed! Do go and
see, Mr. Morton.”
Somewhat reluctantly and slowly, Mr. Morton
rose, and, proceeding,to the passage, unbarred
the door. A brief and muttered conversation
followed, to the great irritability of Mrs. Mor-
ton,dwho stood in the passage, the candle in her
han .
“What‘ is the matter, Mr. M. 5’”
Mr. Morton turned back, looking agitated.
“Where’s my hat? Oh, here. My sister is
come—at the inn."
“ Gracious me l She does-not go for to say
she is your sister ‘2”
“ N o, no—hore’s her note—calls herself a
lady that’s ill. I shall be back soon.”
“ She can’t come here—she sha’n’t come here,
Mr. M. I’m an honest woman—she can’t come
here. You understand—"
Mr. Morton had natural] a stern countenance
—stern to every one but is wife. The shrill


tone to which he was so long accustomed jarred
then on his heart as well as car. He frowned:
“Pshawl woman, on have no feeling!” said
he, and walked out oi’ the house, pulling his hat
over his brows.
That was the only rude speech Mr. Morton
had ever made to his better half. She treasured
it up in her heart and memory; it was associated
with the sister and the child; and she was nota
woman‘who ever forgave.
Mr. Morton walked rapidly through the still,
moon-lit streets till he reached the inn. A club
was held that night in one of the rooms beIOW'
and, as he crossed the threshold, the sound of
“hip—hip—hurrah!” mingled with the stamp-
ing of feet and the jingling of glasses, saluted
his entrance. He was a stitf, sober, respectable
man; a man who, except at elections—he was
a great politician—mixed in none of the revels
of his more boisterous townsmen. The sounds,
the spot, were ungenial to him. He paused, and
the color of shame rose to his brow. He was
ashamed to be there; ashamed to meet the des-
olate, and, as he believed, erring sister.
A pretty maid-servant, heated and flushed
with orders and compliments, crossed his path
with a tray full of glasses.
“ There‘s a lady come by the Telegraph ?”
“Yes, sir, up-stairs, No. 2, Mr. Morton.”
Mr. Morton ! He shrunk at the sound of his
own name. “ My wife’s right,” he muttered.
2: After all, this is more unpleath than I thought
or.
The slight stairs shook under his hasty tread.
He opene the door of No. 2, and that Cathar-
ine whom he had last seen at the age of go.
sixteen, radiant with bloom, and, but for her air
of pride, the model for a Hebe—that Catharine,
old crc youth was gone, ale, faded, the dark hair
silvered over, the cheeks hollow, and the eye
dim—that Catharine fell upon his breast!
“ God bless you, brother! How kind to come]
How lon since we have met !”
“ Sit own, Catharine, m dear sister. You
are faint—you are very mue changed—very. I
should not have known you.”
“ Brother, I have brought my hey: it is pain-
ful to part from him—very—very painful; but it
is right, and God’s will be done." She turned
as she s okc toward a little, deformed, rickety
dwarf o a sofa, that seemed to hide itself in
the darkest corner of the low, gloomy room;
and Morton followed her. With one hand she
removed the shawl that she had thrown over
the child, and, lacing the fore fin er of the
other upon her iips—ltps that smile then—she
whispered, “We will not wake him, he is so
tired. But I would not put him to bed till you
had seen him."
And there slept poor Sidney, his fair cheek
pillowed on his arm; the soft, silky ringlets
thrown from the delicate and unelouded brow~
the natural bloom increased by warmth and
travel; the lovely face so innocent and hushed;
the breathing so gentle and regular, as if never
broken by a sigh.
Mr. Morton drew his hand across his eyes.
There was something very touching in the
contrast between that wakeful, anxious, forlorn
woman, and the slumber of the unconscious boy.
And in that moment, what breast upon which
the light of Christian pity—of natural infection


NIGHT AND MORNING.
27
had ever dawned, would, even supposing the
world’s judgment were true, have recalled Cath-
arine’s reputed error? There is so divine a
holiness in the love of a mother, that, no matter
how the tie that binds her to the child was ferm-
ed, she becomes, as it were, consecrated and se-
cred; and the past is forgotten, and the world
and its harsh verdicts swept away when that
love alone is visible; and the God who watches
over the little one sheds his smile over the hu-
man deputy, in whose tenderness there breathes
His own!
‘ “You will be kind to him—will you not ?”
said Mrs. Morton; and the appeal was made
with that trustful, almost cheerful tone which
implies, “Who would not be kind to a thing so
fair and helpless?” “ He is very sensitive and
very docile- you will never have occasion to say
a hard wor to him—never! You have children
of your own, brother !”
“ He is a beautiful boy—beautiful. I will be
a father to him i” .
As he spoke, the rccdlection of his wife—-
sour, querulons, austere—came over him; but
he said to himself, “ She must take to such a
child : women always take to beauty."
He bent down, and ently pressed his lips to
Sidney’s forehead. rs. Morton replace the
shawl, and drew her brother to the other end of
the room.
“And now,” she said, coloring as she spoke,
“I must see your wife, brother: there is much
to say about a child that only a woman will rec-
ollect! Is she very good-tempered and kind,
your wife? You know I never saw her; you
married after—after I left.”
“ She is a very worthy woman,” said Mr. Mor-
ton, clearing his throat, “ and brought me some
money; she has a will of her own, as most wom-
en have—but that’s neither here nor there; she
is a good wife as wives g0, and rudent and
painstaking; I don’t know what should do
without her.”
“Brother, I have one favor to request—a
great favor.’7
“ Any thing I can do in the way of money ?”
“It has nothing to do with mone . I can’t
live long—don’t shake your head—Iv can’t live
long. fhave no fear for Philip; he has so much
spirit—such strength of character; but that
child I I can not bear to leave him altogether:
let me stay in this town—I can lodge any where;
but to see him sometimes—to know I shall be
in reach, if he is ill—let me stay here—let me
die here 1"
“ You must not talk so sadl : you are young
yet—’Tyoungcr than I am: I on’t think of dy-
in
“Heaven forbid! but—”
“ Well, well I" interrupted Mr. Morton, who
began to fear his feelings would hurry him into
some promise which his wife would not suffer
him to keep, “ you shall talk to Margaret—that
is, to Mrs. Morton ; I will get her to see you-
yes, I think I can contrive that; and if you can
arrange with her to stay—but, you see, as she
brought the money, and is a very particular
woman—"
“I will see her—thank you, thank you—she
can not refuse me.”
“ And, brother, resumed Mrs. Morton, after a
short pause, and speaking in a firm voice, “.and
I

is it possible that you dishelieve my sto ? that
you, like all the rest, consider my childi'en the
sons of shame ‘2”
There was an honest earnestness in Catha-
rine’s voice as she sppke that might have con-
vinced many. But r. Morton was a man of
facts—a practical man—a man who believed
that law was always right, and that the improb-
able was never true.
He looked down as he answered, “I think you
have been avery ill-used woman, Catharine, and
that is all I can say on that matter : let us drop
the subject.”
“ No! I was not ill-used; my husband—yes,
my husband—ewes noble and generous from first
to last. It was for the sake of his children’s
prospects, for the expectations they, thro h
1m, might derive from his proud uncle, that a
concealed our marriage. Do not blame Philip
—do not condemn the dead.”
“I don’t want to blame any one,” said Mr.
Morton, rather angrily; “ I am a plain man, a
tradesmen, and can only 0 by what in my class
seems fair and honest, wiich I can’t think Mr.
Beaufort’s conduct was, put it how you will; if
he marries you, as you think, he gets rid of a
witness, he destroys a certificate, and he dies
without a will. However, all that’s neither here
nor there. You do quite right not to take the
name of Beaufort, since it is an uncommon name,
and would always make the story public. Least
said soonest mended. You must always consider
that your children will be called natural children,
and have their own way to make. No harm in
that! Warm day for your journey.” Catharine
sighed and wiped her eyes: she no longer re-
proached the world, since the son of her own
mother disbelieved her.
The relations talked together for some min-
utes on the past—tho present; but there was
embarrassment and constraint on both sides—it
was so difficult to avoid one subject; and, after
sixteen years of absence, there is little left in
common, even between those who once pie 'cd
together round their parents’ knees. Mr. l\ or-
ton was glad at last to find an excuse in Catha-
rine’s fatigue to leave her. “Cheer up, and
take a glass of something warm before you go
to bed. Good-night !” These were his parting
words.
Long was the conference and sleepless the
couch of Mr. and Mrs. Morton. At first, that
estimable lady positively declared she would not
and could ‘not visit Catharine: as to receiving
her_that was out of the question. But she se-
cretly resolved to give up that point, in order to
insist with greater strength upon another, viz.,
the impossibility of Catherine remaini in the
town, such concession for the purpose of resist-
ance being avery common and s ious policy
with married ladies. Accordin y, when sud-
denly, and with a good grace, h rs. Morton ap-
peared alTected by her husband’s eloquence, and
said, “Well, poor thing! if she is so ill, and on
wish it so much, I will call to-morrow,” r.
Morton felt his heart softened toward the many
excellent reasons which his wife urged against
allowing Catharine to reside in the town. He
was a political character ; he had many enemies;
the story of his seduced sister, now forgotten,
Would certainly be raked up; it would aflcct his
comfort, perhaps his trade, certainly his eldest


QB
NIGHT AND MORNING.
daughter, who was now thirteen; it would be
impossible, then, to adopt the plan hitherto rc-
solvcd upon—of passing off Sidney as the leciti-
mate orphan of a distant relation; it woul be
made a great handle for gossip by Miss Pryinall.
Added to all these relations, one not less strong
occurred to Mr. Morton himself: the uncommon
and merciless rigidity of his wife would render
all the other women in the town very glad of
any topic that would humble her own sense of
immaculate propriety. Moreover, he saw that,
if Catharine did remain, it would be a perpetual
source of irritation in his own home ; he was a
man who liked an easy life, and avoided, as far
as possible, all food for domestic worry. And
thus, when at length the wedded pair turned
back to back, and composed themselves to sleep,
the conditions of peace were settled, and the
weak party, as usual in diplomacy, sacrificed to
the interests of the united powers.
After breakfast the next morning, Mrs. Mor-
ton sallicd out on her husband’s arm. Mr. Mor-
ton was rather a handsome man, with an air
and look grave, composed, severe, that had tend-
ed much to raise his character in the town.
Mrs. Morton was short, wiry, and bony. She
had won her husband by making desperate love
to him, to say nothing of a dower that enabled
him to extend his business, new paint as well as
new stock his shop, and rise into the very first
rank of tradesmen in his native town. He
still believed that she was excessively fond of
him; a common delusion of husbands, especially
when henpecked. Mrs. Morton was, perhaps,
fond of him in her own way; for, though her
heart was not warm, there may be a great deal
of fondness with very little feeling. The worthy
lady was now clothed in her best. She had a
prciipcr pride in showing the rewards that belong
to emale virtue. Flowers adorned her Leghorn
bonnet, and her green silk gown boasted four
flounces—such then was, I am told, the fashion.
She wore, also, a very handsome black shawl,
extremely heavy, though the day was oppress-
ively hot, and with a deep border; a smart
Sevigné breach of yellow topazes glittered ,in
her breast; a huge gilt serpent glared from her
waistband; her hair, or, more properly speak-
ing, her front, was tortured into very tight curls,
and her feet into very tight, half-laced boots, from
which the fragrance of new leath'er had not yet
departed. It was this last infliction, for £1 foul
souflrir pom- élre belle, which somewhat et more
acerbated the ordinary acid of Mrs. orton’s
temper. The sweetest disposition is ruillcd when
the shoe pinches; and it happened that Mrs.
Roger Morton was one of these ladies who al-
ways have ohilblains in the winter and euros in
the summer.
“ So you say your sister is a beauty?"
“ lVas a. beauty, Mrs. M—was a beauty.
People alter.”
“A bad conscience, Mr. Morton, is—”
“My dear, can’t you walk faster ‘1’”
“ If you had my corns, Mr. Morton, you would
not talk in that way !”
“ The happy pair sank into silence, only broken
by sundry “ How d’yo do‘s ‘8” and “ Good morn-
ing’s !" interchanged with their friends, till they
arrived at the inn.
“Let us go up quickly,” said Mrs. Morton.
And quiet—quiet to gloom—did the inn, so
noisy over-night, seem by morning. The shut-
ters partially closed to keep out the sun; the
tap-room deserted; the passage smelling of stale
smoke; an elderly dog, lazily snapping at the
flies, at the foot of the staircase—not a soul to
be seen at the bar. The husband and wife, glad
to be unobserved, crept on tiptoe up the stairs,
and entered Catharine’s apartment.
Catharine was seated on the sofa, and Sidney
—-dressed, like Mrs. Roger Morton, to look his
prettiest, nor yet aware of the change that
awaited his destiny, but pleased at the excite-
ment of seeing new friends, as handsome chil-
dren, sure of praise and petting, usually are-—
stood by her side.
“ My wife—Catharine,” said Mr. Morton.
Catharine rose eagerly, and gazed searchineg
on her sister-in-law’s hard face. She swallowed
the convulsive rising at her heart as she gazed,
and stretched out both her hands, not so much to
welcome as to plead. Mrs. Roger Morton drew
herself up, and then dropped a courtesy—it was
an involuntary piece of good breeding—it was
extorted by the noble countenance, the matronly
mien of Catharine—different from what she had
anticipated—she dro pod the courtesy, and Ca.-
tharine took her han and pressed it.
“This is my son ;" she turned away her
head. Sidney advanced towards his protectress
who was to be, and Mrs. Roger muttered.
“ Come here, my dear! A fine little boy !”
“ As fine a child as ever I saw!” said Mr.
Morton, heartily, as he took Sidney on his lap,
and stroked down his golden hair.
This displeased Mrs. Roger Morton, but she
sat herself down, and said it was “Very warm."
“Now go to that lady, my dear,” said Mr.
Morton. " Is she not a very nice lady ? Don’t
you think you shall like her very much 1”
Sidney, the best-mannered child in the world,
went boldly up to Mrs. Morton as he was bid.
Mrs. Morton was embarrassed. Some folks are
so with other folk‘s children : a child either re-
moves allconstraint from a party, or it increases
the constraint tenfold. Mrs. Morton, however,
forced a smile, andsaid, ,“I have a little boy at
home about your age.”
“ Have you ‘2” exclaimed Catharine, eagerly;
and, as if that confession made them friends at
once, she drew a chair close to her sister-in-
law’s : “ My brother has told you all ?”
“ Yes, ma’am."
“And I shall stay here—in the town some-
where—and see him sometimes ?"
Mrs. Roger Morton glanced at her husband,
her husband glanced at the door, and Catharine's
quick eye turned from one to the other.
“Mr. Morton will explain ma’am,” said the
wife. _
“E-heml Catharine, my dear, I am afraid
that is out of the question," began Mr. Morton,
who, when fairly put to it, could be business-like
enough. “You see bygoncs are bygoncs. and it
is no use raking them up. But many people in
the town will recollect you.”
“No one will see me—uo one, but you and
Sidney.”
“It will be sure to creep out; won’t it, Mrs.
Morton ‘9“
“Quite sure. Indeed, ma’am, it is impossible.
'Mr. Morton is so very respectable, and his neigh-
bors pay so much attention to all he does; and



NIGHT AND MORNING.
then, if we have an election in the autumn—you
see, ma'am, he has a great stake in the place,
and is a public character."
“That's neither here nor there,” said Mr.
Morton. “But, I say, Catharine, can your little
boy go into the other room for a moment? Mar-
garet, suppose you take him and make friends.”
Delighted to throw on her husband the burden
of explanation, which she had originally meant
to have all the importance of giving herself, in
her most proper and patronizing manner, Mrs.
Morton twisted her fingers into the boy’s hand,
and, opening the door that communicated with
the bedroom, left the brother and sister alone.
And then Mr. Morton, with more tact and deli-
cacy than might have been expected from him,
be'gan to soften to Catharine the hardship of the
separation he urged. He dwelt principally on
what was best for the child. Boys were so bru-
tal in their intercourse with each other. He had
even thought it. better to represent Philip to Mr.
Plaskwith as a more distant relation than he was;
and he begged, by-the-hy, that Catharine would
tell Philip to take the hint. But as for Sidney,
sooner or later he would go to a day-school—
have companions of his own age; if his birth
were known, he would be exposed to many mor-
tifications—so much better, and so very easy to
bring him up as the lawful, that is, as the legal
ofispring of some distant relation.
“And,” cried poor Catharine, cluspin her
hands, “when I am dead, is he never to now
that I was his mother ‘3‘”
The anguish of that question thrilled the heart
of the listener. He was infected below all the
surface that worldly thoughts and habits had
laid, stratum by stratum, over the humanities
within. He threw his arms round Catharine,
and strained her to his breast.
“ No, my sister, my poor sister, he shall know
it when he is old enough to understand and to
keep his own secret. He shall know, too, how
we all loved and prized you once—how young
you‘yverer-diow flattered and tempted—how you
were deceived; for I know that—on m ' soul I
do—I know it was not your fault. c shall
know, me, how fondly on loved your child, and
how you sacrificed, for his sake, the very comfort
of being near him. He shall know it allwalll”
“ My brother, my brother, I resign him—I am
content. God reward you. I will go—go quick-
ly. I know you will take care of him now."
“ And you see,” resumed Mr. Morton, reset-
tling himself and wiping his eyes, “it is best,
between you and me, that Mrs. Morton should
have her own way in this. She is a. very good
woman—very; but it is prudent not to vex her.
You may come in now, Mrs. Morton."
Lbs. Morton and Sidne reappeared.
“We have settled it i," said the husband.
“When can we have him ‘5’”
“ Not tan-day,” said Mrs-llofrcr Morton; “you
see, ma’am, we must get his bod ready, and his
sheets well aired : I am very particular."
“ Certainly, certainly. Will he sleep alone ?
—pardon me.”
“He shall have a room to himself,” said Mr.
Morton. “Eh, my dear? Next to Martha’s.
Martha is our parlor-maid—very good-natured
girl, and fund of children'."
Mrs. Morton looked grave, thought a moment,
and said, “ Yes, he can have that room.”

“ Who can have that room ?” asked Sidney,
innocently.
“ You, in dear,” replied Mr. Morton.
“And w ere will mamma sleep? I must
sleep near mamma.”
“ Mamma is going awe ,” said Catharine, in
a—firm voice, in which t c despair would only
have been felt by the acute car of sympathy;
“going away for a little time; but this gentle-
man and lady will be very, very kind to you.”
“ We will do our best, ma am,” said Mrs
Morton.
And, as she spoke, a sudden light broke on the
boy’s mind; he uttered a loud cry, broke from
his aunt, rushed to his mother’s breast, and hid
his face there, sobbing bitterly.
“I am afraid he has been very much spoiled,”
whispered Mrs. Roger Morton. “I don‘t think
we need stay any longer—it will look suspicious.
Good-morning, ma’am; we shall be ready to-
ruorrow.’7
“ Good-by, Catharine,” said Mr. Morton; and
he added, as he kissed her, “Be of good heart;
I will come up by myself and spend the evening
with you."
It was the night after this interview. Sidne
had gone to his new home; they had been al
kind to him—Mr. Morton, the children, Martha.
the parlor-maid. Mrs. Roger‘hcrsclf had given
him a large slice of bread and Jam, but hadlook-
ed gloomy all thc'rest of the evening, because,
like a dog in a strange place, he refused to eat.
His little heart was full, and his eyes, swimming
with tears, were turned at every moment to the
door. But he did not show the violent grief that
might have been expected. He was naturally
timid, and his very desolation, amid the unfamil-
iar faces, awed and chilled him. But when
Martha took him to bed, and undressed him, and
he knelt down to so his prayers, and came to
the words, “Pray bless dear mamma, and
make me a good child,” his heart could contain
its load no longer, and he sobbed with a assion
that alarmed the good-natured servant. the had
been used, however, to children, and she soothed
and caressed him, and told him of all the nice
things he would do, and the nice toys he would
have; and at last, silenced, if not convinced, his
eyes closed, and, the tears yet wet on their lash-
es, fell asleep.
It had been arranged that Catharine should
return home that night by a late coach, which
left the town at twelve. It was alread past
eleven. Mrs. Morton had retired to bc ; and
her husband, who had, according to his wont,
lingered behind to smoke a cigar over his last
glass of brandy and water, had Just thrown aside
the stump and was winding up his watch, when
he heard a low tap at his Window. He stood
mute and alarmed, for the window opened on a
back lane, dark and solitary at night, and, from
the heat of the weather, the iron-cased shutter
was not yet closed; the sound was repeated, and
he heard a faint voice. He glanced at the poker,
and then cautiously moved to the window, and
looked forth: “ W ho’s there 5‘” _
“It is I—it is Catharine ! I can not go With-
out seeing my boy. I must see him—I must
once more l” _ _
“My dear sister, the place is shut up—it IS
impossible. God bless me, if Mrs. Morton Should
hear you I"


30
NIGHT AND MORNING.
“I have walked before this window for hours
--I have waited till all is hushed in your house
—till no one, not even a menial, need see the
mother stealing to the bed of her child. Brother!
by the memory of our own mother, I command
you to let me look, fo‘ the last time, upon my
boy’s face l”
As Catharine said this, standing in that lone
street—darkness and solitude below, God and
the stars above—there was about her a majesty
which awed the listener. Though she was so
near, her features were not very clearly visible;
but her attitude—her hand raised aloft, the out-
line of her wasted but still commanding form,
were more impressive from the shadowy dim-
ness of the air.
“ Come round, Catharine,” said Mr. Morton,
after a pause; “I will admit you.”
He shut the window, stole to the door, unhar-
rcd it ently, and admitted his visitor. He bade
her follow him ; and, shading the light with his
hand, crept up the stairs. Catharine s step made
no sound.
They passed, unmolcsted and unheard, the
room in which the wife was drowsily reading,
according to her 'custom, before she tied her
nighteap and got into bed, a chapter in some
pious book. They ascended to the chamber
where Sidney lay,- Morton opened the door can-
tiously, and stood at the threshold, so holding
the candle that its light might not wake the
child, though it sufficed to guide Catharine to
.the bed. The room was small, erhaps close,
but scrupulously clean ; for cleanliness was Mrs.
Rover Morton s capital virtue. The mother,
with a trcmulous hand, drew aside the white
curtains, and checked her sobs as she azed on
the young, quiet face that was turne toward
her. She gazed some moments in passionate
silence; who shall say, beneath that silence,
what thoughts, what prayers moved and stirred ?
Then bending down, with pale, convulsive lips,
she kissed the little hands thrown sci listlessly
on the coverlid of the pillow on which the head
lay. After this, she turned her face to her
brother, with a mute appeal in her glance, took a
ring from her finger—a ring that had never till
then left it—the ring which Philip Beaufort had
placed there the day after that child was born.
“Let. him wear this round his neck,” said she,
and stopped, lest she should sob aloud and disturb
the boy. In that gift she felt as if she invoked
the father’s spirit to watch over the friendless
orphan; and then, pressing together her own
hands tlrmly, as we do in some paroxysm of
great pain, she turned from the room, descended
the stairs, ained the street, and muttered to her
brother, “ am happy now; ace be on these
thresholds l" Before he ccul answer she was
gone.
-_.___
CHAPTER IX.
" Thus things are strangely wrought,
While joyful May doth last;
Tnke May in time; when May is gone
The pleasant time is put."
Rlcnuw Enwsnns:
From the Paradise 0)" Dainty Devices.
11 was that period of the year when, to those
who look on the surface of society, London wears
_the most.

its most radiant smile; when shops are gayest,
and trade most brisk; when down the thorough-
fares roll and glitter the countless streams of
indolent and vein tuous life; when the up
class s nd, and t e middle class make; w an
the b l-room is the market of beauty, and
the club-house the school for scandal; when
the hells yawn for their prey, and the opera-
sinrrers and fiddlers—creatures hatched from
gol , as the dung-flies from the dung—swarm,
and buzz, and fatten round the hide of the gentle
Public In the cunt phrase, it was “the London
season.” And ha py, take it altogether, happy
above the rest of t e year, even for the hapless,
is that period of ferment and fever. It is not
the season for duns, and the debtor lglides about
with less anxious eye; and the west or is warm,
and the vagrant sleeps, unfrozen, under the star-
lit portieo; and the beggar thrives, and the
thief rejoices—for the rankness of the civilization
has superfluities clutched by all. And out of
the general corruption things sordid and things
miserable crawl forth to bask in the common
sunshine—things that perish when the first an-
tumn winds whistle along the melancholy city.
It is the gay time for the heir and the beauty,
and the statesman and the lawyer, and the mother
with her young daughters, and the artist with
his fresh ietures, and the poet with his new
book. It 18 the ay time, too, for the starved
journeyman, and t e ragged outcast, that, with
long stride and patient eyes, follows, for pence,
the equestrian, who bids him go and be d—d in
vain. It is a gay time for the painted harlot in
a crimson lisse; and a gay time for the old
hag that loiters round the thresholds of the gin-
shop, to buy back, in a draught, the dreams of
departed youth. It is gay, in fine, as the full-
ness of a vast city is ever gay—for Vice as for
Innocence, for Poverty as for Wealth. And the
wheels of every single destiny wheel on the
merrier, no matter whether they are bound to
heaven or to hell.
Arthur Beaufort, the young heir, was fl; his
father’s house. He was fresh from Oxford,
where he had already discovered that learning
is not better than house and land. Since the
new prospects opened to him, Arthur Beaufort
was greatly chan ed. Naturally studious and
prudent, had his ortunes'remained what they
had been before his uncle’s death, he would
probably have become a laborious and distin-
guished man. But, though his abilities were
cod, he had not_those restless impulses which
elong to enius—often not only its glory, but its
curse. T e golden rod cast his energies asleep
at once. Good-natured to a fault, and vacillat-
ing in character, he adopted the manner and
the code of the rich young idlers who were his
equals at college. He became, like them, care-
less, extrava ant, and fond of pleasure. This
change, if it eteriorated his mind, im roved his
exterior. It was a change that co d not but
please women; and, of all women, his mother
Mrs. Beaufort was a lady of high
birth, and, in marrying her, Robert had he d
much from the interest of her connections; ut
a change of ministry had thrown her relations
out of power; and, beyond her dowry, be ob-
tained no worldly advantage with the lady of
his mercenary choice. Mrs. Beaufort was a
woman whom sword or two will describe. She


NIGHT AND MORNING.
31
was thoroughly commonplace; neither bad nor
bod, neither clever nor silly. She was what
is called well-bred; that is, languid, silent, per-
fectly dressed, and insipid. Of her two children,
Arthur was almost the exclusive favorite, espe-
cially after he became the heir to such brilliant
fortunes. For she was so much the mechanical
creature of the world, that even her affection
was warm or cold in proportion as the world
shone on it. Without being absolutely in love
with her husband, she like him: they suited
each other; and (in spite of all the temptations
that had beset her in their earlier years, for she
had been esteemed a beauty; and lived, as world-
ly people must do, in circles where examples of
impunished gallantry are numerous and conta-
gious), her conduct had ever been scrupulously
correct. She had little or no feeling for misfor-
tunes with which she had never come into con-
tact; for those with which she had, such as the
distresses of younger sons, or the errors of fash-
ionable women, or the disappointments of “ a
proper ambition," she had more sympathy than
might have been supposed, and touched on them
with all the tact ol well-bred charity and lady-
like forbearance. Thus, though she was re-
garded as a strict person in point of moral de-
corum, yet in society she was popular—as
women at once pretty and inoffensive generally
are.
To do Mrs. Beaufort justice, she had not been
privy to the letter her husband had wrote to
Catharine,.a_lthough not wholly innocent of it.
The fact is, that Robert had never mentioned to
her the peculiar circumstances that made Cath-
arine an exception from ordinary rules—the
generous propositions of his brother to him the
night before his death; and, whatever his in-
credulin as to the alle ed private marriage—
the perfect loyalty and aith that Catharine had
home to the deceased—he had merely observed,
“1 must do something, I suppose, for that wo-
man : she very nearly entrapped my poor brother
into marrying her; and he would then, for what
I know, have cut Arthur out of the estates.
Still, I must do somet ' for her—eh ?”
“ Yes, I think so. but was she—very
low ‘5‘”
“ A tradesman’s dai hter.”
“ The children shoul be provided for accord-
ing to the rank of the mother; that’s the eneral
rule in such cases : and the mother she d have
about the same provision she might have looked
for if she had married a tradesman, and been
left a widow. I dare say she was a very artful
kind of person, and don’t deserve any thing; but
it is always handsomar, in the e es of the world,
to go by the general rules peep e lay down as to
money matters."
So spoke Mrs. Beaufort. She concluded her
husband had settled the matter, and never again
recurred to it. Indeed she had never liked the
late Mr. Beaufort, whom she considered mauvais
$0.-
In the breakfast-room at Mr. Beaufort’s, the
mother and son were seated; the former at work,
the latter lounging by the window: they were
not alone.
aged man, listening or appearing to listen, to
the prattle of a beautiful little girl, Arthur Beau-
fort’s sister. This man was not handsome, but
there was a certain elegance in his air, and a]
In a large elbow-chair sat a middle- -
'certain intelligence in his countenance which
made his appearance pleasing. He had that
kind of eye which is often seen with red hair—
; an eye ofa reddish hazel, with very long lashes;
the eyebrows' were dark and clearly defined;
and the short hair showed to advantage the con-
tour of a small, well-shaped head. His features
were irregular; the complexion had been san-
guine, but was now faded, and a yellow tinge
mingled with the red. His face was more
wrinkled, especially round the eyes; which,
when he laughed, were scarcely visible, than is
usual even in men ten years older. But his
teeth were still of a dazzling whiteness; nor
was there any trace of decayed health in his
countenance. He seemed one who had lived
hard, but who had much yet left in the lamp
wherewith to feed the wick. At the first glance
he appeared slight, as he lolled listlesst in his
chair, almost fragile. But, at a nearer examin-
ation, you percein that, in spite of the small
extremities and delicate bones, his frame was
constitutionally strong. Without being broad in
the shoulders, he was exceedingly deep in the
chest, deeper than men who seemed giants by
his side; and his gestures had the ease of one
accustomed to an active life. He had, indeed,
been celebrated in his youth for his skill in ath-
letic exercises; but a wound received in a duel,
many years ago, had rendered him lame for life
—a mlsfortune which interfered with his former
habits, and was said to have soured his temper.
This personage, whose position and character
will be described hereafter, was Lord Lilburne,
the brother of Mrs. Beaufort.
“ So, Camilla," said Lord Lilburne to his niece,
as carelessly, not fondly, he stroked down her
glossy ringlets, “you don’t like Berkeley-square
as much as you did Gloucester-place l"
“Oh, no! not half as much l You see Incver
walk out in the fieldsfil‘ nor make daisy chains at
Primrose Hill. I don’t know what mamma
means,” added the child in awhisper, “in saying
we are better off here."
Lord Lilburne smiled, but the smile was a half
sneer.
“You will know quite soon enough, Camilla;
the understandings of youn ladies grow up very
quickly on this side of xl'ord-street. Well,
Arthur, and what are your plans to-day ‘1’”
“Why,” said Arthur, sup ressing a yawn, “I
have promised to ride out With a friend of mine
to see a horse that is for sale somewhere in the
suburbs.”
As he spoke, Arthur rose, stretched himself,
looked in the glass, and then glanced impatient-
ly at the window.
“He ought to be here by this time.”
“He! who ‘3” said Lord Lilburne; “the horse _
or the animal—I mean, the friend l”
“ The friend," answered Arthur, smiling, but
coloring while he smiled, for he half suspected
the uiet sneer of his uncle.
“ o is your friend, Arthur?” asked Mrs.
Beaufort, lookin u from her work.

“Watson, an ord man. By-the-by, I must
introduce him to on.” _
“Watson ! hat Watson ‘? what family of
,Watson‘? Some Watsons are good and some
; are had," said Mrs. Beaufort, mnsmgly.

‘ Now the Regent‘s Park.,


32
NIGHT AND MORNING. _ ~
“ Then they are ve unlike the rest of man-
kind,” observed Lord ilburne, dryly.
“ Oh! my Watson is a very gentlemanlike per-
son, I assure on," said Arthur, half laughing,
“and you nee not be ashamed of him.” Their,
rather desirous of turning the conversation, he
continued, “So my father will be back from
Beaufort-court to-day ?”
“ Yes; he writes in excellent spirits. He says
the rents will bear raising at least ten per cent.,
and that the house will not require much repair."
Here Arthur threw open the window.
“Ah, Watson, how are you? How d’ye do,
Marsden ‘2 Danvers too! that’s capital! the
more the merrier! I will be down in an in-
stant. But would you not rather come in ?”
“ An agreeable inundation,” murmured Lord
Lilburne. “Three at a time: he takes your
house for Trinity Colle e.”
A loud, clear voice, iowever declined the in-
vitation; the horses were heard pawing without.
Arthur seized his hat and whip, and glanced to
his mother and uncle, smilineg “ Good-by! I
shall be out till dinner. Kiss me, my pretty
’Milly 1” And as his sister, who had run to the
window, sickening for the fresh air and exercise
he was about to enjoy, now turned to him wist-
ful and mournful eyes, the kind-hearted young
man took her in his arms, and whispered, while
he kissed her,
“Get up early to-morrow, and we’ll have such
a nice walk together."
Arthur was gone; his mother’s gaze had fol-
lowed his young and graceful figure to the door.
“Own that he is handsome, Lilburne. May
I not say more—has he not the proper air ‘3"
" My dear sister, your son will be rich. As
for his air, he has plenty of airs, but wants
graces.”
“ Then who could polish him like your-
self ‘2”
“Probably no one. But had I a son—which
Heaven forbid !--he should not have me for his
mentor. Place a young man (go and. shut the
door, Camilla!) between two vices—women and
gambling—if you want to polish him into the
fashionable smoothness. Between you and me,
the varnish is a little expensive!”
Mrs. Beaufort sighed. Lord Lilburne smiled.
He had a strange pleasure in hurting the feelings
of others. Besides, he disliked youth: in his
Own youth he had enjoyed so much that he grew
sour when he saw the young.
Meanwhile Arthur Beaufort and his friends,
careless of the warmth of the day, were laugh-
ing merrily and talking geyly as they made for
the suburb of H .
“It is an out-of-the-way place for a horse,
too,” said Sir Harry Danvers.
“But I assure you,” insisted Mr. Watson,
earnestly, “that my groom, who is a capital
judge, says it is the cleverest hack he ever
mounted. It has won several trotting matches.
It belonged to a sporting tradesmen, now done
up. The advertisement caught me.”
“Well,” said Arthur, gayly, “at all events
the ride is delightful. “'hat weather! You
must all dine with me at Richmond to-morrow—
we will row back.”
“And a. little chicken hazard at the M
afterwar " said Mr. Marsden, who was an elder,
not a better man than the rest—a handsome sat-



urnine man—who had just left Oxford, and was
already known on the turf.
_ “ Any thing you please,” said Arthur, making
his horse curvet.
Oh, Mr. Robert Beaufort! Mr. Robert Beau-
fort! could your rudent, scheming, worldly heart
but feel what evil’s tricks your wealth was
playing with a son who, if poor, had been the
pride of the Beauforts! On one side of our
pieces of gold we see the saint trampling down
the dragon—false emblem! Reverse it on the
coin ! In the real use of the gold, it is the dragon
who trmnples down the saint! But on—on!
the day is bright, and your companions merry;
make the best of your green years, Arthur Beau-
fort!
The young men had just entered the suburb
of H—-—, and were spurring on four abreast, at
a center. At that time an old man, feeling his
way before him with a stick—for, though not
quite blind, he saw imperfectly—was crossing
the road. Arthur and his friends, in loud eon-
verse, did not observe the poor passenger. He
stopped abniptly, for his ear caught the sound
of danger : it was too late: Mr. Marsdenis horse
hard-mouthed, and high-stepping, came fu
against him. Mr. Marsden looked down:
“Hang these old men! always in the way,"
said he, pluintively, and in the tone of a much
injured person; and, with that, Mr. Marsden
rode on. But the others, who were younger—
who were not gamblers—who were not yet
grinded down into stone by the world’s wheels—
the others halted. Arthur Beaufort leaped from
his horse, and the old man was already in his
arms; but he was severely hurt. The blood
trickled from his forehead; he complained of pain
in his side and limbs.
“Lean on me, my poor fellow! I will take
you home. Do you live far off?"
“Not many yards. This would not have hnp-
pencd ifl had had my dog. Never mind, sir,
go your way. It is only an old man—what of
that? I wish I had my dog.”
“I will join you," said Arthur to his friends;
“my groom has the direction. I will just take
the poor old man home, and send for a surgeon.
I shall not be long.”
“So like you, Beaufort! the best fellow in the
world," said Mr. Watson, with some emotion.
“And there’s Marsden positively dismounted and
looking at his horse‘s knees as if they could be
hurt! Here’s a sovereign for you, my mum”.
“And here’s another,” said Sir Harry; “so
that’s settled. “Well, you will join us Beau-
fort? You see the yard yonder. We’ll wait
twenty minutes for you. Come on, Watson."
The old man had not picked up the sovereign:
thrown at his feet, neither had he thanked the
donors. And on his countenance there was a
sour, querulous, resentful expression.
“ Must a man be a beggar because he is run
over or because ho is half blind ‘3” said he, turn-
ing his dim, wandering eyes painfully toward
Arthur. “Well, I wish I had my do 1”
“I will supply his place," said Art ur, sooth-
ingly. “ Come, lean on me—heavier—that’e
right. You are not so bad, eh ?”
“Um! the sovereigns! it is wicked to leave
them in the kennel !”
Arthur smiled. “Here they are, sir."
The old man slid the coins into his pocket, and


NIGHT AND MORNING.
38
Arthur continued to talk, though he got but
short answers, and those only in the way of di-
rection, til] at last the old man stopped at the
door of a small house near the church-yard.
Alter twice ringing the bell, the door was
opened by a middle-aged woman, whose appear-
ance was above that of a common menial;
dressed, somewhat gayly for her years, in a cap
seated very far back on a black toupée, and
decorated with red ribbons, an apron made out
of an Indian silk handkerchief, a puce-colored
sarcenet gown, black silk-stockings, long gilt
earrings, and a watch at her girdle.
“ Bless us and save us, sir! what has happen-
ed '2” exclaimed this worthy personage, holding
up her hands.
“Pish! I am faint: let me in. I don’t want
your aid any more, sir. Thank you. Good-
day!" \
Not discouraged by this farewell, the churlish
tone of which fell harmless on the invinciny
sweet temper of Arthur, the young man con-
tinued to assist the sufferer along the narrow
passage into a little old-fashioned parlor, and no
sooner was the owner deposited on his worm-
eaten leather chair than he fainted away. On
reaching the house, Arthur had sent his servant
(who had followed him with the horses) for the
nearest surgeon; and while the old lady was
still employed, after taking ofl' the sutferer’s
cravat, in burning feathers under his nose, there
was heard a sharp rap and a shrill ring. Arthur
opened the door, and admitted a smart little man
in nankeen breaches and gaiters. He hustled
into the room.
“ What’s this—bad accident—rode over? Sad
thing—very sad. Open the window. A ‘glass
of water—a towel. So—so: I see—I see: no
fracturc—-contusion. Help him OH with his coat.
Another chair, ma’am; put up his poor legs.
What age is he, ma’am? Sixty-eight! Too old
to bleed. Thank you. How is it, sir? Poorly,
to he sure : will be comfortable presently—
faintish still? Soon at all to rights."
“Tray! Tray! here’s Tray? Where’s
my dog, Mrs. Boxer ?"
“ Lord, sir! what do you want with your dog
now? He is in the back yard."
“And what business has my dog in the back
yard ‘1’” almost screamed the sufferer, in accents
that denoted no diminution of vigor. “I thought,
as soon as my back was turned, my dog would
be ill used! Why did I go without my dog?
Let in my dog directly, Mrs. Boxer !”
“ All right, you see, sir,” said the apothecary,
turning to Beaufort; “no cause for alarm—very
comforting, that little passion—does him good—
sets one‘s mind easy. How did it happen? Ah,
I understand l~ knocked down—might. a '6 been
worse. Your groom (sharp fellow!) ex lained
in a trice, sir. Thought it was my ol friend
here by the description. Worthy man—settled
here a many year—very odd—eccentric (this in
a whisper). Came ofl' instantly—just at dinner
—cold lamb and salad. ‘Mrs. Perkins,’ says I,
‘ if any one calls for me, I shall be at No. 4, Pros-
pect-place.’ Your servant observed the address,
sir. 0h, very sharp fellow! See how the old
gentleman takes to his dog—fine little dog—
what a stump of a tail! Deal of practice—
expect two accouchements ever? hour. Hot
weather for childbirth.c So says to Mrs. Per-

kins, ‘If Mrs. Plummer is taken, or Mrs. Everat,
or if old Mr. Grub has another tit, send off at
once to No. 4.‘ Mcdicu] men should be always
_in the way—that’s my maxim. Now, sir, where
do you feel the pain ‘2”
“In my ears, sir."
“Bless me, that looks bad. How long have
you felt it '2”
“Ever since you have been in the room."
“ Oh, Itake. Ha! ha! very eccentric—very?7
muttered the a othecary, a ‘little disconcerted.
“ Well, let him is down, ma’am. I’ll send him
a little quieting draught to be taken directly—
pill at night, aperient in the morning. If want-
ed, send for me—always to be found. Bless
me, that’s my boy Bob’s ring! Please to open
the door, ma‘am. Know his ring—very peculiar
knack of his own. Lay ten to one it is Mrs.
Plummer, or perhaps Mrs. Everat—her ninth
child in eight years—4n the grocery line. A
woman in a thousand, sir!”
Here a thin boy, with very short coat-sleeves
and very large hands, burst into the room with
his mouth open.
“ Sir—Mr. Perkins—sir l”
“I know—I know—coming. Mrs. Plummer
or Mrs. Everat ?”
“ No, sir, it be the poor lady at Mrs. Lacy’s;
she be taken dcsperate. Mrs. Lacy’s girl has
just been over to the shop, and made me run
here to you, sir.”
“Mrs. Lao ‘s! Oh, I know. Poor Mrs.
Morton! B case—very bad—must be off.
Keep him quiet ma’am. Good-day! Look in
to-morrow—nine o’clock. Put a little lint with
the lotion on the head, ma‘am. Mrs. Morton!
Ahl bad job that.”
Here the a othecary had shufiled himself off
to the street car, when Arthur laid his hand on
his arm.
“Mrs. Morton! Did you say Morton, sir?
What kind of a person—is she very ill 5’"
“ Hopeless case, sir—general break-up. Nice
woman—quite the lady—known better days, I’m
sure.”
“ Has she any children—sons ‘2"
“Two—both away now—fine lad
wrapped u in them—youngest especially.’
“Good Ileavens! it must be she—ill, and
dying, and destitute, perhaps," exclaimed Ar-
thur, With real and deep feeling; “I will go
with you, sir. I fancy that 1 know this lady—
that (he added, generous] ) I am related to her."
"Do you? Glad to ear it. Come along,
then; she ought to have some one near her be-
sides servants: not but what Jenny, the maid,
is uncommonly kind. Dr. , who attends
her sometimes, said to me, says he, ‘It is the
mind, Mr. Perkins; I wish we could get back
her boys.’ "
“And where are they ?”
“ ’Prenticed out, I fancy. Master Sidney—"’
“Sidney!” '
“ Ahl that was his name—pretty name. D‘ya
know Sir Sidney Smith ?—extraordinary man,
sirl Master Sidney was a beautiful child—
quite spoiled. She always fancied him ailing_—
always sending for me. ‘Mr. Perkins,’ said
she, ‘thcre’s something the matter With my
child; I’m sure there is, though he Won I own
it. He has lost his appetite—had a,headache
last night.’ ‘Nothing the matter, "1'1 am. 88"
uite


84
NIGHT AND MORNING.
I; ‘-wish you’d think more of yourself.‘ These
mothers are silly, anxious, poor creatures.
Hater, sir, nater,—wonderfuI thing—cater!
Here we are.”
And the apotbecary knocked at the private
door of a milliner and hosier’s shop.
.__..___
CHAPTER X.
“Thy child shall live, and I will see It nourished."
Tim Androal'cul.
As might be expected, the excitement and
finiguo of Catharine‘sjourncy to N—‘had con-
siderably accelerated the progress of disease.
And when she reached home, and looked round
the cheerless rooms, all solitary, all hushed—
Sidney gone, gone from her forever—she felt,
indeed, as if the last reed o_n which she had
leaned was broken, and her business upon earth
was done. Catherine was not condemned to
absolute poverty: the overty which grinds and
naws, the poverty 0 raos and famine. She
had still left nearly half of such portion of the
little capital, realized by the sale of her trinkets,
as had escaped the clutch of the law; and her
brother had forced into her hands a note for £20,
with an assurance that the same sum should be
paid to her half yearly. Alas! there was little
chance of her needing it again! She was not,
then, in want of means to procure the common
comforts of life. But now a new passion had
entered into her breast—the passion of the miser;
she wished to hoard ever Sixpence as some
little provision for her chil ren. What was the
use of her feeding a lamp nearly extinguished,
and which was fated to be soon broken up, and
cast amid the vast lumber-house_of death! She
would willingly have removed into a more homely
lodginrr, but the servant of the house had been
so fond of Sidney, so kind to him. She cluno to
one familiar face on which there seemed to'Iivo
the reflection of her child’s. But she relinquish-
ed the first floor for the second; and there, day
by day, she felt her eyes grow heavier and
heavier beneath the clouds of the last sleep.
Besides the aid of Mr. Perkins, a kind enou h
man in his way, the good physician whom s 0
had before consulted still attended her, and-—
refused his fee. Shocked at perceiving that she
rejected every little alleviation of her condition,
and wishing, at least, to procure for her last
hours the society of one of her sons, he had in-
quired the address of the older; and on the day
preceding the one in which Arthur discovered
er abode, be dispatched to Philip the following
letter:
“Sm—Being called in to attend your mother
in a lingering illness, which I fear may prove
fatal, I think it my duty to request you to come
to her as soon as you receive this. Your pres-
ence can not but be a great comfort to her.
The nature of her illness is such that it is im-
possible to calculate exactly how long she may
be spared to you; butI am sure that her fate
might be prolonged, and her remaining days
more happy, if she could be induced to remove
into a better air and a more quiet neighborhood,
to take more generous sustenance, and, above
all, if her mind could be set more at ease as to

your and your brother's prospects. You must
pardon me ill have seemed inquisitive; but I
have sought to draw from your mother some
particulars as to her family and connectio
with a wish to represent to them her state 0
mind. She is, however, very reserved on those
points. If, however, you have relations well to
do in the world, I think some application to them
should be made. I fear the state of her affairs
weighs much upon your poor mother’s mind;
and I must leave you to judge how far it can be
relieved by the 00d feeling of any persons upon
whom she may ave legitimate claims. At all
events, I repeat my wish that you should come
to her forthwith. I am, &c., ‘ n
l
After he had dispatched this letter, a sudden
and marked alteration for the worse took place
in his patient’s disorder; and in the visit be had
paid that morning, he saw cause to fear that her
hours on earth would be much fewer than he had
before anticipated. He had left her, however,
comparatively better; but, two hours after his
departure, the symptoms of her disease had be-
come very alarming, and the good-natured servant
girl, her solo nurse, and who had, moreover, the
whole business of the other lodgers to attend to,
had, as we have seen, thought it necessary to
summon the apothecar in the interval that must
elapse before she coul reach the distant part. of
the metropolis in which Dr. resided.
On entering the chamber, Arthur felt all the
remorse, which of right belou ed to his father,
press heavily on his soul. hat a contrast,
that mean and solitary chamber, and its com-
fortless appurtenances, to the graceful and lux-
urious abode, where, full of health and hope, he
had last beheld her, the mother of Philip Bean-
fort’s children! He remained silent till Mr.
Perkins, after a few questions, retired to send
his dru s. He then approached the bed; Cath-
arine, t ough very weak and suffering much
pain, was still sensible. She turned her dim
eyes on the young man, but she did not recog-
nize his features.
“You do not remember me ‘2” said he, in a
voice struggling with tears: “I am Arthur—-
Arthur Beaufort.”
Catharine made no answer.
“Good God! why do I see you here ? I be-
lieved you with your friends—your children;
provided for, as became my father to do. He
assured me that you were so."
Still no answer.
And then the young man, overpowered with
the feelings of a sympathizing and enerous
nature, forgetting for a while Catharine s weak-
ness, poured forth a torrent of inquiries, regrets,
and self-upbraidings, which Catharine at first
little heeded. But the name of her children,
repeated again and again, struck upon that
chord which, in a woman’s heart, is the last to
break; and she raised herself in her bed, and
looked at her visitor wistfully.
“Your father,” she said, then, “your father
was unlike my Philip; but I see thin rs differ-
ently now. For me, all bounty is too ate; but
my children—to-morrow they may have no
mother. The law is with you, but not justice!
You will be rich and powerful—will you befriend
my children ?”


NIGHT AND MORNING.
85
"Through life, so help me Heaven l” exclaimed
Arthur, falling on his knees beside the bed.
What then passed between them it is needless
to detail; for it was little, save broken repeti-
> tions of the same prayer and the same response.
But there was so much truth and earnestness in
Arthur’s voice and countenance, that Catharine
felt as if an angel had come there to administer
comfort. And when, late in the day, the physi-
cian entered, he found his patient leaning on the
breast of her young visitor, and looking on his
face with a happy smile.
The physician gathered enough from the ap-
pearance of Arthur and the gossip of Mr. Per-
ins to conjecture that one of the rich relations
he had attributed to Catharine was arrived.
Alas for her, it was now too late!
—._—.
CHAPTER XI.
" D‘ye stand amazed ‘! Look o‘er thy head. Meximlnian:
Look to the terror which overhangs thee."
BEAUMONT sun Ftlrcuia: The Prophets“.
Pump had been five weeks in his new home:
in another week he was to enter on his articles
of apprenticeship. With a stern, unbending
gloom of manner, he had entered on the duties
of his novitiate. He submitted to all that was
enjoined him. He seemed to have lost forever
the wild and unrul waywardness that bad
stamped his boyh ; but he was never seen
no smile—he scarcely ever opened his lips.
His very soul seemed to have quitted him with
its faults; and he performed all the functions of
his situation with the quiet, listless regularity
of a machine. Only when the work was done
and the shop closed, instead of joining the family
circle in the back parlor, he would stroll out in
the dusk of evening, away from the town, and
not return till the hour at which the family retired
to rest. Punctual in all he did, he never ex-
ceeded that hour. He had heard once a week
from his mother; and only on the mornings in
which he expected a letter did he seem restless
and agitated. Till the postman entered the shop
he was pale as death; his hands trembling, his
lips compressed. When he read the letter he
became composed; for Catharine sedulously con-
cealed from her son the state of her health; she
wrote cheerfully, besought him to content him-
self with the state into which he had fallen, and
expressed her joy'that in his letters he intimated
that content: for the poor boy’s letters were not
less considerate than her oWn. On her return
from her brother, she had so far silenced or con-
cooled her misgivings as to express satisfaction
at the home she had provided for Sidney; and
she even held out hopes of some future, when,
their probation finished and their independence
lecured, she might reside with her sons alter-
nately. These hopes redoubled Philip’s assidui-
(y, and he saved every shilling of his weekly
stipend; and sighed us he thought that, in an-
other week, his term of apprenticeship would
commence, and the stipend ccnse.
Mr. Plaskwith could not but be pleased, on
the whole, with the diligence of his assistant,,
but he was chafed and irritated by the sullen-
ness of his manner. As for_Mrs. Plaskwith,
poor woman ! she pwitivuly detested the taciturn
and moody boy, who never mixed in the jokes

of the circle, nor played with the children, not
complimented her, nor added, in short, any thing
to the sociability of the house. Mr. Plimmins,
who had at first sought to condescend, next
sought to bully; but the gaunt frame and savage
eye of Philip awed the smirk youth, in spite of
himself; and he confessed to Mrs. Plaskwith
that he should not like to meet “ the gipsy'I
alone on a dark night; to which Mrs. Plaskwrth
replied, as usual, “that Mr. Plimmins always did
say the best things in the world!"
One morning Philip was sent some miles into
the country, to assist in cataloguing some books
in the library of Sir Thomas Champerdown; that
gentleman, who was a scholar, having requested
that some one acquainted with the Greek char-
acter might be sent to him, and Philip being the
only one in the shop who possessed such knowl-
edge
it was evening before he returned. Mr. and
Mrs. Plaskwitlt were both in the shop as he en-
tered; in fact, they had been employed in talk-
ing him over.
“1 can‘t abide him I” cried Mrs. Plaskwith.
“if you choose to take him for good, I sha’n’t
have an easy moment. I’m sure the ’prentiee
that cut his master’s throat at Chatham, last
week, was just like him."
“ Pshaw, Mrs. P. !" said the bookseller, taking
a huge pinch of snufi', as usual, from his waist-
coat pocket. “I myself was reserved whenl
was young—all reflective people are. I may
observe, b -thc-by, that it was the case with
Napoleon onttparte : still, however, I must own
he is a disagreeable youth, though he attends to
his business.” ,
“ And how fond of his money he is !" remarked
Mrs. Plaskwith; “ he won’t buy himself a new
pair of shoes! quite dis raecful! And did on
see whata look he gave limmins, when hejo ed
about his indifference to his role? Plimmins
alwa s does say such good things !"
“ e is shabby, certainly,” said the bookseller-
“ but the value of a book does not always depend
on the binding.”
“1 hope he is honest l” observed Mrs. Flush-
with; and here Philip entered.
“ Hum 1" said Mr. Plaskwith, “you have had
a long day’s work; but I suppose it will take a
week to finish ‘2”
"I am to go again to-morrow morning, sir:
two days more will conclude the task."
“There's a letter for you," cried Mrs. Plus]!-
with; "you owes me for it."
“ A letter !" It was not his mother‘s hand—
it was a strange writing; he gasped for breath
as he broke the seal. It was the letter of the
phylsieian.
is mother, then, was ill—dying—wanting,
perhaps, the necessaries of life. She would have
concealed from him her illness and her poverty.
His quick alarm exaggerated the last into utter
want; be uttered a cry that ran through the
shop, and rushed to Mr. Plnskwith.
“ Sir, sir! my mother is dying! She is poor
poor—perhaps starving; money, money! lead
me money! ten pounds! five! I will work for
you all my life for nothing, but lend me the mo-
nc ' l”
l‘ Hoity-toity l" said Mrs. Plaskwith, nudgin
her husband; “I told you what would come 0
it; it will be ‘money or life' next time."


36
NIGHT AND MORNING.
Philip did not heed.or hear this address, but
stood immediately before the bookseller, his hands
clasped, wild impatience in his eyes. Mr. Plask-
with, somewhat stupefied, remained silent.
“Do you hear me! Are you human? " exclaim-
ed Philip, his emotion revealing at once all the
fire of his character. “I tell you my mother is
dying; I must go to her! Shall I go empty-
handed? Give me money!”
Mr. Plaskwith was not a bad-hearted man;
but he was a formal man, and an irritable one.
The tone his shop-boy (for so he considered
Philip) assumed to him, before his own wife, too
(examples are very dangerous), ratbcr cxaspcr~
ated than moved him.
“That’s not the way to speak to your master!
You forget yourself, young man! ”
“Forget! But, sir, if she has not. necessaries
—if she is starving?”
“Fudge l ” said Mr. Plaskwith. “Mr. Morton
writes mo word that he has provided for your
mother! Does not he, Hannah?”
“More fool he, I’m sure, with such a fine
family of his own! Don't look at me in that
way, young man; I won't take it—that I won’t!
I declare my blood friz to see you ! ”
“Will you advance me money? Five pounds
-onllly five pounds, Mr. Plaskwith?”
“ 0t five shillings! Talk to me in this style!
-—not the man for it, sir l—highly improper.
Come shut up the shop, and recollect yourself;
and perhaps, when Sir Thomas's library is done,
I_ may let you go to town. You can’t go to-
morrow. All a sham, perhaps—eh, Hannah?”
“Verylikelyl Consult Plimmins. Better-come
awlcty now, Mr. P. He looks like ayoung tiger."
rs. Plaskwith quitted the shop for the r-
lor. Her husband, putting his hands behin his
back, and throwing back his chin, was about to
follow her. Philip, who had remained for the
last moment mute and white as stone, turned
abruptly; and his grief taking rather the tone of
rage than sup lication, he threw himself before
hisdmnster, an , laying his hand on his shoulder,
sai ,
“I leave you—do not let it be with a curse.
I conjure you, have mercy on me!”
Mr. Plaskwith stopped; and, had Philip then
taken but a milder tone, all had been well. But,
accustomed from childhood to command—all his
fierce passions loose within- him—despising the
very man he thus implored, the boy ruined his
own cause. Indignant at the silence of Mr.
Plaskwith, and too blinded by his emotions to
see that in that silence there was relenting, he
suddenly shook the little man with a vehemencc
that almost overset him, and cried,
“You, who demand for five years my bones
and blood—my body and soul—a. slave to your
vile trade—do you deny me bread for amother’s
lips?”
Trembling with anger, and perhaps fear, Mr.
Plaskwith extricatcd himself from the gripe of
Philip, and, hurrying from the shop, said, as ho
banged the door,
“Beg my pardon for this to-night, or out you
go to-morrow, neck and crop! Zounds! a pretty
pass the world’s come to! I don’t believe a
word about your mother. Baugh ! "
Left alone, Philip remained for some moments
struggling with his wrath and agony. He then
seize his hat, which he had thrown off on enter-

ing, pressed it over his brows, and turned to quit
the shop, when his eye fell‘ upon the till. Flush-
with had left it open, and the gleam of the coin
struck his Igaze--—that deadly smile of the arch
tempter. ntcllect, reason, conscience—all in '
that instant, were confusion and chaos. He cast
a hurried glance round the solitary and darken-
ing room; plunged his hand into the drawer;
clutched—he knew not what—silver or gold, as
it came uppermost, and burst into a loud and
bitter laugh. That laugh itself startled him-
it did not sound like his own. His cheek turn
white, and his knees knocked together; his hair
bristled; he felt as if the very fiend had uttered
that yell ofjoy over a fallen soul.
“No, no, no! ” he muttered; “no, my mother,
not even for thee! ” And, dashing the money tn
the ground, he fled like a maniac from the
house. .
At alater hour that same evening, Mr. Robert
Beaufort returned from his count mansion to
Berkeley-square. He found his wi e very uneasy
and nervous about the non-a pcarance of their
only son. He had sent home his groom andhorsee
about seven o’clock, with ahurricd scroll, written
in pencil on a blank page torn from his pocket-
book, and containing only these words:
“ Don’t wait dinner for me—I may not be home
for some hours. I have met with a melancholy
adventure. You will approve what I have done
when we meet.”
This note a little perplexed Mr. Beaufort;
but, as he was very hungry, he turned a deaf ear
both to his wife’s conjectures and his own sur-
mises till he had refreshed himself; and then he
sent for the groom, and learned that, after the
accident to the blind man, Mr. Arthur had been
left at a hosier’s in H This seemed to him
extremely mysterious; and, as hour after hour
passed away, and still Arthur came not, he began
to imbibe his wife‘s fears, which were now wound
up almost to hysterics; and, just at midnight, he
ordered his carriage, and, taking with him the
groom as a guide, set otT to the suburban region.
l’Irs. Beaufort had wished to accompany him;
but the husband observing that young men would
be young men, and that there might possibly be
a lady in the case, Mrs. Beaufort, after a pause
of thought, passively agreed that, all things con- _
sidered, she had better remain at home. No
lady of proper decorum likes to run the risk of
finding herself in a false position. Mr. Beaufort
accordingly set out alone. Easy was the car-
riage, swift were the steeds, and luxuriously the
wealthy man was whirled along. Not a sus-
picion of the true cause of Arthur’s detention
crossed him; but he thought of the snares ol'
London—0f artful females in distress; “ a melan-
choly adventure” generally implies love for the _
adventure, and money for the melancholy; and
Arthur was young—generous—with a heart and
a pocket equally open to imposition. Such
scrapes, however, do not terri-fy a father when he
is a man of the world, so much as they do an
anxious mother; and, with more curiostty than
alarm, Mr. Beaufort, after a short doze, found
himself before the shop indicated.
Notwithstanding the lateness 0f the hour, tl'
door to the private entrance was ajar: a circum-
stance which seemed very sus icious to Mr.
Beaufort. He pushed it open With caution and
timidity: a candle, placed upon a chair in the


NIGHT AND MORNING.
at
narrow passage, threw a sickly light over the , not harden your heart by false excuses. The
flight of stairs, till swallowed up by the deep 'dead still speaks to you, and commends to your
shadow thrown from the sharp an le made by
the ascent. Robert Beaufort st a moment in
some doubt whether to call, to knock, to recede
or to advance, when a step was heard upon the
stairs above—it came nearer and nearer—a
figure emerged from the shadow of the last
landing-place—and Mr. Beaufort, to his great
joy, recognized his son.
Arthur did not, however, seem to perceive his
father; and was about to him, when Mr.
Beaufort laid his hand on his arm.
“ W'hat means 'all this, Arthur ? What
are you in ? How you have alarmed us !’
Arthur cast a loo upon his father of sadness
and reproach.
“Father,” he said, in a tone that sounded
stern—almost commanding, “I will show you
where I have been: follow me—nay, I say, fol-
low.”
He turned, without another word reascended
the stairs, and Mr. Beaufort, surprised and awed
into mechanical obedience, did as his son desired.
At the landing-place of the second floor, another
long-wicked, neglected, ghastly candle emitted
its cheerloss ray. It gleamed through the open
door of a small bedroom to the left, through
which Beaufort perceived the forms of two
women. One (it was the kind] maid-servant)
was seated on a chair, and weeping bitterly; the
other (it was a hireling nurse, in the first and
last day of her attendance) was unpinning her
' dingy shawl before she lay down to take a nap.
She turned her vacant, listless face upon the two
men, put on a doleful smile, and decently closed
the door. _
“Where are we, I say, Arthur?” repeated
Mr. Beaufort.
Arthur took his father’s hand, drew him into
a room to the right, and, taking u the candle,
placed it on a small table beside a ied, and said,
“ Here, sir—in the presence of Death 1”
Mr. Beaufort cast a hurried and fearful glance
m the still, wan, serene face beneath his eyes,
and reco nized in that glance the features of the
neglecte and the once-adored Catharine.
“ Yes—she whom your brothersao loved—the
mother of his children—died in this squalid room,
and far from her sons, in poverty, in sorrow!
died of a. broken heart! Was that well, father ?
Have you in this nothing to repent ‘3"
Conscience-stricken and/a palled, the worldly
man sank down on a seat eside the bed, and
covered his face with his hands.
“ Ay,” continued Arthur, almost bitterly, “ ay,
we, his nearest of kin—we, who have inherited
his lands and gold—we have been thus heedless
of that great legacy your brother bequeathed to
us: the things dearest to him—the woman he
loved—the children his death cast, nameless and
branded, on the world. Ay, weep, father, and
while you weep, think of the future—of repara-
tion. I have sworn to that clay to befriend her
sons; join you, who have all the power, to ful-
fill the promise—join in that vow; and may
Heaven not visit on us both the woes of this bed
of death."
“I did not know—I—I—” faltered Mr. Beau-
fort.
“But we should have known," interrupted
Arthur, mournfully. “All, my dear father! do
place

eare her children. My task here is done: oh,
sirl yours is to come. I leave you alone with
the dead.”
So saying, the young man, whom the tragedy
of the scene had worked into a passion and a
dignity above his usual character, unwilling to
trust farther to his emotions, turned abruptly
from the room, fled rapidly down the stairs, and
left the house. As the carriage and liverics of
his father met his eye, he groaned, for their cvi-
dances of comfort and wealth seemed a mockery
to the deceased : he averted his face and walked
on. Nor did he perceive or heed a form that at
that instant rushed by him—pale, ha gard,
breathless—toward the house which he had quit-
ted, and the door ofwhich he left open, as he had
found it—open, as the physician had left it when
hurrying, ten minutes before the arrival of Mr.
Beaufort, from the spot where his skill was im-
potent. Wrapped in gloomy thought, alone, and
on foot—at that dreary hour, and in that remote
suburb—the heir of the Beauforts sought his
splendid home. Anxious, fearful, hoping, the
outcast orphan flow on to the death-room of his
mother.
Mr. Beaufort, who had but imperfectly heard
Arthur’s parting accents, lost and bewildered by
the strangeness of his situation, did not at first
perceive that he was left alone. Surprised, and
chilled by the sudden silence of the chamber, he
rose, withdrew his hands from his face, and
again he saw that countenance so mute and
solemn. He cast his aze round the dismal room
for Arthur; he cal ed his name—no answer
came; a superstitious tremor seized upon him ,'
his limbs shook; he sunk once more on his seat,
and closed his eyes, muttering, for the first time,
perhaps, since his childhood, words of penitence
and prayer. He was roused from this hitter'
self-abstraction by a deep groan. It seemed to
come from the bed. Did his ears deceive him?
Had the dead found a voice ? He started up in
an agony of dread, and saw 0 posite to him the
livid countenance of Philip orton: the Son of
the Corpse had replaced the Son of the Living
Man! The dim and solitary light fell upon that
countenance. Therc, all the bloom and fresh-
ness natural to youth seemed blasted! There,
on those wasted features, played all the terrible
power and glare of precocious passions—rage,
woe, scorn, despair. Terrible is it to see up
on the face of a boy the storm and whirlwind
that should visit only the strong heart of a
man !
“ She is dead ! dead ! and in your presence l“
shouted Philip, with his wild eyes fixed upon the
cowering uncle; “dead with care, perhaps with
famine. And you have come to look upon your
work !”
“ Indeed," said Beaufort, deprecatingly, “I
have but just arrived: I did not know she had
been ill or in want, upon my honor. This is all
a—a—mistake: I—I—camo in search of—of—
another—~”
“You did not, then, come to relieve her?",
said Philip, ve ' calmly. “You had not learned'.
her suffering Idistress, and flown hither in the
be e that there was yet time to save her ? You
didp not do this ? Ha! be] why did I think.
it ?”


38
NIGHT AND MORNING.
“Did any one call, gentlemen?" said a whin-
ing voice at the door, and the nurse put in her
head.
“Yes—yes—yon may come in,” said Beau-
fort, shaking Wllll nameless and cowardly ap-
prehension; but Philip had flown to the door,
and, gazing on the nurse, said,
“She is a stranger! see, a stranger! The
son now has assumed his post. Begone, wom-
an l” And he ushed her away, and drew the
bolt across the oor.
And then there looked upon him, asthere had
looked upon his reluctant companion, calm and
holy, the face of the peaceful corpse. He burst
into tears, and fell on his knees so close to Beau-
fort that he touched him; he took up the heavy
hand, and covered it with burning kisses.
“Mother! mother! do not leave me! Wake
-smile once more on your son ! I would have
brought you money, but I could not have ask-
ed for your blessing then ; mother, I ask it
new l”
“If I had but known—if you had but written
to me, my dear young gentleman—but my of-
fers had been refused, and—”
“ Offers of a hircling’s pittance to her—to her
for whom my father would have coined his heart’s
blood into gold! My father’s wife! his wife!
ofi'ers—”
He rose suddenly, folded his arms, and, facing
Beaufort with a fierce, determined brow, said,
“Mark me; you hold the wealth that l was
trained from my cradle to consider to heritage.
I have worked with these bands for bread, and
never complained, except to my own heart and
soul. I never hated and never cursed you—rob-
her as you were—yes, robber! For, even were
there no marriage save it the sight of God, nei-
thcr my father, nor Nature, nor Heaven meant
that you should seize all, and that there should
be nothing due to the claims of affection and
blood. He was not the less my father, even if
the church spoke not on my side. Dcspoiler
of the orphan and dorider of human love,
you are not the less a robber, though the
law fences you round, and men call you hon-
est! But I did not hate you for this. Now, in
the presence of my dead mother—dead far from
both her sons—now I abhor and curse you.
You may think oursclf safe when you quit this
room—safe, andy from my hatred; you ma be
so: but do not deceive yourself; the curse ol the
widow and the orphan shall pursue—it shall
clin to you and yours—it shall gnaw your heart
in t e midst of splendor—4t shall cleave to the
heritage of your son! There shall be a death-
bed yet, beside which you shall see the specter
of her, now so calm, rising for retribution from
the grave! .These words—no, you never shall
forget them— 'cars hence they shall ring in
_ your ears, and reeze the marrow of your bones!
And now begonc, my father’s brother—begone
from my mother’s corpse to your luxurious
home l”
He opened the door and pointed to the stairs.
Beaufort, without a word, turned from the room
Md departed. He heard the door closed and
locked as he descended the stairs; but he did not
hear the deep greens and vehement sobs in which
the desolate orphan gave vent to the anguish
which succeeded to the less sacred paroxysm
of revenge and wrath.

BOOK II.
Alb-cub marb't unb mum filter at,
glimmer, nimmcr Ban» id; Bil ;“
SCHILLER: Der Pilgrim
CHAPTER I.
“ lncuba. Look to the cavalier. What nils he‘l
Harte". And in siich good clothes, too‘!"
Bunsen-r an» FIJTCIIIRI Love‘s Pilgfl'w
“ Theod. l have u brother—there niy lust hope!
Thus as you find me, without fear or wisdom,
I now am only child of Hope and Danger."
[bid-
Tus time employed by Mr. Beaufort in reach
ing his home was haunted by gloomy and con-
fused tcrrors. He felt inexplicably as if the
denunciations of Philip were to visit less him-
self than his son. He trembled at the thought
of Arthur meeting this strange, wild, exasper-
ated scatterling— erhaps 0n the morrow—in
the very height 0 his passions. And yet, after
the scene between Arthur and himself, he saw
cause to fear that he might not be able to exer-
cise a sufficient authority over his son, however
naturally facile and obedient, to prevent his re-
turn to the house of death. In this dilemma be
resolved, as is usual with cleverer men, even when
yoked to feebler helpmates, to hear if his wife
had any thing comforting or sensible to say upon
the subject. Accordingly, on reaching Berkeley- ’
square, he went straight to Mrs. Beaufort, and.
having relieved her mind as to Arthur‘s safety,
related the scene in which he had been so or»
willing an actor. With that more lively sus'
ceptibility which belongs to most women, how-
ever comparatively unfeeling, Mrs. Beaufort
made greater allowance than her husband for the
excitement Philip had betrayed. Still Beaul'ort’l
description of the dark menaces, the fierce coun-
tenance, the brigand-like form of the bereaved
son, gave her ver considerable apprehensions
for Arthur, shouldy the young men meet; and
she willingly coincided with her husband in the
propriety ol usin all means of parental persua~
sion or common to guard against such an en-
counter. But, in the mean while, Arthur re-
turned not, and new fears seized the anxious
parents. He had gone forth alone, in a remote
suburb of the metropolis, at a late hour, himself
under strong excitement. He might have re-
turned to the house, or have lost his way amid some
dark haunts of violence and crime; they knew
not where to send or what to suggest. Day
already began to dawn, and still he came not.
At length, toward five o’clock, a loud rap was
heard at the door, and Mr. Beaufort, hearing
some bustle in the hall, descended. He saw his
son borne into the hall from a hackncy-coach by
two strangers, pale, bleeding, and apparently
insensible. His first thought was that. he had
been murdered by Philip. He uttered a feebh
cry, and sank down beside his son.
“ Don’t be darnted, sir,” said one of the stran-
gers, who seemed an artisan; “I don’t think he
be much bun. You sees he was crossing the
street, and the coach ran against him, but it
did not 0 over his head; it be only the stones
that mafia him bleed so : and that’s a mercy."
“A providence, sir," said the other man;


NIGHT AND MORNING.
39
"but Providence watches over us all, night and
day, sleep or awake. Hem! We were passing
at the time from the meeting—the Odd Fellows,
sir—and so we took him, and got him a coach-
for we found his card in his pocket. He could
not speak just then; but the rattling of the
coach did him a deal of good, for he groaned—
my eyes! how he groaned—did not he, Bur-
rows '2"
“ It did one’s heart good to hear him."
“ Run for Astley Cooper—you—go to Brodie.
Good God! he is dying. Be quick—quick!”
cried Mr. Beaufort to his servants, while Mrs.
Beaufort, who had now gained the spot, with
reater presence of mind, had Arthur conveyed
into his room.
“It is ajudgment upon me l” groancd Beau-
fort, rooted to the stone of his hall, and left alone
with the strangers.
"No, sir, it is not a judgment, it is a provi-
dence," said the more sanctimonious and better
dressed of the two men : “ for, put the question,
if it had been a judgment, the wheel would have
gone over him; and, whether he dies or not, I
shall always say that if that’s not a providence,
I don’t know what is. We have come a long
way, sir; and Burrows is a poor man, though
I’m well to do.”
This hint for money restored Beaufort to his
recollection; he put his purse into the nearest
hand outstretched to clutch it, and muttered out
something like thanks.
“ Sir, may the Lord bless you! and I hope
the young gentleman will do well. I am sure
on have cause to be thankful that he was with-
in an inch of the wheel; was not he, Burrows ‘?
Well, it’s enough to convert a heathen. But the
ways of Provi encc are mysterious, and that's
the truth of it. Good-night, sir."
Certainly it did seem as if the curse of Philip
was already at its work. An accident almost
similar to that which, in the adventure of the
blind man, had led Arthur to the clew of Cath-
arine, within twenty-four hours stretched Arthur
himself upon his bed. The sorrow Mr. Bean-
fort had not relieved was now at his own hearth.
But there were parents and nurses, and great
physicians, and skillful surgeons, and all the
army that combine against Death; and there
were ease, and luxury, and kind e es, and ity-
' looks, and all that can take t e sting rom
pain. And thus, the very night on which Cath-
arine had died, broken down and wom-out,
upon a strange breast, with a feeless doctor,
and by the ray of a single candle, the heir to the
fortunes once destined to her son wrestled also
with the grim tyrant, that seemed, however,
scared from his prey by the arts and luxuries
which the world of rich men raises up in defi-
ance of the grave.
Arthur was, indeed, very seriously injured;
one of his ribs broken, and two severe contusions
0n the head. To insensibility succeeded fever,
followed by delirium. He was in imminent dan-
ger for several days. If any thing could have
consoled his parents for such an affliction, it was
the thought that, at least, he was saved from
the chance of meeting Philip. Mr. Beaufort, in
the instinct of that capricious and fluctuating
conscience which beloncs to weak minds—which
remains still, and drooplng, and lifeless asa flag
on a mast-head during the calm of prosperity,

but flutters, and flaps, and tosses when the wind
blows and the wave heavcs—thought very acute-
ly and remorsefully of the condition of the Mor-
tons during the danger of his own son. So far,
indeed, from his anxiety for Arthur monopolizing
all his care, it only sharpened his charity to-
ward the orphans; for many a man becomes
devout and good when he fancies he has an im-
mediate interest in appeasinrv Providence. The
morning after Arthur’s accident, he sent for Mr.
Blackwell. He commissioned him to see that
Catharine’s funeral rites were performed with
all due care and attention: he bade him obtain
an interview with Philip, and assure the youth
of Mr. Beaufort’s good and friendly disposition
toward him, and to offer to forward his views in
any course of education he might prefer, or any
profession he might adopt; and he earnestly
counseled the lawyer to employ all his tact and
delicacy in conferring with one of so proud and
fiery a temper. Mr. Blackwell, however, had
no tact or delicacy to employ: he went to the
house of mourning, forced his way to Philip, and
the very exordium of his haran no, which was
devote to praises of the extraortdinary generos-
ity and benevolence of his employer, mingled
with condescending admonitions toward grati-
tude from Philip, so exasperated the boy, that
Mr. Blackwell was extreme] glad to get out
of the house with a whole skin. He, however,
did not neglect the more formal part of his mis-
sion; but communicated immediate] with a
fashionable undertaker, and gave orders for a
He thought, after the
funera, that Phili would be in a less excited
state of mind, an more likely to hear reason;
he therefore deferred a second interview with
the orphan till after that event; and, in the mean
while, dispatched a letter to Mr. Beaufort, stat.
ing that he had attended to his instructions; that
the orders for the funeral were given; but that,
at present, Mr. Philip Morton's mind was a lit-
tle disordered, and that he could not calmly dis»
cuss, just at present, the plans for the future
suggested by Mr. Beaufort. He did not doubt,
however, that in another interview all would be
arranged according to the wishes his client had
so nobly conveyed to him. Mr. Beaufort's con-
science on this point was therefore set at rest.
It was a dull, close, oppressive morning upon
which the remains of Catharine Morton were
consigned to the rave. With the reparations
for the funeral Philip did not inter ere; he did
not inquire b whose orders all that solemnity
of mates, an coaches, and black plumes, and
crapebands was appointed. If his varrue and
undeveloped conjecture ascribed this lost and
vain attention to Robert Beaufort, it neither
lessened the sullen resentment he felt against
his uncle, nor, on the other hand, did he conceive
that he had a right to forbid respect to the dead,
though he might reject service for the survivor.
He had remained in a sort of apathy or torpor
since Mr. Blackwell’s visit, which seemed to
the people of the house to partake rather of in-
difl'erence than woe.
The funeral was over, and Philip had returned
to the apartments occupied by the deceased;
and now, for the first time, he set himself to
examine what papers, &c., she had left behind.
In an old eseritoire he found, first, various pack.
ets of letters in his father's handwriting, the
very enteel funeral.


40
NIGHT AND MORNING.
characters in many of them faded by time. He
opened a few : they were the earliest love-letters.
He did not dare to read above a few lines, so
much did their living tenderness, and breathing,
frank, hearty passion, contrast with the fate of
the adored one. In these letters the very heart
of the writer seemed to beat! Now both hearts
alike were stilled! and Guesr called vainly unto
Gnosr.
He came at length to a letter in his mother’s
hand, and dated two days before her death. He
went to the window, and gas ed in the midst of
the sultry air for breath. Be ow were heard the
noises of London: the shrill cries of itinerant
Vendors, the rolling carts, the whoop of boys re-
turned for a while from school; amid all these
rose one loud, merry peal of laughter, which
drew his attention mechanically to the spot
whence it came: it was at the threshold of a
ublic house, before which stood the hearse that
had conveyed his mother’s coflin, and the gay
nndertakers, halting there to refresh themselves.
He closed the window with a groan, retired to
the farthest corner of the room, and read as fol-
lows:
“ My DEAREST Plum—When you read this, I
shall be no more. You and poor Sidney will have
neither father nor mother, nor fortune nor name.
Heaven is more just than man, and in Heaven is
my hope for you. You, Philip, are already past
childhood; your nature is one formed, I think,
to wrestle successfully with the world. Guard
against your own passions, and you may bid
defiance to the obstacles that wil beset your
path in life. And lately, in our reverses, Philip,
you have so subdued these passions, so schooled
the pride and impetuosity of your childhood, that
I have contemp ated your prospects with less
fear than I used to do, even when the seemed
so brilliant. Forgive me, my dear Ullid, if I
have concealed from you in state of health, and
if my death he a sudden an unlooked-for shock.
Do not rieve for me too long. For myself, my
release is indeed esca e from the prison-house and
the chain—from bod: y pain and mental torture,
which may, I fondly hope, prove some ex iation
for the errors of a happier time. For I id err
when, even from the least selfish motives, I suf-
fered my union with your father to remain con-
cealed, and thus ruined the hopes of those who
had rights upon me equal even to hit. But oh!
Philip, beware too of the passions, which do not
betray their fruit till years and years after the
leaves that look so green, and the blossoms that
seem so fair.
“I repeat my solemn injunction, Do not grieve
for me, but strengthen your mind and heart to
receive the charge that I now confide to you:
my Sidney, my child, your brother! He is so
soft, so gentle; he has been so dependent for,
very life upon me, and we are parted now for
the first and last time. He is with strangers;
aud—and—oh, Philip, Philip, watch over him for
the love you bear, not only to him, but to me!
Be to him a father as well as brother. Put your
stout heart against the world so that you may
screen him, the weak child, from its ma ice. He
he's not your talents nor stren th of character;
without you he is nothing. ivc, toil, rise for
his sake not less than your own. If you knew
how this heart beats as I write to you, if you

I
could conceive what comfort I take for him from
my confidence in you, you would feel a new
spirit—my spirit—my mother-spirit of love, and
forethought, and vigilance, enter into you while
you read. See him when I am gone; comfort
and soothe him. Happily he is too young yet to
know all his loss; and do not let him think un-
kindly of me in the days to come; for he is a
child now, and they may poison his mind against
me more easily than they can yours. Think, if
he is unhappy hereafter, be may forget how I
loved him—he may curse those who gave him
birth. Forgive me all this, Philip, my son, and
heed it. well.
“And now, where you find this letter, you will
see a key; it o ens nwell in the bureau in which
I have hoarde my little savings. You will see
that I have not died in poverty. Take what
there is; young as you are, you may want it
more now than hereafter. But hold it in trust
for your brother as well as out-self. If he is
harshly treated (and on wil go and see him,
and you will remember that he would writhe
under what you might scarcely feel), or if they
overtask him, he is so young to work yet, it may
find him a home near you. God watch over and
guard you both. You are orphans now. But HE
has told even the orphans to call him ‘Father l’ "
When he had read this letter, Philip Morton
fell upon his knees, and prayed.
+
CHAPTER II.
“ HI: curse! Dost comprehend what that word means 1
Shot from a father’s angry breath."
Jules SKIELIYZ The Brothers.
“This term is fatal, and afl'rights me."—lbid.
“Those fond philosophers that magnify
Our human nature . . . .
Convsrscd but little with the world—they knew not
Thefiercc nczatitm of community !"—Ibid.
Ar'rua he had recovered his self-possession,
Philip opened the well of the bureau, and was
astonished and affected to find that Catharine
had saved more than £100. Alas! how much
must she have pinched herself to have boarded
this little treasure. After burning his father’s
love-letters, and some other pa ers which he
deemed useless, he made up a little bundle of
those triflin eficcts belonging to the deceased
which he va ued as memorials and relics of her,
quitted the apartment, and descended to the par-
lor behind the shop. On the way he met with
the kind servant, and, recalling the grief that she
had manifested for his mother since he had been
in the house, he placed twn sovereigns in her
hand, and bade her keep the scanty wardrobe
poor Catherine had left behind. “And now,"
said he, as the servant wept while he spoke,
“now I can bear to ask you what I have not
before done. How did my poor mother die?
Did she sufl‘er much, or—or— ’
“ She went on" like a lamb, sir,” said the girl,
drying her eyes. “ You see the gentleman had
been with her all the day, and she was much
more easy and comfortable in her mind after he
came.” .
The gentleman! N at the gentleman I found
here “P” -
“Oh dear, no! Not the pale, middle-aged


NIGHT AND MORNING.
41
gentleman nurse and I saw go down as the clock
struck two. But the young, soft-spoken gentle-
man, who came in the morning, and said as how
he was a. relation. He staid with her till she
slept; and, when she woke, she smiled in his
face—I shall never forget that smile—for I was
standing on the other side, as it might be here,
and the doctor was by the window, pouring out
the doctor‘s stufl'in the glass; and so she looked
on the young gentleman, and then looked round
at us all, and sheek her head very gently, but
did not speak. And the gentleman asked her
how she felt, and she took both his hands and
kissed them; and then he at his arms round
and raised her up, to take the physio, like, and
she said then, ‘You will never forget them ?’
and he said, ‘Never.’ I don’t know what that
meant, sir!”
“ Well, well—110 on."
“And her head fell back on his buzzom, and
she looked so happy; and, when the doctor came
to the bedside, she was quite gone.”
“ And the stranger had my post!
-—God bless him! God bless him!
he ‘? What was his name i”
“I don’t know, sir; he did not say. He staid
after the doctor went, and cried very bitterly;
he took on more than you did, sir.”
H Av),
“Aild the other gentleman came just as he
was a going, and they did not seem to like each
other; for I heard him through the wall, as nurse
and I were in the next room, speak as if he was
molding; but he did not stay long."
“ And has never been since ?”
“ No, sir! Perhaps missus can tell you more
about him. But won’t you take something, sir ?
Do—you look so pale.”
Philip, without speaking, pushed her gently
aside, and went slowly down the stairs. He
entered the parlor, where two or three children
were seated, playing at dominoes; he dispatched
one for their mother, the mistress of the shop,
who came in, and dropped him a courtesy with
a very grave, sud face, as was proper.
“ I am going to leave your house, ma’arn; and
I wish to settle any little arrears of rent, 8:0."
“ Oh ! sir, don’t mention it,” said the landlady;
and, as she spoke, she took a piece of pa er
from her bosom, very neatly folded, and lai it
on the table. “And here, sir,” she added, tak-
ing from the some depository a card, “here is
the card left by the gentleman who saw to the
funeral. He called half an hour ago, and bade
me say, with his compliments, that he would
wait on you tomorrow, at eleven o’clock. So
I hope you won’t no yet, for I think he means to
settle every thino for you ; he said as much, sir.’7
Philip glanced over the card, and read, “ Mr.
George Blackwell, Lincoln’s Inn. His brow
grew dark; he let the card fall on the round, put
his foot on it with a quiet scorn, an muttered
to himself, “ The lawyer shall not bribe me out
of my curse 1” He turned to the total of the
hill—not heavy, for poor Catharine had paid re -
ularly for her scanty maintenance and humbIe
lodging—paid the money, and, as the landlady
wrote the receipt, he asked, “ Who was the gen-
tleman—the younger gentleman—who called in
the morning of the day my mother died ?"
“0h, sir, I am sorry I did not got his name!
.Mr. Perkins said that he was some relation.
No matter
“'ho was

Very odd he has never been since. But he’ll
be sure to call again, sir; you had better much
stay here."
“No: it does not signify.
do is done.
should call."
Philip, taking the pen from the landlady’s
hand, hastily wrote (while Mrs. Lacy went to
bring him sealing-wax and alight) these words:
All that he could
But stay: give him this note if he
“I can not guess who you are : they say that
you call yourself a relation; that must be some
mistake. I knew not that my poor mother had
relations so kind. But, whoever you be, you
soothed her last hours—she died in your arms;
and if ever—years, long years hence—we should
chance to meet, and I can do any thing to aid
another, my blood, and my life, and my heart, and
my soul al are slaves to your will. If you be
really of her kindred, I commend to you to
brother; he is at with Mr. Morton. f
you can serve him, my mother’s soul will watch
over you as a guardian angel. As for me, Iask
no help from any one: I go into the world, and
will carve out my own way. So much do I
shrink from the thought of charity from others,
that I do not believe I could bless you as I do
now if your kindness to me did not close with
the stone upon my mother’s grave.
“ Pinup."

He sealed this letter and gave it to the woman.
“Oh, hy-thc-by,” said she, “I had forgot;
the doctor said that if you would send for him,
he would be most happy to call on you and give
you any advice.”
“ Ve well."
“An what shall I say to Mr. Blackwell ‘2"
“That he may tell his employer to remember
our last interview.”
With that Philip took up his bundle and strode
from the house. He went first to the church-
yard, whcre his mother’s remains had been that
day interred. It was near at hand: a quiet,
almost a rural spot. The gate stood ajar, for
there was a public path through the church-
yard, and Philip entered with a noiseless tread.
t was then near evening: the sun had broke
out from the mists of the earlier day, and the
westerin rays shone bright and holy upon the
solemn p ace.
“Mother! mother !” sobbed the orphan, as he
fell prostrate before that fresh green mound:
“ here—here I have come to repeat my oath—
to swear a ain that I will be faithful to the
charge you ave intrusted to your wretched son!
And at this hour I dare ask if there be on this
earth one more miserable and forlorn ‘P”
As words to this effect struggled from his li
a loud, shrill voice—the cracked, painful votes
of weak age wrestling with strong passion—
rose close at hand.
“ Away, reprobate ! thou art accursed l”
Philip started, and shuddered as if the words
were addressed to himself, and from the grave.
But, as he rose on his knee, and, tossing the
wild hair from his eyes, looked oonfusedly round,
he saw at a short distance, and in the shadow
of the wall, two forms: the one an old man
with gray hair, who was seated on a crumbling
Wooden tomb, facing the settin sun; the other
a man apparently yet in the vigor of life, who


42
Ntou'r AND MORNING.
ared bent as in humble supplication. The
0 man’s hands were outstretched over the head
of the younger, as if suiting terrible action to
the terrible words, and, after a moment’s ause
--a moment, but it seemed far longer to hilip
—there was heard a deep, wild, n'hastly howl
from a dog that eowered at the old5 man’s feet;
a howl, perhaps, of fear at the passion of his
master, which the animal might associate with
danger.
“ Father! father 1” said the suppliant, re-
proachfnlly, “your very dog rebukes your
curse.”
“ Be dumb! My dog! What hast thou left
me on earth but him? Thou hast made me
loathe the sight of t'riends,——for thou hast made
me loathe mine own name. Thou hast covered
it with disgrace—thou hast made mine old owe
a. b -word-—thy crimes leave me solitary in t e
mi st of my shame !”
“ It is many years since we met, father; we
may never meet again—shall we part thus '2”
“ Thus, aha!” said the old man in a tone of
withering sarcasm; “I comprehend—you are
come for money l”
At this taunt the son started as if stung b a
serpent, raised his head to its full height, folded
his arms, and replied,
“Sir, you wrong me: for more than twenty
years 1 have maintained myself—no matter how,
but without taxing You—and nowI felt remorse
for having suffered you to discard me—now,
when you are old and helpless, and, I heard,
blind; and you might want aid even from our
r, good-for-nothing son. But I have one.
orget not my sins, but this interview. Repeal
your curse, father- I have enough on my head
without yours; an so—let the snn at least bless
the father who curses him. Farewell l"
The speaker turned as ho thus said, with a
voice that trembled at the close, and brushed
rapidly by Philip, whom he did not, however,
appear to perceive; but Philip, by the last red
beam of the sun, saw again that marked, storm-
beaten face which it was difficult, once seen, to
forget, and recognized the stranger on whose
breast he had slept the night of his first fatal
visit to R——.
The old man’s imperfect vision did not detect
the departure of his son, but his face changed
and softened as the latter strode silently through
the rank rass.
“ William l" he said at last, gently- “Will-
lam!" and the tears rolled down his furrowed
checks- “my son!” but that son was gone;
the ol man listened for reply—none came.
“He has left me—poor William l—we shall
never meet again ;" and he sank once more on
the old tombstone, dumb, rigid, motionless: an
image of Time himself in his own domain of
Graves. The dog crept closer to his master
and licked his hand. Philip stood for a moment
in thoughtful silence: his exclamation of despair
had been answered as by his better anwel. There
was a. being more miserable than himself ; and
the Accursed would have envied the Bereaved!
' The twilight had closed in; the earliest star
—-the star of Memory and Love, the Hesperus
hymned by every poet since the world began—
was fair in the arch of heaven, as Philip quittcd
the spot with a spirit more reconciled to the fu-
mre, more softened, chastened, attuned to gentle

and pious thoughts, than perhaps ever yet had
made his soul dominant over the deep and dark
tide of his gloomy passions. He went thence to
a neighboring sculptor, and paid beforehand for
a plain tablet to be placed above the grave he
had left. He had just quilted that shop, in the
same street, not many doors removed from the
house in which his mother had breathed her last.
He was pausing by a crossing, irresolute whether
to repair at once to the home assigned to Sidney,
or to seek some shelter in town for that night,
when three men who were on the opposite side
of the way, suddenly caught sight of him.
“There he is—thcre he is; stop, sir ! stop l"
Philip heard these words, looked up, and rec-
ognized the voice and the person of Mr. Plask-
with; the bookseller was accompanied by Mr.
Plimmins and a sturdy, ill-favored stranger.
A nameless feeling of fear, rage, and disgust
seized the unhappy boy; and, at the same mo-
ment, 8. ragged vagabond whispered to him,
“ St’u’mp it, my cove; that’s a Bow-street run-
ner.
Then there shot through Philip's head the
recollection of the money he had seized, though
but to dash away : was he now—he, still, to his
own conviction, the heir of an ancient and spot-
less name—to be hunted as a thief; or, at the
best, what right over his person and his libert
had he given to this taskmaster? Ignorant of
the law, the law only seemed to him, as it ever
does to the ignorant and the friendless, a foe.
Quicker than lightning, these thoughts, which
it takes so many words to describe, flashed
through the storm and darkness of his breast;
and, at the very instant that Mr. Plimmins had
laid hands on his shoulder, his resolution was
formed. The instinct of self beat loud at his
heart. With a hound—a spring, that sent Mr.
Plimmins sprawlin in the kennel, he darted
across the road, an fled down an opposite lane.
“ Stop him! stop i” cried the bookseller; and the
officer rushed after him with almost equal speed.
Laue after lane, alley after alley, fled Philip, dodg-
ing, winding, breathless, ntlng; and lane after
lane, alley after alley, thickened at his heels the
crowd that pursued. The idle, and the curious,
and the officious—ragged boys, ragged men, from
stall and from eellar,from corner and from cross-
ing—joined in that delicious chase, which rum
down young error till it sinks, too often, at the
door of the jail or the foot of the gallows. But
Philip slackencd not his peace ; he began to dis-
tance his pursuers. He was now in a street
which they had not yet entered; a quiet street,
with few, if any, shops. Before the threshold
of a better kind of public house, or, rather, tav-
ern, to judge by its appearance, loungcd two
men; and, as Philip flew on, the cry of “Stop
him l” had changed, as the shout passed to new
voices, into “Stop the thief!” That cry yet
howled in the distance. One of the lonngers
seized him; Philip, desperate and ferocious,
struck at him with all his force; but the blow
was scarcely felt by that Herculean frame.
“Pish !” said the man, scornfnlly; “i am no
spy, if you run from justice, I would help you
to a sign-post.” I
Struck b the voice, Philip looked hard at till
speaker. twas the voice of the Accursed Son
“Save me! You remember me ‘2" said tb
orphan, faintly.


NIGHT AND MORNING.
43
“ Ah l I think I do; poor lad l Follow me—
this way l"
The stranger turned within the tavern, passed
the ball through a sort of corridor that led into
a back yard which opened upon a nest of courts
or passages.
“You are safe for the present; I will take
where you can tell me all at your ease.
I” As he spoke, they emerged into an open
street, and the guide pointed to a row of hack-
ne -coaches. “Be quick-get in. Coachman,
drive fast to—” Philip did not hear the rest of
the direction.
Our story returns to Sidney.
__.+_._
CHAPTER III.
“Nous vous mettrons a convert
Repondit le pot do fer,
Bl quelque Inutiére dure
Vous mnace d‘aventure,
Entrc deux jc passcmi.
El du coup vnus snuveral
Le pot dc tone on soufl're !"
LA Fon'runl.
“ SIDNEY, come here, sir! \Vhat have you
been at ? You have torn your frill into tatters!
How did you do this ? Come, sir, no lies."
“ Indeed, ma’am, it was not my fault. I just
put my head out of the window to see the coach
go by, and a nail caught me here."
“ Why, you little plague ! you have scratched
onrsell': you are always in mischief. What
iness had you to look after the coach?”
“ I don’t know," said Sidney, hanging his head
ruefully.
“ La, mother I” cried the youngest of the
cousins, a square-built, ruddy, coarse-featured
urchin about Sidney's age, “la, mother, he never
sees a coach in the street when we are at play
but he runs arter it.”
“ After, not arter,” said Mr. Roger Morton,
taking the pipe from his mouth.
“ Why do on go after the coaches, Sidney ?”
said Mrs. M’brton; “it is very naughty ; you
will be run over some day.”
“Yes, ma‘am," said Sidney, who, during the
whole colloquy, had been trembling from head
to foot.
“ ‘Yes, ma’am,’ and ‘no, ma’am,’ you have no
more manners than a cobbler’s boy.”
“Don't tease the child, my dear—he is c -
ing,” said Mr. Morton, more authoritativey ed
than usual. “Come here, my man!" and the
worthy uncle took him in his lap, and held his
glass of brandy and water to his lips. Sidney,
too frightened to refuse, sipped hurriedly, keep-
ing his large e es fixed on is aunt, as children
do when they ear a outf.
“ You spoil the boy more than you do your
own flesh and blood,” said Mrs. Morton, greatly
‘ leased.
ere Tom, the youngest-born before de-
lorihcd, put his mouth to his mother’s ear, and
whispered, loud enough to be heard b all, “He
runs arter the coach ’cause he thin a his ma
may be in it. “’ho‘s homesick, I should like to
know? Ba! baa l”
The boy ointed his finger over his mother’s
lboulder, an the other children burst into a loud
gigg'e.

“ Leave the room, all of yon—leave the room I" , sweet-temper
said Mr. Morton, rising angrily and stamping
his foot.
The children, who were in great awe of their
father, huddled and hustled each other to the
door; but Tom, who went last, bold in his
mother’s favor, popped his head through the
doorway, and cried, “Good-by, little homesick?
A sudden slap in the face from his father
changed his chuckle into a very different kind of
music, and a loud indignant sob was heard
without for some moments after the door wan
closed.
“If that’s the way you behave to your chil-
dren, Mr. Morton, I vow you sha‘n‘t have any
more, if I can help it. Don’t come near me—
don’t touch me !" and Mrs. Morton assumed the
resentful air of offended beauty.
“Pshaw!” growled the spouse; and he re-
seated himself and resumed his pipe. There
was a dead silence. Sidney crouched near his
uncle, looking very pale. Mrs. Morton, who
was knitting, knitted away with the excited em
orgy of nervous irritation.
“Ring the hell, Sidney," said Mr. Morton.
The b0 obeyed—the parlor-maid entered.
“Take [aster Sidney to his room; keep the
boys away from him, and give him a large slice
of bread and jam, Martha.”
“ Jam, indeed ! Treacle,” said Mrs. Morton.
“ Jam, Martha!” repeated the uncle, author-
itatively.
“ Treacle l” reiterated the aunt.
“Jam, I say l”
“Treacle, you hear: and, for that matter,
Martha has no jam to give !”
The husband had nothin more to say.
“Good-night, Sidney; t ere’s a good boy, go
and kiss your aunt and make your bow and, 1
say, my lad, don’t mind these plagues. I’ll tall:
to them to-morrow, that I will 5 no one shall be
unkind to you in my house.”
Sidney muttered somethin , and went timidly
up to Mrs. Morton. His ook, so gentle and
subdued; his eyes full of tears; his pretty
month, which, though silent, pleaded so elo-
quently; his willingness to forgive, and his wish
to be forgiven, might have melted many a heart
harder, perhaps, than Mrs. Morton’s. But
there reigned. what is worse than hardness,
plrcjudice and wounded vanity—maternal vanity.
is contrast to her own rough, coarse children
grated on her, and set the teeth of her mind on
go.
“There, child, don’t tread on my gown; you
are so awkward: say your raycrs, and don’t
throw off the counterpanel don’t like sloven-
ly boys."
Sidney put his finger in his mouth, drooped,
and vanished. ‘
“Now, Mrs. M.” said Mr. Morton, abruptly,
and knocking out the ashes of his pi e, “now,
Mrs. M., one word for all: I have to] you that
I promised poor Catharine to be a father to that
child, and it goes to my heart to see him so
snubbed. Why ou dislike him I can’t guess for
the life of me; Iy never saw a sweeter-tempered
child.”
“Go on, sir—go on: make your personal ro-
flections on your own lawful wife. They don't
hurt me—oh, no, not at all! Sweet-tempered,
indeed! Isup os’e your own children are not
‘1‘)


44.
NIGHT AND MORNING.
“That’s neither here nor there,” said Mr.
Morton; “my own children are such as God
made them, and I am very well satisfied.”
“Indeed, you may be roud of such a family;
and to think of the pains fhave taken with them,
and how I have saved you in nurses, and the bad
times I have had; and now, to find their noses
put out of joint by that little mischief-making
interloper—it is too bad of you, Mr. Morton;
you will break my heart, that you will.”
Mrs. Morton put her handkerchief to her eyes
and sobbed.
The husband was moved; he got up and at-
tem ted to take her hand. “Indeed, Margaret,
I di not mean to vex you.”
“And I, who have been such a fa—fai—faith-
ful wi—wi—wife, and brought you such a deal
of mon—mon—money, and always stud—stud—
studicd your interests; many’s the time when
ou have been fast asleep, that I have sat up
alf the night men—men—mending the house
linen; and you have not been the same man,
Roger, since that boy came !"
“Well, well !” said the good man, quite over-
come, and fairly takin her round the waist and
kissing her, “ no words between us; it makes
life quite unpleasant. If it pains you to have
Sidney here, I will put him to some school in
the town where they’ll be kind to him. On] ,
if you would, Margaret, for my sake—old gir !
come, now! theres a darling !—just be more
tender with him. You see he frets so after his
mother. Think how little Tom would fret if he
was away from you ! Poor little Tom !”
“La! Mr. Morton, you are such a man! there’s
no resisting your ways ! You know how to come
over me, don’t 'ou? ’
And Mrs. Morton smiled beni nly as she es-
caped from his conjugal arms an smoothed her
on .
geace thus restored, Mr. Morton refilled his
ipe, and the 00d lady, after a ausc, resumed,
P . g . . P
m a very mild, conciliatory tone——
“I’ll tell you what it is, Roger, that vexes me
with that there child. He is so deceitful, and
he does tell such fihs l”
“Fibs! That is a very bad fault,” said Mr.
Morton, gravely. “ That must be corrected.”
“It was but the other day that I saw him
break a pane of glass in the shop; and when I
taxed him with it, he denied it; and with such a
face ! I can’t abide story-telling.”
“Let me know the next story he tells; I’ll
cure him,” said Mr. Morton, sternly. “ You
know how I broke Tom of it. Spare the rod
and spoil the child. And when I promised to
be kind to the boy, of course I did not mean that
I was not to take care of his morals, and see that
he grew up an honest man. Tell truth and shame
the devil—that’s my motto.”
“Spoke like yourself, Roger !” said Mrs. Mor-
ton, with great animation. “But you see he
has not had the advantage of such a father as
on. I Wonder our sister don’t write to you.
me people make a great fuss about their feel-
ings; but out of sight out of mind.”
“I hope she is not ill. Poor Catharine! she
looked in a very bad way when she was here,”
said Mr. Morton, and he turned uneasily to the
fireplace and sighed.
Here the servant entered with the supper-
tray, and the conversation fell upon other topics.

Mrs. Roger Morton’s charge against Sidney
was, alas! too true. He had acquired under
that roof a terrible habit of tellino‘ stories. He
had never incurred that vice wifh his mother,
because then and there he had nothing to fear;
now he had every thin to fear; the grim aunt
—even the quiet, col , austere uncle—the ap.
prentiees—the strange servants—and oh! more
than all, those hard-eyed, loud-laughing torment-
ors, the boys of his own age l Naturally timid,
severity made him actually a coward; and, when
the nerves tremble, a lie sounds as surely as,
when I vibrate that wire, the bell at the end of
it will ring. Beware of the man who has been
roughly treated as a child.
The day after the conference just narrated,
Mr. Morton, who was subject to er 'si elas, had
taken a little coolin medicine. reakfast-
ed, therefore, later t an usual—after the rest of
the family; and at this meal—pour lui soulager
—-he ordered the luxur of a muffin. Now it so
chanced that he had on y finished half the muffin
and drank one cup of tea, when he was called
into the shop by a customer of great importance :
a prosy old lady, who always gave her orders
with remarkable precision, and who valued her-
self on a character for afi'ability, which she main-
tained by never buying a penny ribbon without
asking the shopman how all his family were,
and talking news about every other family in
the place. At the time Mr. Morton left the
parlor, Sidney and Master Tom were therein,
seated on two stools, and casting up division
sums on their res ective slates : a point of edu-
cation to which 1\ r. Morton attended with great
care. As soon as his father’s back was turned,
Master Tom’s eyes wandered from the slate to
the muffin, as it leered at him from the slop-
basin. Never did Pythian sibyl, seated above
the bubbling spring, utter more oracular elo-
quence to her priest than did that muffin—at
least the parts of it yet extant—utter to the
fascinated senses of Master Tom. First b0
sighed; then he moved round on his stool;
then he got up; then he peered at the muffm
from a respectful distance; then he gradually
approached, and walked round, and round, and
round it, his e as getting bigger and bigger;
then he pcepe through the glass-door into tha
shop, and saw his father busily engaged with
the old lady; then he began to calculate and
philosophize—perhaps his father had done break-
fast; perhaps he would not come back at all; if
he came back, he would not miss one corner of
the muffin; and if he did miss it, why should
Tom be supposed to have taken it? As he thus
communed with himself, he drew nearer to tba
fatal vortex, and at last, with a desperate plunge,
he seized the triangular temptation:
“ And are a mun had power to say 'Bchold.‘
The jaws of Theme: had devoured it up."
Sidney, disturbed from his studies by the
agitation of his companion, witnessed this pro-
ceeding with great and conscientious alarm.
“ Oh, Tom!” said he, “what will your papa
say ‘1"
“Look at that!" said Tom, putting his fist
under Sidney’s reluctant nose. “If father misses
it, you‘ll say the eat too}: it. If you don’t, my
eye l what a wapping I’ll give you !"
Here Mr. Morton 8 voice was heard wishing


NIGHT AND MORNING.
45
the lady “Good-morning!” and Master Tom,[
“ Pshaw! ma’am, don’t talk. But, to be sure,
thinking it better to leave the credit of the in- l that’s how I cared Tom of fibhiug. The tea’a
vention solely to Sidney, whispered, “Say I’m
one up-stairs for my pocket-banker,” and hast-
fiy absconded.
Mr. Morton, already in a very bad humor,
partly at the effects of the coolin medicine,
partly at the suspension of his brea fast, stalk-
ed into the parlor. His tea—the second cup
already poured out—was cold. He turned to-
ward the muffin, and missed the lost piece at a
glance.
“Who has been at my muffin ‘9” said he, in a
voice that seemed to Sidney like the voice he had
already supposed an ogre to possess. “Have
you, Master Sidney ‘3‘"
“N—n—no, sir; indeed, sir!”
“Then Tom has. Where is he ?”
“Gone up-stairs for his handkerchief, sir.”
“Did he take my muffin? Speak the truth l”
“No, sir; it was the—it was the—the eat,
Si: !7,
“Oh, you wiclgd, wicked boy!” cricd Mrs.
Morton, who had followed her husband into the
shop; “the cat kittened last night, and is locked
up In the coal-cellar!”
“Come here, Master Sidney! No! first go
down, Margaret, and see if the cat is in the eel-
lar: it might have got out, Mrs. M.” said Mr.
Horton, just even in his wrath.
Mrs. Morton went, and there was a dead
silence, except, indeed, in Sidney’s heart, which
beat louder than a clock ticks. Mr. Morton,
meanwhile, went to a little cupboard; while
still there, Mrs. Morton returned: the cat was
in the cellar—the key turned on her—in no
mood to eat muffins, poor thing l—she would
not even lap her milk! Like her mistress, she
had had a very bad time!
“Now, come here, sir!” said Mr. Morton,
withdrawing himself from the cupboard, with a
small horsewhip in his hand. “I will teach you
how to speak the truth in future. Confess that
you have told a lie l”
“ Yes, sir, it wasa liel
me; but Tom made me l”
“that! when or Tom is up stairs! Worse
and worse !“ saiders. Morton, lifting up her
hands and eyes. “ What a vipe
“For shame, boy, for shame!
and that—and that—”
Writhing, shrinking, still more terrified than
hurt, the poor child cowered beneath the lash.
“ Mammal mammal” he cried, at last, “ oh,
why—why did you leave me ?”
At these words Mr. Morton stayed his hand—
the whip fell to the round.
“Yet it is all for t e boy’s good,” he mutter-
ed. “There, child, I hope this is the last time.
There, you are not much hurt. Zounds, don’t
so l’
“ He will alarm the whole street," said Mrs.
Horton; “I never see such a child l Here, take
this parcel to Mrs. Birnie’s—you know the house
—only next street, and dry your eyes before you
get ,there. Don’t go through the shop, this way
out. '
She pushed the child, still sobbing with :1 ve-
hemeuce that she could not comprehend, through
the private passage into the street, and returned
I) her husband.
" You are convinced now, Mr. M. 1’"
Pray—pray forgive
r l 7!
Take that—

as cold as a stone l”
-_‘_-
CHAPTER IV.
" Le blen nous le faisons: le ma] c'est la Fortune,
On a toujours raiaon, 1e Destin toujours tort."
La Fos'nrxr.
Uses the early morning of the day commem-
orated by the historical events of our last chap-
ter, two men were deposited by a branch coach
at the inn of a hamlet about ten miles distant
from the town in which Mr. Roger Morton re-
sided. Though the hamlet was small, the inn
was large, for it was placed close by a huge
finger- ost that pointed to three great roads:
one le to the town before mentioned; another
to the heart of a manufacturing district; and a
third to a populous seaport. The weather was
fine, and the two travelers ordered breakfast to
be taken into an arbor in the garden, as well as
the basins and towels necessary for ablation.
The elder of the travelers appeared to be une-
quivocally foreign; you would have rruessed
him at once for a German. He wore w at was
then very uncommon in this country, a loose
brown linen blouse, buttoned to the chin, with a
leathern belt, into which were stuck a German
meerschaum and a tobacco-pouch. He had very
long flaxen hair, false or real, that streamed
half way down his back, large, light mustaches,
and a rough, sun-burned complexion, which made
the fairness of the hair more remarkable. He
wore an enormous pair of reen spectacles, and
complained much, in bro en En lish, of the
weakness of his eyes. All about rim, even to
the smallest minutiaa, indicated the German;
not only the large, muscular frame, the broad
feet, and vast though well-shaped hands, but the
brooch—evidenth purchased of a Jew in some
great fair—stuc ostentatiously and superflu-
ously into his stock; the quaint, droll-looking
carpet-bag, which he refused to trust to the
boots; and the great, massive, dingy ring which
he wore on his fore-fin or. The other was a
slender, remarkably upright and sinewy youth,
in a blue frock, over which was thrown a large
cloak; a traveling cap, with a shade that con-
cealed all of the u per part of his face except a
dark, quick eye 0 uncommon fire, and a shawl
handkerchief, which was equally useful in con-
cealing the lower part of the countenance. On
descending from the coach, the German, with
some difficulty, made the hostler understand
that he wanted a post-chaise in a quarter of an
hour; and then, without entering the house, he
and his friend strolled to the arbor. While the
maid-servant was covering the table with bread,
butter, tea, eggs, and a huge round of beef, the
German was busy in washing his hands, and
talking in his national tongue to the young man,
who returned no answer. But, as soon as the
servant had completed her operations, the for-
eigner turned round, and, observing her eyes
fixed on his brooch with much female admira-
tion, he made one stride to her.
“Der Teufel, mein goot madchen, but you are
von var—pretty—vat you call it ‘1’” and he gayo
her, as he spoke, so hearty a smack, that the girl
was more flustered than flattered by the courtesy


‘5;
NIGHT AND MORNING.
“ Keep yourself to yourself, sir," said she, lmnn in his time plays many parts;’ I play
very tartly—for chambermaids never like to be
kissed by middle-aged gentlemen when a younger I
‘ satisfied ?“
one is b : whereupon the German replied by a
pinch—it is immaterial to state the exact spot
to which that delicate caress was directed. But
this last offense was so inexpiable, that the
"'madohenn bounced off with a face of scarlet,
and a “ Sir, you are no gentleman—that’s what
you ar'n’t!” The German thrust his head out
of the arbor, and followed her with a loud laugh;
then. drawing himself in again, he said, in quite
another accent and in excellent English, “There,
Master Philip, we have got- rid of the girl for
the rest of the morning, and that‘s exactly what
I wanted to do; women’s wits are confoundedly
sharp. Well, did 1 not tell you right: we have
baffled all the bloodhounds l”
“And here, then, Gawtrey, we are to part,"
laid Philip, mournfully.
“I wish you would think better of it, my boy,”
returned Mr. Gawtroy, breaking an egg; “how
can you shift for yourself—no kith nor kin—not
even that important machine for giving advice
called a friend—no, not a friend, when I am
one ? I foresee how it must end. [D— it, salt
utter, by Jove !”]
“If I were alone in the world, as I have told
you again and again, perhaps I might pin my
ate to yours. But my brother!”
“There it is: always wrong when we act
from our feelings. My whole life, which some
day or other I will tell you, proves that. Your
brother—bah! Is he not very well olf with his
own uncle and aunt ? Plenty to eat and drink,
I dare sa . Come, man, you must be as hungry
as a haw —-a slice of the beef. Let well alone,
and shift for yourself. What good can you do
your brother ‘2"
“I don’t know, but I must see him; I have
sworn it.”
“ Well, go and see him, and then strike across
the country to me. I will wait a day for you—
there, now!”
“ But tell me first,” said Philip, very earnestly,
and fixing his dark eyes on his companion, “tell
mc—ycs, I must speak frankly—tell me, you
who would link my fortune with your own—tell
me what and who are you ‘2”
Gawtrey looked up.‘ i
“What do you suppose ?” said he, dryly.
“I fear to suppose any thing, lest 1 wrong
you: but the strange place to which you took
me the evening on which you saved me from
pursuit—the persons I met there—”
“ Well-dressed, and very civil to you ?”
“True; but with a certain wild looseness in
their talk that—But I have no right to judge
others by more appearance. Nor is it this that
has made me anxious, and, if you will, sus-
picious.”
“ What then I”,
" Your dress, your disguise.”
“Disguised yourrelf! ha! ha! Behold the
world‘s charity! You fly from some danger,
some pursuit, disguised—you, who hold yourself
guiltless: I do the same, and you hold me crinb
inal—a robber, perha s—a murderer, it may be!
I will tell you what am: I am a son of For.
tune—an adventurer; I live by my wits—so do
poets and lawyers, and all the charlatuns of the
world; I am a charlatun—a chameleon. “Each

‘part in which the manager of the Vast Bear I
—Money—promises me a livelihood. Are you
“ Perhaps,” answered the boy, sadly, “ when
I know more of the-world, I shall understand
you better. Strange, strange, that you out of all
men should have been kind to me in distres l"
“Not at all strange. Ask the beggar whom
he gets the most pence from: the line lady in
her carriage, the bean smelling of Ban do
Cologne? Pish! the people nearest to being
beggars themselves keep the beggar alive. You
were friendlcss, and the man who has all earth
for a fee befriends you. lt is the way of the
world, sir—the way of the world. Come, out
while you can, this time next year you may
have no beef to your bread."
Thus masticating and moralizing at the same
time, Mr. Gawtrey finished a breakfast that
would have astonished the whole Corporation of
London; and then, taking out large old watch
with an enameled back—don tless more Ger-
man than its master—ho said, as he lifted up his
carpet-bag, “I must be off—tempus fugit, and I
must arrive just in time to nick the vessels.
Shall get to Ostend or Rotterdam safe and snug,
thence to Paris. How my pretty Fan will have
grown! Ah, you don’t know Fan; make you a
nice little wife one of these days! Cheer u
man, we shall meet again. Be sure of it; an
hark ye, that strange place, as you call it, where
I took you—you can find it again ‘2” 1
“ Not I.”
“Here, then, is the address. Whenever you
want me, go there; ask to see Mr. Gregg—old
fellow with one eye, you recollect—shake him
by the hand just so—you catch the trick—prac-
tice it again. No, the forefinger thus—that's
right. Say ‘ blntel',’ no more—‘ Mitten—stay, 1
Wlll write it down for you—and then ask for
William Gawtrey’s direction. He will give it
you at once, without questions, these signs under-
stood; and, if you want money for your passage,
he will give you that also, with advice into the
bargain. Always a warm welcome with me.
And so take care of yourself, and good-by. I
see my chaise is at the door." '
As he spoke, Gawtrey shook the young man‘s
hand with cordial vigor, and strode ed to his
chaise, muttering, “Money well laid out—foo
money; I shall have him, and, Gad, I like him—
poor devil!”
-_._.
CHAPTER V.
“ He is a cunning coachmtm that can turn well in a mar
row room.“—0!d Play : from Lama's Specimen.
“ Here are two pilgrims,
And neither knows one footstep of the way.“
IIIYWOOD'! Duchess of Sufalk. [M
T m; chaise had scarce driven from the in
door, when a coach stopped to change horses on
its last stage to the town to which Philip was
bound. The name ofthe destination, in gilt let-
ters on the coach-door, caught his eye as he
walked from the arbor toward the road, and in a
few moments he was seated as the fourth passen-
ger in the “ Nelson Slow and Sure.” From
under the. shade of his cap he darted that quick
quiet glance which a man who hunts or is hunt ’
—in other words, who observes or shuns-goo.


NIGHT AND MORNING.
a.
requires. At his left hand sat a young woman \
in a cloak lined with yellow; she had taken off
her bonnet and pinned it to the roof of the coach,
haw!" and the auburn-whiskered Adonis poked
Philip in the knee with one hand, and the pale
gentleman in the ribs with the other. The latter
and looked fresh and pretty in a silk handker- ‘ looked up, and rcproachl'ully; the former drew
chief which she had tied round her head, proba-
bly to serve as a nightcap during,r the drowsy
lenltrvth of the journey. Opposite to her was a
mi dle-aged man of pale complexion, and a
grave, pensive, studious expression of face; and
visit-via to Philip set an overdressed, showy, veriy
nod-looking man of about two or three-an -
orty. This gentleman wore auburn whiskers,
which met at the chin; a foraging cap, with a
gold tassel; a velvet waistcoat, across which, in
various folds, hung a golden chain, at the end of
which dangled an eye-glass, that from time to
time he screwed, as it were, into his right eye;
hewore, also, a blue silk stock, with a frill much
mmpled; dirty kid gloves; and over his lap lay
l cloak lined with red silk. As Philip lanced
toward this personage, the latter fixed hlS lass
also at him with a scrutinizing stare, which new
fire from Philip’s dark eyes. The man dropped
his glass, and said, in a half provincial, half haw-
law tone, like the stage-exquisite of a minor the-
lter, “Pawdon me, and split legs!” therewith
ltretching himself between Philip’s limbs, in the
approved fashion of inside passengers! A young
man in a white greateoat now came to the door
with a glass of warm sherry and water.
“ You must take this—you must now; it will
keep the cold out" (the day was broiling), said
he to the young woman.
“Gracious me !” was the answer, “ but I never
drink wine of a morning, James; it will get into
my head.”
“ To oblige me!" said the young man, senti-
mentally- whereupon the young lady took the
glass, an , lookinrr very kindly at her Ganymede,
laid, “Your heath!” and sipped, and made a
wry face; then she looked at the passengers,
littered, and said, “I can’t bear wine!” and so,
very slowly and daintily, supped up the rest. A
lilent and expressive squeeze of the hand, on re-
turning the glass, rewarded the young man, and
proved the salutary etTect of his prescription.
“All right i” cried the coachman : the hostler
twitched the cloths from the leaders, and away
went the “ Nelson Slow and Sure,” with as much
pretension as if it had meant to do the ten miles
In an hour. The pole gentleman took from his
waistcoat-pocket a little box containing gum-
lrabie, and, having inserted a couple of morsels
between his lips, he next drew forth a little thin
volume, which, from the manner the lines were
printed, was evidently devoted to poetry.
The smart gentleman, who, since the episode
nfthe sherry and water, had kept his glass fixed
upon the 'oung lady, now said, with a genteel
Imir , “Tihat young gentleman seems very aut-
tentive, miss l"
“ He is a. very good young man, sir, and takes
[rest care of me.
"Not your brother, miss, eh 'i'"
" La, sirl why not ?"
“No faumily likeness—noice-looking fellow
Dough! But your oiyes and mouth—ah, miss l"
Miss turned away her head, and uttered, with
port vivacity,
“I never likes compliments, sirl
young man is not my brother.”
“A sweetheart, eh?" Oh fy, miss!
But the
Haw l

in his legs, and uttered an angry ejaculation.
“ Well, sir, there is no harm in a. sweetheart,
is there ?”
“None in the least, ma'am; I advoise you to
double the dose. We often hear of two strings
to a bow. Daun’t you think it would be noicer
to have two bcaux to your string ‘3"
As he thus wittily expressed himself, the gen-
tleman took off his cap, and thrust his fingers
through a very curling and come! head of hair;
the young lady looked at him With evident co-
quetry, and said, “ How you do run on, you gen-
tlemen !"
“I may well run on, miss, as long 'as I run
aufter you,” was the gallant reply.
Here the pale gentleman, evidently annoyed
by being talked across, shut his book up and
looked round. His eye rested on Philip, who,
whether from the heat of the day or from the
forgotfulness ofthought, had pushed his cap from
his brows; and the gentleman, after staring at
him for a few moments with great earnestness,
sighed so heavily that it attracted the notice of
all the passengers.
“ Are you unwell, sir ?” asked the young lady,
compassionately.
“A little pain in my side—nothing more !"
“Chaunge plauees with me, sir," cried the
Lothario, ofliciously. “ Now do !” The pale
gentleman, after a short hesitation and a bashful
excuse, accepted the proposal. In a few mo-
ments the young lady and the beau were in deep
and whispered conversation, their heads turned
toward the window. The pole gentleman con-
tinued to gaze at Philip, till the latter, perceivin
the notice he excited, colored and _replaced his
cap over his face.
“ Are you going to N— ?" asked the gen-
tleman, in a gentle, timid voice.
(G Yes l1?
“ Is itthe first time on have ever been there ?"
“Sir!” returned Piiilip, in a voice that spoke
surprise and distaste at his neighbor’s curiosity.
“ Forgive me,” said the gentleman, shrinkin
back; “but you remind me of—of—a family
once knew in the town. Do you know the—tho
Mortons ':'”
One in Philip’s situation. with, as he supposed,
the officers ofjustico in his truck (for Gawtrey,
for reason; of his own, rather encouraged than
allayed his fears), might well be suspicious. He
replied, therefore, shortly, “ I am quite a stranger
to the town," and ensconced himself in the corner
as if to take a nap. Alas! that answer was one
of the many obstacles he was doomed to build up
between himself and a fairer fate.
The gentleman sighed again, and never spoke
more to the end of the journey. When the coach
halted at the inn—the same inn which had before
given its shelter to poor Catharine—the youn
man in the white coat opened the door, and o -
fered his arm to the young lady.
“Do you make any stay here, sir ‘2" said she
to the bean, as she unpinned her bonnet from
the roof.
“ Perhaps so: I am waiting for my phe-luton,
which my facllow is to bring down—tanking a
little tour."


48
NIGHT AND MORNING.
“We shall be very happy to see you, sir,”
said the young lady, on whom the phe-aton
completed the effect produced by the gentleman’s
previous gallantries; and with that she dropped
a very neat card, on which was printed, “ Wavers
plndd Snow, staymakcrs, High-street,” into his
an .
The beau ut it gracefully into his pocket,
leaped from t e coach, nudged aside his rival of
the white coat, and offered his arm to the lady,
who leaned on it atfcctionately as she descended.
“This gentleman has been so perlite to me,
James,” said she. James touched his hat, the
beau clapped him on the shoulder: “Ah! you
are not a happy man—are 'ou ? Oh, no, not at
all a happy man! Good- ay to you! Guard,
that hat-box is mine.”
While Philip was payi the coachman, the
bean passed and whisper him,
“ Recollect old Gregg—any thing on the lay
here? don’t spoil my sport if we meet I" and
Eustle’d off into the inn, whistling “God save the
in l
léhilip started, then tried to bring to mind the
faces which he had seen at the “strange place,”
and thought he recalled the features of his fel-
low-traveler. However, he did not seek to renew
the acquaintance, but inquired the way to Mr.
Morton’s house, and thither he now proceeded.
He was directed, as a short out, down one of
those narrow passages, at the entrance of which
posts are placed, as an indication that they are
appropriated solely to foot-passengers. A dead
white wall, which screened the garden of the
physician of the place, ran on one side; a hiflh
fence to a nursery-ground was on the other; 1 e
' passage was lonely, for it was now the hour
when few persons walk either for business or
ulcasure in a provincial town, and no sound was
card save the fall of his own step on the broad
flag-stones. At the end of the passage, in the
main street to which it led, he saw already the
large, smart, showy shop, with the hot sun shin-
ing full on the gilt letters that conveyed to the
eyes of the customer the respectable name of
“ Morton,” when sudden] the silence was broken
by choked and painful so s. He turned, and he-
neath a compo portico, jutting from the wall,
which adorned the physician’s door, he saw a
child, seated on the stone steps, weeping bitterly.
A thrill shot through Philip’s heart! Did he rec-
ognize, disguised as it was by pain and sorrow,
that voice? He paused, and laid his hand on the
child’s shoulder: “ Oh, don’t—don’t—pray don’t;
I am going, I am, indeed l” cried the child, quail-
:ng, and still keeping his hands clasped before his
ace.
“Sidney!” said Philip. The boy started to his
feet, uttered a cry of rapturous joy, and fell upon
his brother’s breast.
“ Oh, Philip! dear, dear Philip! you are come
to take me away back to my own, own mamma;
I will be so good! I will never tease her a ain
—nevcr, never! I have been so wretched! ’
“Sit down, and tell me what they have done
to you,” said Philip, checking the rising heart
that heaved at his mother’s name.
So there they sat, on the cold stone under the
stranger’s porch, these two orphans : Philip’s
arm round his brother’s waist, Sidney leaning on
his shoulder, and imparting to him (perhaps with
pardonable exaggeration) all the sufi'erings he

l
had gone through; and when he came to that
morning’s chastisement, and showed the wale
across the little hands which he had vainly held
up in so plication, Philip’s passion shook him
from limb to limb. His impulse was to march
straight into Mr. Morton’s shop, and gripe him
by the throat; and the indignation he betrayed
encouraged Sidney to color yet more highly the
tale of his wrongs and pain. ‘
When he had done, and clinging tightly to his
brother’s broad chest, said,
“But never mind, Philip; now we will go
home to momma.”
Philip replied,
“Listen to me, my dear brother. We can not
0 back to my mother. I will tell you why, later.
e are alone in the world, we two! If you will
come with me, God help you! for you will have
man hardships: we shall have to work and
dru go, and you may be cold, and hungry, and
tired very often, Sidney—very, very often ! But
you know that, long ago, when I was so passion-
ate, I never was knowingly unkind to you; and
I declare now that I would bite out my tongue
rather than it should say a harsh word to ypu.
That is all I can rornise. Think well. ’ill
you never miss all t c comforts you have now ‘3“
“Comforts!” repeated Sidney, ruefully, and
looking at the walc over his hand. “ Oh! let—
let—let me go with you: I shall die if I stay _
here. I shall, indeed—indeed l”
“Hush!” said Philip; for at that moment a
step was heard, and the pale gentleman walked
slowly down the passage, and started, and turned
his head wistfully as he looked at the boys.
\Vhen he was gone, Philip rose.
“It is settled, then,” said be, firmly. “Come
with me at once. You shall return to their roof
no more. Come, quick: we shall have many
miles to go to-night.”
—*__-
CHAPTER VI.
“ He comes—
Yet carelea what he brings: his one concern
Is to conduct it to the destined inn ;
And, having dropped the expected bag, pass on—
To him indifl‘erent whether grief or joy."
Cowrn: Desm-iptitm of the Postman
Tar: pale gentleman entered Mr. M orton‘s
sho ; and, lookinc round him, spied the worthy
tra er showing Ys:hawls to a young lady just
married. Ho seated himself on a stool, and said
to the bowing foreman,
“I will wait till Mr. Morton is disengaged.”
The young lady, having closely examined
seven shawls, and declared they were beautiful,
said “she would think of it,” and walked away.
Mr. Morton now approached the stranger.
“ Mr. Morton,” said the pale gentleman, “you
are very little altered. You do not recollect me ?"
“Bless me, Mr. SpencerLis it really you?
Well, what a time since we met! I am very
glad to see you. And what brings you to
N — ‘1’ Business ‘2"
“Yes, business. Let us go within."
Mr. Morton led the way to the parlor, where
Master Torn, reperched on the stool, was rapidly
digesting the plundered muffin. Mr. Morton dis-
missed him to play, and the pale gentleman took
a chair.
“ Mr. Morton,” said he, glancing over his


NIGHT AND MORNING.
49
dress, “ you see I am in mourning. It is for
your sister. I never got the better of that early
attachment—never."
" My sister! Good Heavens!” said Mr. Mor-
Catharine !.—-and I not know of it! When did
she die ‘2"
“Not many days since; and—and—' said
Mr. Spencer, greatly affected, "I fear in want.
I had been abroad for some months; on my return
last week, looking over the newspapers (for I
always order them to be filed), I read a short
account of her lawsuit against Mr. Beaufort
some time back. I resolved to find her out. I
did so through the solicitor she employed: it
was too late; I arrived at her lodgings two
days after her corpse left it for the grave. I then
determined to visit poor Catharine’s brother, and
learn if any thing could be done for the children
she had left behind."
“She left but two. Philip, the elder, is very
comfortably placed at R ; the youngest has
his home with me; and Mrs. Morton is amoth—
that is to say, she takes great pains with him.
Ehcm! and my poor, poor sister!”
“Is he like his mother ?"
“Very much, when she was young; poor,
dear Catharine !”
“ What age is he ‘1’”
“About ten, perhaps; I don’t know exactly;
much younger than the other. And so she‘s
dead!”
“ Mr. Morton, I am an old bachelor” (here a
sickly smile crossed Mr. Spencer’s face); “a
small portion of my fortune is settled, it is true,
on my relations; but the rest is mine, and I live
' within my income. The elder one is probably
old enough to begin to take care of himsel .
But the younger—pel'haps—you have a family
ofyour own, and can spare him?”
Mr. Morton hesitated, and twitched up his
trowsers.
“Why,” said be, “this is very kind in you.
I don‘t know—we’ll see. The boy is out now;
come and dine with us at tvvo—pot-luck. Well,
so she is no more! heighol Meanwhile, I’ll
talk it over with Mrs. M. ’ r
“I will be with you," said Mr. Spencer, rising.
“Ah l” sighed Mr. Morton, “ ifCatharine had
but married you, she would have been a happy
woman.”
“I would have tried to make her so,” said
Mr. Spencer, as he turned away his face, and
took his departure.
Two o'clock came, but no Sidney. They had
sent to the place whither he had been dispatch-
ed: he had never arrived there. Mr. Morton
w alarmed; and, when Mr. Spencer came to
inner, his host was one in search of the truant.
He did not return till three. Doomed that day
to be belated both at breakfast and dinner, this
decided him to part with Sidney, whenever he
should be found. Mrs. Morton was persuaded
that the child only sulked, and would come back
fast enough when he was hungry. Mr. Spencer
tried to believe her, and eat his mutton, which
was burned to a cinder; but when five, six,
seven o’clock came, and the boywas still miss-
ing, oven Mrs. Morton agreed that it was hi h
time to institute a regular search. The who a
family set. off different ways. It was ten o’clock
before they were reunged; and then, all the
7


- news picked up was, that a boy answering Sid-
ney’s description had been seen with a young
lman in three different parts of the town; the
llast time at the outskirts, on the hi h road
ton. turning very pale; “is she dead ?—poor ‘ toward the manufacturing districts.
hose ti-
dings so far relieved Mr. Morton’s mind that he
dismissed the chilling fear that had crept there
-that Sidney might have drowned himself.
Boys will drown themselves sometimes! T he
description of the young man coincided so re~
markably with the fellow-passenger of Mr. Spen-
cer, that he did not doubt it was the same; the
more so when he recollected having seen him
with a fair-haired child under the portico; and
yet more when he recalled the likeness to Cath-
arine that had struck him in the coach, and
caused the inquiry that had roused Philip’s sas-
picion. The mystery was thus made clear:
Sidney had fled with his brother. Nothing more,
however, could be done that night. The next
morning active measures should be devised;
and, when the morning came, the mail brought
to Mr. Morton the two following letters. The
first was from Arthur Beaufort.
“ Sm—I have only been rcvented by severe
illness from writing to you before. I can now
scarcely hold a pen; but the instant my health
is recovered, I shall be with you at N .
“ On her death-bed the mother of the b0 ' un-
der your charge, Sidney Morton, committe him
solemnly to me, the heir and representative of
his father. I make his fortunes my care, and
shall hasten to claim him at your kindly hands.
But the elder son, this poor Philip, who has suf-
fered so unjustly; for our lawyer has seen Mr.
Plaskwith, and heard the whole story, what has
become of him? All our inquiries have failed
to track him. Alas! I was too ill to institute
them myself while it was yet time. Perhaps he
may have sought shelter with you, his uncle;
if so, assure him that he is in no danger from
the pursuit of the law; that his innocence is
fully recognized; and that my father and myself
implore him to accept our affection. I can
write no more now, but in a few days I shall
hope to see you.

“I am, sir, &c.,
“ Aa-ruua Bsauron'r.
“ Berkeley-square."
The second letter was from Mr. Plaskwith,
and ran thus :—
“ DEAR Memos—Something vcry awkward
has happened—not my fault, and very unpleas-
ant for me. Your relation, Philip, as I wrote
you word, was a painstaking lad, though odd and
bad-mannered, for want, perhaps, poor boy, of
being taught better; and Mrs. P. is, you know,
a very genteel woman—women go too much by
manners—so she never took much to him. How-
ever, to the point, as the French emperor used
to say : one evening he asked me for money for
his mother, who, he said, was ill, in a very in-
solent way; I may say, threatening. It was in
my own sho , and before Plimmins and Mrs. P.;
Iwas fore to answer with dignified rebuke,
and left the shop. When I returned, he was
gone, and some shillings—fourteen, I think, and
three soverei ns, evidently from the till, scat-
tered on the cor. Mrs. P. and Mr. Plimmins
were very much frightened; thought it was clear


59
NIGHT AND MORNING.
I was robbed, and that we were to be murdered.
Plimtnins slept below that night, and we bor-
rowed butcher Johnson’s dog. Nothing hap-
pened. I did not think I was robbed, because
the money when we came to calculate, was all
right. I know human nature: he had thought
to take it, but repented—quite clear. However,
I was naturally very angry; thought had come
back again—meant to reprove him properly—
waited several days—heard nothing of him—
qrew uneasy—would not attend any longer to
Mrs. P. (for, as Napoleon Bonaparte observed,
‘women are well in their way, not in ours);’
made Plimmins go with me to town—hired a
Bow-street runner to track him out; cost me
£1. 18., and two glasses of brandy and water.
Poor Mrs. Morton was just buried— quite
shocked ! Suddenly saw the boy in the streets.
Plimmins rushed forward in the kindest way;
was knocked down—hurt his arm—paid 28. (id.
for lotion. Philip ran off; .we run after him—
we could not find him. Forced to return home.
Next day, a lawyer from a Mr. Beaufort, Mr.
George Blackwell, a gentleman-like man, called.
Mr. Beaufort will do any thin for him in rea-
son. Is there any thing more can do '? I really
am very uneasy about the lad, and Mrs. P. and
I have had it till“ about it; but that’s nothing—
thought I had best “Tite to you for instructions.
“ Yours, truly,
“ C. Pansuwrrn.
“ P. S. Just open my letter to say, Bow-street
officer just been here; has found out that the
boy has been seen with a very suspicious chame-
tcr: they think he has left London. Bow-street
otliccr wants to go after him—very expensive:
so now you can decide."
Mr. Spencer scarce listened to the former let-
ter, but of the latter he felt jealous. He would
fain have been the only protector to Catharine’s
children : but he was the last man fitted to head
the search, now so necessary to prosecute with
equal tact and energy.
A soft-hearted, soft-headed man, a confirmed
valetudinarian—a day-dreamer, who had wasted
away his life in dawdling and maundering over
simple poetry, and sighing over his unhappy
attachment; no child, no babe, was so thorough-
ly helpless as Mr. Spencer.
The task of investigation devolved, therefore,
on Mr. Morton, and he went about it in a re-
gular, plain, straightforward way. Handbills
were circulated, constables employed, and a law-
yer, accompanied by Mr. Spencer, dispatched to
the manufacturing districts, toward which the
orphans had been seen to direct their path
+
CHAPTER VII.
“ lee the gentle South
Yet leave to court those shils.”
Brannon-r sun Funcuza: Begprr‘s Bash.
“ Cut your cloth, airI
Aecordlug to your calling."-Ibid.
MnakurLi-z the brothers were far away, and
He who feeds the young ravens made their
paths pleasant to their feet. Philip had broken
to Sidney the sad news of their mother’s death,
and Sidney had wept with bitter passion. But
children what can they know of death? Their

tears over graves dry sooner than the down. It
is melancholy to compare the depth, the endur-
ance, the far-sighted, anxious, pra 'erful love of
a parent, with the inconsiderate, trail, and cya-
nescent affection of the infant, whose eyes the
hues of the butterfly yet dazzle with delight. It
was the night of their flight, and in the o n air,
when Philip (his arms round Sidney’s waist) told
his orphan-brother that they were motherless.
And the air was balmy, the skies filled with the
effulgent presence of the August moon; the corn-
fields stretched round them wide and far, and not
a leaf trembled on the beech-tree beneath which
they had sought shelter. It seemed as if Nature
herself smiled pityingly on their young sorrow.
and said to them, “ Grieve not for the dead; I,
wbo live forever, I will be your mother!”
They crept, as the night deepened, into the
warmer sleeping-place all'orded by stack of hay,
mown that summer, and still lragrant. And
the next morning the birds woke them bctimes.
to feel that Liberty, at least, was with them,
and to wander with her at will.
Whoin his boyhood has not felt the delight of
freedom and adventure—t0 have the world of
woods and sword before him—to escape restric-
tion-—to lean, for the first time, on his own rt-
sourees—to rejoice in the wild but manly luxury
of independence—to act the Crusoe—and to
fancy a Friday in every footprint—an island of
his own in every field '2 Yes, in spite of their
desolation, their loss, of the melancholy past, of
the friendless future, the orphans were happy,
happy in their youth, their freedom, their love.
their wanderings in ,the delicious air of the glo-
rious August. Sometimes they came upon
knots of reapers lingering in the shade of thd
hedgerows over their noonday meal ; and, grown
sociable by travel and bold by safety, they Joined
and partook of the rude fare with the zest of
fatigue and youth. Sometimes, too, at night.
they saw, gleam afar and red by the woodside,
the fires of gipsy tents. But these, with the su-
perstition derived from old nursery tales, they
scrupulously shunned, eying them with a myste-
riQus awe ! What heavenly twilights belong to
that golden month! the air so lucidly serene, as
the purple of the clouds fades gradually away.
and u soars, broad, round, intense, and lumin-
ous, t 0 full moon which belongs to the joyous
season! The fields then are greener than in the
heats of July and June; they have got back the
luxury of a second spring. And still, beside the
paths of the travelers, lingered on the hedges
the clustering honeysuckle; the convolvulus
glittered in the to les of the brake; the hardy
heath-flower smile on the green waste.
And over, at evening, they came, field after
field, upon those circles which recall to children
so many charmed legends, and are fresh and fre-
quent in that mouth—the Fairy Rings! They
thought, poor boys, that it was a good omen,
and half fancied that the fairies protected them.
as in the old time they had often protected the
desolate and outcast.
They avoided the main roads, and all towns.
with suspicious care. But sometimes they paused.
for food and rest, at the obscure hostels of some
scattered hamlets; though, more often, they
loved to spread the simple food they purchased
by the way under some thick tree, or beside a
stream, through whose limpid waters they could


NIGHT AND MORNING.
51
watch the trout glide and play. And they often
preferred the chance-shelter of a haystack or a
shed to the less romantic repose afforded bythe
small inns they alone dared to enter. hey
went, in this, much by the face and voice of the
host or hostess. Once only Philip had entered
a town, on the second day of their liwht, and
that solely for the urchase of ruder clothes, and
a. change of linen or Sidney, with some imple-
ments of use necessary in their present course
of shift and welcome hardship. A wise precau-
tion; for, thus clad, they escaped suspicion.
So journeying, they consumed several days;
and, having taken a direction quite opposite to
that which led to the manufacturing districts,
whither pursuit had been directed, they were
now in the center of another county—in the
neighborhood of one of the most considerable
towns of England; and here Philip began to
think their wanderings ought to cease, and it
was time to settle on seine definite course of
life. He had carefully boarded about his person,
and most thriftin managed, the little fortune be-
queathed by his mother. But Philip looked on
this capital as a deposit sacred to Sidney; it
was not to be spent, but kept and augmented-—
the nucleus for future wealth. Within the last
few weeks his character was greatly ri ened,
and his powers of thought enlarged. e was
no more a. boy, he was a man; he had another
I

tion can be of use. I can re'ad, write—I know
Latin and French—I can draw—I know arith-
metic and summing."
“Very well; very genteel young man—pre-
possessing appearance (that’s a fudge ll—highly
educated—usher in a school, ch ‘3”
“ What you like.”
“References?”
“I have none.”
“ Eh! none ‘2” and Mr. Clump fixed his spec-
tacles full ufvon Philip.
Philip was prepared for the question, and had
the art to perceive that a frank reply was his best
policy. - “The fact is,” said he, boldly, “I was
well brought up; m ' father died; 'I was bound
apprentice to a tr e I disliked; I left it, and
have now no friends.”
“Hi can help you, I will,” said Mr. Clump.
coldly. “Can’t promise much. If you were a
laborer, character might not matter; but edu-
cated young men must have aeharactcr. Hands
always more useful then head. Education no
avail nowadays—common, quite common. Cull
again on Monday.”
Somewhat disappointed and chilled, Philip
turned from the bureau; but he had a strong
confidence in his own resources, and recovered
his spirits as he mingled with the throng. He
passed at length by a livery-stable, and paused,
rom old associations, as he saw a groom in the
life to take care of. He resolved, then, to enter, mews attempting to manage a youn _, hot horse,
the town they were approaching, and to seek l evidently un
roken. The master 0 the stables,
for some situation by which he might maintain - in a green short jacket and top boots, with along
both. Sidney was vcr
loth to abandon their whip in his hand, was standing by, with one or
prescntrovin life; but 1c allowed that the warm two men who looked like horse-dealers.
weather coul not always last, and that in winter
the fields would be less leesant.
with a sigh, yielded to 8
They entered the fair and busy town of
one day at noon ; and, after finding a small lode-
ing, at which he do sited Sidne , who was
fat' ued with their ay’s work, hilip sallied
Iicrt alone.
After his long rambli , Philip was pleased
and struck with the broalf bustling streets, the
way shops—the evidences of opulence and trade.
e thought it hard if he could not find there a
market for the health‘and heart of sixteen. He
strolled slowly and alone along the streets till
his attention was caucht by a small corner-shop,
in the window of whie was placed a board bean
ing this inscription :

“orricr: ron BIPLOYMRNT.—-ltECIPROCAL
anvursee.
“ Mr. John Clump’s bureau open every day
from ten till four. Clerks, servants, laborers,
&c., provided with suitable situations. Terms
moderate. N.B.—The oldest established othoe
in the town.
“ Wanted, a good cook. An under-gardener.”
What he sought was here. Philip entered,
and saw a short, fat man, with spectacles, seat-
ed before a desk, poring upon the well-filled
leaves of a lon re ister.
“ Sir,” said hilip, “I wish for a situation; I
don't care what.”
“ Half a crown for entry, if you please. That’s
right. Now for particulars. Hum! you don’t
look like a servant!”
“No; I wish for any place where my educa-
He therefore, .‘ ‘cre fine hanimal,” cried the liveryman.
is brother’s rcasonings. l he’s a lamb, sir, if he were backed properly.

“Come off, clumsy! You can’t manage that
“Ah!
But i has not a man in the yard as can ride since
Will died. Come ofl", I say, lubberl“
But to come off without being thrown ofl‘ was
more easily said than done. The horse was now
plunvring as if Juno had send her ged-fly to him ;
and ’hilip, interested and excited, came near
and neuter, till he stood b t the side of the horse-
dealers. The other hustlers ran to the help of
their comrade. who, at last, with white lips and
shakin knees, found himself on tcrra. firma ,-
while ills horse, snorting hard, and rubbing his
h'cad against the breast and arms of the hostler
who held him tightly by the rein, seemed to ask.
in his own way, “ Are there any more of you?”
A suspicion that the horse was an old acquaint-
ance crossed Philip’s mind; he went up to him.
and a white spot over the left eye confirmed his
doubts. It had been a fool reserved and reared
for his own riding; one that, in his prosperous
days, had ate bread from his hand, and followed
him round the paddock like a dog; one that he
had mounted in sport, without saddle, when his
father’s back was turned: a. friend, in short, of
the happy lang syne; nay, the very friend to
whom he had boasted his afl'ection, when, stand-
ing with Arthur Beaufort under the summer sky,
the whole world seemed to him full of friends.
He put his hand on the horse’s neck, and whis-
pered, “Soho! So, Billy!" and the horse turned
sharp round with a quick, joyous neigh. _
“If you please, sir,” said Philip, appephng to
the liveryman, “ I will undertake to rule this
horse, and take him over you leaping-bar. Just
let me try him.”


52
NIGHT AND MORNING.
“ There’s a fine-spirited lad for you I” said the
livarvman, much pleased at the offer. “New,
gent cmen, did 1 not tell you that ere hanimal
had no vice if he was roperly managed ?”
The horse-dealers s 00k their heads.
“May I ive him some bread first?” asked
Philip; an the hostler was dispatched to the
house. Meanwhile, the animal evinced various
signs of pleasure and recognition as Philip stroked
and talked to him; and, finally, when he ate the
bread from the young man’s hands, the whole
ard seemed in as much deli ht and surprise as
if they had witnessed one of onsieur Van Am-
burgh’s exploits. '
And now Philip, still caressing him, slowly
and cautiously mounted; the horse made one
bound half across the yard—a bound which sent
all the horse-dealers into a corner—and then went
through his paces, one after the other with as
much case and calm as if he had been broke in
at Mr. Fozard’s to carry a young lady. And
when be crowned all by going thrice over the
leaping-bar, and Philip, dismounting, threw the
reins to the hostler, and turned triumphantly to
the horse-dealer, that gentleman slapped him on
the back, and said emphatically, “Sir, on are a
man! and I am proud to see you here. ’
Meanwhile, the horse-dealers gathered round
the animal; looked at his hoofs, felt his legs,
examined his windpipc, and concluded the bar-
gain, which, but for Philip, would have been
very abruptly broken oil“. When the horse was
led out of the yard, the liveryman, Mr. Stubmore,
turned to Philip, who, leaning against the wall,
followed the poor animal with mournful eyes.
“ My good sir, you have sold that horse for
me—that you have! Any thing as I can do for
you ? One ood turn deserves another.
a brace of siiners.”
“Thank you, sir; I want no money, but I do
want some employment. I can be of use to you,
perhaps, in your establishment. I have been
brought up among horses all my life.”
“Saw it, sir! that’s very clear. I say that
’ere horse knows you!” and the dealer put his
finger to his nose. “Quite right to be mum!
He came from an old customer of mine—famous
rider l—Mr. Beaufort. Aha! that’s where you
knew him, I ’spose. Were you in his stables ‘P”
“Hem—I knew Mr. Beaufort well."
“Did on? You could not know a better
man. “yell, I shall be very glad to engage
you, though you seem, by our hands, to be a
bit of a gentleman, eh? ever mind; don’t
want you to groom, but superintend things.
D’yc know how to keep accounts, ch ‘1‘”
H Yes'37
“Character '2”
Philip repeated to Mr. Stubmore the story he
had imparted to Mr. Clump. Somehow or other,
men who live much with horses are always more
lax in their notions than the rest of mankind.
Mr. Stubmorc did not seem to grow more distant
at Phili ’s narration.
“ Un erstand you perfectly, my man. Brought
up with them ’cre line ereturs, how could you
nail your nose to a desk ? I’ll take you without
more palavcr. What’s your name ‘2”
“Philips.”
" Como to-morrow, and we’ll settle about
wages. Sleep here ?"
“No. I have a brother whom I must lodge
with, and for whose sake I wish to work. I
should not like him to be at the stables—he is
too young. But I can come early every day,
and 0 home late.”
“ ell, just as you like, man. Good-day."
And thus, not from any mental accomplishment
—nct from the result of his intellectual education,
but from the more physical capacity and brute
habit of sticking fast in his saddle, did Philip
Morton, in this great, intelligent, civilized, en-
lightened community of Great Britain, find the
means of earning his bread without stealing it.
-__._._.
CHAPTER VIII.
“ Don Sulliute (sour-taut). Jo parlc.
Que voas ne pensiez pus a moi T"—Ruy Blu.
" Dan Salluata. Cousin!
" Don Cémr. De vos bienfnits je n'nurni nulle envic,
Tnnt que je trouverni vivanl. ma librc vie."—Ibid.
Funnels situation was agreeable to his habits.
His great courtwe and skill in horsemansbip
were not the only qualifications useful to Mr.
Stubmore : his education answered 0. useful pur-
pose in accounts, and his manners and appearance
were highly to the credit of the yard. The cus-
tomers and loungcrs soon rew to like Gentleman
Phili , as he was style in the establishment.
Mr. tubmore conceived a real atfection for him.
|So passed several weeks; and Philip, in this
humble capacity, might have worked out his
destinies in peace and comfort, but for a new
cause of vexation that arose in Sidney. This
boy was all in all to his brother. For him he
had resisted the hearty and joyous invitations of

Here’s, Gawtrey (whose gay manner and high spirits

'liad, it must be owned, captivated his fanc ,
, despite the equivocal mystery of the man s
; avocutions and condition) ; for him he now
worked and toiled, cheerful and contented; and
him he sought to save from all to which be sub-
jected himself. He could not bear that that soft
' and delicate child should ever be exposed to the
, low and menial associations that now made up
his own life—to the obscene slang of grooms
and hostlers—to their course manners and rough
l contact. He kept him, therefore, apart and
aloof in their little lodging, and hoped in time to
lay by, so that Sidney might ultimately be re-
gstored, if not to his bright original sphere, at
l least to a higher grade than that to which Philip
was condemned. But poor Sidne could not bear
to be than left alone—to lose sig t of his brother
from daybreak till bedtime—to have no one to
amuse him; be fretted and pined away: all the
l little inconsiderate selfishness, uneradicated from
his breast by his sutl'erings, broke out the more,
the more he felt that he was the first object on
,earth to Philip. Philip, thinking he might be
1 more cheerful at a day-school, tried the experi-
ment of lacing him at one where the boys were
much 0 his own age. But Sidney, on the third
day, came back with a black eye, and he would
return no more. Philip several times thought
of changing their lodging for one where there
were young people. But Sidney had taken a
fanc to the kind old widow who was their
landlady, and cried at. the thought of removal.
Unfortunately, the old woman was deaf and
rheumatic: and. though she bore teasing ad


NIGHT AND MORNING.
53
libitum, she could not entertain him long on a ', tain De Burgh Smith—never moind yours, my
stretch. Too young to be reasonable, Sidne'
could not or would not comprehend why his
brother was so long away from him; and once
he said peevishly,
" If I had thought I was to be moped up so, I
would not have left Mrs. Morton. Tom was a
bad boy, but still it was somebody to play with.
I wish I had not gone away with you l”
This speech cut Philip to the heart. What,
then, he had taken from the child a respectable
and safe shelter—the sure provision of a life—and
the child now reproachcd him! When this was
said to him, the tears gushed from his e 'es.
“ God forgive me, Sidney,” said he, an turned
away.
But then Sidney, who had the most endearing
ways with him, seeing his brother so vexed, ran
up and kissed him, and scolded himself for being
naughty. Still the words were spoken, and their
meaning ranklcd deep. Philip himself, too, was
morbid in his excessive tenderness for this boy.
T here is a certain age, before the love for the
sex commences, when the feeling of friendship
is almost a passion. You see it constantly in
girls and boys at school. It is the first vague
craving of the heart after the master food of
human life—Love. It has its jealousies, and
burners. and caprices, like love itself. Philip
was painfully acute to Sidney’s Infection—was
jealous of every particle of it. He dreaded lost
his brother should ever be torn from him.
He would start from his sleep at night, and go
to Sidncy's bed to see that he was there. He
left him in the morning with forebodings, he re-
turned in the dark with fear. Meanwhile, the
character of this young man, so sweet and tender
to Sidney, was graduallv becoming more hard
and stem to others. e had now climbed to
the post of command in that rude establishment;
and premature command in any sphere tends to
make men unsocial and imperious.
One day Mr. Stuhmore called him into his own
counting-house, where stood a gentleman with
one hand in his coat-pocket, the other tapping
his whip against his boots. '
“ Philips, show this gentleman the brown mare.
She is a beauty in harness, is not she? This
gentleman wants a match for his phcaton."
“ She must step very hoigh,” said the gentle-
man, turning round; and Philip recognized the
beatt in thc stage-coach.
The recognition was simultaneous. The beau
nodded. then whistlcd, and winked.
“Come, my man, I am at your service,” said
he.
Philip, with many misgivings, followed him
across the yard. The gentleman then beckoned
him to approach.
“ You, sir—moind, I never peach—setting up
here in the honest line? Dull work, honesty,
eh Fl
“ Sir, I really don’t know you.”
“Daun’t you recollect old Gregg’s, the even-
ing you came there with jolly Bill Gawtrey?
Reeollect that, eh '1‘”
Philip was mute.
' “I was among the gentlemen in the back-
parlor who shook you by the hand. Bill’s ad” to
France, then. Iam tanking the provinces. -I
want a good horse—the best in the yard, moind!

fine fellow. Now, then, out with your rattlers,
and keep your tongue in your mouth."
Philip mechanically ordered out the brown
mare, which Captain Smit did not seem much
to approve of ; and, after glancing round the
stables with great disdain of the collection, he
sauntered out of the yard without saying more
to Philip, thouoh he stopped and spoke a few
sentences to It r. Stubmore. Phili hoped he
had no design of purchasing, and t at he was
rid, for the present, of so awkward a. customer.
Mr. Stubrnore approached Philip.
“Drive over the grays to Sir John,” said he.
“ My lady wants a pair to job. A very pleasant
man, that Captain Smith. I did not now you
had been in the yard before—says you were the
pet at Elmore’s', in London. Served him many _
a day. Pleasant, gentlemanlike man l”
“Y—e—s!” said Philip, hardly knowing what
he said, and hurrying back into the stablcs to
order out the grays.
The place to which he was bound was some
miles distant. and it was sunset when he re-
turned. As he drove into the main street, two
men observed him closely.
“That is he! I am almost sure it is,” said
one.
“Oh! then it’s all smooth sailing,” replied
the other.
“ But, bless my eyes! you must be mistaken!
See whom he’s talkin to now !”
At that moment Captain De Bur h Smith,
mounted on the brown mare, stopped hilip.
“ Well, you see I’ve bought her—hope she’ll
turn out well. “'hat do you really think she’s
worth—not to buy, but to sell?”
“Sixt guineas."
“ We] that‘s a good day’s work, and I owe
it to on. T he old facllow would not have
truste me if on had not served me at Elmore’s
—-ha! ha! d he gets scent and looks shy at
you, m lad, come to me. I’m at the Star
Hotel or the next few days. I want a tight
facllow like you, and you shall have a fair per
centage. I’m none of your stingy ones. I say,
I hope this devil is quiet. She cocks up her
ears dawmnahly l"
. “Look you, sir!" said Philip, very gravel ,
and rising up in his break, “I know very litt e
of you, and that little is not much to your credit.
I give you fair warning, that I shall caution my
emplo or against you."
“ ill you, my fine faellow ? Then take care
of yoursell'.’7
“ Stay! and if you dare utter a word against
me,” said Philip, with that frown to which his
swarthy complexion and flashing eyes gave an
expression ot fierce power beyond his years,
“ you will find that as I am the last to care for
a threat, so I am the first to resent an injury!”
Thus saying, he drove on. Captain Smith
affected a cough, and put his brown more into
a center. The two men followed Philip as he
drove into the yard.
“What do you knew against the person he
spoke to ‘3” said one of them.
“Merely that he is one of the eunningost
swells on this side the Bay,” returned the other.
“It looks bad for your youn friend."
The first speaker shook is head and made
(hitting such a swell here! My name is Cap- , no reply.


54
NIGHT AND MORNING.
On gaining the yard, Philip found that Mr.
Stubmore had gone out, and was not expected
home till next da . He had some relations who
were farmers, w om he often visited; to them
he was probably goneo
Philip, therefore, deferrin his intended caution
against the gay captain til the morrow, and,
musing how the caution mi ht be most discreet-
ly given, walked homcwar . He had just on-
tered the lane that led to his lodgings, when he
saw the two men I have spoken of on the other
side of the street. The taller and better-dressed
of the two left his comrade, and, crossing over
to Philip, bowed, and thus accosted him:
“Fine evening, Mia Philip Morton. I am re-
'oiced to see you at last. You remember me—
ldr. Blackwell, Lincoln’s Inn ‘3” -
“What is our business?” said Philip, halt-
ing, and speaking short and fiercely.
"Now don’t be in a passion, my dear sir—
now don’t. I am here on behalf of my clients,
Messrs. Beaufort, sen. and jun. I have had
such ork to find you! _Dear, dear! but you
are a s y one! Ha! ha! Well, you see, we
have settled that little affair of Plaskwith’s for
you (might have been ugly), and now I hope
you will-”
“To your business, sir!
with rue?"7
“ Why, now, don’t be so quick! ’Tis not the
way to do business. Suppose you step to my
hotel. A glass of wine, now Mr. Philip! We
shall soon understand each other."
“ Out of my path, or speak plainly l”
Thus put to it, the lawyer, casting a glance
at his stout companion, who appeared to be con-
templating the sunset on the other side of the
way, came at once to the marrow of his subject.
“Well, then—well. my say is soon said. Mr.
Arthur Beaufort takes a most livcl interest in
ou—it is he who has directed this inquiry. He
bids me say that he shall be most happy—yes,
most happy—to serve you in any thing 5 and if
you will but see him—he is in the town—I am
sure you will be charmed ‘with him—most
amiable young man l”
“ Look you, sir,” said Philip. drawing himself
up; neither from father, nor from son, nor from
one of that family, on whose heads rest the
mother’s death and the orphans curse, will I
ever accept been or benefit—with them, volun-
tarily, I will hold no communion; if they force
themselves in my path, let them beware ! I am
earning my bread in the way I desire—I am in-
de ~ndent—I want them not. Begonc !”
ith that, Phili pushed aside the lawyer
and strode on rapidly. Mr. Blackwell, absorbed
and perplexed, returned to his companion.
Philip regained his home, and found Sidney
stationed at the window alone, and with wistful
eyes noting the flight of the gray moths as they
darted to and fro across the dull shrubs, that,
variegated with lines for Washing, adorned the
the plot of ground which the landlady called a.
garden. The elder brother had returned at an
earlier hour than usual, and Sidney did not at
first perceive him enter. When he did, he
clapped his hands and ran to him.
“ This is so good in you, Philip! I have been
so dull! You will come and play now?”
“With all my heart. Where shall we play!"
said Philip, with a cheerful smile.
What do you want

“Oh, in the warden! it’s such a nice time for
hide-and-scek.’P
“ But is it not chill and damp for you ?” said
Philip.
“There, now, you are always making excuses.
I see you don’t like it. I have no heart to play
now.’
Sidney seated himself and pouted.
“Poor Sidney! you must be dull without
me. Yes, let us pay; but put on this hand-
kerchief," and Philip took off his own cravat,
and tied it round his brother‘s neck, and kissed
him.
Sidney whose anger seldom lasted lono, was-
rcconcilcd, and they went into the gar on to
play. It was a little spot, screened by an old
moss-grown paling from the nei hboring garden-
on the one side, and a lane on t e other. They
played with great glee till the night grew dark-
er and the dews heavier.
“This must be the last time,” cried Philip.
“ It is my turn to hide.”
“Very well ! Now, then.”
Philip secreted himself behind a poplar ; and,
as Sidney searched for him, and Philip stole
round and round the tree, the latter, happenin
to look across the paling, saw the dim outline of
a man’s figure in the lane, who appeared watch-
ing them. A thrill shot across his breast.
These Beauforts, associated in his thoughts with
every ill omen and augury, had they set a spy
upon his movements ? He remained erect and
gazing at the form, when Sidney discovered and
ran up to him with his noisy laugh.
As the child clung to him, shouting with
gladness, Philip, unheeding his playmate, called
aloud and imperioust to the stran or,
“What are you gaping at? {I'Vhy do you
stand watching us ‘3”
The man muttered something, moved on, and
disappeared.
“I hope there are no thieves here! I am
pinch afraid of thieves,” said Sidney, tremolous-
yThe fear grated on Philip’s heart. Had he
not himself, perhaps, been Judged and treated
as a. thief‘iI He said nothing, but drew his
brother within; and there, in their little room,
by the one poor candle, it was touching and
beautiful to see those boys—the tender patience
of the elder lending itself to every whim of the
younger—now building houses with cards—now
telling stories of fairy and knight-errant, the
sprightlicst he could remember, or invent. At
length, as all was over, and Sidney was undress-
ing for the night, Philip, standing apart, said to
him, in a mournful voice,
“ Are you sad now, Sidney 7’”
“No! not when you are with me; but that
is so seldom l”
“ Do you read none of the story'books I bought
for you ?”
“ Sometimes i but one can’t read all day.”
“ Ah! Sidney, if ever we should part, perhaps
you will love me no longer!”
“ Don’t say so,” said Sidney.
part, Phili ‘2”
Philip sighed and turned away as his brother
leaped into bed. Something whispered to him
that danger was near; and as it was, could Sid-
ney grow up, neglected and uneducated: was it
thus that he was to fulfill his trust?
“ But we sha’n’t
1


NIGHT AND MORNING.
55
I Arthur rose, lighted his candle, and sought his
CHAPTER IX.
“ But oh, what storm was in that mind 1"
CRABIIZ Ruth.
WuiLs Philip mused and his brother fell into}
the happy sleep of boyhood, in a room in the
principal hotel of the town sat three persons,-
Arthur Beaufort, Mr. Spencer, and Mr. Black;‘
well. ‘
“And so," said the first, “ he rejected every]
overture from the Beauforts ‘3”
“ With a scorn I can not convey to you i” re- ,
plied the lawyer. “But the fact is, that he is.
evidently a lad of low habits—to think of his]
being a sort of helper to a horse-dealer! I sup-
e, sir, he was always in the stables in his
ather’s time. Bad company depravcs the taste
very soon; but that is not the worst. Sharp de-
clares that the man he was talking with, as I
told you, is a common swindler. Depend on it,
Mr. Arthur, he is incorrigible; all we can do is
to save the brother.”
“It is too dreadful to contemplate i” said
Alphlll‘, who, still ill and languid, reclined on a
so a.
“ It is, indeed,” said Mr. Spencer; “I am
sure I should not know what to do with such a
character; but the other poor child, it would be
a mercy to at hold of him."
“Where is Mr. Sharp?” asked Arthur.
“Why,” said the lawyer, “he has followed
Philip at a distance to find out his lodgings, and
learn if his brother is with him. Oh! here he
is!" and Blackwell's com anion in the earlier
part of the evening entere .
“ I have found him out, sir,” said Mr. Sharp,
wiping his forehead. “What a fierce ’un he is!
I thought he would have had a stone at my head;
but we otiiccrs are used to it; We does our duty,
and Providence makes our heads unkimmon
hard I” '
“ Is the child with him ‘3” asked Mr. Spencer.
“ Yes, sir.”
“A little, quiet, subdued boy ?” asked the
melancholy inhabitant of the Lakes.
" Quiet! Lord love you ! never heard a noisier
little urchin! There they were, rompin andv
reaping in the garden like a couple of jail-birds."
“ You see," groancd Mr. Spencer, “he will
make that poor child as bad as himself."
“ What shall us do, Mr. Blackwell?” asked
Sha , who longed for his brandy and water.
“ 'hy, I was thinking you might go to the
horse-dealer the first thing in the morning; find;
out whether Philip is really thick with the»
swindler; and perha Mr. Stubmore may have
some influence with int, if, without saying who
he is—’
“Yes,” interrupted Arthur; “do not expose
his name.”
“ You could still hint that he ought to be in-
duced to listen to his friends, and go with them.
Mr. Stubiuore run he a respectable man, and—"
“I understand, ’ said Sharp; “I have no doubt
as how I can settle it. We learns to know
human nature in our perfession—’cause why,
we gets at its hliiid side. Good-night, gentle-l
men!”
“ You seem very pale, Mr. Arthur, ou hadi
better go to bed: you promised your fat ier, you i
ow.” i
knit Yes, I m not well; I will go to bed;” and}

room.
“I will see Philip to-morrow,” he said to
himself; “ he will listen to me.”
The conduct of Arthur Beaufort, in executing
the charge he had undertaken, had brought into
full light all the most amiable and generous
parts of his character. As soon as he was suf-
ficiently recovered, be had expressed so much
anxiety as to the fate of the orphans, that, to
quiet him, his father was forced to send for Mr.
Blackwell. The law 'cr had ascertained, through
Dr. —-, the name 0! Philip’s employer at 11—.
At Arthur's request, he went down to Mr.
Plaskwith, and, arriving there the day after the
return of the bookseller, learned those particu-
lars with which Mr. Plnskwith’s letter to Roger
Morton has already made the reader acquainted.
The lawyer then sent for Mr. Shar , the olficor
before employed, and commissioned im to track
the young man’s whereabout. That shrewd
funetionary soon reported that a youth every
way answering to Philip’s description had been
introduced, the night of the escape, by a man
celebrated, not, indeed, for robberies, or larccnics,
or crimes of the eoarscr kind, but for address in
all that more large and complex character which
comes under the denomination of living upon
one’s wits, to a polite rendezvous frequented by
persons of a similar profession. Since then,
however, all slew of Philip was lost. But,
though Mr. Blackwell, in the way of his profes-
sion, was thus publicly benevolent toward the
fugitive, he did not the less privately represent
to his patrons, senior and junior, the very equiv-
coal character that Philip must he allowed to
bear. Like most lawyers, hard upon all who
wander from the formal tracks, he itnatlbctedly
regarded Philip’s flight and absence as proofs
of a very reprobate disposition; and this con-
duct was greatly aggravated in his eyes by Mr.
Sharp’s report, y which it up earcd that, after
his escape, Philip had so su dcnly, and, as it
were, so naturally, taken to such equivocal corn-
pauionship. Mr. Robert Beaufort, already prej-
udiced against Philip, viewed matters in the.
same light as the lawyer; and the story of his
sup osed predilections reached Arthur’s ears in
so istorted a shape, that even he was staggered
and revolted; still, Philip was soyoung~Arthur‘s
oath to the orphans’ mother so recent—and, if
thus early inclined to wrong courses, should not
every eil‘ort he made to lure him back to the
broad path '.-’ With these views and reasonings,
as soon as he was able, Arthur himself visited
Mrs. Lacy; and the note from Philip, which
that good lady put into his hands, affected him
deeply, and confirmed all his previous resolu-
tions. Mrs. Lacy was very anxious to get at
his name; but Arthur, having heard that Philip
had refused all aid from his father and Mr.
Blackwell, thought that the young man’s pride
might work equally against himself, and there-
fore evaded the landlady’s curiosity. He wrote
the next day the letter we have seen to Mr.
Roger Morton, whose address Catharine had
given to him; and by return of post came a
letter from the linen-drapcr, narrating the flight
of Sidney, as it was supposed, with his brother.
This news so excited Arthur, that he insisted on
going down to N at once, and joining in the
search. His father, alarmed for his health, pos-


56
NIGHT AND MORNING.
itively refused; and the consequence was an in-
crease of fever, a consultation with the doctors,
and a declaration that Mr. Arthur was in that
state that it would be dangerous not to let him
have his own way. Mr. Beaufort was forced to
yield, and, with Blackwell and Mr. Sharp, ac-
companied his son to N-—. The inquiries,
hitherto fruitless, then assumed a more regular
and business-like character. By little and little
they came, through the aid of Mr. Sharp, upon
the right clcw up to a certain point. But here
there was a double scent: two youths answering
the description had been seen at a. small village;
then there came those who asserted that they
had seen the some youths at a sea-port in one
direction; others, who deposed to their having
taken the road to an inlrtnd town in the other.
This had induced Arthur and his father to part
company. Mr. Beaufort, accompanied by Roger
Morton, went to the sea-port, and Arthur, with
Mr. Spencer and Mr. Sharp, more fortunate,
tracked the fugitives to their retreat. As for
Mr. Beaufort senior, now that his mind was more
at case about his son, he was thoroughly sick
. of the whole thing; greatly bored by the society
of Mr. Morton' very much ashamed that he, so
respectable and great. a man, should he employ-
ed on such an errand; more afmid of, than
pleased with, any chance of discovering the
tic-roe Philip; and secretly resolving upon slink-
ing back to London at the first reasonable ex-
cuse.
The next morning Mr. Sharp entered betimes
Mr. Stubrnore’s counting-house. In the yard
he caught it glimpse of Philip, and'mannged to
keep himself unseen by that young gentleman.
‘* Mr. Stubmorc, I think?”
“ At your service, sir.”
Mr. Sharp shut the glass door mysteriously,
and, lifting up the corner of the green curtain
that covered the panes, beckoned to the startled
Stubmore to approach.
“ You see that 7are young man in the velvet-
een jacket—you employs him ‘2"
“I do, sir; he is my right hand.”
“ Well, now, don’t be frightened; but his
friends are arter him. He has got into bad
ways, and we want you to give him a little good
advice.”
“ Pooh l I know he has run away, like a fine-
spirited lad as he is; and, as long as he likes to
stay with me, they as comes after him may get
a ducking in the horse-trough l”
“ Be you a father—a father of a family, Mr.
Stubmoro ‘2” said Sharp, thrusting his hands into
his brooches pockets, swelling out his stomach,
and parsing up his lips with great solemnity.
“Nonsense! no gnmmon with me! Take
your chatt' to the goshngs. I tells you I can’t
do without that ’ere lad. Every man to him-
self.”
' “ Oho!” thought Sharp, “ I must change the
tack. “ Mr. Stubmore,” said be, taking a stool,
“you speak like a sensible man. No one can
reasonably go for to ask a gentleman to go for
to inconvenience his-self. But what do you
know of that ‘ere youngster? Had you a. cam/:-
Ier with him ?”
“ What’s that to you ‘2”
“ Why it's more to yourself, Mr. Stubmore;
he is but a lad, and if he goes back to his friends,
they may take care of him; but he got into a

had set afore he come here. Do you know a
good-looking chap with whiskers, who talks of
his pheaton, and was riding last night on a brown
mare ?”
“ Y—e—s l" said Mr. Stubmore, growing
rather pale, “and I knows the more too. Why,
sir, I sold him‘that mare !”
“Did he pay you for it '1’”
“Why, to be sure; he gave me a check on
Coutts.’
“ And you took it! My eyes, what a flat l"
Here Mr. Sharp closed those orbs he had invoked,
and whistlcd with that sort of self-hugging de-
light which men invariably fch when another
man is taken in.
Mr. Sharp became evidently nervous.
“Why, what now! You don’t think I’m done?
I did not let him have the mare till I went to the
hotel, found he was cutting a great dash there,
a groom, a pheaton, and a fine horse, and an
extravagant as the devil 1”
“Oh Lord! oh Lord! what a world this is!
What does he call his-self?” _
“Why, here’s the check—George Frederic
De—de Burgh Smith.”
“ Put it in your ‘pipe, my man, put it in your
pipe; not worth a —-l” .
“ And who the deuce are you, sir?” bowled
out Mr. Stubmore, in an equal rage both with
himself and his guest.
“I, sir,” said the visitor, rising with great
dignity, “ I, sir, am of the great Bow-street Of-
fice, and my name is John Sharp!”
Mr. Stubmoro nearly fell of}~ his stool; his
eyes rolled in his head, and his teeth chattered.
Mr. Sharp perceived the advantage he had
gained, and continued,
“ch, sir; and I could have much to say
against that chap, who is nothing more or less
than Dashing Jerry, as has mined more girls
and more tradesmen than any lord in the land.
And so I called to give you a bit of a caution;
for, so s I to myself, ‘Mr. Stuhmore is a re-
spect le man.’ ’
“ I hope Iain, sir,” said the crest-fallen horse-
dealer; “that was always my character.”
“ And a father of a family ‘3”
“ Three boys and a babe at the buzzom,” said
Mr. Stubmore, pathetically.
“And he shnn’t be taken in if I can help it!
That ’ere young man as I am artcr, you see,
know-s Captain Smith—ha! ha! smella rat now,
eh ?’
“ Captain Smith said he knew him—the wiper!
and that’s what made me so green.”
“ Well, we must not be hard on the youngster:
’cause why, he has friends as is gemmen. But
you tell him to go back to his poor, dear relations,
and all shall be forgiven; and say as how you
won’t keep him; and if he don’t go back, he’ll
have to get his livelihood withont a carakter:
and use our influence with him like a man and
a Christian, and, what‘s more, like a father of a
family—Mr. Stubuiore—with three boys and a
babe at the buzzom. You won’t keep him now ‘2”
“ Keep him! I have had a precious escape.
I'd better go and see after the horse.”
“I doubt ifyou’ll find him: the captain caught
a sight of me this morning. Why, he lodges at
our hotel ! Ho’s oil" by this time !” ‘
“And wh the devil did you let him go ?”
“"Causo had no writ agin him!” said the


NIGHT AND MORNING.
57
Bow-street officer; and he walked straight out
of the counting-office, satisfied that be had
" done the job.”
To snatch his hat—to run to the hotel—to
find that Captain Smith had indeed gone off in
his phae-ton, bag and baggage, the same as he
came, except that he had now two horses to the
pbaeton instead of one, having left with the land-
lord the amount of his bill in another check upon
Coutts, was the work of five minutes with Mr.
Stubmore. He returned home, panting and pur-
ple with indignation and wounded feelin .
“To think that chap, whom I took into my
vard like a son, should have connived at this!
lTaint the money—’tis the willany that ’fliets
me!” muttered Mr. Stubmore, as he re-entercd
the mews.
Here he came plump upon Philip, who said,
“ Sir, I wished to see you, to say that youJiad
better take care of Captain Smith.”
“Oh, you did, did you. now he’s gone ? ’seond-
ed off to America, I dare say. by this time.
Now look ye, young man, your friends are after
you; I won’t say any thing agin you; but you
go back to them—I wash my hands of you.
Quite too much for me. There’s your week,
and never let me catch you in my yard ngin,
that‘s all 1"
Philip dropped the monhe’ly which Stubmore
had put into his hand. “ y friends !—-friends
have been with you, have they? I thought so
—-I thank them. And so you part with me?
Well, you have been kind, very kind; let us
part kindly ;" and he held out his hand.
Mr. Stubrnore was softened; he touched the
hand held out to him, and looked doubtful a mo-
ment; but Captain De Burgh Smith’s check for
eighty guineas suddenly rose before his eyes.
He turned on his heel abruptly, and said, over
his shoulder,
“Don’t go after Captain Smith (he’ll come to
the gallows) ; mend your ways, and be ruled by
your poor. dear relatives, whose hearts you are
breaking.”
" Captain Smith! Did my relations tell you ‘1’”
“Yes—tes—they told me all—that is, they
sent to tell me; so you see I’m d—d soft not to
lay hold of you. But perhaps if they be em-
rnen, they’ll act as sick, and cash me this are
check!"
But the last words were said to air.
had rushed from the yard.
With, a heaving breast, and every nerve in his
body quivering with wrath, the proud, unhappy
boy strode through the gay streets. They had
betrayed him, then, these aceursed Beauforts!
They circled his steps with schemes to drive
him like a deer into the snare of their loathsome
charity! The roof was to be taken from his
head, the bread from his lips, so that he might
fawn at their knees for bounty. “ But they shall
not break my spirit, nor stea'l away my curse.
No, my dead mother, never !”
As he thus muttered, he passed through a
tch of waste land that led to the row of houses
in which his lodging was placed. And here a
voice called to him, and a hand was laid on his
shoulder. He turned, and Arthur Beaufort, who
had followed him from the street, stood behind
him. Philip did not, at the first glance, recog-
nize his cousin. Illness had so altered him, and
his dress was so different from that in which he
Philip

had first and last beheld him. The contrast be-
tween the two young men was remarkable.
Philip was clad in the rough garb suited to his
late calling: a jacket of black velveteen, ill-fit-
ting and ill-fashioned; loose fustian trowsers.
coarse shoes. his hat set deep over his pent eve-
brows, his raven hair long and neglected. e
was just at that age when one with strong feat-
ures and robust frame is at the worst in point of
appearance: the sinewy proportions not yet suf-
ficiently fleshed, and seeming inharmonious and
undeveloped, precisely in proportion, perhaps,
to the symmetry toward which they insensibly
mature ; the contour of the face sharpened from
the roundness of boyhood, and losing its bloom
without yet acquiring that relief and shadow
which make the expression and dignity of the
masculine countenance. Thus accoutered. thus
gaunt and uncouth, stood Morton. Arthur
Beaufort, always refined in his appearance.
seemed yet more so from the almost feminine
delicacy which ill health threw over his pale
complexion and graceful figure 5 that sort of un-
conscious elegance which belongs to the dress
of the rich when they are young—seen most in
minutiae—not observable, perhaps, by themselves
-—marked forcibly and painfully the distinction
of rank between the two. That distinction
Beaufort did not feel; but, at a glance, it was
visible to Philip.
The past rushed back on him. The sunny
lawn—the gun. ofl'ered and rejected—the pride
pll' old, much less haughty than the pride of to-
ay.
“Philip,” said Beaufort, feebly, “they tell me
you will not accept any kindness from me or
mine. Ah! if you knew how we have sought
you !"
“ Knew l” cried Philip, savagely, for that un-
lucky sentence recalled to him his late interview
with his employer, and his present destitution.
“Knew ! And why have you dared to hunt me
out, and halloo me down? Why most this in-
solent tyranny, that assumes the right over these
limbs and this free will, betray and expose me
and my wretchedness wherever I turn ‘3”
“ Your poor mother—’7 began Beaufort.
“Name her not with your lips—name her
not !” cried Philip, growing livid with his emo-
tions. “ Talk not of the mercy—the forethought
—a Beaufort could show to her and her ofl'spring !
I accept it not—I believe it not. Oh, yes! You
follow me now with your false kindness; and
why ? Because your father—your vain, hollow,
heartless father—~”
“ Hold l” said Beaufort, in a tone of such re-
proach that it startled the wild heart on which
it fell ; “it is my father you speak of. Let the
son respect the son.”
“No—no—no! I will respect none of your
race. I tell you, your father fears me. I tell
you that my last words to him ring in his ears I
My wrongs! Arthur Beaufort, when you are
absent I seek to forget them; in your abhorred
presence they revive—they—"
He stopped, almost choked with his passion;
but continued instantly, with equal intensity of
fervor .
“Were yon tree the gibbet, and to touch your
hand eould alone save me from it, I would scorn
your aid. Aid! the very thought fires my blood
and nerves my hand. Aid! Will a Beaufort


58
NIGHT AND MORNING-
give me back my birthright—restore my dead
mother’s fair name ? Minion! sleek, dainty,
luxurious minion! out of my path! You have
my fortune, my station, my rights; Ihave but
poverty, and hate, and disdain. I swear, again
and again, that you shall not purchase these
from me.”
“ But, Philip—Philip,” cried Beaufort, catch-
ing his arm, “ hear one—hear one who stood by
our—’
y The sentence that would have saved the out-
cast from the demons that were darkening and
swooping round his soul died upon the young
protector’s lips. Blinded, maddened, excited,
and exasperated almost out of humanity itself,
Philip fiercely, brutally swung aside the eu-
feebled form that sou ht to cling to him, and
Beaufort fell at his set. Morton stopped—
glared at him with clinched hands and a smilin
lip—sprung over his prostrate form, and bounde
to his home.
He slackened his pace as he neared the house,
and looked behind; but Beaufort had not fol-
lowed him. He entered the house, and found
Sidney in the room, with a countenance so much
more ay than that he had lately worn, that, ab-
, 801'be as he was in thought and passion, it did
not fail to strike him.
“ What has pleased you, Sidney ?”
The child smiled.
“Ah! it is a secret: I was not to tell you.
But I’m sure you are not the naughty boy he
says you are.”
“ He! Who ?”
“Don’t look so angry, Philip: you frighten
me !”
“And you torture me. Who could malign
one brother to the other ‘2”
“ Oh! it was all meant very kindly; there’s
been such a nice, dear, good gentleman here,
and he cried when he saw me, and said he knew
dear mamma. \Vcll, and he has promised to
take me home with him, and ive me a pretty
pony—as pretty—as pretty—o , as pretty as it
can be got! And he is to call again and tell me
more : I think he is a fairy, Philip."
“Did he say that he was to take me, too, Sid-
ncy ‘1’” said Morton, seating himself, and look-
ing ver pale. At that question Sidney hung
his head:
“No, brother: he says you won’t go, and that
you are a bad boy, and that you associate with
wicked people, and that you want to keep me
shut up here, and not let any one be good to me.
But I told him I did not believe that—yes, in-
deed, I told him so.”
And Sidney endeavored caressin ly to with-
draw the hands that his brother p aced before
his face.
Morton started up, and walked hastily to and
fro the room. “ This,” thought he, “is another
emissary of the Beauforts—perhaps the lawyer:
they will take him from me—the last thing left
to love and hope for. I will fnil them. Sidney,”
he said aloud, “we must 0 hence to-day—this
very hour—nay, instantly. ’
“What! away from this nice, good gentle-
man ‘2‘”
“Curse him! yes, away from him. Do not
cry—it is of no use; you must go.”
This was said more harshly than Philip had
ever yet spoken to Sidney; and when he had

said it, he left the room to settle with the land-
lady and to pack up their scanty eflects. In
another hour the brothers had turned their backs
on the town.
_-.—_
CHAPTER X.
“I‘ll carry thee
In Sormw‘s arms to welcome Misery."
Hlvwoon’s Dachau of Sufolk.
“Who's here besides foul weather 1"
Snutsrmmn: Lear.
Tun sun was as bright and the sky as calm
during this journey of the orphans as in the last.
They avoided, as before, the main roads, and
their way lay through landscapes that might
have charmed a Gainsborough’s eye: Autumn
scattered his last hues of gold over the various
folia , and the po y glowed from the hedges
and iliee wild convo vuluses, here and there, still
gleamed on the wayside with a parting smile.
At times, over the sloping stubbles, broke the
sound of the sportsmans gun; and ever and
anon, by stream and sedge, they startled the shy
wild fowl, 'ust come from the far lands, nor yet
settled in t e new haunts too soon to be invaded.
But there was no longer in the travelers the
same hearts that had made light of hardship and
fatigue. Sidney was no longer flying from a
harsh master, and his step was not elastic with
the energy of fear that looked behind, and of
hope that smiled before. He was going a toil-
some, weary journey, he knew not why nor
whither; just, too, when he had made a friend,
whose soothing words haunted his childish fancy.
He was displeased with Philip, and, in sullen
and silent thoughtfulness, slowly plodded behind
him; and Morton himself was gloomy, and knew
not where in the world to seek a future.
They arrived at dusk at a small inn, not so for
distant from the town they had left as Morton
could have wished; but then the days were
shorter than in their first flight.
They were shown intoa small, sanded parlor,
which Sidney eyed with great disgust; nor did
he seem more leased with the hacked and jag-
ged leg of cold1 mutton which was all that the
hostess set before them for supper. Philip in
vain endeavored to cheer him up, and ate to set
him the example. He felt relieved when, under
the auspices of a good-looking, good-natured
chamber-maid, Sidney retired to rest, and he was
left in the parlor to his own meditations. Hith-
erlo it had bcen a happy thing for Morton that
he had had some one dependent on him; that
feeling bad iven him perseverance, patience,
fortitude, an hope. But now, dispirited and
sad, he felt rather the horror of bein responsible
for a human life, without seeing e means to
discharge the trust. It was clear, even to his
experience, that he was not likely to find another
employer as facile as Mr. Stubmore; and, wher-
ever he went, hc felt as if his Destin stalked at
his back. He took out his little fortune and
spread it on the table, counting it over and over;
it had remained pretty stationary since his serv-
ice with Mr. Stubmore, for Sidney had swallowed
up the wages of his hire. While thus employed,
the door opened, and the chamber-maid, show-
ing in a gentleman, said, “ch have no other
room, sir.”
“ Very well, then—I’m not particular; a


NIGHT AND MORNING.
59
tumbler of braundy and water, stiflish, cold—
without-the newspa er—-and a cigar. You’ll
excuse smokin , sir ‘P"
Philip looke up from his board, and Captain
De Burgh Smith stood before him.
“Ah l” said the latter, “well met !” And,
closing the door, he took ofl" his greatcoat, seat-
ed himself near Philip, and bent both his eyes
with considerable wistfulness on the neat rows
into which Philip’s bank-notes, sovereigns, and
shillings were arrayed.
“Pretty little sum for pocket-money; caush
in hand goes a great way, properly invested.
You must have been very lucky. Well, so I
suppose you are surprised to see me here without
my_pheatou ‘2’”
“I wish I had never seen you at all,” replied
Philip, uncourteously, and restoring his money
to his pocket; “your fraud upon Mr. Stubmore,
and your assurance that you knew me, have
sent me adrift upon the world."
“ What’s one man’s meat is another man’s
poison,” said the captain, philoso hically; “no
use fretting; care killed a cat. I am as badly
off as you; for, hung me, if there was not a
Bow-street runner in the town. I caught his
eye fixed on me like a gimlet, so I bolted; went
to N—, left my pheaton and “room there for
the present, and have doubled 'back, to bafile
pursuit, and cut across the country. You rec-
ollect that noice girl we saw in the coach : ’ ad,
I served her spouse that is to be a pretty trick!
Borrowed his money under pretence of investing
it in the New Grand Anti-Dry-Rot Company—
cool hundred—it’s only just gone, sir.”
Here the chamber-maid entered with the
brandy and water, the newspaper, and cigar;
the captain lighted the last, took a deep sup at
the beverage, and said gayly,
“ Well, now, let us join fortunes; we are both,
as you say, ‘adrift.’ Best way to stand the
breeze is to unite the cauhles.”
Philip shook his head, and displeased with his
companion, sought his pillow. He took care to
put his money under his head and to lock his
our.
The brothers started at daybreak; Sidney
was even more discontented than on the previous
day. The Weather was hot and oppressive ;
they rested for some hours at noon, and in the
cool of the evening renewed their way. Philip
had made up his mind to steer for a town in the
thick of a hunting district, where he hoped his
equestrian capacities might again befriend him;
and their path now lay through a chain of vast,
dreary commons, which gave them, at least, the
advantage to skirt the roadside unobserved.
But, somehow or other, either Philip had been
misinformed as to an inn where he had proposed
to pass the night, or he had missed it; for the
clouds darkened, and the sun went down, and no
vestige of human habitation was discernible.
Sidney. footsore and querulous, began to weep,
and declare that he could stir no farther; and
while Philip, whose iron frame defied fatigue,
oompassionately paused to rest his brother, a
low roll of thunder broke upon the gloomy air.
“There will be a storm,” said he, anxiously.
“ Come on—prav, Sidney come on."
“ It is so cruel in you, brother Philip,” replied ! tnin De-Burgh Smith
“I wish i had never, nevcrl were yct more accustomed to the dark, made
Sidney, sobbing.
gone with you."

A flash of lightning, that illuminated the whole
heavens, lingered round Sidney’s pale face as he
spoke; and Philip threw himself instinctively
on the child, as if to tect him even from the
wrath of the unshelterable flame. Sidney, hushed
and terrified, clung to his brother’s breasté after
a pause, he silently consented to resume their
journey. But now the storm came near and
nearer to the wanderers. The darkness grew
rapidly more intense, save when the lightning
lit up heaven and earth alike with intolerable
luster. And when at length the rain began to
fall in merciless and drenching torrents, even
Philip’s brave heart failed him. How could he
ask Sidney to proceed, when they could scarcely
see an inch before them? All that could now
be done was to gain the high road. and hope for
some passing conveyance. With fits and starts
and by the glare of the lightning, they attained
their object, and stood at last on the great broad
thoroughfare, alon which, since the day when
the Roman carve it from the waste, Misery
hath plodded and Luxury rolled their common
way.
Philip had stri ped handkerchief, coat, vest,
all to shelter Si ney; and he felt a kind of
strange pleasure through the dark even to hear
Sidney’s voice wail and moan.- But that voice
row at last more languid and faint—it ceased—
idney’s weight hung heavy—heavier on the
fostering arm.
“ For Heaven’s sake, speak ! Speak, Sidney!
only one word. I will carry you in to arms l”
“I think I am dying,” replied Si ey, in a
low murmur; “ I am so tired and worn out, I
can go no farther—I must lie here.” And he
sunk at once upon the reeking grass beside the
road. At this time the rain gradually relaxed,
the clouds broke away, a gray light succeeded
to thedarkness, the lightning was more distant,
and the thunder rolled onward in its awful ath.
Kneeling on the ground Philip supports his
brother in his arms, and cast his leading eyes
upward to the softening terrors ol the sky. A
star—a solitary star—broke out for one moment,
as if to smile comfort upon him, and then van-
ished. But, 10! in the distance there suddenly
gleamed a red, steady light, like that in some
solitary window; it was no will o’-the-wisp, it
was too stationary; human shelter was then
nearer than he had thought for. He pointed to
the light, and whispered, “ Rouse yourself—one
struggle more—it can not be far 011‘."
“it is impossible—I can not stir,” answered
Sidney; and a sudden flash of lightning showed
his countenance, ghastly, as if with the damps
of death. What could the brother do ?—stay
there, and see the boy perish before his eyes ‘?
—leave him on the road, and fly to the friendly
light ‘1’ The last plan was the sole one left. yet
he shrunk from it in greater terror than the first.
Was that a step that he heard across the road ?
He held his breath to listen: :1. form became
dimly visible—it approached. '
Philip shouted aloud.
“ What now ?” answered the voice ‘1'” and it
seemed familiar to Morton’s car. He sprung
forward, and, putting his face close to the way-
fnrcr, thought to recognize the features of Cap-
The captain, whose eyes
the first overture.


60
NIGHT AND MORNING.
“Why, my lad, it is you, then!
frightened me!"
Odious as this man had hitherto been to Philip,
he was as welcome to him as daylight now; be
grasped his hand: “My brother—a child—ls
here, dying,I four, with cold and fatigue; he
can not stir. Will you stay with him—support
him—but for a few moments, while I make to you
light ‘? See, I have money—plenty of money i”
“ My good lad, it is ver ugly work staying
here at this hour : still—w ere s the child ‘3”
“ Herc. here! make haste! raise him! that’s
right! God hless'yott! I shall be back are you
think me gone."
He sprung from the road, and plunged through
the heath, the fur-Le, the rank. glistening pools,
straight toward the light, as the swimmer toward
the shore.
The captain, though a rogue, was human;
and when life—an innocent life—is at stake, even
a rogne’s heart rises up from its silent and weedy
bed. He muttered a. few oaths, it is true, but
he held the child in his arms, and. taking out a
little tin case, poured some brandy down Sid-
ney’s throat, and then, by way of company,
down his own. The cordial revived the boy;
he opened his eyes, and said, “I think I can go
on now Philip.”7
Gad, you
We must return to Arthur Beaufort. He was
naturally, though gentle, a person of high spirit,
-aud not without pride. He rose from the ground
with bitter, resentful feelings and a blushing
cheek, and went his way to the hotel. Here he
found Mr. Spencerjust returned from his visit to
Sidney. Enchanted with the soft and endearing
manners of his lost Catharine’s son, and deeply
Infected with the resemblance the child bore to
the mother as It: had seen her last at the gay
and rosy age of fair sixteen, his description of
the younger brother drew Beaufort‘s indignant
thoughts from the elder. He cordially concurred
with Mr. Spencer in the wish to save one so
gentle from the domination of one so fierce; and
this, after all, was the child Catharine had most ‘
strongly commended to him. She had said little
of the elder; perhaps she had been aware of
his ungracious and untraetable nature, and, as it
seemed to Beaufort, his predilections for a coarse
and low career.
‘- Yes,” said he, “this boy, then, shall console
me for the perverse brutality of the other. He
shall indeed drink of my cup, and eat of my
bread, and be to me as a brother.”
“ What l" said Mr. Spencer, changing coun-
tenance, “you do not intend to take Sidney to
live with you! I meant him for my son—my
adopted son.”
“No; enerous as you are,” said Arthur,
pressing his hand, “ this charge devolves on me;
it is my right. I am the orphan’s relation ' his
mother consigned him to me. But he shall be
taught to love you not the less.”
Mr. Spencer was silent. He could not bear
the thought of losing Sidney as an inmate of his
cheerloss home, a tender relic of his early love.
From that moment he began to contemplate the
possibility of securing Sidney to himself unknown
to Beaufort.
The plans both of Arthur and Spencer were
interrupted bythe sudden retreat of the brothers.
They determined to depart ditferent ways in
l search of them. Spencer, as the more helpless
‘ of the two, obtained the aid of Mr. Sharp;
‘ Beaufort deported with the lawyer.
Two travelers, in a hired hurouehe, were
slowly dragged by a pair of jaded posters along
the commons [ have just described.
“I think," said one, “that the storm is very
much abated. Heigh-ho! what an unpleasant
night l"
“ Unkimmon ugly, sir,” answered the other;
“ and an awful lonrr stage, eighteen miles.
These here remote p aces are quite behind the
age, sir—quite. However, I think we shall
kitch them now.”
“I am very much afraid of that oldest boy,
Sharp. He seems a dreadful vagabond.”
“ You see, sir, quite hand in glove with Dash-
ing Jerry—met in the same inn last night— ro-
concerted, you may be quite sure. It woul be
the best day’s job I have done this many a day
to save that ere little feller from being corrupt-
ed. You sees he is just of a size to be useful to
these bad karakters. If they took to burglary,
he would be a treasure to them : slip him
through a pane of glass like a ferret, sir. ’
“Don‘t talkv of it, Sharp,” said Mr. Spencer,
with a green; “and, recollect, if we at hold
of him, that you are not to say a we to Mr.
Beaufort.”
“I understand, air; and I always goes with
the gemman who behaves most like a gemman.”
Here a loud halloo was heard close by the
horses’ heads.
“Good Heavens, if that is a footpadl" said
Mr. Spencer, shaking violently.
“ Lord, sir, I have my barkers with me.
Who’s there 2’”
The barouche stopped: a man came to the
window.
“Excuse me, sir.” said the stronger, “but
there is a poor boy here so tired and ill that I
fear he will never reach the next toon unless you
will koindly give him a lift.”
“ A poor boy l” said Mr. Spencer, poking his
head over the head of Mr. Sharp. “ Where 1‘"
“If you would just drop him at the King’s
Awrms it would be a chaurity," said the man.
Sharp inched Mr. Spencer on the shoulder.
‘ “That s £ashing Jerry: I’ll get out.” So say-
ing, he opened the door, jumped into the road,
and presently reappeared with the lost and wel-
come Sidney in his arms. “ Ben’t this the boy ‘3"
he whispered to Mr. Spencer; and, taking the
lamp from the carriage, he raised it to the child's
face. “It is! it is! God be thanked l" exclaim~
‘ ed the worthy man.
“Will you leave him at the King’s Awrms ?
We shall be there in an hour or two,” cried the
captain.
“ We! Who's in ?” said Sha , grufil '.
“ Why, myself and the child’s rother. ’
“Oh!” said Sharp, raising the lantern to his
own face, “you knows me, I think, Master Jer-
lry? Let me kitch you again, that’s all. And
'give my compliments to your ’sociate, and say,
if he prosecutes this here hurchin any more,
vwe’ll settle his business for him; and so take a
. hint, and make yourself scarce, old b0 i"
With that Mr. Sharp jumped into the barouche,
‘and bade the post-boy drive on as fast as he
i could.
Ten minutes after this abduction, Philip, fol-


‘ NIGHT AND MORNING.
61
lowed by two laborers, with a barrow, a lantern,
and two blankets, returned from the has itable
farm to which the light had conduete him.
The spot where he had left Sidney, and which
he knew by a neighboring milestone, was vacant;
he shouted in alarm, and the captain answered
from the distance of some threescore yards.
Philip came to him. “Where is my brother?”
“Gone away in a barouche and pair. Devil
take me if I understand it.” And the captain
roeeeded to give a confused account of what
ad ‘
"' My brother! my brother! they have torn
thee from me, then!” cried Philip; and he fell
to the earth insensible. '
-—.__-
CHAPTER XI.
"Vnumc rendrez mon frére !"
Cum". Daemon: Lu Enfmu d'deurd.
Our-1 evening, a week after this event, a wild,
tattered, haggard youth knocked at the door of
Mr. Robert Beaufort.
The porter slowly presented himself.
“Is your master at home? I must see him
instantly.”
“That‘s more than you can, my man; my
master does not see the like of you this time of
night,” replied the porter, eying the ragged ap-
parition before him with great disdain.
“ See me he must and shall," replied the young
man; and, as the porter blocked up the entrance,
he grasped his collar with a hand of iron, swung
him, huge as he was, aside, and strode into the
spacious hall. ‘
“Stop! stop!” cried the porter, recovering
himself. “ James ! John! here’s a go !"
Mr. Robert Beaufort had been back in town
several days. Mrs. Beaufort, who was waiting
his return from his club, was in the dining-room.
Hearing a noise in the'hall, she opened the door,
and saw the strange, grim figure I have de-
scribed advancing toward her. “ Who are you '9"
she said; “ what do you want ‘2"
“I am Philip Morton. Who are you ‘2”
“ My husband,” said Mrs. Beaufort, shrinking
into the parlor, while Morton followed her and
closed the door, “my' husband, Mr. Beaufort, is
n0t at home.”
“ You are Mrs. Beaufort, then! Well, you
can understand me. I want my brother. He
has been bascly reft from me. Tell me where
he is, and I will forgive all. Restore him to
me, and I will bless you and yours." And Philip
fell on his knees, and grasped the train of her
gown.
“I know nothing of your brother, Mr. Mor-
ton,” cried Mrs. Beaufort, surprised and alarm-
ed. “Arthur, whom we expect every day,
writes as word that all search for him has been
in vain.”
“Hat on admit the search '2” cried Morton,
rising an clenching his hands. “ And who else
but you or yours would have parted brother and
brother ? Answer me where he is. No subter-
fu e, madam: I am desperate !”
rs. Beaufort, though a woman of that world-
ly coldness and indiiference which, on ordinary
occasions, suppl the place of courage, was ex-
tremely terrific by the tone and mien of her
rude guest. She laid her hand on the hell, but

Morton seized her arm, and, holding it stcrnly,
said, while his dark eyes shot fire through the
glimmering room, “I will not stir hence till you
have told me. Will you reject my gratitude—
my blessing? Beware! Again, where have
you hid my brother ?”
At that instant the door opened, and Mr. Rob-
ert Beaufort entered. The lady, with a shriek
of jo , wrenchcd herself from Philip’s grasp,
and cw to her husband.
“Save me from this rufiian l” she said, with
an hysterical sob.
Mr. Beaufort, who had heard from Blackwell
strange accounts of Philip’s ohdurate perverse-
ness, vile associates, and unredeemahle charac-
ter, was roused from his usual timidity by the
appeal of his wife.
“Insolcnt rcprobate!” he said, advancing to
Philip; ‘" after all the absurd goodness of my son
and m 'self—after rejecting all our odors, and
persisting in your miserable and vicious conduct,
how dare 'ou presume to force yourself into this
house? cgone, or I will send for the consta-
bles to remove you !”
“Man—man,” cried Philip, restraining the
fury that shook him from head to foot, “I care
not for your threats—I scarcely hear your ahusc :
your son or yourself have stolen away my broth-
er; tell me only where he is; let me see him
once more. Do not drive me hence without
one Word of justice—of pity. I implore you—
on my knees I implore you—yes, l, I implore
you, obcrt Beaufort, to have mercy on your
brothers son. \Vhere is Sidney ‘9”
Like all mean and cowardly- men, Robert
Beaufort was rather encouraged than softened
by Philip’s abrupt humility.
“I know nothing of your brother; and, if this
is not all some villainous trick—which it may be
—I am heartily rejoiced that he, poor child! is
rescued from the contamination of such a com-
panion,” answered Beaufort.
“I am at your feet still; again, for the last
time, clinging to you, a. suppliant: I pray you
to tell me the truth.” ,
Mr. Beaufort, more and more exasperated by.
Morton’s forbearance, raised his hand as it‘ to
strike; when, at that moment, one hitherto un-
observed—one who, terrified by the scene she
had witnessed but could not comprehend, had
slunk into a dark corner of the room—now came
from her retreat. And a. child’s soft voice was
heard, saying—
“ Do not strike him, papa!
brother !"
Mr. Beaufort's arm fell to his side: kneeling
before him, and by the oulcust’s side, was his
own young daughter; she had crept into the
room unobserved when her father entered.
Through the dim shadows, relieved only by the
red and fitful gleam of the fire, he saw her fair,
meek face looking up wistfully at his owa, with
tears of excitement, and perhaps of pity—for
children have a quick insight into the reality of
grief in those not far removed from their own
years—glistening in her soft eyes. Philip look-
ed round bewildered; and he saw that face,
which seemed to him, at such a time, like the
face of an angel.
“Hear her!” he murmured: “oh, hear her!
For her sake, do not sever one orphan from the
othorl”
Let him have his


62
NIGHT AND MORNING.
“Take away that child, Mrs. Beaufort,” cried
Robert, angrily. “ Will you let her disgrace her-
self thus ? And you, sir, begone from this roof;
and when you can approach me with due respect,
I will give you, as I said I would, the means to
get an honest living !”
Philip rose; Mrs. Beaufort had already led
away her daughter, and she took that opportuni-
ty of sending in the servants: their forms filled
up the doorway.
“ Will you go,” continued Mr. Beaufort, more
and more emboldened as he saw the menials at
hand, “ or shall they expel you ?”
“ It is enouflh, sir,” said Philip, with a sudden
calm and dignity that surprised, and almost awed
his uncle. “ My father, if the dead yet watch
over the livin , has seen and heard you. There
will come a any for justice. Out of my path,
hirclings !”
He waved his arm, and the menials shrunk
back at his tread, stalked across the inhospitable
hall, and vanished.
When he had gained the street, he turned and
looked up at the house. His dark and hollow
eyes, gleaming through the long and raven hair
that fell profusely over his face, had in them an
expression of menace almost preternatural from
its settled calmness; the wild and untutored maj-
esty, which, through rags and squalor, never dc-
serted his form, as it never does the forms of men
in whom the will is strong and the sense of in-
justice dcep—the outstretched arm—the hag-
gard, but noble features—the bloomless and
seathed youth—all gave to his features and his
stature an aspect awful in its sinister and voice-
less wrath. There he stood a moment, like one
to whom woe and wrong have given aprophct's
power, guiding the eye of the unforgetful Fate
to the roof of the oppressor. Then slowly, and
with a half smile, he turned away, and strode
through the streets till he arrived at one of the
narrow lanes that intersect the more e uivocal
quarters of the huge city. He sto pe at the
private entrance of a small pawnbroker’s shop;
the door was opened by a slipshod boy; he as-
cended the dingy stairs till he came to the sec-
ond floor; and there, in a small back room, he
found Captain De Burgh Smith, seated before a
table with a couple of candles on it, smoking a
cigar, and playing at cards by himself.
“Well, what news of your brother, Bully
Phil?”
“None : they will reveal nothing."
“ Do you give him up ‘3”
“Never! My hope now is in on!"
“ Well, I thought you would be riven to come
to me, and I will do something for you that I
should not like to do for myself. I told you that
I knew the Bow-street runner who was in the
barouchc. I will find him out—Heaven knows,
that is easily done—and, if you can pay well,
you will get your news.’7
“ You shall have all I possess if you restore
my brother. See what it is—one hundred pounds
—it was his fortune. It is useless to me with-
out him. There, take fifty now, and if—”
Philip stopped, for his voice trembled too much
to allow him farther speech. Captain Smith
thrust the notes into his pocket, and said,
“ We’ll consider it settled.”
Ca tain Smith fulfilled his promise.
the our-street officer.
He saw
Mr. Sharp had been

bribed too high by the opposite party to tall
tales, and he willihgly encouraged the suspicion
that Sidney was under the care of the Beauforts.
He promised, however, for the sake of ten guin-
cas, to procure Philip a letter from Sidney him-
self. This was all he would undertake.
Phili was satisfied. At the end of another
week, .i r. Sharp transmitted to the captain a
letter, which he, in his turn, gave to Philip. It
ran thus, in Sidney’s own sprawling hand:
“ Dean Bnornnn PlilLIP—I am told you wish
to know how I am, and therfore take up my pen,
and assure you that I write all out of my own
head. I am very comfortable and happy—much
more so than I have been since poor deir mama
died; soI beg you won’t vex yourself about me:
and pray don’t try and Find me out, ForI would
not <70 with you again for the world. I am so
much better off here. I wish you would be a
good boy, and leave off your Bad ways; for I
am sure, as every one says, I don’t know what
would have become of me if I had staid with
you. Mr. [the Mr. half scratched out], the
gentleman I am with, says, if you turn out prop-
erly, he will be a friend to you too; but he ad-
vises you to go, like a Good buy, to Arthur
Beaufort, and ask his pardon for the past, and
then Arthur will be very kind to you. _I send
you a great big sum of £20, and the gentleman
says he would send more, only it might make
you naughty, and set up. I go to church now
every Sunday, and read good books, and always
pray that God may open your eyes. I have such
a nice pony, with such a long tale. So no more
at present from your affectionate brother,
“SIDNEY Mon-res.

" on. s, 18—.
“Pray, pray don’t come after me an ' more.
You know I nearly died of it, but for t 's deir
good gentleman I am with.”
So this, then, was the crowning reward of all
his sufferin s and all his love. There was the let-
ter, evident y undictated, with its errors of or-
thography, and in the child’s rough serawl : the
serpent’s tooth pierced to the heart, and left there
its most lasting venom. 1
“I have done with him forever," said Philip,
brushing away the bitter tears, “I will molest
him no farther: I care no more to pierce this
mystery. Better for him as it is: he is happy!
Well, well, and 1—1 will never care for a human
being again."
He bowed his head over his hands, and when
he rose, his heart felt to him like stone. It
seemed as if Conscience herself had fled from
his soul on the wings of departed Love.
\
__§_
CHAPTER XII.
“ But you have found the mountain‘s top: there sit
0n the calm, flourishing head of it; .
And while Willi weaned steps we upward go,
See us and clouds below."-Cownv.
IT was true that Sidney was happy in his new
home, and thither we must now trace him.
On reaching the town where the travelers in
the harouche had been requested to leave Sid-
ney, “the King’s Arms” was recisely the inn
eschewed by Mr. Spencer. hile the horses



NIGHT AND MORNING.
63
\
were being changed, he summoned the surgeon
of the town to examine the child, who had al-
ready much recovered; and, by stripping his
clothes, wrapping him in warm blankets, and
administering eordials, he was permitted to reach
another stage, so as to batile pursuit that night;
and in three days Mr. Spencer had placed his
new charge with his maiden sister, 150 miles
from the spot where he had been found. He
would not take him to his own home yet. He
feared the claims of Arthur Beaufort. He art-
fully wrotc to that gentleman, stating that he had
abandoned the chase of Sidney in despair, and
:for he was brought u in a formal school of pro-
, priety and ethics, his mind naturally revolt-
}ed from all images of violence or fraud. Mr.
Spencer changed both the Christian and the sur-
name of his prolégé, in order to 'elude the search
whether of Philip, the Mortons, or the Beauforts,
and Sidney passed for his nephew by a younger
brother who had died in India.
So there, by the calm banks of the placid lake,
amid the fairest landscapes of the island garden.
lthc youngest horn of Catharine passed his trau-
guil days. The monotony of the retreat did not
atigue a spirit which, as he grew up, found oe-
l
v
desiring to know it'he had discovered him; and {cupation in books, music. poetry, and the ele-
a bribe of £300 to Mr. Sharp, with a candid ex- " gances of the cultivated, if quiet life, within his
position of his reasons for secreting Sidney—rca- ‘ reach. To the rough past he looked back as to
sons in which the worthy oliieor professed to lan evil dream, in which the image of Philip stood
impathize—secured the discretion of his ally. ,dark and threatening. His brother’s name, as
at he Would not deny himself the pleasure of ‘he grew older, he rarely mentioned: and if he
being in the same house with Sidney, and was l did volunteer it to Mr. Spencer, the bloom on his
therefore, for some months, the guest of his sis- cheek rew paler. The sweetness of his man-
ters. At length he heard that young Beaufort ners, his fair face and winning smile, still com-
had been ordered abroad for his health, and he bined to secure him love, and to screen from the
then deemed it safe to transfer his new idol to 1 common cyc whatever of selfishness yet lurked
hisLares by the lakes. During this interval, thelin his nature. And, indeed, that fault in so
current of the younger Morton‘s life had indeed ,serene a career, and with friends so attached,
flowed through flow_ers. At his age the cares i was seldom called into action. So thus was he
of females were almost a want as well as a lux- E severed from both the protectors, Arthur and
ury, and the sisters spoiled and tted him as
much as any elderly nymphs in ytherea ever
pettcd Cupid. They were good, excellent, high-
nosed, flat-bosomed spiasters, seatimentally fond
if their brother, whom they called “the poet,’-7
and dotingly attached to children. The clean-
ness, the quiet, the good cheer of their neat
abode, all tended to revive and invigorate the
spirits of their young guest, and every one there
seemed to vie which should love him the most.
Still his especial favorite was Mr. Spencer: for
Spencer never went out without bringing back
cakes and toys; and Spencer gave him his pony;
and Spencer rode a little crop-cared nag by his
side; and Spencer, in short, was associated with
his every comfort and capriee. He told them
his little history; and when he said how Phili
had left him alone for long hours together, an
how Philip had forced him to his last and nearly
fatal journey, the old maids roancd, and the old
bachelor sighed, and they al cried in a breath
that “Philip was a very wicked boy.” It was
not only their obvious policy to detach him from
his brother, but it was their sincere conviction
that they did right to do so. Sidney began, it is
true, by taking Philip’s part; but his mind was
ductile, and he still looked back with a shudder
to the hardships he had gone through; and so,
by little and httle, he learned to forget all the
endearing and fostering love Philip had evinced
to him; to connect his name with dark and mys-
terious fears; to repeat thanksgivings to Provi-
dence that he was saved from him; and to hope
that they might never meet again. In fact,
when Mr. Spencer learned from Shar that it
was through Captain Smith, the swin ler, that
lication had been made by Phili for news of
his hrothargndhav‘ also learne before, from
the same person, that hilip had been implicated
in the sale of a horse, swindled, if not stolen, he
saw every additional reason to widen the stream
that flowed between the wolf and the lamb. The
older Sidney grew the better he comprehended
and tile-motives of his protector;
' Philip, to whom poor Catharine had bequeathed
him. By a perverse and strange myster , they
to whom the char 0 was most intruste were
the very persons w 0 were forbidden to redeem
it. On our death beds, when we think we have
rovidcd for those we leave behind, should we
ose the last smile that gilds the solemn agony
if we could look one year into the Future?
Arthur Beaufort, after, as might be expected,
an ineffectual search for Sidney, on returning to
his home, heard no uncxaggerated narrative of
Philip’s visit, and listened with deep rcsehtmont
to his mother’s distorted account of the lan uagc
addressed to her. It is not to be surprise that.
with all his romantic generosity, he felt sickened
and revolted at violence that seemed to him
without excuse. Though not a revengeful char-
acter, he had not that meekness which never
resents. He looked it n Philip Morton as upon
one rendered incorrigible by bad passions and
evil company. Still Catharine’s last be uest.
, and Philip’s note to him, the unknown com ortcr.
often recurred to him, and he would have will-
ineg yet aided had Philip been thrown in his
way. But as it was, when he looked around,
and saw the examples of that charity that begins
at home, in which the world abounds, he felt as
if he had done his duty; and prosperity having. .
though it could not harden his heart, still sapped
the habits of perseverance, so by little and little
the image of the dying Catharine, and the
thought of her sons, faded from his remem-
brance. And for this there was the more excuse
after the receipt of an anonymous letter, which
relieved all his apprehensions on behalf of Sidney.
The letter was short, and stated simply that
Sidney Morton had found a friend who would
protect him throughout life, but who would not
scruplc to apply to Beaufort if ever he needed
his assistance. So one son, and that the yuangest
and the best-loved, was safe. And the other,
had he not chosen his own career? A1418, poor
. Catharine! when you fancied that Philip was the
i one sure to force his way into fortune, and SIdnev


64
NIGHT AND MORNING.
the one most helpless, how ill did you judge of
the human heart! It was that very strength in
Philip’s nature which tempted the winds, that
scattered the blossoms, and shook the stem to
its roots; while the lighter and frailer nature
bent to the gale, and bore transplanting to a
happier soil. If a parent read these pages, let
him pause and think well on the characters of
his children; let him at once fear and hope the
most for the one whose passions and whose
temper lead to a struggle with the world. That
same world is a tough wrestler, and has a bear’s
gripe for the poor.
Meanwhile, Arthur Beanfort’s own com-
plaints, which grew serious and menaced con-
sumption, recalle his thoughts more and more
every day to himself. He was compelled to
abandon his career at the University, and to seek
for health in the softer breezes of the South.
His parents accompanied him to Nice; and
when, at the end of a few months, he was re-
stored to health, the desire of travel seized the
mind and attracted the fancy of the young heir.
His father and mother, satisfied with his recovery,
and not unwilling that he should acquire the
)olish of Continental intercourse, returned to
ngland; and young Beaufort, with gay com-
panions and munifieent income, already courted,
spoiled, and flattered, commenced his tour with
the fair climes of Italy.
So, oh dark mystery of the moral world l—so,
unlike the order of the external universe, glide
together, side by side, the shadowy steeds of
NIGHT mm Monumc. Examine life in its own
world: confound not that world, the inner one,
the practical one, with the more visible, yet airier
and less substantial system, doing homage to the
sun, to whose throne, afar in the infinite space,
the human heart has no wings to flee. In life,
the mind and the circumstance give the true
seasons, and regulate the darkness and the light.
Of two men standing on the same foot of earth,
the one revels in the joyous noon, the other
shudders in the solitude of night. For Hope
and F ortiine the daystar is ever shining. The
“Anmiitli-Strahlcndes”* live ever in the air.
For Care and Penury, night changes not with
the ticking of the clock or the shadow on the
dial. Morning for the heir, night for the house-
less, and God's eye in both!
BOOK III.
.182!“ Icgm mir im flBcgc;
eitbtilt bcmmten tntmrn 811i:
11am ét‘blfmtc baut‘ nip @ttgt,
iBri‘tdcn turd) but milbzn Mini"
SCHILLER: Der PiIgrim.
-_-_‘_
CHAPTER I.
" The knight of arts and industry,
And his achievements fair."
'I‘ttonnnn's Castle of lndolme :
Explanatory Veru to Canto ll.
' In a popular and respectable, but not very
fashionable quarticr in Paris, and in the tolerany
' sémn".


I broad and efl'eetive locale of the Rue , there
1might be seen, at the time I now treat of, a
l curious-looking building, that jutted out semicir
cularly from the neighboring shops, with plaster
' pilastcrs and compo ornaments. The virtuosi of
‘ the quarlirr had discovered that the building was
\ constructed in imitation of an ancient temple in
I Rome; this erection, then fresh and new, reached
only to the mtresol. The pilastcrs were painted
llight green, and gilded in the cornices, while
1 surmounting the architrave were three little
l statues—one held a torch, another a bow, and a
1 third a bag; they were therefore rumored, I
I know not with what justice, to be the artistical
‘ representatives of Hymen, Cupid, and Fortune.
E On the door was neat] engraved, on a brass
3 plate, the following inscription :
“ Mousmtm Lovr-z, Anonnts.
A L’Enruuson."

And if you had crossed the threshold, and mounted
‘ the stairs, and gained that mysterious story in-
. habited by Monsieur Love, you would have seen
L upon another door to the right another epigrapb,
informing those interested in the inquiry that the
' bureau o M. Love was open daily, from nine in
l the morning to four in the afternoon.
The office of M. Love—for oflico it was, and
of a nature not unfrequently designated in the
“petite: afiches" of Paris—had been established
1 about six months; and, whether it was the p-
! ularity of the profession, or the shape of the chap,
‘or the manners of M. Love himself, I can not
i pretend to say, but certain it is that the Temple
! d’Hymen, as M. Love classically termed it, had
ibecome exceedingly in vogue in the Faubourg
St. -——. It was rumored that no less than nine
lmarriages in the immediate neighborhood had
ibeen manufactured at this fortunate otficc, and
that they had all turned out happily except one,
lin which the bride being sixty, and the bride-
lgroom twenty-four, there had been rumors of
‘ omestic dissension; but, as the lady had been
' delivered—I mean, of her husband, who had
drowned himself in the Seine about a month
after the ceremony—things had turned out, in
the long run, better than might have been ex-
pected, and the widow was so little discouraged
that she had been seen to enter the office already:
a circumstance that was greatly to the credit of
M. Love.
Perhaps the secret of M. Love’s success, and
of the marked superiority of his establishment in
rank and popularity over similar ones, consisted
in the spirit and liberalit with which the busi-
ness was conducted. e seemed resolved lu
destroy all formality between parties who might
desire to draw closer to each other, and he hit
upon the lucky device of a table d'hblc, very well
managed, and held twice a week, and often fol-
lowed by a soirée dun-saute ; so that, if they
pleased, the aspirants to matrimonial happiness
might become acquainted without géne. As he
himself was a jolly, convivial fellow of much
savoir uivrc, it is astonishing how well he made
these entertainments answer. Persons who had
not seemed to take to each other in the first
distant interview grew extremely enamored
when the corks of the champagne—an extra, of
course, in the abonncment—bounced against thev
wall. Added to this, M. Love took great pains
to know the tradesmen in his neighborhood;


NIGHT AND MORNING.
65
and, what with his jokes, his appearance of easy
circumstances, and the fluency with which he
M. Love, in the, place of honor, sat no less a
person than the Vicomte de Vaudcmont, a French
spoke the language, he becameauniversalfavor- gentleman really well-born, but whose various
ite.
starch in general, and who professed to ridicule
the bureau, saw nothing improper in ining at
the table d'hbtc. To those who Wished for
secrecy he was said to be wonderfull discreet;
but there were others who did not a act to con-
ceal their discontent at the single state : for the
rest, the entertainments were so contrived as
never to shock the delicacy, while they always
forwarded the suit.
It was about ci ht o’clock in the evening, and
M. Love was stili seated at dinner, or, rather,
at dessert, with a party of guests. His apart-
ments, though small, were somewhat gandily
painted and furnished, and his dining-room was
decorated & la ’I‘urquc. The party consisted,
first, of a rich ipicirr, a widower, Monsieur
Goupille by name, an eminent man in the fau-
boai ; he was in his grand climacteric, but
still lhommc ; wore a very well-made ptrruque
of light auburn, with tight pantaloons, which
contained a pair of very respectable calves;
and his white ncckcloth and his large frill were
washed and got up with especial care. Next
to Monsieur Goupille sat a very demure and
very spare youn lady of about two-and-thirty,
who was said toghave saved a fortune—Heaven
knows how—in the family of a rich English
milortl, where she had olliciatcd as governess;
she called herself Mademoiselle Adi-lo de Cour-
ml, and was very particular about the dr, and
very melancholy about her ancestors. Monsieur
Goupille generally put his fingerthrough his
perruquc, and fell awe ' a little 'on his left panto-
loon when he spoke to l adcinouelle de Courval;
and Mademoiselle do Courval generallv peeked
at her bouquet when she answered lonsieur
Goupille. 0n the other. side of this young lady
out a fine-looking, fair man, M. de Sevolofslri, a
buttoned up to the chin, and rather thread-
here, though uncommonly neat. lie was flanked
by a little fat lady, who had been very pretty,
and who kept a boarding-house or pension for
the English, she herself being English, though
long established in Paris. Rumor said she had
been guy in her youth, and dropped in Paris by
a Russian nobleman, with a very pretty settle-
ment—she and the settlement aving equally
expanded by time and season: she was called
0 Beaver. On the other side of the
table was a red-headed Enwlishman, who spoke
very little French; who had'iieen told that French
ladies were passionately fond of light hair; and
who, having £2000 of his own, intended to quad-
ruple that sum by a prudent marriage. Nobody
knew what his family was, but his name was
11' ' His neighbor was an exceedingly
, arge-boned Frenchman, with a long nose
I. red ribbon, who was much seen at Frcs¢
“We, and had served under Napoleon. Then
came another lady, extremely pretty, very pi-
quante and very gay, but past the premiérr jcu-
nun, who ogled M. Love more than she did any
ofhis guests: she was called Rosalie Caumnriin,
and was at the head of a large bonbon establish-
ment: married, but her husband had gone four
years 0 to the Isle of France, and she was a
little doubtful whether she might not be justly
entitled to the privilege}: of a widow. Next to

Many persons, who were uncommonly excesses, added to his poverty, had not served
to sustain that respect for his birth \"lllt'll he
considered due to it. He had already been twice
married; once to an Englishwoman, who had
been deeoyed by the title; by this lady, who
died in childbed, he had one son: a fact which
he sedulonsly concealed from the world of Paris
by keeping the unhappy boy, who was now some
eighteen or nineteen years old, a pepetual exile
in England. Monsieur de Vaudemont did not
wish to pass for more than thirty, and he con-_
sidered that to produce a son of eighteen would
be to make the lad a monster of ingratitude by
giving the lie every hour to his own father! In
spite of this precaution, the vicomte found great
difficulty in getting a third 'ifo, especially as he
had no actual and visibl§ income; was, not
seamed, but plowed up with the smallpox;
small of stature, and was considered more than
mt pm bile. He was, however, a prodi rious
dandy, and wore a lace frill and embroi cred
waistcoat. M. Love’s vic-ri-vis was Mr. Birnie,
an Englishman, a sort of assistant in the estab-
lishment, with a hard, dr ’, parchment face, and
--a remarkable talent ior silence. The host
himself was a splendid animal; his vast chest
seemed to occupy more space at the table than
any four of his guests, 'et he was not corpulent
or unwieldy; he was ressed in black, wore a
velvet stock very high, and four gold studs glit-
tered in his shirt front; he was hold to the crown,
which made his forehead appear singularly lofty,
and what hair he had left was a little grayish and
curled; his face was shaved smoothly, except a
close-clipped mustache; and his eyes, though
small, were bright and piercing. Such was the
party.
“ These are the best bonsbons I ever ate,” said
M. Love, glancing at Madame Caumartin. “ My
fair friends have compassion on the table of a poor
bachelor.”
“ But you ought not to be a bachelor, Monsieur
Lofe,” replied the fair Rosalie, with an arch look;
“you, who make others marry, should set the
example."
“All in good time," answered M. Love. nod-
ding; “one serves one‘s customers so much hap-
piness that one has none left for one’s self.”
Here a loud explosion was heard. Monsieur
Goupille had pulled one of the bonbrm crackers
with Mademoiselle Adele.
“I’ve got the motto! no—monsicur has it: I‘m
always unlucky," said the gentle Adele.
The épim'er solemnly unrollcd the little slip of
paper; the print was very small, and he longed
to take out his spectacles, but he thought that
would make him look old. However, be spelled
through the motto with some difficulty :
“Comma elle {alt soumettre an cmur,
En refusnnt son dour homningc,
On peat tialter la eoqiiette en vulnqunul’
De la beaute module on cherit l‘escluvnge."
“I present it to mndemoiselle," said he, laying
the motto solemnly in Adele's plate, (1an a little
mountain of chestiiut-husks.
“ It is very pretty," said she, looking down.
“It is very riprupos," whispered the Epic-fer,
caressing the perruque a little too roughly in his
emotion. M. Love gave him a kick under the
I


66 NIGHT AND
MORNING.
table, and put his finger to his own bald head, ‘
and then to his nose, significantly. The intelli-
gent épivier smoothed back the irritated per-
ruque. _
“Are you fond of borlsbom, Mademorselle
Adi-lo? I have a very fine stock at home,”
said Monsieur Goupille. ‘
Mademoiselle Adole de Courval sighed, “Hz-
laa! they remind me of happier days. When I ‘
was a petite, and my dear grandmamma took me
in her lap, and told me how she escaped the5
uillotinc—she was an imigréc, and you know
Ear father was a marquis.” ,
‘ The 6picier bowed and looked puzzled. He,1
did not quite see the connection between the
bonsbom and the guillotine.
“Madame, an exib is always trisle : I think
The Pole smiled mournfully.
“Yes, madame; I wish it were a cannon in
his fingers with a little grimace, observin that
Pouvotr triompher e l‘umour,"
logne!”
politician, sir ?" vsaid she, in English.

“ You are tristc, monsieur,” observed Madame !
Beavor, in rather a piqued tone, to the Pole, who‘1
had not said a. word since the roti.
of In pauvn- pays.”
“ ah l" cried M. Love. “Think that there
is no exile by the side of a hello dame.”
“Pull it,” said Madame Beaver, holdingl a
cracker to the patriot, and turning away or
face.
defense of La Pologne."
With this magniloquent aspiration, the "el-
lant Sovolofski pulled lustily, and then rulibed
crackers were sometimes dangerous, an that
the present combustible was d’tme force immense.
"Helal! Put em jusflu'l co jour
said Madame Beaver, reading the motto. “What \
do you say to that 1‘”
“Madame, there is no triumph for La. P0-
Madamc Beaver uttered a. little, pecvish ex-
clamation, and glanced in despair at her red-
headed countryman. “Are you, too, a great.-
“No, mem! I’m all for the ladies.”
“What does he say '2" asked Madame Cau-'
martin.
“Monsieur Higgins est taut pour la: domes."
“To be sure he is,” cried M. Love; “all
the English are, especially with that colored;
hair; a lady who likes a passionate adoreri
should always marry a man with gold-colored
hair—always. “'hat do you- say, Mademoiselle
Adele ‘2”
“Oh, I like fair hair,” said mademoiselle,
. looking bashfully uskow at Monsieur Goupille’s ‘
perruque. “Grandmamma said her papa—the
marquis—used yellow .powder: it must have
been very pretty." .
“Rather r) In were d‘orge,” remarked the!
Epidcr, smiling on the right right side of his?
mouth, where his best teeth were.
Mademoiselle do Courval looked displeased.
“I fear you are a Republican, Monsieur Gou-.
illc Y” I
p “I, madcmoiselle? No, I‘m for the Restore-i
tion;"’ and again the ipirier rplexed himself \
to discover the association 0 idea between re-,
publicanism and were d’orge. {
“Another glass of wine. Come, method";
said M. Love, stretching across the vicomte to
help Madame Caumartin. _
“ Sir,” said the tall Frenchman with the rib-
bon, eying the épicier with great disdain, “you
say you are for the Restoration—I am for the
Empire—Moi!”
“No politics i” cried M. Love.
adjourn to the salon.”
The vieomtc, who had seemed supremely
crmuyé during this dialogue, plucked M. Love
by the sleeve as he rose, and whispered petu-
lantly, “I do not see any one here to suit me,
Monsieur Love—none of my rank.”
“Mon Dieu!" answered M. Love; “point
d’arge-nt, vain! Suiase. I could introduce you to
a duchess, but then the fee is high. There’s
Mademoiselle de Courval—she dates from the
Carlovingians.”
“ She is very like a boiled sole,” answered the
vicomte, with a wry face. “Still—what dower
has she 1’”
“ Forty thousand francs, and sickly,” replied
M. Love : “but she likes a tall man, and Mon-
sieur Goupille is—”
“ Tall men are never well made,” interrupted
the vicomte, angrily; and he drew himself aside
as M. Love, gallautly advancing, gave his arm
to Madame Beaver, because the Pole had, in
rising, folded both his arms across his breast.
“ Excuse me, ma’am,” said M. Love to
Madame Beaver, as they adjourned to the salon,
" I don’t think you manage than brave man
well.”
“Ma foi, commc il est mmuycux aver sa P0—
Iogm,” replied Madame Beaver, shrugging her
shoulders.
“True, but he is a very fine-shaped man;
and it is a comfort to think that one will have no
rival but his country. Trust me, and encourage
him a little more; I think he would suit you to
a T.’
Here the gerqon engaged for the evening an-
nounced Monsieur and Madame Giraud; where-
upon there entered a little—little couple, very
fair, very plump, and very like each other. This
was M. Love's show couple—his decoy ducks
—his last best example of match-making; they
had been married two months out of the bureau,
and were the admiration of the neighborhood
for their conjugal affection. As they were now
united, they had ceased to frequent the table
d’hote; but M. Love often invited them after
the dessert, pour cnroarager lel autrcs.
“My dear friends,” cried M. Love, shaking
each by the hand, “I am ravished to see on.
Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the ap-
piest couple in Christendom; ifI had done noth-
ing else in my life but to bring them together, I
should not have lived in vain l”
The company eyed the objects of this oulogium
with reat attention.
“3' onsieur, my prayer is to deserve my bon-
heur,” said Monsieur Giraud.
“ Cher cmge!’7 murmured madame: and the
happy pair seated themselves next to each other.
. Love, who was all for those innocent
pastimes which do away with conventional
formality and reserve, now proposed a game
at “Hunt the Slipper,” which was welcomed
by the whole party except the Pole and the
vieomte; though Mademoiselle Adéle looked
prndish, and observed to the Epider “that Mon-
sieur Lofe was so droll ! but she should not have
liked her pauvrr grandmaman to see her."
“ Let us


NIGHT AND MORNING.
. 67
The vicomte had stationed himself opposite to
Mademoiselle de Courval, and kept his eyes
fixed on her very tenderly.
“Mademoiselle, I see, does not approve of
such bourgeois diversions,” said he.
“ No, monsieur," said the gentle Adele. “But
I think we must sacrifice our own tastes to those
of the company.”
“It is a very amiable sentiment,” said the
Epici'cr.
“ It was one attributed to grandmamma’s
papa, the Marquis dc Courval. it has become
quite a hackneyed remark since,” said Adele.
“ Como, ladies,” said the joyous Rosalie, “I
volunteer my slipper.”
“ .dsuycz-vous done," said Madame Beaver to
the Pole. “ Have you no games of this sort in
Poland ‘3”
“Madame, La Pologne is no more,” said the
Polo. “ But with the swords of her brave—i’
“No swords here, if you please,” said M.
Love, putting his vast bands on the Polo’s shoul-
ders, and sinkin him forcibly down into the
circle now formed.
The game proceeded with great vigor and
much laughter from Rosalie, M. Love, and
Madame Beaver, especially whenever the last
thumped the Pole with the heel of the slipper.
Monsieur Giraud was always sure that Madame
Giraud had the slipper about her, which persua-
sion on his part gave rise to many little endear-
ments, which are always so innocent among
married people. The vicomte and the épim'cr
were equally certain the slipper was with Ma-
demoiselle Adele, who defended herself with
much more energy than might have been sup-
posed in one so gentle. The épi'cier, however,
grew jealous of the attentions of his noble rival,
and told him that he giné‘d mailemoiselle;‘
whereupon the vieomte called him an imparti-
nmt ,- and the tall Frenchman with the red rib-
bon sprung up and said,
“ Can I be of any assistance, gentlemen ‘2”
Tbcrcwith M. Love, the great peace-maker,
interposed, and, reconciling the rivals, proposed
to change the
and offered herself to be blindfolded. The tables
and chairs were cleared away; and Madame
game to Colin Illaillard, .dnglice, ‘
“Blind Man’s Buff." Rosalie clapped her hands, ;
“flatterer,” and rapped his knuckles with her
fan: the latter proceeding the brave Pole did
not seem to like, for he immediately buried his
hands in his tmwsers pockets.
The game was now at its meridian. Rosalie
was uncommonly active, and flew about here
land there, much to the harassment of the Pole,
who repeatedly wiped his forehead, and remark-
cd that it was warm work, and put him in mind
of the last sad battle for La Polognc. Monsieur
i Goupille, who had lately taken lessons in danc-
‘ing, and was vain of his agility, mounted the
ichairs and tables, as Rosalie approached, with
igreat grace and gravity. It so happened that
l in these saltations he ascended a stool near the
‘curtain behind which Monsieur and Madame
, Giraud were ensconced. Somewhat agitated
thy a slight fluttering behind the folds, which
. made him fancy, on the sudden panic, that Ros-
' alie was creeping that way, the ipim't'r made an
abrupt pirouette, and the hook on which the cur-
, tains were suspended caught his left coat-tail:
, " The futn'l gesture left the unguarded side."
just as he turned to extricate the garment from
that dilemma, Rosalie sprung upon him, and,
naturally lifting her hands to that height where
she fancied the human face divine, took another
extremity of Monsieur Goupille’s graceful frame,
thus exposed, by surprise.
‘ “I don’t know who this is.
visage J" muttered Rosalie.
1 “ Mais, madame,” faltered Monsieur Goupille,
looking greatly disconcerted.
The gentle Adele, who did not seem to relish
i this adventure, came to the relief of her wooer,
i and pinched Rosalie very sharply in the arm.
{ “That’s not fair. But I will know who this
is,” cried Rosalie, angrily; “you sha’n’t es-
, cape l”
5 A sudden and universal burst of Ian hter
. roused her suspicions—she drew back—nag ex-
|claiming, “Maia, quelle mauoaixe plaisanterie ;
' r’est tropfort I” applied her fair hand to the place
in dispute with so hearty a good-will, that Mon-
sieur Goupille uttered a dolorous cry, and sprun
from the chair, leaving the coat-tail (thgoause of
all his woe) suspended upon the hook.
It wasjust at this moment, and in the midst
Quelle drble dz
Beaver pushed the Pole into Rosalie’s arms, of the excitement caused by Monsieur Goupille‘s
who, having felt him about the face for some , misfortune, that the door opened, and the garpon
moments, ucssed him to be the tall Frenchman. , reappeared, followed by a young man in a large
Duri this time Monsieur and Madame Gi- ‘ cloak.
rand id themselves behind _the window-eur-
Iain.
“Amuse yourself, non ami,’
Beaver to the liberated Pole.
“Ah, madame,” sighed Monsieur Sovolofski,
“how can I be gay!
cated by the Emperor of Russia!
Iogne no Brutus ‘."’
“I think you are in love,” said the host, clap-
ping him on the hack.
“Are you quite sure,” whispered the Pole to
the match-maker, “that Madame Beaver has
vingt mille livres dc routes 2”
"Not a was less.”
The Pole mused, and glancing at Madame
Beavor, said, “ And yet, madame, your charm-
ing gaycty consoles me amid all my suffer-
ings; ’ upon which Madame Beavor called him
’ said Madame
Has La P0-
All my property confis~
The new-comer paused at the threshold, and
‘1 gazed around him in evident surprise.
“Diablel” said )1. Love, approaching, and
, gazing hard at the stranger. “Is it possible?
i You are, then, come at last? Welcome l”
“ But said the stranger, apparently still bewil-
, dered, “there is some mistake; you are not—.J7
" Yes, I am M. Love !—L0vc all the world
over. How is our friend Gregg? Told you
,to address yourself to M. Love, eh? Mum!
Ladies and gentlemen, an acquisition to our
, party. Fine fellow, eh ? Five feet eleven with-
out his shoes, and oung enough to hope to be
thrice married belyore he dies. When did you
arrive ?”
“To-day.” _ _
And thus Philip Morton and Mr. William
Gawtrey met once more.


68 .
NIGHT AND MORNING.
l
l
CHAPTER II.
"Happy the mnu who, void of cure and strife,
In silken or in lcutheru purse retains
A splendid shilling l"
The Splendid Shilling. l
" And wherefore should they take or cure for thought,
The nnreasoning vulgar willingly obey,
And leaving toil and poverty behind,
Run forth by difl'enent ways, the blissful boon to find." 1
Wlsfs Education. |
_ l
“ Poon boy! your story interests me. The l
events are romantic, but the moral is practical,l
old, everlasting—life, boy, life. Poverty by it-
self is no such great curse; that is, if it stopsl
short of starving. And passion by itself is a no-
ble thing, sir; but poverty and passion togetherL
—poverty and feeling—poverty and Stride—the,
poverty not of birth, but reverse; an the man,
who costs you out of your easy-chair, kicking
you with every turn he takes as he settles himg
self more comfortably—why, there’s no romance
in that—hard every-day life, sir! Well, well :l
so, after your brother’s letter, you resigned your-
self to that follow, Smith."
“No; I gave him my money, not my soul. I
turned from his door with a few shillings that he .
himself thrust into my hand, and walked on—I‘,‘
cared not whither—out of the town, into thel
fields, till night came; and then just as I sud-i
denly entered on the high-road, many miles awn ,
the moon rose, and I saw by the hedgcsid'e .
something that seemed like a corpse! it was an
old beggar, in the last stage of raggedness, dis-
ease, and famine. He had lain himself down to,
die. I shared with him what I had, and helped]
him to a little inn. As he crossed the threshold,
he turned round and blessed me. Do you know,
the momentl heard that blessin , a stone seemed
rolled away from in heart. Isaid to myself,
‘ What, then! even can be of use to some mic;
and I am better off than that old man, for I have
youth and health.’ As these thoughts stirred in
me, my limbs before heavy with fatigue, grew
light; a strange kind of excitement seized me.
I run on gayly beneath the moonlight that smiled
over the crisp, broad road. I felt as if no house,
not even palace, were large enough for me
that night. And when, at last wearicd out, I
crept into a. wood and laid myself down to sleep,
I still murmured tomyself, ‘I have youth and
health.’ But in the morning, when I rose, I
stretched out my arms, and missed my broth-
er! . . . . In two or three days I found employ-
ment. with a farmer; but we quarrcled after a
few weeks, for once he wished to strike me; and,
somehow or other, I could work, but not serve.
Winter had begun when we parted—oh, such a
winter! Then—then I knew what it was to be
heuseless. How I lived for some months—if to
live it can be called—it would pain you to
hear, and humble me to speak. At last, I found
myself again in London; and one evening, not
many days since I resolved at last—for nothing
else seemed left, and I had not touched food for
two days—to come to you."
“And why did that never occur to you be-
fore ?"
“Because,” said Philip, with a deep blush,
“ because I trembled at the power over my ac-
tions and my future life that I was to give to one
whom I was to bless as a benefactor, yet distrust
as a guide."


“ Well," said Love or Gawtrey, with a. sin -
lar mixture of irony and compassion in his votce,
“and it was hunger then, that terrified you at
last, even more than I?”
“Perhaps hunger, or perhaps rather the rea-
soning that comes from hunger. I had not, I
say, touched food for two days; and Iwas stand-
ing on that bridge from which on one side, you
see the palace of a head of the Church, on the
other the towers of the Abbey, within which the
men I have read of in historylie buried. It was
a cold, frosty evening, and the river below look-
ed bright with the lamps and stars. I leaned,
weak and sickening. against the wall of the
bridge; and in one of the arched recesses beside
me a cri pie held out his hat for pence. I envied
him! l-‘Ie had a livelihood: he was innred to it—
perhaps bred toit; he had no shame. By a sudden
impulse, I too turned abruptly round held out my
hand to the first passenger, and started at the
shrillness of my own voice as it cried ‘Charity.’ "
Gawtrey threw another log on the fire, looked
complacently round the comfortable room, and
rubbed his hands. The young man continued:
“ ‘You should be ashamed of yourself. I’ve
a great mind to give you up to the police,’ was
the answer in a pert and sharp tone. I looked
up and saw the livery my father’s menials had
worn. I had been begging my bread from Robert
Beaufort’s lackey ! I said nothing; the man
went on his business on tiptoe, that the mud might
not s lash above the soles of his shoes. Then
thong ts so black that they seemed to blot out
every star from the sky—thouflhts 1 had often
wrestled against, but to which now gave my-
self up with a sort of mud joy—seized me, and I
remembered you. I had still preserved the ad.
dress you gave me; I went straight to the house.
Your friend, on naming you, received me kindly,
and, without question, placed food before me—
pressed on me clothing and money—procured me
a passport—gave me your address—and now I
am beneath your roof. Gawtrey, I know nothing
yet of the world but the dark side of it. I know
not what to deem of on; but, as you alone have
been kind to me, so it is to your kindness rather
than your aid thatI now cling—your kind words
and kind looks—yet—" he stopped short and
breathed hard. '
“Yet on would know more of me. Faith,
my boy, can not tell you more at this moment.
I believe, to speak fairly, I don’t live exactly
within the pale of the law. But I’m not a vil-
lain l Inever plundered my friend, and called it
play! I never murdered my friend, and called
it honor! I never seduced my friend’s wife and
called it gallantry 1” As Gawtrey said this, he
drew the words out, one by one, through his
grinded teeth, paused and resumed more gayly,
“I struggle with Fortune—wild tool! I am
not—what you seem to suppose—exactly a
swindler, certainly not a robber! But, as l be~
fore told you, I am a charlutan : so is every man
who strives to be richer or greater than he is.
I too want kindness as much as you do. M
bread and my cup are at your service. I wi l '
try and keep you unsullied even by the clean dirt
that now and then sticks to me. On the other
hand, youth, my young friend, has no right to
play the censor; and you must take me as you
take the world, without being over scrupulous
and dainty.
My present vocation pays well; in -


NIGHT AND MORNING. 69
foot, I am bcginning to lay by. My real name ‘- drcary and despairing; and Morton’s own ex-
and past. life are thoroughly unknown, and, as perience had been so sad, that these opinions
yet, unsuspected in this quartier; for, though I l were more influential than they could ever have
have seen much of Paris, my career hitherto has been with the happy. However, in this, their
passed in other parts of the city; and, for the second reunion, there was a greater gavcty than
rest, own that I am well disguised! What a , in their first; and, under his host’s roof, Morton
benevolent air this bald forehead gives me, eh ? insensibly, but rapidly, recovered something of
True,” added Gawtrey, somewhat more serious- 3 the early and natural tone of his impetuous and
ly, “ifI saw how you could support yourself in ,i ardent spirits. Gawtroy himself was generally
a broader path of life than that in which I pick j a boon companion; their society, if not select,
out my own way, I might say to you, as a gay , was merry. When their evenings were disen-
mun of fashion might say to some sober stripling gaged, Gawtrey was fond of haunting cafés and
—-nay, as many a dissolute father says (or ought theaters, and Morton was his companion; Birnie
to say) to his son, ‘It’s no reason on should be (Mr. Gawtrey’s partner) never accompanied
a sinner because I am not a saint. In a word,
if you were well off in a respectable profession,
you might have safer acquaintances than myself.
But as it is, upon my word, as a plain man, I
don’t see what you can do better.” Gawtrey
made this speech with so much frankness and
case, that it seemed greatly to relieve the listen-
or; and when he wound up with, “What say
you? In fine, my life is that of a great school-
boy, getting into scrapes for the fun of it, and
fighting his way out as he best can! Will on
see how you like it 5’” Philip, with a confi ing
and grateful impulse, put his hand into Gawtrey’s.
The host shook it cordially, and, without saying
another word, showed his guest into a little cab-
inet where there was a sofa-bed, and they parted
for the night.
The new life upon which Philip Morton enter-
ed was so odd, so grotesque, and so amusing,
that at his age it was perhaps natural that he
should not be clear-sighted as to its danger.
William Gawtrcy was one of those men who,‘
are born to exert a certain influence and ascend-
1 them. Refreshed by this change of life, the very
‘person of this young man regained its bloom
and vigor, as a plant, removed from some choked
atmosphere and unwholcsomc soil, where it had
struggled for light and air, expands on trans-
planting; the graceful lcavcs burst from the long,
drooping boughs, and the elastic crest springs
upward to the sun in the clory of its young prime.
If there was still a ccnam fiery stcrnncss in his
,aspect, it had ceased, at least, to be haggard
and savage; it even suited the character of his
dark and expressive features. He mioht not
‘ have lost the something of the tiger in his fierce
,temper, but, in the sleek hues and the sinewy
symmetry of the frame, he began to put forth
also something of the tiger's beauty.
l Mr. Birnie did not sleep in the house; he
,‘went home nightly to a lodgin" at some little
distance. We have said but little about this
man, for, to all appearance, there was little
, enough to say; he rarely opened his own month
except to Gawtroy, with whom Philip often ob-
‘served him engaged in whispered conferences,
ency wherever they may be thrown; his vast'to which he was not admitted. His eye, how-
strength, his redundant health, had a power of ever, was less idle than his lips; it was not a
themselves—a moral as well as physical power. l bright eye; on the contrary, it was dull, and, to
He naturally p0ssessed high animal spirits, be- . the unohservant, lifeless, of a pale blue, with a.
neath the surlaee of which, however, at times
there was visible a certain under-current of ma-
lignity and scorn. He had evidently received
a superior education, and could command at will
the manners ofa man not unfamiliar with a. po-
liter class of society. From the first hour Philip
had seen him on the top of the coach on the‘
8— road, this man had attracted his curiosity
and interest; the conversation he had heard in‘
the church-yard, the obligations he owed to Gaw-
treyfl his escape from the eflicers ofjustiee, the
time afterward passed in his society till they sep-
arated at the little inn, the rough and hearty
kindliness Gawtrey had shown him at that period,
and the hospitality extended to him now, all con-
tributed to excite his fancy, and in much—in-
deed, very much—entitled this singular person
to his gratitude. Morton, in a word, was fasci-
nated ; this man was the only friend he had made. '
Ihave not thought it necessary to detail to the
reader the conversations that had taken place
between them during that passage of Morton’s
life when he was before for some days Gawtrey’s
companion; yet those conversations had sunk
deep in his mind. He was struck, and almost
awed, by the profound gloom which lurked un-
der Gawtrey’s broad humor; a gloom, not of
temperament, but of knowledge. His views of
life, of human justice and human virtue, were
(as, to be sure, is commonly the case with men
- who have had reason to quarrel with the world)
dim film over it—the eye of a vulture; but it had
‘ in it a calm, heavy, stealthy watchfulness, which
inspired Morton with great distrust and aversion.
Mr. Birnie not on] spoke French like a native,
but all his habits, is gestures, his tricks of man-
ner were French; not the French of good so-
ciety, but more idiomatic, as it were, and popu-
lar. He was not exactly a vulgar person——he
was too silent for that—but he was evidently of
low extraction and coarse breeding; his accom-
plishments were of a mechanical nature; he was
an extraordinary arithmetieian; he was a very
skillful chemist, and keptn. laboratory at his lodg-
ings; he mended his own clothes and linen with
incomparable neatness. Philip suspected him
of hlacking his own shoes—but that was preju-
dice. Once he found Morton sketching horses’
heads—100w sc dc'sennayer ; and he made some
short criticisms on the drawings, which showed
him well acquainted with the art. Philip, sur-
prised, sought to draw him into conversation;
but Birnie eluded the attempt, and observed that
he had once been an engraver.
Gawtrey himself did not sccm to know much ,
of the early life of this person, or, at least, he did
not seem to like much to talk of him. The foot-
step of Mr. Birnie was gliding, noiseless, and
cat-like; he had no sociality tn him—enjoyed
nothing—drank hard, but was never drunk.
‘ Somehow or other, he had evidently over Guwtrey
an influence little less than Gawtrey had over


70
NIGHT AND MORNING.
Morton, but it was of a different nature : Morton
had conceived an extraordinary ailbction for his
friend, while Gawtrcy seemed secretly to dislike
'Birnic, and to be glad whenever he quilted his
presence. It was, in truth, Gawtrey’s custom,
when Birnie retired for the night, to rub his
hands, bring out the punch-bowl, squeeze the
lemons, and while Philip, stretched on the sofa,
listened to him, between sleep and waking, to talk
on for the hour together, often till daybreak,
with that bizarre mixture of knavery and feeling,
drollery and sentiment, which made the danger-
ous charm of his society.
One evening, as they thus sat together, Mor-
ton, al'ter listening for some time to his compan-
ion’s comments on men and things, said abruptly.
“ Gawtrey ! there is so much in you that puz- f
ales me, so much which I find it ditfieult to re-
concile with your present pursuits, that, if I ask
no indisorcct eonfideuce,l should like greatly to
hear some account of your early life. It would
please me to compare it witlu my own; when I‘
am your age, I will then look back and see what
I owed to your example.”
“ My early lil'e ! Well-you shall bear it. It
will put you on your guard, I hope, betimes
against the two rocks ol'youth—love and friend-
ship.” Then, while squeezing the lemon into
his favorite beverage, which Morton observed he
made stronger than usual, Gawtrey thus com-
menced
THE HISTORY OF A GOOD-FOR-XOTHING'
_._.
CHAPTER III.
" All his success must on himself depend,
He had no money, counsel, guide, or friend;
“'ith spirit high, John lcarn’d the world to brave,
And in both senses was a ready homey—Cunt“.
“ MY grandfather sold walking-sticks and um- j
brellas in the little passage by Exeter ’Ghange; ,
he was a man of genius and speculation. As
soon as he had scraped together a little money,
he lent it to some poor devil with a hard landlord,
at twenty per cent., and made him take half the
loan in umbrellas or bamboos. By these means
he got his foot into the ladder, and climbed up-
word and upward, till, at the age of forty, he had
amassed £5000. He then looked about for a
wife. An honest trader in the Strand, who dealt
largely in cotton prints, possessed an only daugh-
ter; this young lady had a legacy, from a great
aunt, of £3220, with a small street in St. Gilcs‘s,
where the tenants paid weekly (all thieves or
rogues—all, so the rents were sure). Now, my
grandfather conceived a great friendship for the
father of this young lady; gave him a hint as to a
new pattern in spotted cottons; enticed him to take ,
out a patent, and lent him £700 for the specula-
tion; applied for the money at the very moment
cottons were at their worst, and got the daugh-
tcr instead of the money; by which exchange,
you see, he won £2520, to say nothing of the
young lady. My grandfather then entered into
partnership with the worthy trader, carried on
the patent with spirit, and begat two sons. As
he grew older, ambition seized him; his sons
should be gentlemen: one was sent to college,
the other put into a marching regiment. My
grandfather meant to die worth a plum; but a
fever he caught in visiting his tenants in St.
l Giles‘s, prevented him, and he only left £20,000,
equally divided between the sons. My father,
,tho college man" (here Gawtrcy paused a mo-
ment. took a large draught of the punch, and re-
l sumcd with a visible efl'ort)—“ my father, the col-
lege man, was a person of rigid principles; bore
an excellent character; had a great regard for
the world. He married early and res ctably:
I am the sole fruit of that union. life lived
sohcrly; his temper was harsh and morose, his
home gloomy; he was a very severe father, and
mv mother died before I was ten years old.
il'lfhen I was fourteen, a little old Frenchman
came to lodge with us; he had been persecuted
under the old rigima for being a philosopher; he
filled my head with odd crotchets, which, more
or less, have stuck there ever since. At eighteen
I was sent to St. John’s College, Cambridge.
My father was rich enough to have let me go
up in the higher rank ofa pensioner, but he had
lately grown avarieious; he thought that I was
extravagant; he made me a sizar, perhaps to
spite me. Then, for the first time, those in-
, equalities in life which the Frenchman had
dinned into my ears, met me practically. A
sizar! another name for a dog! I had such
strength, health, and spirits, that I had more
life in my little finger than half the fellow-com- ,
moncrs—genteel, spindle-shanked striplings,'who
miwht have passed for a collection of my grand-
lfuthcr’s walking-cunes—had in their whole
5 bodies. Andl often think,” continued Gawtrey.
| “that health and spirits have a great deal to
Ianswer for! When we are young, we so far
lresemble savages—Who are Nature’s young
{people—that we attach prodigious value to
[ physical advantages. My feats of siren h and
l activity—the clods I thrashed, and the railings l
‘ leaped, and the boot-races I won—are they not
‘ written in the chronicle of St. John’s? These
achievements inspired me With an extravagant
sense of my own superiority; I could not but
despise the rich follows whom I could have
blown down with a sneeze. Nevertheless, there
was an impassable barrier between me and
them: a sizar was n'ot a proper associate for
the favorites of fortune! But there was one
young man, a year younger than myself, of high
birth, and the heir to considerable wealth, who
did not regard mo with the same supercilious
insolencc as the rest; his very rank, perhaps.
‘madc him indifferent to the little convenflinal
formalities which influence persons who can not
play at foot-ball with this round world: he was
the wildest youngster in the University; lamp-
hreaker; tandem-driver; mob-fighter; a very
devil, in short; clever, but. not in the reading
line; small and slight, but brave as a lion.
Congenial habits made us intimate, and I loved
hini like a brother; better than a brother—as a
dog loves his master. In all our rows I covered
him with my body. He had but to say to me,
‘Leap into the water,’ and I would not have
stopped to pull off my coat. In short, I loved
him as a proud man loves one who stands
betwixt him and contempt, as an atfcctionntc
man loves one who stands between him and
solitude. To cut short a long story, my friend,
one dark night, committed an outrage against
discipline, of the most unpardonablo character.
There was a sanctirnouious, grave old fellow of
[the college crawling home from a tea-party;


NIGHT AND MORNING.
71
mv friend and another of his set seized, blind-
fo ded, and hundouli'cd this poor wretch; carried
him, vi at armis, back to the house of an old
maid whom he had been courting for the last
ten years, fastened his pigtail (he wore a long‘
one) to the knocker, and so left him. You may
imagine the infernal hubbub which his attempts
to extricate himself caused in the whole street;
the old maid’s old maid-servant, after emptying
on his head all the vessels of wrath she could'
lay her hand to, screamed ‘ Rape and murder!7
T e proctor and his bull-dogs came up, released
allowance, but he was very extravagant; and
rich men lovc gain as well as poor men do. He
had no excuse but the grand excuse for all vice
—St-:t.risuxsss. Young as he was, he became
the fashion, and he fattened upon the plunder
of his equals, who desired the honor of his ac-
quaintance. Now I had seen my uncle cheat,
but I had never imitated his example; when the
man of fashion cheated, and made a jest of his
carnin s and m scruples, when I saw him
‘courte , flattcre honored, and his acts unsus-
,'pcctcd, because his connections embraced half
the prisoner, and gave chose to the delinquents, the peerage, the temptation grew strong, but I
who had incautiously remained near to enjoy the ‘ still resisted it. However, my father always
a rt. The night was dark, and they reached said I was born to be a good-for-nothing, and I
t 0 college in safct , but they had been truck- ‘ could not escape my destiny. And now I sud-
ed to the gates. or this offence I was ex-‘ denly fell in love: you don't know what that is
polled." yet; so much the better for you. The girl was
“ Why, you were not concerned in it ‘1’” said beautiful, and I thought she loved rue—perhaps
Philip- ‘ she did—but I was too poor, so her friends said,
_ “No; but I was suspected and accused- I' for marriage. We courted, as the saying is, in
could have got off by betraying the true culprits; the mean while. . It was my love for her, my
but my friend‘s father was in public life, a stern, wish to deserve her, that made me iron against
haughty old statesman: young Lilburne was‘rny friend’s example. I was fool enough to
mortally afraid of him, the only person he was speak to him of Mary, to present him to her:
afraid of. If I had too much insisted on my in- ' this ended in her seduction.” (Again Gawtrey
noce-nce. I might have set inquiry on the right ' paused, and breathed hard.) “I discovered the
track. in fine, I was happy to prove my friend-1 treachery; I called out the seducer: he sneered,
ship for him- He shook me most tenderly by! and refused to fight the low-born adventurer. I
the hand on partin , and promised never to for- struck him to the earth, and Him we fought; I
get my eucrous cvotion. I went home in dis-‘ was satisfied by a ball through my side! but
grace: need not tell you what my father said he," added Gawtro , rubbing his hands, and with
to me; I do not think he ever loved me from ‘ n vindictive chuckiia, “he was a cripple for life!
that hour. Shortly after this, my uncle, George When i recovered, I found that my foe, whose
Gawtrey, the captain, returned from abroad; he sick chamber was crowded with friends and
took a great fancy to me, and I left my father’s‘ comforters, had taken advantage of my illness
house (which had rown insufi'erablc) t0 live,to ruin my reputation. He, the swindler, accused
with him. He had been a very handsome man,‘ me of his own crime: the equivocal character
a gay spendthrift; he had got through his for-10f m uncle confirmed the charge. Him, his
tune, and now lived on his wits: he was a pro- I own igh-born pupil was enabled to unmask, and
fossed gambler. His eas temper, his lively‘ his disgrace was visited on me. I left my bed
humor fascinated me; be {new the world well, ‘ to find my uncle (all disguise over) an avowed
and, like all gamblers, was generous when the , partner in a hell; and myself, blasted alike in
dice were lucky, which, to tell you the truth, i name, love, past and future. And then, Philip,
they generally were with a man who had no, then I recommenccd that career which I have
scruples. Though his practices were a littleitrodden since, the prince of good fellows and
suspected, they had never been discovered. “'e ' goodlormotbingg, with ten thousand aliases,
lived in an clcgnnt apartment, mixed familiarly ‘, and as many strings to my bow. Society cast
with men of various ranks, and enjoyed life cx- , me otl‘ when 1 was innocent. Egud, I have
tremely. I brushed ofl’ my college rust, and‘hnd my revenge on society since! Ho! be]
conceived a taste for expense: I knew not why , ho!”
it was, but in my now existence every one was{ The laugh of this man had in it a moral infec-
lrind to me; to be sure, they were all no rout tion. There was a sort of glorying in its deep
rims, and I had spirits that made me welcome tone: it was not the hollow hysteria of shame
every where. l was a scamp, but a frolicsomo ' and despair—it spoke a sanguine joyousnessl
scamp, and that is always a popular character. William Gawtrey was a man whose animal
As yet 1 was not dishonest, but saw dishonesty constitution had led him to take animal pleasure
around me, and it seemed a very pleasant, jolly in all things: he had enjoyed the poisons he had
mode of making money, and nan again fell into lived on.
contact with the young heir. My college friend ; “But 'our father—surely your father—"’
was as wild in London as he had been at Cam-' “My athcr,” interrupted Gawtrey, “refused
bridge: but the boy-radian, though not then me the money (but a small sum) that, once
twenty years of age, had grown into a man- struck with the strong impulse ofa sincere pen-
villain." ‘itencc, I begged of him to enable me to get an
Here Gawtrey paused, and frowned darkly. honest living in an humble trade: his refusal
“He had great natural parts, this young man; soured the penitence; it gave me an excuse for
much wit, readiness, and cunning, and he became my career; and conscience grapples to an ex-
very intimate with my uncle. He learned of him case as a drowning wretch to a straw: And

how to play the dice and to pack the cards; he
paid him .illOOO for the knowledge 1”
“How ! a cheat? You said he was rich."
" His father was very rich, and he hada liberal
et this thd father—this cautious, moral, money-
oving man—thrcc months afterward, sullered a
rogue—almost a stranger—to decoy him Into a
, speculation that promised to bring him fifty per


72
NIGHT AND MORNING.
eent.: he invested in the traffic of usury what pleasure is the cementthat joms muny discordant
had sufficed to save a hundred such as I am atoms: here, I say, I met Mary, and her daugh-
frcm perdition, and he lost it. all; it was nearly , ter by my old friend—the daughter, still innocent,
his whole fortune, but he lives, and has his ‘ but, sacré! in what an element of'vice! We
luxuries still: he can not speculate, but he can 1 knew each other’s secrets, Mary and I, and kept
save: he cared not if I starved, for he finds an' them: she thought me a greater knave than I
hourly happiness in starving himself." twas, and she'intrusted to me'her intention of
“ And your friend," said Philip, after a pause, l selling her ehtld to a rich English marquis. On
in which his young sympathies went dangerously , the other hand, the poor girl confided to me her
with the excuses for his benefactor. “what has l horror of the scenes she witnessed and the
become of him, and the poor girl ‘9” ' snares that surrounded her. What do you think
“ friend became- a great man; he sue- , preserved her pure from all danger? Bah! you
0001163,“) his father’s peerage—a very ancient will never guess! It was partly because, if
one—and to a splendid income—he is living , example corrupts, it as often deters, but princi-
still. Well, you shall hear about the poor girl! , pally because she loved. A girl who loves one
We are told of victims of seduction dying in a ' man purely has about her an amulet which de-
workhouse or on a dunghill, penitent, broken-
hearted, and uncommonly rugged and senti-
mental; may be a frequent case, but it is not
the worst. It is worse, I think, when the fair,
penitent, innocent, credulous dupe becomes in
her turn the deceiver; when she catches vice
from the breath upon which she has hung; when
she ri ens, and mellows, and rots away into
painte , blazing, staring, wholesale harlotry;
when, in her turn, she ruins warm youth with
false smiles and long bills; and when, worse,
Worse than all, when she has children—daugh-
ters, perhaps—brought up to the same trade,
cooped, plumped for some hoary lecher, without
a heart in their bosoms, unless a balance for
weighing money may he called a heart: Mary
became this; and I wish to Heaven she had
rather died in on hospital ! Her lover polluted
her soul as well as her beauty: he found her
another lover when he was tired of her. 	hn
she was at the age of thirty-six, I met her in
Paris with a daughter of sixteen. I was then
flush with money, frequenting salons, and play-
ing the part of a fine gentleman; she did not
know me at first, and she sought my acquaint-
ance. For you must know, my dear friend,”
said Gawtrey, abruptly breaking off the thread
of his narrative, “that I am not altogether the
low doc you might suppose in seeing me here.
At Paris—ah! you don't know Paris—there is a
glorious ferment in society, in which the dregs
are often uppermost. I came here at the Peace;
and here have I resided the greater part of each
year ever since. The vast masses of ener y
and life, broken up by the great thaw of tile
Imperial system, floating along the tide, are
terrible icebergs for the vessel of the state.
Some think Napoleonism over; its effects are
only begun. Society is shattered from one end
to the other, and I laugh at the little rivets by
which they think to keep it together. But to
return: Paris, I say, is the atmosphere for ad~
venturers; new faces and new men are So com-
mon here that they excite no impertinent inquiry,
it is so usual to see fortunes made in a day and
spent in a month; except in certain circles, there
is no walking round a man‘s character to spy
out where it wants piecing! Some lean Greek
poet put lead in his pockets to prevent being
lown away; put gold in your pockets, and at
Paris you may defy the sharpest wind in the
world— ea, even the breath of that old IEolus
-—-Sean all Well, then, I had money—no mat-
ter how I came by it—and health, and gayety;
and l was well received in the coteries that
exist in all capitals, but mostly in France, where
fies the advances of the profligate. There was
,a handsome young Italian, an artist, who fre-
| quented the house—he was the man. I had to
lchoose, then, between mother and daughter: I
chose the last.”
Philip seized hold of Gawtrey’s hand, grasp-
ed it warmly, and the Good-for-nothing con.
' tinned :
“ Do you know that I loved that girl as well
as I had ever loved the mother, though in another
way? She was what I had fancied the mother
l to be; still more fair, more graceful, more win-
' uing, with a heart as full of love as her mother’s
had been of vanity. I loved that child as if she
had been my own daughter; 1 induced her to
leave her mother‘s house—I secreted her—I
saw her married to the man she loved—I gave
her away, and saw no more of her for several
months.”
It I?"
“Because I spent them in prison ! The young
people could not live upon air; I gave thorn
what I had, and in order to do more, I did some-
thing which displeased the police. I narrowly
escaped that time; but I am popular—very
popular; and, with plenty of witnesses, not over
scrupulous, I got off! When I was released, I
won d not go to see them, for my clothes were
ragged : the police still watched me, and Iwould
not do them harm in the world! Ay! r
wretches! they struggled so hard : he could get
very little by his art, thou h I believe he was a.
cleverish fellow at it, and t e money I had given
them could not last forever. They lived near
the Champs Elysées, and at night I used to
steal out and look at them through the window.
They seemed so happy, and so handsome, and
so good; but he looked sickly, and I saw that,
like all Italians, he languished for his own warm
climate. But man is born to act as well as to
contemplate,” pursued Gawtrey, changing his
tone into the allegro, “and I was Soon driven
into my old ways, though in a lower line. I
went to London just to give my reputation on
airing; and when I returned, pretty flush again,
the poor Italian was dead, and Fanny was a
widow, with one boy, and rncrinte with a second
child. So then I sought her again, for her
mother had found her out, and was at her with
her devilish kindness; but Heaven was merciful,
and took her away from both of us: she died in
giving birth to a girl, and her last words were
uttered to me, imploring me--the adventurer—
the charlatan—the good-for-nothing—to keep
her child from the clutches of her own mother.


Well, sir, I did what I could for both the chil-


NIGHT AND MORNING.
73
dren; but the boy was consumptive, like his]
father, and sleeps at Pore la Chaise. The girl‘
is here—you shall see her some day. Poor
Fanny! if ever the devil will let me, I shall
reform for her sake; meanwhile, for her sake I
must get grist for the mill. My story is con-,
eluded, for I need not tell you of all my pranks‘
—of all the parts I have played in life. I have|
never been a murderer, or a burglar, or a high-,
way robber, or what the law calls a thief. I,
can only say as I said before, I have lived a on
my wits, and they have been a tolerable capttali
on the whole. I have been an actor, a money-
lender, a physician, a professor of animal mag“,
netism (that was lucrative till it went out oi"
fashion—perhaps it will come in again); I have.
been a lawyer, a house-agent, a dealer in curi-
osities and china; I have kept a hotel; I have
set up a weekly newspaper; I have seen almost,
every city in Europe, and made acquaintance
with some of its jails: but a man who has plenty
of brains generally falls on his legs.”
“And your father?” said Philip: and here be
informed Gawtrey of the conversation he had,
overheard in the church-yard, but on which a
scruplc of natural delicacy had hitherto kept
him silent. ,
“Well, now,” said his best, while a slight‘
blush rose to his cheeks, “I will tell you, that
though to my father’s sternucss and avarice I
attribute many of my faults, I yet always had a
sort of love for him; and when in London, I nc-
cidentally heard that he was growing blind, and
living with an artful old jade of a housekeeper,
who might send him to rest with a dose of
magnesia the night after she had coaxed him to
make a will in her favor, I sought him out—and
—hut you say you heard,what passed ‘3”
“Yes; and I heard him also call you by name
when it was too late, and I saw the tears on his
cheeks.”
“Did you? “fill you swear to that?” ex-
claimed Gawtrcy, with vehemencc; and then
shading his brow with his hand, he fell into a
reverie that lasted some moments. “ If any thing t
happen to me, Philip," he said, abruptly, “per-
haps he may yet be a father to poor Fanny; and
ifhe takes to her, she will repay him for what-
ever pain I may, perhaps, have cost him. Stop!
now] think of it, I will write down his address
for you—never forget it—there! It is time to
go to bed.”
Gawtrey’s tale made a deep impression on
Philip. He was too young, too inexperienced,
too much borne away by the passion of the nar-
rator, to see that Gawtrcy had less cause to blame
Fate than himself. True, he had been unjustly
implicated in the disgrace of an unworth uncle;
but he had lived with that uncle, though e knew
him to be a common cheat: true, he had been
hctra ed by a friend; but he had before known
that liiiend to be a man without principle or hon-.
or. But what wonder that an ardent boy saw
nothing of this—saw only the good heart that
had saved a poor girl from vice, and sighed to
relieve a harsh and avaricious parent? Even
the hints that Gawtre unawares lct full, of prac-
tices scarcely cove-re by the jovial phrase of “a ‘
great schoolhoy's scrapes,” either escaped the,
notice of Philip, or were charitath construed by ‘
him, in the compassion and the ignorance of a
youpg, hasty, and grateful heart.'


CHAPTER IV.
“ And she’s a stranger!
Women—beware umen."
MIDDLI'I‘OI-
“ As we love our younvest children
So the last fruit of on? afl'cetion, be“,
\Vherever we bestow it, is most strong;
Since ’til indeed our latest harvest-home,
Last merriment ‘t'ure winter!"
Wlns'rlx: Devil‘s Law Can.
"I would fuln know what kind thing a man's heart ls‘l
I will report it to you : ’tis a thing framed
Vlth divers comers !"
Rowtzr.
I HAVE said that Gawtrey’s talc made a deep
impression on Philip; that impression was in-
creased by subsequent conversations, more frank
even than their talk had hitherto been. There
was certainly aboufthis man a fatal charm which
concealed his vices. It arose, perhaps, from the
perfect combination of his physical frame; from
a health which made his spirits buoyant and
‘ hearty under all circumstances; and a blood so
fresh, so sanguine, that it could not fail to keep
the pores ofthe heart open. But he was not the
less—for all his kindly impulses and generous
feelings, and despite the manner in which, natu-
rally anxious to make the least unfavorable por-
trait of himself to Philip, he softened and glossed
over the practices of his lifwa thorough and
complete rogue; a dangerous, desperate, reck-
less dare-devil: it was easy to see when any
thing crossed him, by the cloud on his shaggy
brow, by the swelling of the veins on the fore-
head, by the diiation of the broad nostril, that he
, was one to cut his way through every obstacle
to an end—cholcrie, impetuous, fierce, deter-
mined; such, indeed, were the qualities that
made him respected among his associates, as his
more bland and humorous ones made him belov-
ed: he was, in fact, the incarnation of that great
spirit which the laws of the ' world raise up
against the world, and by which the world’s in-
justice, on a large scale, is awfully chastised;
on a small scale, merely nibbled at and harassed,
as the rat that gnaws the hoof of the elephant:
the spirit which, on a vast theater, rises up, gi-
gantic and sublime, in the heroes of war and
revolution—in Mirabeaus, Morats, Napoleons;
on a minor stage, it shows itself in demagogues,
fanatical philosophers, and mob-writers; and on
the forbidden boards, before whose reeking lamps
outcasts sit, at once audience and actors, it never
produced a knave more consummate in his part,
or carr ing it 0!)" with more buskined dignity,
than \ illiam Gawtrcy. I call him by his ubo-
riginal name; as for his other appellations, Bac-
chus himself had not so many!
One day a lady, richly dressed, was ushered by
Mr. Birnie into the bureau of Mr. Love, alias
Gawtrcy. Philip was seated by the window,
reading, for the first time, the “Candide,” that
work, next to “ Rassclas,” the most hopeless and
gloomy of the sports of genius with mankind.
The lady seemed rather embarrassed when she
perceived Mr. Love was not alone. She drew
back, and, drawing her vail still more closely
around her, said in French,
“ Pardon me, I would wish a private conver-
sation.”
Philip rose to withdraw, when the lady, ob-
serving him with eyes whose luster shone through
the vail, said gently,


74
NIGHT AND MORNING.
'_‘ But perhaps the young gentleman is dis-
creel."
“He is not discreet, he is discretion! my
adopted son. You may confide in him—upon
my honor you may, madam!” and Mr. Love
placed his hand on his heart.
“ He is vcry young," said the lady, in a tone
of involuntary compassion, as, with a very white
hand, she unclas ed the buckle of her cloak.
“He can the etter understand the curse of
celibacy,” returned Mr. Love, smiling.
The lady lifted part of her rail, and discovered
a handsome mouth, and a set of small, white
teeth; for she, too, smiled, though gravely, as
she turned to Morton and said,
“ You seem, sir, more fitted to be a votary of
the temple than one of its officers. However,
Monsieur Love, let there be do mistake between
us : I do not come here to form a marriage, but
to prevent one. I understand that Monsieur the
Vicomte de Vuudcmont has called into re ucst
your services. I am one of the vicomto’s fami-
ly; we are all anxious that he should not con- '
tract an engagement of the strange, and, pardon
me, unbecoming character which must stamp a
union formed at a public office."
“I assure you, madam,” said Mr. Love, with
dignity, “that we have contributed to the very
first—” -
“ Mon Dieu J" interrupted the lady, with much
impatience, “spat-c me a eulogy on your estab-
lishment: I have nodoubt it is very respectable;
and for grind": and c'picirrs may do extremely
well. But the vicomte is a man of birth and
connections. In a word, what he contemplates
is preposterous. I know not what fec Monsieur
Love expects; but if he contrive to amuse Mon-
sieur Vaudemont, and to frustrate every connec-
tion he proposes to form. that fee, whatever it
may;”bo, shall be doubled. Do you understand
me'. -
“Perfectly, madam; yet it is not your offer
that will bins me, but the desire to oblige so
charming a lady.”
“It is agreed, then ‘9” said the lady, careless-
ly; and, as she spoke, she again glanced at
Philip.
“If madame will call again, I will inform her
of my plans,” said Mr.'Love.
“ 'es, I will call again. Good-morning l"
As she rose and passed Philip, she wholly put
aside her veil, and looked at him with a gaze en-
tirely free from coquctry, but curious, searching,
and perhaps admiring: the look that an artist
may give to a picture, that seems of more value
than the place where he finds it would seem to
indicate. The countenance of the lady herself
was fair and noble, and Philip felt a strange thrill
at his heart, as, with a slight inclination of her
head, she turned from the room.
“Ah!” said Gawtrcy, laughing, “this is not
the first time I have been paid by relations to
break off the marriages I had formed. Egad!
if one could open a bureau to make married peo-
ple single, one would be a Croesus in no time!
Well, then, this decides me to complete the union
between Monsieur Goupille and Mademoiselle
de Courval. I had balanced a little hitherto be-
tween the épt'c'icr and the vicomte. Now I will
conclude matters. Do you know, Phil, 1 think
you have made a conquest '3" -
“Pooh!” said Philip, coloring.


I

In efl'ect, that very evening Mr. Love saw
both the épicier and Adele, and fixed the mar-
riage-day. As Monsieur Goupille was a person
of great distinction in the faubourg, this wedding
was one that Mr. Love congratulated himself
wreatly upon; and he cheerfully accepted an
invitation for himself and his partners to honor
the wares with their presence.
A night or two before the day fixed for the
marriage of .thsieur Goupille and the aristo-
cratic Adele, when Mr. Birnie had retired, Gaw-
trcy made his usual preparations for enjoying
himself. But this time the cigar and the punch
seemed to fail of their efl'ect; Gawtrey remained
moody and silent; and Morton was thinking of
the bri ht eyes of the lady who was so much in-
tereste against the amours of the Vicomte do
Vaudemont.
At last. Gawtre broke silence:
“My young frIcnd," said he, “I told you of
my little protégé—I have been buying toys for
her this morning—she is a beautiful creature:
to-morrow is her birthday—she will then be six
years old. But—but—” here Gawtrcy sighed,
“I fear she is not all right here," and he touched
his forehead.
“I should like much to see her,” said Philip,
not noticing the latter remark.
“And you shall; you shall come with me to-
morrow. Heighhol I should not like to die for
her sake !”
“ Does her wretched relation attempt to regain
her ‘2”
“ Her relation! N 0; she is no more—she
died about two years since! Poor Mary! I—
wcll, this is folly. But Fanny is at present in a
convent; they are all kind to her, but then I pay
vwell; in were dead and the pay stopped, again
I ask, what would become of her, unless, as I
before said, my father—"
“ But you are making a fortune now ?"
“If this lasts—yes; but I live in fear: the
police of this cursed city are lynx-eyed: how-
ever, that is the bright side of the question."
“ Why not have the child with you, since you
love her so much? She would be a great oom-
fort to you.”
“Is this a place for a child—a girl?" said
Gawtrey, stamping his foot impatientl'. “I
should go mad if I saw that villanous the man’s
eye bent upon her!”
“ You speak of Birnie.
him?”
“When you are my age you will know why
we endure what we dread—why we make friends
of those who else would be most horrible foes:
no, no, nothing can deliver me of this man but
Death. And—and—” added Gawtrey, turning
pale, “I can not murder a man who eats my
bread. There are stronger ties, my lad, than
affection, that bind men like galley-slaves to-
gether. He who can hang’you puts the halter
round your neck, and leads you by it like a
dog.”
A shudder came over the young listener. And
what dark secrets, known only to those two, had
bound, to a man seemingly his subordinate and
tool, the strong will and resolute temper of
William Guwtrey ?
“ But begone, dull care!" exclaimed Gawtrey,
rousing himself. “ And, after all, Birnie is I.
useful fellow, and dare no more turn against
How can you endure


NIGHT AND MORNING.
75
Why don't you drink '
me than I against him!
more ‘3
'Oh‘. have you e'er heard of the famed Captain Wattle 1' "
and antrey broke out into aloud Baechanolian
hymn, in which Pnilip could find no mirth, and
from which the songster suddenly paused to
cxclaim,
“ Mind you say nothing about Fanny to Birnie;
my secrets with him are not of that nature. He
could not hurt her, poor lamb! it is true-—at
least, as far as Ican foresee. But one can never 1
feel too sure of ono'slamb if one once introduces
it to the butcher l” ,
The next da ' being Sunday, the bureau was
closed, and Philip and Gawtrey repaired to the 1
convent. It was a dismal-looking place as to,
the exterior; but within there was a large gar-
den, well kept, and, notwithstanding the winter, i
it seemed fair and refreshing compared with the ’
polluted streets. The window of the room into
which they were shown looked upon the green- ‘.
sword, with walls covered with ivly at the farther l
end. And Philip’s own childhoo came back to
him as he gazed on the quiet of the lonely place. i
The door opened: an infant voice was heard; '
a voice of glee—0f rapture; and a child, light
and beautiful as a fairy, bounded to Gawtrey’s
hreast.
Nestling there, she kissed his face, his hands,
his clothes, with a passion that did not seem to l
belong to her age, laughing and sobbing almost
at a breath. I
On his part, Gawtrey appeared equally af- 1
fectcd; he stroked down her hair with his huge 1
hand, calling her all manner of pet names, in a1
tremulous voice that vainly struggled to be i
a .
g lit length he took the toys he had brought
with him from his capacious pocketsv and, strew-
ing them. on the floor, fairly stretched his vast
built along; while the child tumbled over him,
sometimes grasping at the toys, and then again
returning to his bosom and laying her head there,
looked up quietly into his eyes, as if the joy were
too much for her.
Morton, unheeded by both, stood by with folded
anus. He thought of his lost and ungrateful
brother, and muttered to himself,
“Fool! when she is older she will forsake
him 1"
Funny betrayed in her face the Italian origin
of her father. She had that exceeding richness
of complexion which, though not common even
in Italy, is only to be found in the daughters of
that land, and which harmonized well with the
purple luster of her hair, and the full, clear iris
of the dark eyes. Never were parted cherries
brighter than her dewy lips; and the color of the ,
open neck and the rounded arms was of a white- ,
neg- still more dazzling, from the darkness of
the hair and the carnation of the glowinv cheek.
Suddenly Fanny started from Gawtrey s arms, ,
cramming up to Morton, gazed at him wist-
, and said in French, -
l‘ Who are you? Do you come from the
moon? I think you do.” Then, stopping ab-i
ruptly, she broke into a verse of a nursery-song, I
which she chanted with a low, listless tone, as,
if she were not conscious of the sense. As she ;
thus sung, Morton, looking at her, felt astrange'
and painful doubt seize him. The child’s eyes,
though soft, were so vacant in their gaze.

h “And why do I come from the moon ?” said
0.
"Because you look sad and cross. I don’t
like you—I don’t like the moon, it gives me a.
‘ pain here i" and she put her hand to her temples.
" Have you got any thing for Fanny—poor, poor
‘ Fanny ‘3” and, dwelling on the epithet, she shook
‘ her head mournfully. ‘
“ You are rich Fanny, with all those toys.”
“ Am I? Every body calls me poor Fanny
—every body but papa; and she ran twain to
Gawtrey, and laid her head on his shoul er.
“ She calls me papa !” said Gawtrey, kissing ‘
her; “ you hear it? Bless her !”
“ And you never kiss any one but Fanny—you
have no other little girl?’ said the child, earn-
estly, and with a look less vacant than that
which had saddened Morton.
“No other—no—nothing under Heaven, and
perhaps above it, but you !" and he clasped her
in his arms. “ But,’ he added, after a pause,
“ but mind me, Fanny, you must like this gentle-
man. He will be always good to you; and he
had a little brother whom he was as fond of as I
am of on."
“ No, I won’t like him—I won’t like any body
but you and m sister l"
“ Sister! Izho is your sister 5‘"
The child’s face relapsed into an expression
almost of idiotcy. “I don’t know; I never saw
her. I hear her sometimes, but I don’t under-
stand what she says. Hush! come here l" and
she stole to the window on tiptoe. Gawtrey
followed, and looked out.
“ Do you hear her now ‘3” said Fanny.
does she so ?"
As the girl spoke, some bird among the ever-
greens uttered a shrill, plaintive cry rather than
song : a sound that the thrush occasionally makes
in the winter, and which seems to express some-
‘thin of fear, and pain, and impatience.
“ hat does she say? Can you tell me ‘2"
asked the child.
“Pooh! that is a bird: why do you call it
your sister ‘2“
“I don’t know! because it is—beeause it—
hecause—I don’t know—is it not in pain? Do
something for it, papa !”
Gawtrey lanced at Morton, whose face he-
tokened his eep pity, and, creeping up to him,
whis ered,
“ 0 you think she is really touched here?
No, no, she will outgrow it—I am sure she
will t"
Morton sighed.
Funny by this time had again seated herself
in the middle of the floor, and arranged her
toys, but without seeming to take pleasure in
them.
At last Gawtrey was obliged to depart. The
lay sister who had charge of Fanny was sum-
moned into the parlor, and then the child‘s mun-
ncr entirely changed: her face grew purple;
she sobbed with as much anger as grief ; “ She
would not leave papa; she would not go—that
she would not i”
“It is always so," whispered Gawtrey to
Morton, in an nbashed and apologetic voice.
“It is so difficult to get away from her. Just
go and talk with her while I steal out."
Morton went to her as she struggled with the
patient, good-natured sister, and began to soothe
“ \Vhttt


76 NIGHT AND MORNING.
and caress her, till she turned on him her large ‘ of her birth—delirious, indeed—that may account
humid eyes, and said mournfully, .for it. I often fancy that it is the constant cx-
“ Tu es mécha-nt, tu. Poor Fannv l” citement which her state occasions me that makes
“But this pretty doll—” began the sister. me love her so much; you see she is one who
The child looked at it jo lessly. can never shift for herself. I must get money
“ And papa is going to ie t” for her; I have left a little already with the su-
“Whenever monsieui‘ goes," whispered the perior, and I would not touch it to save myself
nun, “she always says that he is dead, and cries from famine! If she has money, people will be
herself quietly to sleep; when monsieur returns, kind enough to her. And then,” continued
she says he is come to life again. Some one, I , Gawtrey, “you must perceive that she loves
suppose, once talked to her about death; and nothing in the world but me—me, whom nobod
she thinks, when she loses sight of any one, that else loves! Well, well, now to the shop again i"
that is death.” On‘returning home, the boom inl'orme them
“Poor child !” said Morton, with a trembling that a lady had called, and asked both for Men-
voiee. , sieur Love and the young gentlemen, and seemed
The child looked up, smiled, stroked his cheek much chagrined at missing both. By the do-
with her little hand, and said, l scription, Morton guessed she was the fair in-
“Thank you! Yes! poor Fanny! Ah, he is ’ cognita, and felt disappointed at having lost the
going—see l—let me go too—tu cs mic/tent.” interview
“But,” said Morton, detaining her gently,l
“do you know that you give him pain ‘3 You
make him cry by showing pain yourself. Don’t
make him so sad!” '
The child seemed struck; hung down her
head for a moment, as it' in thought; and then,
jumping from Morton’s lap, ran to Gawtrey,
put up her pouting lips, and said,
“ One kiss more i"
Gawtrey kissed her and turned away his head. ;
“Fanny is a ood girl;” and Fanny, as she;
spoke, went baci to Morton, and put her little i Tar: morning rose that was to unite Monsieur
fingers into her eyes, as if either to shut out‘ Goupille with Mademoiselle Adele dc Courval.
Gawtrey’s retreat from her sight, or to pressIThe ceremony was performed, and bride and
‘\
._.___
CHAPTER V.
“ The cursed caric was at his wontcd trade,
Still tempting heedlcss men into his snare,
in Witching wise, eat before have said ;
But when he saw. in goodly gear arrayed.
The grave. majestic knight approaching nigh,
His countenance t't-li."
'l‘noxsos: Castle of Indolent
back her tears.
“Give me the doll now, Sister Marie.”
Morton smiled and sighed; placed the child, l
who struggled no more, in the man’s arms, and
left the room; but, as he closed the door, he
looked back, and saw that Fanny had escaped
from the sister, thrown herself on the floor, and
was crying, but not aloud.
“Is she not a little darling ‘2” said Gawtrey,
as they gained the street.
" She is, indeed, a most beautiful child l”
“And you will love her ifI leave her penni-
less,” said Gawtrey, abruptly. “It was your
love for your mother and your brother that made
me like you from the first. Ay,” continued
Gawtrey, in a tone of great earnestness, “ay;
and, whatever may happen to me, I will strive
and keep you, my poor lad, harmless, and, what
is better, innocent even of such matters as sit
light enough on my own well-seasoned con-
science. In turn, it' ever you have the power,
be good to her—yes, be good to heri I won’t
say a harsh word to' you if ever you like to turn
king's evidence against myself .”
“ Gawtrey i” said Morton, reproachfully, and
almost fiercely.
“Bah! such things are! But, tell me honest-
ly, do you think she is vary strange—very de-
ficient ‘2”
“I have not seen enough of her to judge,”
answered Morton, cvasively.
“She is so ehangei'ul!" persisted Gawtrey;
“sometimes you would say that she was above
her age, she comes out with such thoughtful,
clever things; then, the next moment, she
throws me into despair. These nuns are very
skillful in education—at least they are said to
be so. The doctors give me hope, too; you see
her poor mother was very unhappy at the time
bridegroom went through that trying ordeal
i with becoming gravity. Only the elegant Adele
seemed more unafl'ectedly agitated than Mr. Love
'could well account for; she was very nervous
, in church, and more often turned her eyes to the
‘door than to the altar. Perhaps she wanted to
run away; but it was either too late or too early
for that proceeding. The rite erformed, the
Ihappy pair and their friends adjourned to the
Cadran Blur, that restaurant so celebrated in
the festivities of the good citizens of Paris.
Here Mm Love had ordered, at the épicier’s ex-
, pense, a most tasteful entertainment.
1 “ Sarré .' but you have not played the econo-
mist, Monsieur Lofe,” said Monsieur (v'onpille,
rather querulously, as he glanced at the long
room adorned with artificial flowers, and the
table (1 cinquante rauvcrta.
“ Bah l” replied Mr. Love, “ you can retrench
afterward. Think of the fortune she brought
You.”
3 “It is a pretty sum, certainly," said Monsieur
Goupille, “and the notary is perfectly satis-
fled. ’
“There is not a marriage in Paris that does
me more credit,” said Mr. Love; and he
marched 011' to receive the compliments and
congratulations that awaited him among such
of the guests as were aware of his $ood offices.
,The Vicomte dc Vaudemont was, 0 course, not
‘ present. He had not been near Mr. Love s It
Adele had accepted the Epict'cr. But Madame
Beaver, in awhite bonnet lined with lilac, was
hanging scntimcntnllv on the arm of the Pole,
who looked very grand with his white favor; and
i Mr. Higgins had been introduced by Mr. Love to
a little dark Creole, who wore paste diamonds, and
had very languishing eyes; so that Mr. Love’s
,heart might well swell with satisfaction at the


NIGHT AND MORNINGL 7'7
pmpeet of the various blisses to come, whiohl Approfhc: dour, Monsieur Favor-t, faites votrc
might owe their origin to his benevolence. In ‘ deeoir."
fact, that arch-priest of the Temple of Hymeu‘. At these words, the small companion of the
was never more great than he was that clay; , stranger slowly sauntered to the spot, while, at
never did his establishment seem more solid, his ‘, the sound of his name and the trend of his step,-
rcputation more popular, or his fortune more the throng gave way to -tlte right and left: for
we. He was the life of the party. Monsieur Favart was one of the most renowned
_ The banquet over, the revelers prepared for ~ chiefs of the great Parisian police—a man wor-
_ a dance. Monsieur Goupille, in tights, stilllthy to be the contemporary of the illustrious
tighter than he usually wore, and of a rich nan- ! Vidooq.
keen, quite new, with striped silk stockings, ‘ “ Calms: sous, mtssirm's; do not be alarmed,
opened the ball with the lady of a rich pdtissicr 1 ladies,” said this gentleman, in the mildcst of all
in the same faubourg; Mr. Love took out the human voices; and, certainly, no oil dropped on
bride. The evening advanced; and, after sev-;the waters ever produced so tranquilizrng an
oral other dances of ceremony. Monsieur Gou- \ effect as that small, feeble, gentle tenor. The
pills conceived himself entitled to dedicate one, Pole, in especial, who was holding the fair bride
to connubial affection. A country dance was ' with both his arms, shook all over, and seemed
called, and the finder claimed the fair hand of the about to let his burden gradually slide to the
gentle Adéle. About this time, two persons, not floor, when Monsieur Fat-art, looking at him
hitherto perceived, had quietly entered the room, l with a benevolent smile, said, .
and, standing near the doorway, seemed examin-, “ .d/ta, men bravo! c’rst to'i. Rcstcz donc.
in the dancers, as if in search for some one. I Restez, tendon! toujours Ia dame!”
'1‘ ey bobbed their heads up and down, to and, The Pole, thus condemned, in the French
fro—now stoo ed, now stood on tiptoe. The'idicm, “ always to hold the damc,”mechanically
one was a tall, argc-whiskered, fair-haired man: l raised the arms he had previously dejected, and
the other a little, thin, neatly dressed person, i the lice-officer, with an approving nod of the
who kept his hand on the arm of his companion, ' hen , said,
and whispered to him from time to time. The “ Ben! nc bongo: point, c’csl ya !”
whiskercd entleman replied in a guttural tone, I Monsieur chpille, in equal surprise and in-
which proc aimed his origin to be German. The ‘ dignntion to see his better half thus consigned,
busy dancers did not perceive the strangers. l Without any care to his own marital feelings, to
The by-standcrs did, and a hum of curiosity the arms of another, was about to snatch her
circled round: who could they be? who had ‘ from the Pole, when Monsieur Favart, touching
invited them ? they were new fach in the fau- , him on the breast with his little finger, said, in
bong—perhaps relations to Adole? the suavest manner, r
In high deli ht, the fair bride was skipping‘ "‘ Mon bourgeois, meddle not with what does
down the mi dle, while Monsieur Goupille, t not concern on!”
wiping his forehead with care, admired her agil-l “With what does not concern me I" replied
ity; when, 10 and behold! the whiskered gen- Monsieur Goupillo, drawing himself up to so
tlcman I have described abruptly advanced from , great a stretch, that he seemed ~ ulling or)“ his
his companion, and cried, {tights the wrong way. “Explaln yourself, if
“La uoilzi ! sacré tonncrrr I” i you please! This lady is m ' wife !" '
At that voice—at that apparition, the bride, “ Say that again, that’s al i” cried the ltis.
halted; so suddenly, indeed, that she had notl kered stranger, in most horrible French, and with
time to put down both feet, but remained with , a furious grimace, as he shook both his fists
one high in air, while the other sustained itself , undo the nose of the ' itiu'.
on the light fantastic toe. The company nat-t "' ay it again, sir,’ said Monsieur Goupille,
“tall imagined this to be an operatic flourish by no means donated; “and why should not I
whic called for approbation. Monsieur Love, say it. again ‘? That lady is my wife t"
who was thundering down behind her, criedl, “You lie! the is mine I" cried the German;
“Bravo!” and as the well-grown gentlemen and, bending down, he caught the fair Adele
had to make a sweep to avoid disturbin herl from the Pole, with as little ceremony as if she
equilibrium, he come full against the whis ered ‘ had never had a great grandfather n marquis,
stranger, and sent him 011' as a bat sends a ball. , and giving her a shake t at might have roused
“Mon Dive I” cried Monsieur Gonpille. “Ma' the dead, thundered out,
doucr: omit—she has fainted away l" And, in- “ Speak, Madame Bihl! Are you my wife or
deed, Adele had no sooner recovered her bal- not ‘1’”
once, than she resi ned it once more into the: “Monstre!” murmured Adolc, opening her
arms of the startled Pole, who was happily at cyes.
l “There; you hear—she'owns me!" said the
In the mean time, the German stranger, who‘ German, appealing to the company with a tri-
had saved himself from falling by coming with umphant air.
his full force upon the toes of Mr. Higgins,‘ “C‘estvrai!” said the soft voice ofthe oliee-
again advanced to the spot, and, rudely seizing ‘ man. “And now, pray don’t let us isturb
the fair bride by the arm, exclaimed, 4 your amusements any longer. We have afiarra
“No sham, if you please, madame. Speak ! at the door. Remove 'our lady, MonsieurBihl.”
What the devil have you done with the money i‘" \ “ Monsieur Lofe ! Ionsieur Lofe !” cried, or
"' Reall ', sir,’7 said Monsicn'r Goupille, draw- rather sneered the Epicier darting across the
ing up hlS cravat, ‘-' this is very extraordinary ‘ room, and seizing the chef by the tail of lllS cont
conduct! \Vhat have you got to say to this just as he was half way through the .door,
lady’s money? It is my money now, sir !” ‘, “come back! Quelle mauvai: plmtmntcrm me
“Ohol it is, is it? We'll soon see that} fairer vous ipi! Did you not tell me that lady


78 'NIGHT AND MORNING.
was single ? Ami married or not? Do I stand l “ The long and the short of it,” said Monsieur
on my head or my heels?" ,Favart, “ is, that Monsieur Bihl, is a brave gar-
“Hush, hush! 1mm bon bourgeois!” whispered lqon, and has been half over the world as a
Mr. Lore; “ all shall be explained to-morrow.” courier.”
“Who is-this gentleman?” asked Monsieur i “ A courier!" exclaimed several voices.
Favart, approaching Mr. Love, who, seeing him- I “ Madame was nursery-"overness to an Eng-
selfin for it, suddenlyjerkcd olfthe épicier, thrust lish milord. They married, and quarrclcd ; no
his hands down into his breaches pockets, buried >harm in that, mas arm's—nothing more common.
his chin in his cravat, elevated his eyebrows, lMonsieur Bihl is a very faithful fellow; nursed
screwed in his eyes, and pulled out his cheeks, this last master in an illness that ended fatally,
so that the astonished Monsieur Geupille really because he traveled with his doctor. Milord
thought himself bewitched, and literally did not tleft him a handsome legacy; he retired from
reco nizc the face of the match-maker. service, and fell ill, perhaps from idleness or
“ €Vho is this gentleman ‘3" repeated the little ‘ beer. Is not that the story, Monsiucr Bihl ‘3‘:
officer, standing beside, or rather, below, Mr. “ He was always drunk, the wretch,” subbed
Love, and looking so diminutive by the contrast, , Adele.
that you might have fancied that the priest of l “ That was to drown my domestic sorrows,”
Hymen had only to breathe to blow him away. Isaid the German; “and, when l was sick in my
“ Who should he be, monsieur ‘1’” cried, with bed, madame run off with my money. Thanks
great pertness, Madame Rosalie Caumartin, {to monsicur, I have found both, and I wish you
' coming to the relief with the generosity of her ' a very good night.”
“,Dtmsez vous toug'ours, mes amis,” said the
sex: “ this is Monsieur Lofe—flnglai: célébrc. l
What have you to say against him ‘2” officer, bowing. And, following Adele and her
“He has got 500 francs of mine 1” cried the spouse, the 'littlo rnan left the room, where he
Epicier. had caused, in chests so broad and limbs so
The policeman scanned Mr. Love with great doughty, much the same consternation as that
attention. \ which some diminutive ferret occasions in a
“ So you are in Paris again. Hein! rotwjouez burrow of rabbits twice his size.
toujom-s 'votrc r510 I” , Morton had outstaid Mr. Love. But he
“Ma fm' I” said Mr. Love, boldly, “I don’t i thought it unnecessary to linger long after that
understand what monsieur means; my charac- gentleman’s departure; and, in the general hub-
ter is well known; g0 and inquire it in Lon- | bub that ensued, he crept out unperceived, and
don—ask the secretary of foreign affairs what is ‘soon arrived at the bureau. He found Mr. Love
said of me—inquirc of my ambassador—demand land Mr. Birnie already engaged in packing up
of m '—” their effects.
“ f'olra passcporl, monaieur?" “ Why, when did you leave 7’” said Morton to
“It is at home. A gentleman does not carry Mr. Birnie.
his passport in his pocket when he goes to ul “I saw the policeman enter."
ball !” “And why the deuce did not you tell us ‘1”
“I will call and see it : au revoir! Take my said Gawtrey.
advice, and leaVe Paris; I think 1 have seen you t “ Every man for himself. Besides, Mr. Love
somewhere!” iwas dancing,” replied Mr. Birnie, with a dull
“Yet I have never had the honor to marry .glance of disdain. .
monsieur!” said Mr. Love, with a polite bow. | “ Philosophy!” muttered Gawlrey, thrusting
In return for his joke, the policeman gave Mr. his dress-coat into his trunk; then, suddenly
Love one look—it was a quiet look, very quiet; lchanging his voice, “ Ha, but it was a very
but Mr. Love seemed uncommonly afleeted by good joke, after all—own ldid it well. Ecod!
it; he did not say another word, but found him- 1 if he had not given me that look, I think 1 should
self outside the house in a twinkling. Monsieur ‘ have turned the tables on him. But those d—d
Favart turned round, and saw the Pole making ,l'ellows learn of the mad doctors how to tame
himself as small as possible behind the goodly ,‘us. Faith, my heart went down to my shoes;
proportions of Madame Beaver. ' yet I’m no coward l"
“What name does that gentleman gob ‘2” I "But, after all, he evidently did not know

“So—vo---lofski,thc heroic Pole,’7 crie Mad- |you,” said Morton; “and what has he to say
ame Beaver, with sundry misgivings at the un- l against you '3 Your trade is a strange one, but
expected cowardice of so great a patriot. t not dishonest. Why give up as if—”
“ Hcin ! take care of yourselves, ladies. I ‘, “ My young friend," interrupted Gawtrey,
have nothing against that person this time. But , “ whether the officer comes after us or not, our
Monsieur Latour has served his apprenticeship , trade is ruined: that infernal Atléle, with her
at the galloys, and is no more :1 Pole than I am , fabulous grandmaman, has done for us. Goupille
a Jew. ’ Iwill blow the temple about our ears. No help
“And this lady’s fortune I" cried Monsieur ,for it—eh, Birnie?”
Goupille, pathetically~ “ the settlements are all t “ None.’7
made, the notaries all paid. I am sure there} “G0 to bed, Philip: we’ll call thee at day-
must be some mistake.’ , break, for we must make clear work before our
Monsieur Bihl, who had by this time restored , nei hbors open their shutters.”
his lost Helen to her senses, stalked up to the ; geolincd, but half undressed, on his bed in the
6picier, dragging the lady alon with him. llittlo cabinet, Morton revolved the events of the
“ Sir, there is no mistake! at, when I have ievening. The thought that he should see no
got the money, if you like to have the lady, you more of that white hand and that lovely month,
are welcome to her." i which still haunted his recollection as appertain-
. “ Monstre 1” again muttered the fair Adele. ing to the incognito, greatly indisposed him
I


NIGHT AND MORNING.
79
toward the abrupt flight intended by Gawtrey,
while (so much had his faith in that person de-
pended upon respect for his confident daring, and
so thoroughly fearless was Morton’s own nature) ‘I
he felt himself greatly shaken in his allegiance
to the chief by recollecting the efl‘ect produced
on his valor by a single glance from the instru- I
ment of law. He had not yet lived long enough i
, u
to be aware that men are sometimes the repro-
little for Fanny, which I will rather starve than
touch. There remain, however, 150 Napoleons,
and our effects, sold at a fourth their value, will
fetch 150 more. Here is your share. I have
com assion on you. I told on ‘I would bear
you armless and innocent. {cave us while yet
time."
It seemed, then, to Morton that Guwtrcy had
divined his thoughts of shame and escape of the
sentatives of things; that what the scytale was ' previous night; perhaps Gawtrey had: and such
to the Spartan hero, a sheriff’s writ often is to I is the human heart, that, instead of welcoming
a Waterloo medalist; that a Bow-street runner i the very release he had half contemplated, now
will enter the foulest den, where murder sits that it was offered him, Philip shrunk from it as
with his fellows, and pick out his prey with the a base desertion.
beck of his fore-finger. That, in short, the thing I “Poor Gawtreyl” said he, pushing back the
called L.\w, once made tangible and present, ‘canvas bag of gold held out to him, “you shall
rarely fails to palsy the fierce heart of the thing I not go over the world, and feel that the orphan
called Came. For law is the symbol of all |
mankind reared against one foe—the man of 1
crime. N at yet aware of this truth,‘ nor indeed,
in the least suspecting Gawtrey of worse offenses
than those of a charlatanic and equivocal pro-
fession, the young man mused over his protector’s
cowardice in disdain and wonder; till, weariedl
with conjectures, distrust, and shame at his own
strange position of obligation to one whom he
could not respect, he fell asleep.
When he woke he saw the gm light of dawn,
that streamed cheerlcssly throng his shutterless ‘
window, stmggling with the faint ray of a can-
dle that Gawtrey, shading with his hand, held
over the sleeper. He started up, and, in the
confusion of waking and the imperfect light by
which he behold the strong features of Gawtrey,
half imagined it was a. fee who stood before him. '
“Take care, man!" said Gawtrey, as Mor-
ton, in this belief, grasped his arm. " You have
a precious rough gripe of your own. Bo quiet,
Will you ? I have a. word to say to you.” Here '
Gawtrey, placing the candle on a chair, returned
to the door and closed it.
“ Look you," he said, in a whisper, “I have
nearly ran through my circle of invention, and
my wit, fertile as it is, can present to me little
encouragement in the future. The eyes of this ‘
Favart, once on me, every dicuise and every:
double will not long avail. I are not return to ‘
London; I am too well known in Brussels, Ber- .
lin, and Vienna—”
“ But,” interrupted Morton, raising himself .‘
on his arm, and fixing his dark eyes 11 on his}

you fed and fostered left you to starve with your
money in his pocket. When you again assure
me that you have committed no crime, you again
remind me that ratitude has no righteo be
severe upon the s ifts and errors of its bene-
factor. fyou do not conform to society, what
has societv done for me?
sake you in a reverse. Fortune has given you
a fall. erat, then, courage, and at her again!”
These last words were said so heartily and
cheerfully, as Morton sprung from the bed, that
it inspirited Gawtrey, who had really desponded
of his lot.
“Well,” said he, “I can not reject the only
friend left me; and while I live—but I will make
no professions. Quick, then; our luggage is
already gone, and I hear Birnio granting the
re ue’s march of retreat."
orten’s toilet was soon completed, and the
three associates bade adieu to the bureau.
Birnie, who was taciturn and impenetrable as
ever, walked a little before as guide. They
arrived, at length, at a scrrurt'rr’s shop, placed
in an alley near the Ports St. Denis. The scr-
rurier himself, a tall, begrimed, black-bearded
man, was taking the shutters from his shop as
they approached. He and Birnie exchanged
silent nods; and the former, leaving his Work,
conducted them up a very filthy flight of stairs
to an attic. where a bed, two stools, one table,
and an old walnut-tree bureau formed the sole
articles of furniture. Gawtrey looked rather
ruefully round the black, low, damp walls, and
said, in a crest-fallen tone.
No! I will not for-
host, “but you have told me again an a ainl “ We were better off at the Temple of Hymen.
that you have committed no crime—why, t en, l But get us a bottle of wine, some eggs, and a
be so fearful of discover ‘2" | frying-pan—by Jove, I am a capital hand at an
“Why!” repeated ‘awtrey, with a sli ht omelet l"
hesitation, which he instantly overcame, “w yli The serrarier nodded again, grinned, and
Have not you yourself learned that appearances . withdrew.
have the efl'ect of crimes ? Were you not chased ‘ “ Rest here,” said Birnie, in his calm, passion-
as a thief when I rescued you from your foe, the', less voice, that seemed to Morton, however, to
Law? Are you not, though a boy in years, assume an unwonted tone of command. “I will
under an alias, and an extle from your own 2 go and make the best bargain I can for our fur-
lnnd? And how can you put these austere, niture, buy fresh clothes, and engage our places
questions to me, who am growing gray in the for Tours.”
endeavor to to extract snnbeams from‘cucum- “For Tours ‘2" repeated Morton.
hers—subsistence from poverty? Irepcat that,1 “Yes—there are some English there; one
there are reasons why I must avoid. for the.can live wherever there are English,” said
present, the great capitals. I must sink in life, ', Gawtrey.
and take to the rovinces. Birnie is sanguine “Hum!” granted Birnie, dryly; and bum)“-
as ever; but he is a terrible sort of comforter. i ing up his coat, he walked slowly away.
Enough of that. Newto yourself. Our savings} About noon he returned with a bundle of
are less than you might expect; to be sure clothes, which Gawtrey, who always regained
Birnie has been treasurer, and I have laid by a, his elasticity of spirit, wherever there was four


80
NIGHT AND MORNING.
play to his talents, examined with great utten‘ '
tion, and many exclamations of “ Ban, c’cut fa."
“ I have done well with the Jew," said Birnie,
drawing from his coat pocket two heavy bags;
“ one hundred and eighty Napoleons. We shall
commence with a good capital.
" You are right, my friend,” said Gawtrey.
The scrruricr was then dispatched to the est
restaurant in the nei hborhood, and the three.
adventurers made a ess Socratic dinner than
might have been expected.
_+
CHAPTER VI.
“Then out again he flies to wing his mnzy round."
'l‘uonsox: (‘nstlc 0f Indulcnce.
" Again he gazed: ‘lt is.‘ said hr. ‘thc same;
There site he upright in his seat secure,
As one whose conscience is correct and purc.‘ “
. UILABBI-
Tur: adventurers arrived at Tours, and estab-
lished themselves there in a lodging, without
any indident worth narrating b the way.
At Tours Morton had nothing to do but to,
take his pleasure and enjoy himself. He passed
for a young heir ; Gawtrey for his tutor—a 1100- 1
tor in divinity; Birnie for his valet. The task
of maintenance fell on Gawtrey, who hit off his l
character to a hair; larded his grave jokes with
University scraps of Latin; looked big and well-
l‘ed; wore knee-breaches and a shovel‘hat; and ,
plane: whist with the skill of a. veteran vicar.
By ' art in that game, he made, at first, enough, ',
at least, to defray their weekly expenses. But,
by degrees, the good people at Tours, who,
under pretence of health, were there for econo-
my, rew shy of so excellent a player; and,
thoug Gawtrey always swore solemnly that he
played with the most scrupulous boner (an as-
severation which Morton, at least, implicitly
believed), and no proof to the contrary was ever
detected, yet a first-rate card-player is always
a suspicious character, unless the losing arties
know exactly who he is. The market lgll off,
and Gawtrey at length thought it prudent to
extend their travels.
‘ “Ah,” said Mr. Gawtrey, “the world nowa-
days bas grown so ostentatious, that one can not
travel advantageous] ' without a post character
and four horses.” At length they found them-
selves at Milan, which, at that time, was one of
the El Dorados for gamestcrs. Here, however,
for want of introductions, Mr. Gawtre found it
difficult to get into society. The nobles, proud ;
and rich, played high, but were circumspect in 3
their company; the bourgeoise, industrious and
energetic, preserved much.of the old Lombard ,
shrewdness: there were no table d'ltbtu and ‘
ublic reunions. Gawtrey saw his little capital ‘
aily diminishing, with the Alps at the rear, and _
Poverty in the van. At length, always on the
gui viva, he contrived to make acquaintance i
with a Scotch family of great respectability.
He efleeted this by picking up a snufilbox which
the Scotchinan had dropped in taking out hisI
handkerchief. This politeness paved the way'
to a conversation, in which Gaw'trey made him- \
self so agreeable, and talked with such zest of
the modern Athens, and the tricks practiced
n travelers, that he was presented to Mrs.
B acgregor; cards were interchanged; and, as _



Mr. Gawtrey lived in tolerable style, the Mac-
gregorn pronounced him “ a rare genteel mon."
nee in the house of a respectable person, Gaw‘
trey contrived to turn himself round and round,
till he burrowed a hole into the English circle
then settled at Milan. His whist-playing came
into requisition, and once more Fortune smiled
upon Skill.
To this house the pupil one evening accompa-
nied the tutor. When the whist-party, consist~
ing of two tables, was formed, the youn r man
found himself left out with an old gent eman,
who seemed loquacious and cod-natured, and
who put many questions to lorton which he
found it diflicult to answer. One of the whist-
tahles was now in a state of revolution, rizl, a
lady had cut. out, and a entlemcn cut in, when
the door opened, and ord Lilburne was an~
nounccd. -
Mr. Macgregor, rising, advanced with great
respect to this personage.
“ I scarcely ventured to hope you would coom,
Lord Lilburne, the night is so cold."
“ You did not allow sufficiently, then, for the
dullness of my solitary inn, and the attractions ol
your circle. Aha! whist, I see.”
"' You play sometimes ‘2’”
“Very seldom now; I have sown all my wild
oats, and even the ace of spades can scarcely dig
them out again." '
“ Ha! ha! vara guide.”
“I will look on -” and Lord Lilburne drew
his chair to the table, exactly opposite to Mr.
Gawtrey.
The old gentleman turned to Phili .
“ An extraordinary man, Lord Lilgurne; you
have heard of him, of course ‘2”
“ N o, indeed ; what of him ?” asked the young
man rousing himself.
“ 'What of him ‘1’” said the old gentleman,
with a smile; “why, the newspa are, if you
ever read them, will tell you enoug of the ele-
gant, the witty Lord Lilburne; a man of emi-
nent talent, though indolent. He was wild in
his youth, as clever men often are; but, on at-
taining his title and fortune, and marrying into
the family of the then premier, he became more
sedate. They say he mi ht make a great figure
in politics if he would. c has a very high rep-
utation—very. Fee 10 do say he is still fond of
pleasure; but that is a common failing among
the aristocracy. Morality is only found in the
middling classes, youn gentleman. It is a
lucky family, that of Li burne; his sister, Mrs.
Beaufort—J
“ Beaufort l” exclaimed Morton; and then
muttered to himself. “Ah, true—true, I have
heard the name of Lilburne before.”
“ Do you know the Beauforts? “'ell, you re-
member how luckily Robert, Lilburne's brother-
in-law, came into that fine property just as his
predecessor was about to marry a—"
Morton soowled at his garrulous acquaintance,
i and stalked abruptly to the card-table.
Ever since- Lord Lilburne had seated himself
opposite to Mr. Gawtroy, that gentleman had
evinced a perturbation of manner that became
obvious to the company. He grew deadly pale;
his hands trembled; he moved uneasily in his
seat; he missed deal; he trumped his partner’s
best diamond; finally be revoked, threw down
his money, and said, with a forced smile, “That


NIGHT AND MORNING.
81
the beat of the room overcame him." As he
rose, Lord Lilburno rose also, and the eyes of
both met. Those of Lilburne were calm, but

The wretched man (for at that moment he
was wretched) paused breathless from this pas-
sionate and rapid burst; and before him rose in
penetrating and inquisitive in their gaze; those its marble majesty, with the moon full upon its
of Gawtrey were like balls of fire.
He seemed shinin
spires, the wonder of Gothic Italy—tho
gradually to dilute in his height, his broad chest Catlie ral Church of Milan.
expanded, he breathed hard.
“Chafe not yourself at the universal fate,"
“Ah, doctor,” said Mr. Maogrcgor, “let me said the young man, with a bitter smile on his
introduce you to Lord Lilburne."
The peer bowcd haughtily; Mr. Gawtrey did
not. return the salutation, but with a sort of gulp,
as if he wcre swallowing some burst of passion,
strode to the fire; and then, turning round, again
fixed his gaaeeupon the new uost. Lilburne,
however, who had never lost his self-composure
at this strange rudeness, was now quietly talk-
ing with their host.
“Your doctor seems an eccentric man—a lit-
tle absent—learned, I suppose. Have you been
to Como yet ‘1‘”
Mr. Gawtrey remained by the fire, beating
the devil’s tattoo upon the chimney-piece, and
ever and anon turning his glance toward Lil-
burne, who seemed to have forgotten his exist-
once.
Both these guests staid till the party broke
up, Mr. Gawtrey apparently wishing to outstay
LOrd Lilburne; for, when the last went down
stairs, Dir. Gawtrey, nodding to his comrade,
and giving a hurried bow to the host, descended
also. As they passed the porter’s lodge, they
found Lilburne on the step of his carriage; he,
turned his head abruptly, and again met Mr.
Gawtrey’s eyes; paused a moment, and whisw
pared over his shoulder,
“ So we remember each other, sir ‘i‘ Let us
not meet again ; and, on that condition, bygones ‘the jolly person.
are bygones.” _
“Scoundrel!” muttered Gawtrey, clenching
his fists; but the peer had sprung into his car-
riage with a lightness scarcely to be expected
from his lameness, and the wheels whirled within
an inch of the soi disant doctor’s right pump.
Gawtrey walked on for some moments in
great excitement; at length he turned to his
oompanion:
“ Do you guess who Lord Lilburno is? I will
tell you : my first foe, and Fanny’s grandfather!
Now note the justice of Fate. Here is this
man—mark well—this man, who commenced
life by putting his faults on my own shoulders!
—from that little boss has fungused out a terri~
ble hump—this man, who seduced my afiianced
bride, and then left her whole soul, once fair and
blooming—l swear it—with its leaves fresh from
the dews of heaven, one rank leprosy—this man,
who, rolling in riches, learned to cheat and pil-
fer as a boy learns to dance and play the fiddle,
and (to damn me, whose happiness he had blast-
ed) accused me to the war] of his own crime!
,—here is this man, who has not left off one vice,
but added to those of his youth the bloodless
craft of the veteran knave—hcro is this man,
flattered, courted, great, marching through lanes
of bowing parasites to an illustrious epitaph and
a marble tomb; and I, a rogue too, if you will,
but rogue for my bread, datian from him my
mum and my ruinl I—vaga ond—outciist—
!kulkiug through tricks to avoid crime—wh the
difference? Because one is born rich an the
other poor; because he has no excuse for crime,
and, therefore, no one suspects him I"
E

I

lips, and pointing to the Cathedral; “ I have not.
lived long, but I have learned already enough to
know this: he who could raise a pile like that,
dedicated to Heaven, would be honored as a
saint; he who knelt to God by the roadside un-
der a hedge, would be sent to the house of cor.
reetion as a va abondl The difference between
man and man is money, and will be, when you,
the despised eharlatan, and Lilburne, the hon-
ored cheat, have not left as much dust behind
you as will fill a. snail-box. Comfort yourself;
you are in the majority.”
—._-_
CHAPTER Vll.
“ A desert will
Before then ltrotch‘d bare, eomfortless. and vast.
With gibbon, bones. and carcasses defiled."
Taolsos: Celtic of Indolent.
Ma. karas'r did not wish to give his foe the
triumph of thinking he had driven him from Mi-
lan; be resolved to stay and brave it out; but
when he appeared in public, he found the ac-
quaintunces he had formed bow politely, but
cross to the other side of the way. No more
invitations to tea and cards showered in upon
He was puzzled; for people,
while they shunned him, did not appear uncivil.
He found out, at last, that a report was circu-
lated that lie was deranged; though he could
not trace this rumor to Lord Lilhurne, ho was
at no loss to guess from whom it had emanated.
His own eccentricities, especially his recent
manner at Mr. Macgregor’s, gave confirmation
to the charge. Again the funds began to sink
low in the canvas bags, and at length, in despair,
Mr. Gawtrey was obliged to quit the field.
They returned to France through Switzerland—
a country too poor for amesters; and, ever
since the interview with Lilburne, a great change
had come over Gawtrey’s gay spirit: he grew
moody and thoughtful; he took no ins to re-
plenish the common stock; be talko much and
lscriously to his young friend of poor Funny, and
owned that he yearned to see her again. The
desire to return to Paris haunted him like a fatal-
ity; he saw the danger that awaited him there,
but it only allured him the more, as the candle
that has singed its wings does the moth. Birnie,
who, in all their vicissitudes and wanderings,
their ups and downs, retained the same tacit,
immovable demeanor, received with a sneer the
orders at last to march back upon the French
capital. “You would never have left it if you
had taken my advice,” be said, and quitted the
room.
Mr. Gawtrey gazed after him and muttered,
“Is the die than cast ?”
“ What does he mean ?" said Morton.
“ You will know soon," replied Gawtrey, and
he followed Birnie; and from that time, the whis-
pered conferences with that person, which had


82
NIGHT AND MORNING.
seemed suspended during their travels, were re-'
newed. i
4‘ a at at at
One mornin", three men were seen entcringi
Paris on foot iiirough the Porte St. Denis. It}
was a fine day in spring, and the old cit looked;
gay with its loitering passengers an gaudy
shops, and under that clear, blue, exhilarating
slry so peculiar to France.
Two of these men walked abreast, the other,
preceded them a few steps. The one who went
first—thin, pale, and threadbare—yet seemed to
sufl'cr the least' from fatigue : he walked with a
long, swinging, noiseless stride, looking to the
right and left from the corners of his eyes. Of
the two who followed, one was handsome and
finely formed, but of a swnrthy complexion;
young, yet with a look of care; the other, of a
sturdy frame, leaned on a. thick stick, and his
eyes were gloomin cast down.
“ Philip,’ said the last, “in coming back to
Paris, I feel that I am coming back to my grave i”
“Pooh! you new equally despondent in our
excursions elsewhere."
“ Because I was always thinking of poor
Fanny, and beeausc—hecausc—Birnie was ever
at me with his hon'iblo temptations!”
“ Birnic! I loathe the man ! Will you never
get rid of him ?” '
“I can not! Hush! he will hear us! How
unlucky we have been ! and now, without 0. sons
in our ockets—hero tho dunghill, there the
jail. Ire are in his power at last!”
“His power! What mean you i‘”
“What, ho! Birnio !” cried Gawtrey, unheed-
ing Morton’s question, “let as bait and break-
fast: I am tired.”
“ You forget !' we have no money till we make
it!" returned Bimie, coldly. “ Come to tho
serrurier’s—be will trust us I"
_.—
CHAPTER VIII.
" Gaunt Beggary and Senrn,with many hell-hounds more."
Tuorrsos: Castle of Indalcncz.
“ The other was a foil, despiteful fiend."—Ibidt
“ Your happiness behold! then straight a wand
Hn waved, an anti-magic power that hath
Truth from illusive falsehood to command."—Ibi'd.
“ But what for us, the children of despair,
Brought to the brink of hell—what hope remains?
stntvn, RISOLVI !"-—I bid.

I'r may be observod'that there are certain
years in which, in a civilized country, some par-
ticular crime comes into vogue. It flares itsi
season, and then burns out. 'l‘hus nt"one time
we have burking—nt another, swingisru—now
suicide is in vogue—now poisoning tradespeople
in apple-dumplmgs—now little boys stab each
other with pcnlrnivcs—now commom soldiers
shoot at their sergeants. Almost every year
there is one crime peculiar to it; a sort of annual
which overruns the country, but does not bloom
ain. Unqucstionshly, the Press has a great
deal to do with these epidemics. Let a news-
paper once give an account of some out-of~the-
way atrocity that has the charm of being novel,
a. certain depraved minds fasten to it like
leeches. They brood over and revolve it; thcl
idea grows up, a horrid phantusmalian momma-I
nin ; *- and all of a sudden, in a hundred different
places, the one seed sown by the lendcn types
springs up into foul flowering. But if the first
reported aboriginal crime has been attended
with impunity, how much more does the imi--
tative faculty cling to it. Ill-judged mercy falls,
not like dew, but like a great heap of manure-
on the rank deed.
Now it happened that, at the time I write of,
or, rather, a little before, there had been detect-
ed and tried in Paris a most redoubted coiner.
He had carried on the business with a dexterity
that won admiration even for the offense; and,
moreover, he had served previously with some
distinction at Austerlitz and Mnrcngo. The
consequence was, that the public went with in-
stead of against him, and his sentence was trans-
muted to three years’ imprisonment by the gov-
ernment: for all governments in free countries '
as ire rather to be popular than just.
0 sooner was this case reported in the jour-
nals—and even the gravest took-notice of it, whiclr
is not common with the scholastic journals of
France—no sooner did it make a stir and a sen-
sation, and cover the criminal with celebrity,
than the result became noticeable in a very large
issue of false money.
Coining in the year] now write of was the
fashionable crime. The police were roused into
full vigor: it became known to them that there
was one gang in especial who cultivated this art'
with singular success. Their coinage was in-
deed so good, so superior to ull'their rivals, that
it was often unconsciously preferred by the pub-
lic to the real mintage. At the same time, they
carried on their calling with such secrecy that
thev utterly battled discovery.
_ n immense reward was offered by the bureau
to any one who would betray his accomplices,
and Monsieur Favart was placed at the head of
a commission of inquiry. This person had him-
self been a jam: mannoycr, and was an adopt in
the art, and it was he who had discovered the‘
rcdoubted coiner who had brought the crime into
such great notoriety; Monsieur Favnrt was a
man of the most vigilant aeutencss, the most in-
defatigable research, and of a courage which,
perhaps, is more common than we suppose. It
is a popular error to suppose that courugc means
courage in every thing. Put a hero on board
shi at a five-barred gate, and, if he is not used
to tinting, he will turn pale. Put a fox-hunter
on one of the Swiss chasms, over which the
mountaineer springs like a roe, and his knees
will knock under him. People are brave in the
dangers to which they accustom themselves,
either in imagination or practice.
Monsieur Favart, then, was a man of the most
daring bravery in facing rogues and cut-throats.
He awed them with his very eye; yet he had
been known to have been kicked down stairs by
his wife, and, when he was drawn into the grand
army, hedcserted the eve ofhis first battle. Such,
as moralists say, is the inconsistency of man !

' An old Spanish writer, treating of the Inquisition. has
some very striking remarks on the kind of madness which,
whenever some terrible notoriety is given to a particular w
ofl'cnse. lends lpersons of disternpered t‘nncy to nccuse
themselves of t. He observes, that when the cruelties
of the Inquisition against the lmnginnry crime of sorcery
were the most barbarous, this singular frenzv rl num-
bers to accuse themselves of sorcery. The publication
and celebrity of the crime begnt the desire of the aisle.


NIGHT AND MORNING.
83
But Monsieur Favart was sworn to trace the
coincrs, and he had never failed yet in any en-
terprise he undertook. One dpy he presented
himself to his chief with a countenance so elated,
that that penetrating functionary said to him at
once,
“You have heard of our messieurs ‘3"
“I have : I am to visit them to-night l”
“ Bravo! How many men will you take ‘3”
“From twelve to twenty, to leave without on
guard. But I must enter alone. Such is the
condition: an accomplice, who fears his own
throat too much to he openly a betrayer, will in-
troduce me to the house—nay, to the very room.
By his description, it is necessary I should know
the exact locale in order to out off retreat; so
to-morrow night I shall surround the bee-hive
and take the honey."
“They are desperate fellows, these coiners,
always; better be cautious.”
“ You forget I was one of them, and know the
mason 1.”
About the same time this conversation was
going on at the bureau of the police, in another
part of the town Morton and antrcy were
seated alone. It is some weeks since they on-
tercd Paris, and spring has mellowed into sum-
mer. The house in which they lodged was in
the lordl quarticr of the Feubourg St. Germain;
the neig boring streets were venerable with the
ancient edifices of a fallen noblesse; but their
tenement was in a narrow, dingy lane, and the
building itself seemed beggar y and ruinous.
The n artment was in an attic on the sixth sto-
ry, an the window, placed at the back of the
lane, looked upon another row of houses of abet-
ter description, that communicated with one of
the great streets of the quarticr. The space be-
tween their abode and their 0 osite neighbors
was so narrow that the sun could scarcely pierce
between. 1n the height of summer might be
found there a perpetual shade.
The pair were sented by the window. Gaw-
trey, well-dressed, smooth-shaven, as in his
palmy-timo; Morton, in the same garments
with which he had entered Paris, weather-stain-
ed and ragged. Looking at the parallel base-
ment in the opposite house, Gewtrey said, mut-
terin ly, “I wonder where Birnie has been, and
why e is not returned: I grow suspicious of
that man."
“ Suspicious of what ‘1’” asked Morton. “Of
his honesty ‘2 \Vould he rob you ‘1’”
“ Rob me ! Humph—perhaps! But you see
I am in Paris, in spite of the hints of the police; l
he ma ' denounce me."
“ ,hy then sufi'er him to lodge away from
on ‘3’
y “ Why ? Because, by having separate houses,
there are two channels of escape. A dark night,
and a ladder thrown across from window to win-
dow, he is with us, or we with him.”
“ But wherefore such precautions ? You blind
—you deceive me. W but have you done ? What
is your employment new ‘3 You are mute ? Hark
you, Gawtrey! I have pinned my fate to you—
I am fallen from hope itself. At times, it almost
makes me mud to look back; and et you do not
trust me. Since your return to unis you are
absent whole nights—often days ; you are moody
and thoughtful; yet, whatever your business, it
seems to bring you ample returns.”
l “ You think that,” said Gawtrey, mildly, and
i, with a. sort of pity in his voice, “yet you refuse
to take even the money to change those rags.”
Because I know not how the money was nin-
ed. Ah! Gawtrey, I am not too proud for c ri-
ty, but I am for—-”
He checked the word uppermost in his
thou hts, and resumed,
“ es; your occupations seem lucrative. It
was but yesterday Birnie gave me fifty Napo-
leons, for which he said you wished change in
silver."
“Did he? The ros—
change for them ?”
“I know not .why, but I refused.”
“That was right, Philip. Do nothing that man
tolls on.”
“ ill you then trust me '? You are engaged
in some horrible trafi‘ic : it may be blood. I am
no longer a boy; I have a Will of my own; I
will not be silently and blindly entrapped to per-
dition. If I march thither, it shall be with my
40W]! consent. Trust me, and this day, or we
part to-morrcw ‘3”
“Be ruled. Some secrets it is better not to
know.”
“It matters not! I have come to my decision:
I ask yours.’7
antrey paused for some moments in deep
thought. At last he lifted his eyes to Philip,
and re lied,
“ \ ell, then, if it must be. Sooner or later it
must have been so, and I want a confident. You
are bold, and will not shrink. You desire to
know my occupation—will you witness it to-
night ‘1’”
“I am prepared: to-night!"
Here a step was heard on the stairs—n. knock
at the door—and Birnie entered.
He drew aside Gawtrcy, and whispeer him,
as usual, for some moments.
Gawtrey nodded his head, and then said aloud,
“To-morrow we shall talk without reserve
before my young friend. To-night he joins us."
“To-night! Vor well!" said Birnie, with
his cold sneer. “ 0 must take the oath; and
you, with your life, will be responsible for his
honesty ?”
“Ayl it is the rule.”
“Good-by, then, till we meet,” said Birnie,
and withdrew. ‘
“I wonder,” said Gawtrey, musingly, and be-
" tween his grinded teeth, “ whether 1 shall ever
have a good, fair shot at that fellow? Ho! ho !"
and his laugh shook the walls.
Morton looked hard at Gawtrey as the latter
now sunk down in his chair, and gazed with a
vacant stare, that seemed almost to partake of
imbecilitv, upon the opposite wall. The care-
iless, rec less, jovial expression which usually
‘characterized the features of the man had for
lsome weeks given place to a restless, anxious,
‘and, at times, ferocious aspect, like the boost
' that first finds a sport, while the hounds are yet
nfnr and his limbs are yet strong, in the chase '
i which marks him for his victim, but grows des-
perate with rage and fear as the day nears its
close and the death-dogs pant lmrd upon his
ltrack; but at that moment the strong features,
‘ with their gnarled muscle and iron sinews
seemed to have lost sign both of passion an
lthe will, and to be locked in a. stolid and dull
Well! and you got


84 NIGHT AND MORNING.
repose. At last he looked up at Morton, and! “ You! now so rich—so fortunate in repute
said, with a smile like that of an old man in his and station] Is it possible ? How was it? A
deluge, lucky; chance—a sudden legacy ‘1‘"
“ I’m thinking that my life has been one mis- “ 0: Time, Faith, and Energy—the three
take! I had talents; you would not fancy it, ‘ friends God has given to the par-t !”
but once I was neithera fool nor a villain! Odd, The men moved on; but Morton, who had
isn’t it? Just reach me the brandy." turned his face toward them, fancied that the
But Morton, with a slight shudder, turned and last speaker fixed on him his bright, cheerful
left the room. eye with a meaning look; and when the man
He walked on mechanically, and gained, at was gone, be repeated those words, and haich
last, the superb Quai that. borders the Seine: them in his heart of hearts as an augury from
there the passengers became more fre uent; above. _
gay equipages rolled along; the white an lofty Quickly, then, and as if by magic, the former
mansions looked fair and stately in the clear blue confusion of his mind seemed to settle into dis-
sky of early summer; beside him flowed thcitinct shapes of courage and resolve. “Yes,”
sparkling river, animated with the painted baths , he muttered, “I will keep this night’s appoint,-
that floated on its surface; earth was merry, andlment; l Wlll learn the secret of these men’s
heaven serene: his heart was dark through all: life. In my inexperience and destitntion I have

Night within—Morning beautiful without ! At l
last he paused by that bridge, stately with the
statues of those whom the caprice of time honors
with a name; for, though Zeus and his gods be
overthrown, while earth exists will live the wor-
ship of dead men—tho bridge by which you pass
from the royal Tuilerics, or the luxurious streets
beyond the Rue de Rivoli, to the Senate of the
emancipated people, and the gloomy and deso-
late grandeur of the Faubourfl St. Germain, in
whose venerable haunts the impoverished de-
scendants of the old feudal tyrants, whom the
birth of the Senate overthrew, yet congregate—
the ghosts of departed powers, proud of the
shadows of great names. As the English ont-
cast paused midway on the bridge, and, for the
first time, lifting his head from his bosom, gazed
around, there broke at once on his remembrance
that terrible and fatal evening, when, hopeless,
friendless, desperate, he had begged for charity
of his uncle‘s hireling, with all the feelings that
then (so imperfectly and lightly touched on in
his brief narrative to Gawtrey) had raged and
blackened in his breast, urging to the resolution
be had adopted, casting him on the ominous
friendship of the man whose guidance he even
then had suspected and distrusted. The spot in
either city had a certain similitude and corre-
spondence each with each: at the first he had
consummated his despair of human destinies—
he had dared to forget the Providence of God—
ho had arrogated his fate to himself: by the first
bridwc he had taken his resolve, by the last he
at in awe at the result !—stood no less poor
—no less abject—-equally in re a and squalor;
but was his crest as haughty an his eye as fear-
less, for was his conscience as free and his honor
as unstained? Those arches of stone—those
rivers that rolled between, seemed to him then
to take a more mystic and typical sense than
belongs to the outer world : they were the bridges
to the rivers of his life. Plun rod in thoughts so
confused and dim that be con d scarcely distin-
guish, through the chaos, the one streak of light
which, perhaps, heralded the reconstruction or
regeneration of the elements of his soul, two
passengers halted also by his side.
“ You will be late for the debate," said one of
them to the other. “ Why do you stop?"
“My friend," said the other, “I never pass

this ‘spot without recalling the time when I.
htood here without a soul, or, as I thought, a
chance of one, and impiously meditated self-de-
ttruction."
suffered myself to be led hitherto into a partner-
ship, if not with vice and crime, at least with
subterfuge and trick. I awake from my reckless
boyhood—my unworthy paltcrings with my bet-
ter self. If Gawtrey be as I dread to find him
—if he be linked in some guilty and hateful traf-
fic with that loathsome accomplice—l will—”
He paused, for his heart whispered, “Well, and
even so—the guilty man clothed and fed thee !"
“I will,” resumed his thought, in answer to his
heart, "I will go on my knees to him to fly while
there is yet time—to work, beg, starve, perish,
even—rather than lose the right to look man in
the face without a blush, and kneel to his God
without remorse l”
And, as he thus ended, he felt suddenly as if
he himself were restored to the perception and
the joy of the Nature and the World around
him: the Nich had vanished from his soul; he
inhaled the balm and freshness of the air- he
comprehended the delight which the liberal .fuue
was scattering over the earth; he looked above,
and his eyes were-sufliised with pleasure at the
smile of the soft blue skies. The Memoirs be-
came, as it were, a part of his own being; and
he felt that as the world, in spite of the storms,
is fair, so, in spite of evil, God is good. He
walked on—he passed the bridge, but his step
was no more the same—he foroot his rags. \Vhy
should he be ashamed? A thus, in the vcrr
flush of this new and strange elation and clas-
tieity of spirit, he came unawares upon a group
of young men, loungmg before the porch of one
of the chief hotels in that Splendid Rue de Riv-
oli, wherein Wealth and the English have made
their homes. A groom, mounted, was leading
another horse up and down the road, and the
young men were making their comments of ap-
probation upon both the horses, especially the
latter, which was, indeed, of uncommon beauty
and great value. Even Morton, in whom the
boyish passion of his earlier life yet existed,
paused to turn his experienced and admiring eye
upon the stately shape and pace of the noble
animal, and, as he did so, a name too well re-
membered came upon his ear.
“Certainly, Arthur Beaufort is the most envi-
able fellow in Europe 1"
“Why, yes," said another of the young men;
“he has plenty of money; is good-looking, dev-
ilish good-natured, clover, and spends like a
prince."
“ Has the best horses I"
“ The best luck at roulette!"
p


NIGHT AND MORNING.
85
“ The prettiest girls in love with him I"
“And no one enjoys life more. Ah! here he
is l"
The group parted as a light, graceful figure
came out of a jeweler’s shop that adjoined the
hotel. and halted gs.ny amid the loungcrs. Mor-
ton’s first impulse was to hurry from the spot;
his second impulse arrested his step, and, a little
apart, and half hid beneath one of the arches of
the colonnade which adorns the street, the Out-
cast gazed upon the Heir. There was no com-
parison in the natural personal advantages of the
two young men; for Philip Merton, despite all
the hardships of his rough career, had now grown
up and ripened into a rare perfection of form and
feature. His broad chest, his erect air, his lithe
and symmetrical length of limb, united, happily,
the attributes of activity and strength; and,
0 though there was no delicacy of youthful bloom
upon his dark eheek,and though lines which should
have come later marred its smoothness with the
signs of care and thought, yet an expression of'
intelligence and daring, equally beyond his years,
and the evidence of hardy, abstemious, vigorous
health, served to show to the full advantage the
outline of features which, noble and regular,
though stern and masculine, the artist might have
borrowed for his'ideal of a young Spartan arm-
ing for his first battle. Arthur, slight to feeble-
ness, and with the paleness, part1 of constitu-
tion, partly of gay excess, on his air and clear
complexion, had features far less symmetrical
and impressive than his cousin : but what then ?
All that are bestowed by elegance of dress, the
refinements of luxurious habit, the nameless
grace that comes from a mind and a manner
polished—the one by literary culture, the other
by social intercourse—invested the person of the
heir with a fascination that rude Nature alone
ever fails to give. And about him there was a
gayety, an airiness of spirit, an atmosphere of
enjoyment, which bespoke one who is in love
with life.
“ Why, this is lucky! I’m so lad to see you
all i” said Arthur Beaufort, with t at silver-ring-
ing tone and charming smile which are to the
happy spring of man what its music and its sun-
shine are to the spring of earth. “You must
dine with me at Verey’s. I want something to
reuse me to-day; for I did not get home from
the salon till four this morning.” '1‘
“ But you won ‘2"
“Yes, Marsden. Hang it! I always win—
], who could so well ail'ord to lose—I’m quite
ashamed of my luck !”
"It is easy to spend what one wins," observ~
ed Mr. Marsden, sententiously; “ and I see you
have been at the jeweler’s! A present for Co-
cile ? Well, don’t blush, my dear follow. What
is life without women ?”
“And wine ‘2” said a second.
“ And play ?" said a third.
“ And wealth '2” said a fourth.
“And you enjoy them all! Happy fellow!”
said a fifth.
The Outcast pulled his hat over his brows,
and walked away.
“This dear Paris !” said Beaufort, as his eye
carelessly and unconsciously followed the dark

‘ The most celebrated gaming-house in Parts. in the
day before gaming-houses were suppressed by the well-
dlrected energy of the government.
2 form retreating through the arches; “this dear
‘ Paris! I must make the most of it while I stay!
I have only been here a few weeks, and next
week I must go.”
“ Pooh ! your health is better: you don’t look
like the same man." '
“ You think so, really? Still I don’t know:
the doctors say that I must either go to the Ger-
man watcrs—lhe season is begun—or—"
“ Or what ‘3”
“Live less with such pleasant companions,
my dear, fellow! But, as you say, what is life
Without—"
“ Women 1"
“ Wine l"
“ Play I”
“ Wealth !”
“ Ha! ha!
none of it!’ ”
| And Arthur leaped lightly on his saddle, and,
'as he rode gayly on, humming the favorite air
of the last opera, the hoofs of his horse splashed
the mud over a foot-passenger halting at the
crossing. Morton checked the fiery exclama-
tion rising to his lips; and, gazing after the brill-
iant form that hurried on toward the Champs
Elysées, his eye caught the statues on the bridge,
and a voice, as of a cheerin angel, whispered
again to his heart, “ TIME, I‘gAITH, Ennaoir l"
The expression of his countenance grew calm
at once; and, as he continued his rambles, it
was with a mind that, casting off the burdens
of the past, looked serenely and steadily on the
obstacles and hardships of the future. We have
seen that a scruple of conscience or of pride,
not without its nobleness, had made him refuse
the importunities of Gawtrey for less sordid rai-
ment; the same feeling made it his custom to
avoid sharing the luxurious and dainty food with
which Gawtrey was wont to regale himself. For
that strange man, whose wonderful felicity of
temperament and constitution made him, in all
circumstances, keenly alive to the hearty and
animal cnjoyments of life, would still emerge, as
the day declined, from their wretched apartment,
and, trustin to his disguises, in which, indeed,
he possessed a masterly art, repair to one' of the
better description of restaurants, and feast away
his cares for the moment. William Gawtrey
would not have cared three straws for the curse
of Damocles. The sword over his head would
never have spoiled his appetite. He had lately,
5too, taken to drinking much more deeply than
‘ he had been used to do—the fine intellect of the
man was growing thickened and dulled—and
this was a spectacle that Morton could not bear
to contemplate. Yet so great was Gawtrey’s
vi or of health, that, after draining wine and
spirits enough to have dispatched a company of
fox-hunters, and after betraying, sometimes in
‘ Throw physio to the dogs: I‘ll
- uproarious glee, sometimes in maudlin self-be-
wailings, that he himself was not quite invul-
nerable to the thyrsus of the god, he would—on
any call on his energies, or especially before de-
parting on those mysterious expeditions which
ept him from home half, and sometimes all the
night—plunge his head into cold water, drink as
much of the lymph as a groom would have shud-
, dered to bestow on a horse, close his eyes in a
‘ doze for half an hour, and wake cool, sober, and
‘collected, as if he had lived according to the
‘ precepts of Socrates or Cornaro!


88
NIGHT AND MORNING.
But to return to Morton. It was his habit to
avoid as much as possible sharing the good cheer
of his companion; and now, as he entered the
Champs Elysées, he saw a little family, con-
sisting of a. young mechanic, his wife and two
children, who, with that love of harmless recrea-
tion which yet characterizes the French, had
taken advantage of a holiday in the craft, and
were enjoying their simple meal under the
shadow of the trees. Whether in hunger or in
envy, Morton paused and contemplated the happy
group. Along the road rolled the equipagcs and
trampled the steeds of those to whom all hfe is a
holidn . Thrre was Pleasure—under tltose trees ‘
was nppincss. One of the children, a little
boy of about six years old, observing the attitude
and gaze of the pausing wayfarer, ran to him,
and, holding up a fragment of a cont-so kind 0t
gritum, said to him, winningly, “Take it—l have
had enough !" The child reminded Morton of
his brother; his heart melted within him; he
lifted the young Samaritan in his arms, and, as
he kissed it, wept.
The mother observed and rose also. She laid
her hand on his own: “Poor boy! why do you
weep? Can we relieve you ‘1’”
Now that bright gleam of human nature, sud-
denly darting across the somber recollections
and associations of his past life, seemed to Mor-
ton as if it came from Heaven, in approval and
in blessing of this attempt at reconciliation to his
fate.
“I thank you,” said be, placing the child on
the ground and passion his hand over his eyes,
"I thank you—yes! ct me sit down among
you.” And he sat down, the child by his side,
and parteok of their fare, and was merry with
them—the proud Philip! Had he not begun to
discover the “ precious jewel’7 in the “ugly and
venomous” Adversity 't’
The mechanic, though a gay fellow on the
whole, was not without some of that discontent
of his station which is common with his class;
he vented it, however, not in murmurs, but in
jests. He was satirical on the carriages and the
horsemen that passed ; and, lolling on the grass,
ridiculed his betters at his ease.
“ Hush!” said his wife, suddenly; “here comes
Madame de Met-ville ;" and, rising as she spoke,
she made a respectful inclination of the head to-
ward on open carriage that was passing very
slowly toward the town.
“Madame de Met-ville!” repented the hus-1
band, rising also, and liftin his cap from his;
head. “ Ah! 1 have nothing to say against ‘
hcr ! ”
Morton looked instinctively toward the car-
riage, and saw a fair countenance turned
graciously to answer the silent salutations oft
the mechanic and his wife—a countenance that ,
had long haunted his dreams, though of late it
had faded away beneath harsher thoughts—the
countenance ol the stranger whom he had seen
at the bureau of Gawtrey, when that worthy per- i
sonage had borne a more mellifluous name. He
started and changed color: the lady herself now
seemed suddenly to recognize him; for their eyes
met, and she bent forward eagerly. She pulled ,
the check-string—thc carriage halted—she beck-
oned to the mechanic‘s wife, who went up to the
road-side. '
“I worked once for that lady,” said the man,

with a tone of feeling; and when my wife fell ill
last winter, she paid the doctors. Ah, she is an
an el of charity and kindness !”
orton scarcely heard this eulogium; for he
observed, by something eager and inquisitive in
the face of Madame de Merville, and the sudden
manner in which the mechanics helptnate turned
her head to the spot on which he stood, that he
was the object of their conversation. Once more
he became suddenly aware of his ragged dress;
and with a natural shame—a fear that charity
might be extended to him from her—he muttered
an abrupt farewell to the operative, and, without
another glance at the carriage, walked away.
Before he had got many paces, the wife, how-
ever, came up to him, breathless. “ Madame dc
Merville would speak to you, sir E” she said, with
more respect than she had hitherto thrown into
her manner. Philip paused an instant, and again
strode on.
“It must be some mistake,” he said, hur-
riedly: “I have no right to expect such an
honor.U
He struck across the road, gained the opposite
side, and had vanished from Madame de Mer-
ville’s eyes before the woman regained the car-
riage. But still that calm, pale, and somewhat
melancholy face presented itself before him; and
as he walked again through the town, sweet and
entle fancies crowded confusedly on his heart.
a that soft summer day—memorable for so
many silent but mighty events in that inner life
which prepares the catastrophes of the enter one,
as in the region of which Virgil has sung, the
images of men to be born hereafter repose or
glide—on that soft summer day, he felt he had
reached the age when Youth begins to clothe in
some human shape its first vague ideal of desire
and love.
In such thoughts, and still wandering, the day
were away, till he found himself in one of the
lanes that surround that glittering microcosm
of the vices, the frivolities, the hollow show, and
the real be gory of the gay city—-the gardens
and the gel cries of the Palais Royal. Surprised
at the lateness of the hour—it was then on the
stroke of seven—he was about to return home-
ward, when the loud voice of Gawtrey sounded
behind, and that personage, tapping him on the
back, said,
“Hello, my young friend, well met! This
will be a night of trial to you. Empty stomachs
produce weak nerves. Come along! you must
dine with me. A good dinner and a bottle of
old wine—come! nouscnsel I say you shall
come! Vivc lajoic!”
While speaking, he had linked his arm in
Morton‘s, and hurried him on several paces in
spite of his struggles; but, just as the words
Viva la jaic left his lips, he stood still and mute
‘as if a thunderbolt had fallen at his feet, and
Morton felt that heavy arm shiver and tremble
like a leaf. He looked up, and just at the en-
trance of that part of the l’alais Royal in which
are situated the restaurants of Verey and Vefour,
he saw two men standing but a few paces before
them, and gazing full on Gawtrey and himself.
“It is my evil genius.” muttered Gawtrey,
grinding his teeth.
“ Aiul mine,” said Morton.
The younger of the two men thus apostrophized
made a step toward Philip, when his companion


NIGHT AND MORNING.
87
' persons—you can deposo against them at their
drove him back and whispered, “What are you
about? Do you know that young man ‘3‘"
“ He is my cousin—Philip Beaufort’s-natural
son !”
“Is he? Then discard him forever. He is
with the most dangerous knave in Europe 11’
As Lord Lilburne—for it was he—thus whis-
pered his nephew, Gawtrey strode up to him;
and, glaring full in his face, said, in a deep and
hollow tone, “There is a hell, my lord; I go to
drink to our meeting!” Thus saying, he took
off his hat with a ceremonious mockery, and dis-
appeared within the adjoining restaurant, kept by
V efour.
“A hell!” said Lilburne, with his frigid smile;
“ the ror'uc’s head runs u on gambling-houses !”
“An I have sutfered hilip again to escape
me,” said Arthur, in self-reproach; for, while
GaWtrey had addressed Lord Lilburne, Morton
had plunged hack amid the labyrinth of alloys.
“How have I kept my oath ‘2”
“Como! your guests must have arrived by
this time. As for that wretched young man,
depend upon it that he is corrupted, body and
cool.“
“But he is my own'cousiu.”
“Pooh! there is no relationship in natural
children: besides he will find you out fast
enough. Ravgcd claimants are not long too
proud to beg.’
“ You speak in earnest ‘2‘” said Arthur, irreso-
Iutely.
“ Ay ! trust my experience of the world.
.8110": I"
And in the very restaurant adjoining that in
which the solitary Gawtrcy gorged his con-
science, Lilburne, Arthur. and their gay friends,
soon forgetful of all but the roses of the mo-
ment, bathed their airy spirits in the dews of the
mirthl'ul wine. 0h, extremes of life ! Oh,
Night! oh, Morning!
+
CHAPTER IX.
“ Meantime a moving scene was open luhl,
That lunar-house." -
'l'nouson: Cull: of Indolerlct.
IT was near midnight. In the mouth of the
lane in which Gawtrey resided there stood four
men. Not for distant, in the broad street at
angles with the lane, were heard the wheels of
carriages and the sound of music. A lady, fair
in form, tender of heart, stainless in repute,
was receiving her friends!
“Monsieur Favart,” said one of the men to
the smallest of the four, “you understand the
conditions : 20,000 francs and a free pardon?”
“Nothing more reasonable—it is understood.
Still I confess that I should like to have my men
close at hand. I am not given to fear ; but this
is a dangerous experiment.”
“ You knew the danger beforehand and sub-
scribed to it; on must enter alone with me, or
not at all. h ark you, the men are sworn to
murder him who betrays them. Not for twenty
times 20,000 francs would I have them know
me as the informer. My life were not worth a
day’s purchase. Now, if you feel secure in
your disguise, all is safe. vYou will have seen
them at their work—you will recognize their

trial—I shall have time to quit France."
'“Well, well! as you please.”
“ Mind, you must wait in the vault with them
till they separate. We have so planted your
men, that,- whatever street each of the gang
takes in going home, he can be seized quietly
and at once. The bravest and craftiest of all.
who, though he has but just joined, is already
their captain—him, the man I told you of, who
lives in the house, you must take after his re-
turn, in his bed. It is the sixth story to the
right, remember: here is the key to his door.
He is a giant in strength, and will never be
taken alive, if up and armed."
“ Ah, Icomprehend l Gilbert l” (and Favnrt
turned to one 01' his companions who had not yet
spoken), “take three men besides yourself ac-
cording to the directions I gave you; the porter
will admit you—that’s arranged. Make no
noise. If I don’t return by four o’clock, don’t
wait for me, but proceed at once. Look well to
your primings. Take him alive, if possible—at
the worst, dead. And now, mon ami, lead on S”
The traitor nodded, and walked slowly down
the street. Favnrt, pausing, whispered hastily
to the man whom he had called Gilbert,
“ Follow me close—get to the door of the cel-
lar—place the eight men within hearing of my
whistle—recollect the picklocks, the axes. If
you hear the whistle, break in; if not, I’m safe,
and the first orders to seize the captain in his
room stand good.”
So saying, F avart strodeafter his guide. The
door ol a large but ill-favored looking house
stood ajar; they entered—passed unmolestcd
through a court-yard—dcseended some stairs;
the guide unlocked the door of a collar, and took
a. dark lantern from under his cloak. As he
drew up the slide, the dim light gleamcd on
barrels and winc-casks, which appeared to fill
up the space. Rolling aside one of these, the
guide lifted a trapdoor and lowered his lantern.
“.Enter," said he; and the two men disappeared.
1* II‘ IllK ii Il‘
The coincrs were at their Work. A man,
seated on a stool, before a desk, was entering
accounts in a large book. That man was Will-
iam Gawtrcy. While, with the rapid precision
of honest mechanics, the machinery of the dark
trade went on in its several departments, apart
—alone—at the foot of along table sat Philip
Morton. The truth had exceeded his darkest
suspicions. He had consented to take the oath
not to divulge what was to be given to his sur-
vcy ; and, when led into that vault the bandage
was taken from his eyes, it was some minutes
before he could fully comprehend the desperate
and criminal occupations of tho-wild forms amid
which towered the burly stature of his benefac-
tor. As the truth slowly grew upon him, he
shrunk from the side of Gawtrcy ; but, deep
compassion for his friend’s degradation swallow-
ing up the horror of the trade, he flung himself
on one of the rude seats, and felt that the bond
between them was indeed broken, and that the
next morning he should be again alone in the
world. Still, as the obscene Jesus, the fearful
oaths that from time to time rung throngh the
vault, came on hisoar, he cast his haughty eye
in such disdain over the groups, that Guwtrey,
catching it, trembled for his safety; and nothing


NIGHT AND MORNING.
but the sense of his own impotence, and the
brave, not timorous, desire not to perish by such
hands, kept silent the fiery denunciations of a
nature, still proud and honest, that quivcred on
his lips. All present were armed with pistols
and cutlasscs except Morton, who_sudered the
weapons presented to him to lie unhceded on the
table.
“ Courage, mes mi: 1" said Gawtrey, closing
his book; “courage 1 A few months more, and
we shall have made enough to retire upon, and
enjoy ourselves for the rest of our days. Where
is Birnie ?"
~‘ Did he not tell you ?” said one of the arti-
sans, looking up. “ He has found out the clever-
es‘t hand in France—the very fellow who helped
Bouchard in all his five-franc pieces. He has
promised to bring him to-night. ’
“Ay, I remember," returned Gawtrey; “he
told me this morning; he is _a famous decoy l”
“I think so, indeed !” quoth a minor “for
he caught you, the best head to our hands that
ever les industrial: were blessed with—aacri
fichtre !" .
“ F lattcrerl” said Gawtrey, coming from the
desk to the table, and pouring out wine from
one of the bottles into a huge flagon: “ To your
hoalths l”
Here the door slided book, and Birnie glided-
to.
“Where is
Gawtrey. “ e only coin money; you coin
men, stamp with your own seal, and send them
current to the devil l”
The coiucrs, who liked Birnie’s ability (for
the pi-dcva-nt engraver was of admirable skill in
their craft), but who hated his joyless manners,
laughed at the taunt, which Birnie did not seem
to heed except by amalignant gleam of his dead
0 'c.
i“ If you mean the celebrated coiner, Jacques
Giraumont, he waits without. You know our
rules—I can not admit him without leave.”
“ Bon! we give it, oh, messieurs ‘2” said
Gawtrey.
“Ay—-ay,” cried several voices. “ He knows
the oath, and will hear the penalty.”
“ Yes, he knows the oath,” replied Birnie,
and glided back.
In a moment more he returned with a small
man in a mechanic’s blouse. The new-comer
wore the republican beard and mustache, of a
sandy gray; his hair was the some color; and a
black patch over one eye increased the ill-favored
appearance of his features.
“ Diable I Monsieur Giraumont! but you are
more like Vulcan than Adonis l” said Gawtrey.
“I don’t know any thing about Vulcan, but I
know how to make five-franc pieces,“ said Mon-
sieur Giraumont, doggedly.
“ Are you poor ‘2"
“ As a church mouse! The only tln'ng be-
loncing to a church, since the Bourbons came
bur: , that is poor!”
At this sally the coiners, who had gathered
round the table, uttered the shout with which,
in all circumstances, Frenchmen receive a bon
mot.
“Humph!” said Mr. Gawtrey. “Who re-
sponds, with his own life, for your fidelity ?"
“ I,” said Birnie.
" Administer the oath to him.”
our booty, man brave?” said‘
I Suddenly four men advanced, seized the vis-
itor, and bore him from the vault to another one
within. After a few moments they returned.
“He has taken the oath and heard the pen-
; alty."
, “Death to yourself, your wife, your son, and
your randson, if you betray us ?"
“I ave neither son nor grandson; as for my
,wife, Monsieur le Capitaine, you offer a bribe
‘ instead of a threat when you talk of her death 1”
"' 80016 I but you will be an addition to our
circle, mon brave I” said Gawtrey, laughing,
while again the grim circle shouted applause.
“ But I suppose you care for your own life ‘1’”
“Otherwise I should have preferred starving
' to coming here,” answered the laconic neophyte.
“ I have done with you. Your health I”
On this the coiners gathered round Monsieur
Giraumont, shook him by the hand, and com-
l menced many questions with a view to ascertain
his skill.
l “ Show me your coinage first; I see you use
both the die and the furnace. Hem! this piece
is not bad; you have struck it from an iron die?
right—it makes the impression sharper than
plaster of Paris. But you take the poorest and
‘the most dangerous part of the trade in taking
the Home Market. I can put you in a way to
make ten times as much, and with safety !
Look at this !" and Monsieur Giraumont took a
for ed Spanish dollar from his pocket, so skill-
fule manufactured that the connoisseur! were
lost in admiration; “you may pass thousands of
these all over Europe except France, and who
'is ever to detect you? But it will require bet-
ter machinery than you have here.”
Thus conversing, Monsieur Giraumont did
, not perceive that Mr. Gawtrey had been exam-
ining him very curiously and minutely. But
Birnie had noted their chief’s attention, and
once attempted to join his new ally, when Gaw-
trey laid his hand on his shoulder, and stopped
.him.
“Do not speak to your friend till I bid you,
or—” he stopped short, and touched his pis-
tols.
Birnie grew a shade more pale, but replied
with his usual sneer.
“Suspicious! Well, so much the better !"
v and, seating himself carelessly at the table,
\ lighted his pipe.
l “And now, Monsieur Giraumont,” said Gaw-
trey, as he took the head of the table, “ come to
my right hand. A half holyday in your honor.
I Clear these infernal instruments; and more wine,
mes arm's I”
The party arranged themselves at the table.
Among the desperate there is almost invariably
a. tendency to mirth. A solitary ruffian is moody,
but a gang of ruffians are jolly. The coin-
er! talked and laughed loud. Mr. Birnie, from
his dogged silence, seemed apart from the rest,
though in the center; and, in a noisy circle, a
silent tongue builds a wall round its owner.
But that respectable persona e kept his furtive
watch upon Giraumont and awtrey, who ap-
peared talkinw together very amicably toward
the bottom 0 the table. The younger novice
of that night, equally silent, was not less watch-
ful than Birnie. An uneasy, undefinablc fore-
boding had come over him since the entrance
of Monsieur Giraumont; this had been increased


NIGHT AND MORNING.
89
by the manner of Mr. Gawtrey. His faculty of
observation, which was very acute, had detected
something false in the chief’s blandness to their ,
guest—something dangerous in the glittering‘
eye that Gawtrey ever, as he spoke to Girau- \
mont, bent on that person’s lips as he listened
to his reply. For, whenever William Gawtrcy .
suspected a man, he watched, not his eyes, but,
his lips.
Waked from his scornful revery, a strange
spell fascinated Morton’s attention to the chief
and the guest, and be bent forward, with parted
mouth and straining ear, to catch their conver-
nation.
“It seems to me a little strange," said Mr.
Gawtrey, raising his voice so as to be heard by
the party, “that a coiner so dcxtrous as Mon-
sieur Giraumont should not be known to any of l
as except our friend Birnio.”
“Not at all,” replied Giraumont; “I worked 5
only with Bouchard and two others, since sent
to the "alleys. We were but a small fraternity :
every filing has its commencement."
“ C’estjuste : b'uvez donc, cher anti 1”
The wme circulated: Gawtrey began again.
“You have had a bad accident, seemingly,
Monsieur Giraumont: how did you lose your
eye ?"
“la a scuttle with the- gem d’armcs the night
Bouchard was taken and I escaped: such mis-
fortunes are on the cards."
“ C‘est juste : buvcz done, Momieur Girau-
mom!”
Again there was a pause, and again Gaw-
trey’s deep voice was heard.
“You wear a wig, I think, Monsieur Girau-
moot? To judge by your eyelashes, your own
hair has been a handsomer color."
“We seek disguise, not beauty, my host! and
the police have sharp eyes.”
“ C’cst juste, lnwcz done—mien: Rinard 1—-
when did we two meet last ‘1’”
“Never, that I know of!”
“ Ce n’est pas orai! buve: done, MONSIEUR.
Favaa'r l”
At the sound of that name the company
started in dismay and confusion, and the police
oflficcr, forgetting himself for the moment, sprung
from his seat, and put his right hand into his
blmuz.
“Ho, there! treason!" cried Gawtrey, in a
voice of thunder; and he caught the unhappy ‘
man by the throat. i
It was the work of a moment. Morton, where l
he sat, beheld a struggle—he heard a death-cry.
He saw the huge form ofthe muster-coiner rising
above all the rest, as cutlasses gleamed and eyes
sparkled round. He saw the quivering and‘
powerless frame of the unhappy guest raised‘
aloft in those mighty arms, and presently it was i
hurled along the tables—bottles crashing—the
board shaking beneath its weight—and lay be-l
fore the very eyes of Morton, a distorted and,
lifeless mass. At the same instant Gawtrey
sprang upon the table, his black frown singling
out from the group the ashen, cadaverous face
of the shrinking traitor. Birnie had darted from
the table—he was half we toward the sliding
door—his face, turned over is shoulder, met the
eyes of the chief. ‘
“Devil !" shouted Gawtrey, in his terrible
voice, which the echoes of the vault gave book I


from side to side, “did I not give thee up my
soul that thou mightest not compass my death ‘1‘
Hark ye! thus dies my slavery and all our se-
crets l" The explosion of his pistol half swal-
lowed up the last word, and, with a single groan,
the traitor fell on the floor, pierced through the
brain; then there was a dead and grim hush, as
the smoke rolled slowly along the roof of the
dreary vault.
Morton sank back on his seat, and covered
his face with his hands. The last seal on the
fate of Tue Man or Cams was set; the last
wave in the terrible and mysterious tide of his
destiny had dashed on his soul to the shore
whence there is no return. Vain, now and hence-
forth, the humor, the sentiment, the kindly im-
pulse, the social instincts which had invested
that stalwart shape with dangerous fascination,
{which had implied the hope of ultimate repent-
ance, of redemption even in this world. The
Hour. and the Cmctms'mnct; had seized their
prey; and the self-defense, which a lawless
career rendered a necessity, left the eternal die
of blood upon his doom!
“Friends, I have saved you,’ said Gawtrcy,
slowly gazing on the corpse of his second victim,
while he returned the pistol to his belt; “ l have
not quailod before this man’s eye (and he spurn-
ed the clay of the officer, as he spoke, with a re-
vengcful scorn) without treasuring up its aspect
in my heart of hearts. I knew him when he
entered—know him through his disguise—yet,
faith, it was a clever one! Turn up his face
and gaze on him now; he will never terrify us
again, unless there he truth in ghosts!”
Murmuring and tremnlous, the coincrs scram-
bled on the table and examined the dead man.
From this task Gawtrcy interrupted them, for
his quick cya detected, with the pistols under
the policeman’s blouse, a whistle of metal of enri-
ous construction, and he conjectured at once that
da'ngcr was yet at hand.
“I have saved you, I say, but only for the
hour. This deed can not sleep; see, he had
hel within call. The police know where to
look, for theirlcomrade—we are dispersed. Each
for himself. Quick, divide the spoils! Suave
qui pent I”
Then Morton board where he sat, his hands
still clasped before his face, a confused hubbub
of voices, the jingle of money, the scramble of
feet, the creaking of doors—all was silent!
A strong grasp drew his hands from his
eyes.
“Your first scene of life against life, said
Gawtrey’s voice, which seemed fearfully changed
to the ear that heard it. Bah! what would you
think of a battle? Come, to our eyrie; the car-
casses are gone.”
Morton looked fearfully round the vault. He
and Gawtrey were alone. His eyes sought the
places where the dead had lain—they were re-
moved—no vestige of the deeds, not even a drop
of blood.
“Come, take up your cutlass, come I” re-
peated the voice of the chief, as, with a dim lan-
tern, now the solo light of the vault, he stood in
the shadow of the doorway. _
Morton rose, took up the weapon mechani-
cally, and followed that terrible guide, mute and
unconscious, as a soul follows a dream through
the house of Sleep!
7
57


NIGHT AND MORNING.
CHAPTER X.
" Sleep no more !"—'Macbctl.
Anna winding through gloomy and laby-
rinthine passages, which conducted too. different
range of cellars from those entered by the un-
fortunate Favart, Gawtrey emerged at the foot
-of a flight of stairs, which, dark, narrow, and in
many
printed1 to the servants of the house in its days
-of palmior glory. By these steps the pair rc-
.gained their attic. Gawtreyplaced the lantern
on the table, and seated himself in silence.
Morton, who had recovered his self-possession
and formed his resolution, gazed on him for
some moments, equally taciturn; at length he
spoke:
“ Gawtrcy !"
“I bade you not call me by that name," said
-the coiner; for we need scarcely say that in his
new trade he had assumed a new appellation.
“It is the least guilty one by which I have
known you,” returned Morton, firmly. “It is
for the last time I call it you! I demanded to
see by what means one to whom I had intrusted
my fate supported himself. I have seen," con-
tinued the young man, still firmly, but with a
livid check and lip, “and the tie between us is
rent forever. Interrupt me not! It is not for
one to blame you. I have eaten of your bread
-and drank of your cup. Confiding in you too
blindly, and believing that you were at least
free from those dark and terrible crimes for
which there is no expiation, at least in this life
—my conscience scored by distress, my very soul
made dormant by despair—I surrendered myself
to one lending a career equivocal, suspicious,
dishonorable perhaps, but still not, as I believed,
of atrocity and bloodshed. I wake at the brink
of the abyss; my mother’s hand beckons to me
from the grave; I think I hear her voice while
I address you; I reccdc while it is yet tinte—
we part, and forever !”
Gawtrcy, whose stormy passion was still deep
-upon his soul, had listened hitherto in sullen and
do ged silence, with a gloomy frown on his
knitted brow, he now rose with an oath:
“Port! that I may let loose on the world a
new traitor! Part! when you have seen me
fresh from an act that, once whispered, ivos
me to the guillotine! Part! never—at east
alive !”
“I have said it,” said Morton, folding his
arms calmly; “I say it to your face, though I
might part from you in secret. Frown not on
me, man of blood! I am fearless as yourself!
In another minute I am gone.”
“Ah! is it so!” said Gawtrey; and, glancing
round the room, which contained two doors—
the one, concealed by the draperies of a bed,
communicating with the stairs by which they
had entered, the other with the landing of the
rincipul and common flight—he turned to the
ormer, within his reach, which he locked, and
put the key into his pocket; and then, throwing
across the latter a hen swing bar, which fell
into its socket with a arsh noise, before the
threshold he placed his vast bulk, and burst into
a loud, fierce laugh :
“ Ho! ho! slave and fool, once mine, you were
mine, body and soul, forever l”
“Tempter, I defy you! stand back!” And,
laces broken, had been probably appro- I
firm and dauntless, Morton laid his hand on the
giant’s vest.
Gawtro' seemed more astonished than en-
raged. 1 e looked hard at his daring associate,
on whose lip the down was yet scarcely dark.
' “ Boy," said he, “Off! Do not rouse the
,devil in me again! I could crush you with a
‘ hug.”
“ My soul supports my body, and I am armed,”
said Morton, laying hand on his cutlass. “ But
vyou dare not harm me, nor I you; blood-stained
as you are, 1 yet love you! You gave me she!-
ter and bread, but accuse me not that I will
save my soul while it is yet time! Shall my
mother have blessed me in vain upon her death-
bed ‘2"
Gawtrey drew back, and Morton, by a sudden
impulse, grasped his hand.
“Oh! hear mc—hear me!” he cried, with
great emotion. “Abandon this horrible career;
you have been dccoycd and betrayed to it by
one who can deceive or terrify you no more!
Abandon it, and I will never desert you. For
her sake—for your Fanny’s sake—pause, like
me, before the gulf swallow us. Let us fly! far
to the New World—to any land where our thews
and sinows, our stout hands and hearts, can find
an honest mart. Men, desperate as we are,
have yet risen by honest [1188.115- Take her,
your orphan, with us. We will work for her,
both of us. Gawtrcyl hear me. It is not my
voice that speaks to you—it is your good an-
el’s l’
g Gawtrey fell back against tho wall, and his
chest heaved.
“Morton,” he said, with choked and tremu-
lous accents, “go, now; leave me to my fate!
Iliavo sinned against you—shamefully sinned.
It seemed to me so sweet to have a friend; in
your youth and character of mind there was So
much about which the tough strings of my heart
wound themselves, that I con 1 not bear to lose
you—to suffer you to know me for what I was.
.I blinded—I deceived you as to my past dce’ds;
that was base in me : but I swore to my own
heart to keep you unexposed to every danger,
and free from every vice that darkened my own
path. I kept that oath till this night, when,
seeing that you‘began to recoil from me, and.
dreading that you should desert me, I thought
to bind you to me forever by implicating you
in this fellowship of crime. I am punished, and
justly. Go, I repeat; leave me to the fate that
strides nearer and nearer to me day by day. You
are a boy still—I am no longer young. Habit
is a second nature. Still—still I could repent—
I could begin life again! But repose ! to look
back—to remember—to be haunted night and
day with deeds that shall meet me bodily and
face-to face on the'last day—" ‘
“Add not to the specters! Come—fly this
night—this hour !"
Gawtrey paused, irresolnto and wavering.
when at that moment he heard steps on the
stairs below. He started—as starts the boar
caught in his lair—and listened, pale and breath-
less.
“ Hush! they are on us! they come!’7 as he
whispered, the key from without turned in the
wards—the door shook. “Soft! the bar pre-
serves us both—this way." And the comer
crept to the door of the private stairs. Ho un-


’ NIGHT AND MORNING.
91
locked and opened it cautiously. A man sprang
throurvh the aperture.
“ ield! you are my prisoner!”
“Never lf’ cried Gawtrey, hurling back the
intruder, and clapping to the door, though other
and stout men were pressing against it with all
their power.
“ Ho! ho ! “(ho shall open the tiger’s cage ?”
At both doors now were heard the sound of
voices. “Open in the king’s name, or expect
no mercy l“
“Hist!” said Gawtrey.
window—the rope."
Morton opened the easement, Gawtrey un-
coiled the rope. The dawn was breaking; it
was light in the streets, but all seemed quiet
without. The door reeled and shook beneath
the pressure of the pursuers. Gawtrey flung
the rope across the street to the opposite para-
pet; after two or three efl'orts, the grappling-
hook caught firm hold—the perilous path was
made.
“On! quick! loiter not!” whispered Gaw-
trey; “you are active—it seems more danger-
ous than it is—cling with both hands—shut your
eyes. When on the other side—you see the
window of Birnie’s room—enter it——deseend the
Stairs—let yourself out, and you are safe.”
“Go first,” said Morton, in the same tone:
“I will not leave you now ; you will be longer
getting cross than I shall. I will keep guard
till you are over.”
“Hark! hark ! are you mad ? You keep
guard! What is your strenvth to mine ? Twen-
ty men shall not more that door while my weight
is against it. Quick, or you destroy us both!
Besides, you will hold the rope for me; it may
not be strong enough for my bulk of itself.
Stay! stay one moment. If you escape, and I
fall—Fanny—my father, he will take care of her
—yon remember—thanks ! Forgive me all !
(lo—that's right.”
With a firm ulse, Morton threw himself on
that dreadful bridge; it swung and crackled at
his weight. Shifting his orasp rapidly—holding
his breath—with set teeth—with closed eyes—
hc moved on—he gained the parapet—he stood
safe on the opposite side. And now, straining
his eyes across,_he saw through .the open case-
ment into the chamber he had just quitted.
Gawtrey was still standing against the door to
the principal staircase, for that, of the two, was
the weaker and the more assailed. Presently
the explosion of a fire-arm was heard; they had
shot through the panel. Gawtrey seemed
wounded, for he staggered forward, and uttered
a fierce cry; a moment more, and he gained the
window—he seized the rope—he hung over the
tremendous depth! Morton knelt by the para-
pet, holding the grappling-hook in its place with
convulsive grasp, and fixing his eyes, bloodshot
with fear and suspense, on the huge bulk that
Clan for life to that slender cord-l’
h “ ooilé! le voild I" cried a voice from the op-
posite side. Morton raised his gaze from Gaw-
trey—the mssement was darkened by the forms
0f the pursuers—they had burst into the room
—-an otficer sprung upon the parapet; and Gaw-
tre‘y, now aware of his danger, opened his e es,
an , as he moved on, glared open the foe. I‘he
policeman deliberately raised his pistol—Gaw-
tmy arrested himself—from a wound in his side
“ One way yet—the

the blood trickled slowly and darkly down, drop
by drop, upon the stones below ; even the officers
of law shuddered as they eyed him: his hair
bristling, his cheek white, his lips drawn con-
vulsively from his teeth, and his eyes glaring
from beneath the frown of agony and menace in
which yet spoke the indomitable power and fierce-
ness of the man. His look, so fixed, so intense,
so stern, awed the policeman; his hand trembled
as he fired, and the ball struck the parapet an
inch below the spot where Morton knelt. An
indistinct, wild, gurglin sound—half laugh,
half yell—of scorn and ac, broke from Gaw-
trey’s lips. Ho swung imself on—near—near
—-nearer--a yard from the parapet.
“ You are saved!” cried Morton; when at that
moment a volley burst from the fatal easement
-—tho smoke rolied over both the fugitives—a
groan, or, rather, howl of rage, and despair, and
agony, appalled even the hardiest on whose car
it came. Morton sprung to his feet, and looked
below. He saw on the rugged stones, for down,
a dark, formless, motionless mass—the stron'v
man of passion and levity—the giant who h
played with life and soul, as an infant with the
baubles that it prizes and breaks—was what the
Ctesar and the leper alike are when all clay is
without God’s breath—what glory, genius,
power, and beauty would be for ever and ever
if there were no God!
“There is another!” cried the voice of one of
the pursuers. “ Fire l”
“Poor Gawtreyl” muttered 'Philip, “I will
fulfill our last wish;” and, scarcely conscious
of the l‘iullet that whistled past him, he disappear-
ed behind the parapet.
-_.-_-.
CHAPTER XI.
" Gently moved
By the soft wind of whispering silks."
Deena.
The reader ma ' remember, that while Mon-
sieur Favart and Mr. Birnie were holding com-
mune in the lane, the sounds of festivity were
heard from a house in the adjoining street. To
that house we are now summoned.
At Paris, the gayeties of balls or soirées are, I
believe, very rare in that period of the year in
which they are most frequent in London. The
entertainment now given was in honor of a chris-
tening: the lady who gave it, a relation of the
newborn.
Madame de Mervillo was a young widow;
even before her marriage she had been distin-
guished in literature; she had written poems of
more than common excellence; and, being hand-
some, of good family, and large fortune, her tal-
ents made her an object of more interest than
they might otherwise have done. Her poetry
showed great sensibility and tenderness. if
poetry be any index to the heart, you would have
thought her one to love trnl and deeply. Never-
theless, since she marrie --as girls in France
do—not to please herself, but her parents, she
made a mariage dc convmance. Monsieur do
Merrille was a sober, sensible man, past middle
age. Not being fond of poetry, and by no means
coreting a professional author for his Wile, he
had, during their union, which lasted four years,


92
NIGHT AND MORNING.
discouraged his wife’s liaison with Apollo.
her mind, active and ardent, did not the less prey
upon itself. At the age of four-and-twenty she
became a widow, with an income lar e even in
England for a single woman, and at aris con-
stituting no ordinary fortune. Madame de Mer~
ville, however, though a person of elegant taste,
was neither ostentatious nor selfish. She had
no children, and she lived quietly in apartments,
handsome indeed, but not more than adequate to
the small establishment which—where, as on the
Continent, the costly convenience of an entire
house is not incurred-sufiiced for her rctinuc.
She devoted at least half her income, which was
entirely at her own disposal, partly to the‘aid of ‘
her own relations, who were not rich, and partly
to the encouragement of the literature she culti-
vated. Although she shrunk from the ordeal of
publication, her poems and sketches of romance
were read to her own friends, and possessed an
eloquence seldom accompanied with so much
modesty. Thus, her reputation, though not
blown about by the winds, was high in her own
circle, and her position in fashion and in fortune
made her looked up to by her relations as the
head of her family; they regarded her as fcmme
supéricurc, and her advice with them was equiva-
lent to a command. Eurrénie dc Mcrville was
a strange mixture of qutfiities at once feminine
and masculine. On the one hand, she had a
strong will, independent views, some contempt
for the world, and followed her own inclinations
without servility to the opinion of others; on the
other hand, she was susceptible, romantic, of a
sweet, affectionate, kind disposition. ller visit
to Mr. Love, however, indiscreet, was not less
in accordance with her character than her
charity to the mechanic's wife: masculine and
careless where an eccentric thing was to be done
—curiosity satisfied, or' some object in female
diplomacy achieved—womanly, delicate and gen-
tle the instant her benevolence was appealed to
or her heart touched. She had now been three
years a. widow, and was, consequently, at the
age of twenty-seven. Despite the tenderness of
her poetr and her character, her reputation was
unblemis ed. She had never been in love. Peo-
ple who are much occupied do not fall in love
easily; besides, Madame de Merville was refin-
ing, exacting, and wished to find heroes where
she only met handsome dandies or ugly authors.
Moreover, Eugenio was both a vain and a proud
person: vain of her celebrity, and proud of her
birth. She was one whose goodness of heart
made her always active in promoting the happi-
ness of others. She was not only generous and
charitable, but willing to serve poo le by good
offices as well as money. Every b y loved her.
The newborn infant, to whose addition to the
Christian community the fete of this night was
dedicated, was the pledge of a union which Ma-
dame dc Merville had managed to effect between
‘two young persons, first cousins to each other,
and related to herself. There had been scruples
of parents to remove—money matters to adjust:
Eugenie had smoothed all. The husband and
wife, still lovers, looked up to her as the au-
thor, under Heaven, of their happiness.
The gala of that night had been, therefore, of
a nature more than usually pleasurable, and the
mirth did not sound hollow, but rung from the
heart. Yet, as Eugenio from time to time con-
Butfltemplated the young couple, whose eyes cver
[sought each other—so fair, so tender, and so
joyous as they seemed—a melancholy shadow
darkened her brow, and she sighed involuntarily.
Once the young wife, Madame d’Anville, ap-
, proaching her timidly, said,
1 “Ah! my sweet cousin, when shall we see
, you as happy as ourselves? There is such
ihappiness," she added, innocently and with a
lblush, “in being a mother l—that little life all
ione’s own—it is something to think of every
hour 1”
“ Perhaps,” said Eugenie, smiling, and seek-
, ing to turn the conversation from a subject that
touched too nearly upon feelings and thoughts
her pride did not wish to reveal; “perhaps it is
you, then, who have made our cousin, poor Mon-
sieur de Vaudemont, so determined to marry?
Pray, be more cautious with him. How difficult
I have found it to prevent his bringing into our
family some one to make us all ridiculous !”
“ True,” said Madame d’Anville laughing.
“ But then the chevalier is so poor and in debt.
He would fall in love, not with the demoisellc,
but the dower. .11 proper of that, how cleverly
you took advantage of his boastful confession to
break otf his liaison! with that bureau de ma-
riagc.”
“Yes; I congratulate myself on that maneu-
ver. Unpleasantas it was to go to such a place
(for, of course, I could not send for Monsieur
Love here), it would have been still more un-
pleasant to have received such a Mdtlame do
Vaudemont as our cousin would have presented
to us. Only think—he was the rival of an Epi-
cicr ! I heard that there was some curious d6-
noaimmt to the farce of that establishment; but
I could never get; from Vaudemont the particu-
lars, He was ashamed of them, I fancy.”
“What droll professions there are in Paris I”
said Madame d’Anville : “ as if people could not
marry without going to an office for a spouse, as
we go for a servant! And so the establishment
is broken up? And you never saw again that
dark, wild-looking boy who so struck your fancy,
that you have taken him as the original for the
Murillo sketch of the youth in that charming
tale you read to us the other evening. Ah!
cousin, 1 think you were a little taken with him ;
the bureau de mariagc had its allurements for
you as well as for our poor cousin l" The young
mother said this laughingly and carelessly.
“ Pooh !’7 returned Madame de Merville,
laughing also; but a slight blush broke over her
natural palenoss. “ Butil propos of the vieomte.
You know how cruelly he has behaved to that
poor boy of his by his English wife—never seen
him since he was an infant—kept him at some
school in England—find all because his vanity
does not like the world to know that he has a
son of nineteen! Well, I have induced him to
recall this poorjouth.”
“Indeed l an how ?”
“Why,” said Eugénie, with a smile, “ he
wanted a loan, poor man, and I could therefore
impose conditions by way of interest. But I
also managed to conciliate him to the proposi-
tion b representing that, if the young man were
. good- coking, he might himself, with our con-
nections, &e., form an advantageous marriage;
‘and that, in such a case, if the father treated
,him now justly and kindly, he would naturally


NIGHT AND MORNING.
93
partake with the father whatever benefits the
marriage might confer."
“Ah! you are an excellent diplomatist, En-
génie; and you turn peo le’s beads by aiwa s
acting from your heart. ash, here comes t c
vicomte !"
“ A delightful hell i” said Monsieur de Vau-
demont, approaching the ladies. “Pray, has
that young lady yonder, in the pink dress, any
fortune? She is pretty, oh? you observe she is
looking at me—I mean, at us !"
“My dear cousin, what a compliment you
pay to marriage. You have had two wives, and
you are ever on the qm' vine for a third!”
“ What would you have me do ? we can not
resist the overtures of your bewitching sex
Hum—what fortune has she ‘9”
“Not a sou,- bosides, she is engaged."
“Oh! now I look at her, she is not pretty—-
not at all. I made a mistake. I did not mean
her. I meant the young lady in blue."
" Worse and worse! she is married already.
Shalll present you ‘2"
“ Ah, Monsieur de Vaudemont," said Madame
d’Anville, “ have you found out a new bureau de
staring: 2”
The vicomte pretended not to hear that ques-
tion. But turning to Eugénie, took her aside,
and said, with an air in which he endeavored to
throw a great deal of sorrow, “ You know, my
dear cousin, that, to oblige you, I consented to
send for my son, though, as I always said, it is
very unpleasant for a man like me, in the prime
of life, to hawk about a great boy of nineteen or
twenty. People soon say, ‘ Old Vaudemont and
young Vaudemont.’ However a father’s feel-
ings are never appealed to in vain.” (Here the
vicomte put his handkerchief to his eyes, and,
after a pause, continued), “I sent for him—I
even went to your old bon-ru, Madame Dufour,
tomake a bargain for her lodgings, and this day,
as my grief, I received a letter sealed with
lack. My son is dead !—-a sudden fever—it is
shocking i”
“Horrible! dead! your own son, whom you
hardly ever saw—never since he was an in-
fant! ’
“Yes, that softens the blow very much. And
now you see 1 must marry. If the boy had
been good-looking, and like me, and so forth,
“by, as you observed, he might have made a
good match, and allowed me a certain sum, or
we could all have lived t ether."
“And your son is de , and you come to a
ball!" '
“ 10 mi: philosophz,” said the vicomte, shrug-
ging his shoulders. “ And, as you say, I never
saw him. It saves me 700 francs a year. Don‘t
say a word to any one; I shn‘n’t give out that
he is dead, poor fellow! Pray be discreet:
you see there are some ill-natured pco is who
might think it odd I do not shut mysel up. I
can wait till Paris is quite empty. It would be
a pity to lose any opportunity at present, for
new, you see, I must marry.” And the philo-
wphe sauntercd away.
+
CHAPTER XII.
“Delmar. Those devotions I an: to pay
\ Are written in my heart, not in that book.

Enter Ito-nun.
I nrn pursued—ail the ports are stopp‘ti. too:
Not any hope to escape: behindl before me,
On either side, i am beset."
BIAUHDNT mm FLITCHER .
'I'Iu Cmtam of!!!» Country.
THE party were just gone—it was already the
peep of day—the wheels of the last carriage had
died in the distance.
Madame de Merville had dismissed her woman,
and was seated in her own room leaning her head
musingly on her hand.
Beside her was the table that held her M85.
and a few books, amid which were scattered
vases of flowers. On a pedestal beneath the
window was placed a marble bust of Dante.
Through the' o n door were seen in perspective
the rooms just eserted by her guests; the lights
still burned in the chandeliers and girandolcs,
contending with the daylight that came through
the half-closed curtains. The person of the in-
mate was in harmony with the apartment. It
was characterized by a certain grace, which, for
want of a better epithet, writers are prone to call
classical or antique. Her complexion, seeming
paler than usual by that li__ ht, was yet soft and
delicate; the features wel cut, but small and
womanly. About the face there was that rarest
of all charms, the combination of intellect with
sweetness; the eyes, oi'a dark blue, were thought-
ful, perha s melancholy in their expression; but
the long ark lashes, and the shape of the eyes
themselves, more long than full, gave to their
intelligence a softness approaching to languor,
increased, perhaps, by that slight shadow round
and below the orbs which is common with those
who have tasked too much either the mind or
the heart. The contour of the face, without
being sharp or angular, had yet lost a little of
the roundness of earlier youth; and the hand on
which she leaned was, perhaps, even too white,
too delicate, for the beauty which belongs to
health; but the throat and bust were of exquisite
symmetry. -
“I am not happy," murmured Eugenie to
herself, “yet I scarce know why. Is it really
as we women of romance have said, till the say-
ing is worn threadbare, that the destiny of women
is not fame, but love ? Strange, then, that while
I have so often pictured what love should be, I
have never felt it. And now—and now," she
continued, half rising, and with a natural pang,
“now I am no longer in my first youth. If i
loved, should I be loved again? How happy
that young pair seemed—they are never alone!"
At this moment, at a distance, was heard the
report of fire-arms—again! Eugénie started,
and called to her servant, who, with a waiter
hired for the night, was engaged in removing,
and nibbling as he removed, the remains of the
feast. “ What is that, at this hour? Open the
window and look out i”
“I can see nothing, madame."
“Again! that is the third time. Go into the
street and look; some one must be in danger.”
The servant and the waiter, both curious, and
not willing to part company, ran down the stairs,
and thence into the street.
Meanwhile Morton, after vainly attempting
Birnie’s window, which the traitor had previoust
locked and barred against the escape of his in-
tended victim, creeped rapidly along the roof,
screened by the parapet not only from the shot,


94
NIGHT AND MORNING.
but the sight of the foe. But just as he gained
the point at which the lane made an angle with
the broad street it adjoined, he cast his eyes over
the parapet, and perceived that one of the officers
had ventured himself to the fearful bridge: he
was mad; detection and capture seemed in-
evita is. He paused and breathed hard. He,
once the heir to such fortunes, the darli of such
afiections! he, the hunted accomplice o a gang
of miscreants! That was the thought that par-
alyzed: the disgrace, not the danger. But'he
was in advance of the pursucr; he hastened on
—he turned the angle—he heard a shout behind
from the opposite side—the otIicer had passed
the bridge: “It is but. one man as yet,” thought
he, and his nostrils dilated and his hands clenched
as he glided on, glancing at each casement as
he passed.
Now, as youth and vigor thus struggled
against law for life, near at hand death was
busy with toil and disease.
in a miserable grabat or garret, a mechanic,
yet young, and stricken by a lingering malady,
contracted by the labor of his occupation, was
slowly passing from that world in which, for the
mass of inhabitants, the curse of Cain is ever-
lastineg at work. Now this man had married
for love, and his wife had loved him; and it was
the cares of that early marriage that had con-
sumed him to the bone. But extreme want, if
long continued, eats up love when it has nothing
else to eat. And when people are very long
dying, the people they fret and trouble begin to
think of that too often hypocritical prettiness of
phrase called “a happy release.” So the worn-
out and half-famishcd wife did not care three
straws for the dying husband whom, a year or
two ago, she had vowed to love and cherish in
sickness and in health. But still she secmcrl to
care, for she moaned, and pined, and wept as
the man’s breath grew fainter and fainter.
“Ah, Jean!” said she, sobbing, “what will
become of mr, 0. poor, lone widow, with nobody
to work for my bread ?” And with that thought
she took on worse than before.
“I am stilling,” said the dying man, rolling
round his ghastly eyes. “How hot it is! Open
the window; I should like to see the light—day-
light oncc again.”
“Mon Dim! what whims he has, poor man i"
muttered the woman, without stirring.
The poor wretch put. his skeleton hand out,
and clutched his wife s arm.
“I sha’n’t trouble you long, Mariel
air ‘7’
“Jean, you will make yourself worse; besides,
I shall catch my death of cold. I have scarce a
rag on, but I will just open the door."
“Pardon me,” groaned the sufferer; “leave
me, then."
Poor fellow! perhaps at that moment the
thought of unkindness was sharper than the
sharp cough which brought blood at every
paroxysm. He did not like her so near him,
but. he did not blame her. Again I say, poor
follow! I
The woman opened the door, went to the other
side of the room, and sat down on an old box,
and began darning an old neck-handkerchief.
Air l
,seemed to sleep, and saw him not.

“ Je m’etlmfl'e ! Air !"
There was no resisting that prayer, it seemed
so like the last. The wife laid down the needle,
put the handkerchief round her throat, and open-
ed the window.
“ Do you feel easier now ?”
“Bless you, Marie! yes, that's good, good.
It puts me in mind of old days, that breath of
air, before we came to Paris. I wish I could
work for you now, Marie.”
“Jean! my poor Jean!” said the woman; and
the words and the voice took back her hardeuin
heart to the fresh fields and tender thoughts ot
the past time. And she walked up to the bed,
and he leaned his temples, damp with livid
dews, upon her breast.
“I have been a sad burden to you, Marie:
we should not have married so soon; but I
thought I was stronger. Don‘t cry; “'0 have
no little ones, thank God. It will be much better
for you when I’m gone."
And so word after word gasped out : he stop-
ped suddenly, and seemed to fall asleep.
The wife then attempted gently to lay him
once more on his pillow; the head full back
heavily ; the jaw had dropped; the teeth were
set; the eyes were open, and like stone: the
truth broke on her!
“Jean, Jean! My God, he is dead! and I
was unkind to him at tholastl” With these
words, she fell upon the corpse, happily herself
insensiblc.
Just at that moment a human face peered in
at the window. Through that aperture, after a
moment’s pause, a young man leaped lightly
into the room. He looked round with a hurried
glance, but scarcely noticed the forms stretched
on the pallet. It was enough for him that they
He stole
across the room, the door of which Marie had,
it will be recollected, left open, and descended
the stairs. He had almost gained the court-yard
into which the stairs conducted, when he heard
voices below by the porter’s lodge.
“ The police have discovered a gang of coin-
ers !"
“ Coiners l”
“ Yes; one has been shot dead. I have seen
his bod in the kennel; another has fled alon
the roots, a desperate fellow! We are to watc
for him. Lot us go up stairs, and get on the
roof, and look out.”
By the hum of approval that followed this
reposition, Morton judged rightly that it had
liecn addressed to several persons whom curiosity
and the explosion of the pistols had drawn from
their beds, and who were grouped round the
portcr’s lodge. What was to be done? To
advance was impossible: was there yet time to
retreat? It was, at least, the only course left
him; he sprang back up the stairs; he had just
gained the first flight when he heard stops de-
scending ; then, suddenly, it flashed across him
that he had left open the window above; that,
doubtless, by that imprudent oversight the officer
in pursuit had detected a. clew to the path he had
taken. What was to be done? die as Gawtrey
had done ! death rather than the galleys. As he
thus resolved, he saw to the right the 0 on door
The silence was soon broken by the means of | of an apartment in which lights still glimmcred
the fast dying man, and again he muttered, asiin their sockets.
kboldly and at once, closing the door after him.
he tossed to and fro, with baked, white lips,
It seemed deserted; he entered


NIGHT AND MORNING.
95
Wines and viands still left on the table—gilded
mirrors, reflecting the stern face of the solitary
intruder—here and there an artificial [lower—
a knot of ribbon on the floor—all betolrening the
gayeties of luxurious life—the dance, the revel,
e feast—all this in one apartment! Above, in
the same house, the pallet, the corpse, the widow
—-t'amine and woe! Such is a great city! such,
above all, is Paris! where, under the same roof,
are gathered such antagonist features of the so-
cial state! Nothing strange in this; but what
was strange and sad was, that so little do people
thus neighbors know of each other, that the
owner of those rooms had a heart soft to every
distress, but she did not know the distress so close
at hand. The music that had charmed her
guests had mounted gayly to the vexed ears of
agony and hunger. Morton passed thle first room
—a second—he came to a third; and Eugenie
do Mervillc, looking up at that instant, saw be-
fore her an apparition that might well have alarm-
ed the boldest. His head was uncovered; his
dark hair shadowed in wild and disorderly profu-
sion, the pale face and features, beautiful, indeed,
but at that moment of the beauty which an artist
would impart to a young gladiator—stamped
with defiance, menace, and despair. The dis-
Mered garb—the fierce aspect—the dark eyes,
that literally shone through the shadows of the
room, all conspired to increase the terror of so
abru t a presence.
“ hat are- you ‘2 What do you. seek here ‘2"
said she, falteringly, placing her hand on the bell
as she spoke.
Upon that soft hand Morton laid his own.
“I seek my life! I am pursued! I am at
your mercy! I. am innocent! Can you save
me?"
As he spoke, the door of the outer room be-
yond was heard to open, and steps and voices
were at hand.
“Ah 1" he exclaimed, recoiling as he recog-
nized her face. “ And is it to you that I have
fled ?”
Eugenie also recognized the stranger; and
there was something in their relative positions—
the suppliant, the protectress—that excited both
her imagination and her pity. A slight color
mantled 10 her cheeks—her look was gentle and
compassionate.
“Poor b0 '! so young!" she said. “ Hush !”
She with rcw her hand from his, retired a few
steps, lifted a curtain drawn across a recess, and,
pointing to an alcove that contained one of those
sofa-beds common in French houses, added, in a
whisper.
“Enter—you are saved.”
Morton obeyed, and Eugenie replaced the
curtain.
___’__
CHAPTER XIII.
“Gur'omar. Speak! Whatnre you?
Ruilb. Gracious woman. hear me. I am a stranger;
And in that I answer all demands."
Custom of [he Country.
Eueexn; replaced the curtain. And scarcely
had she done so, ere the steps in the outer room
entered the chamber where she stood. Her
servant was accompanied by two officers of the
police. _
“Pardon, madame," said one of the latter;

“but we are in pursuit of a criminal. We think
he must have entered this house through a win-
dow above while your servant was in the street.
Permit us to search ‘9”
“ Without doubt,” answered Eugenie, seating
herself. “If he has entered, look in the other
apartments. I have not quitted this room.”
“ You are right. Accept our apologies.”
And the officers turned back to examine every
corner where the fugitive was not. For, in that,.
the scouts of justice resembled their mistress:
when does man’s justice look to the right place ?
The servant lingered to repeat the tale he-
had heard—the sight he had seen. When, at
that instant, he saw the curtain of the alcove
slightly stirred. He uttered an exclamation—'-
sprung to the bed—his hand touched the curtain
Eugenie seized his arm. She did not speak;
but, as he turned his eyes to her, astonished, he
saw that she trembled, and that her cheek was~
as white as marble.
“Madame,” he said, hesitating, “there is-
some one hid in the recess.”
" There is! Be silent!”
A suspicion flashed across the servant’s mind;
The pure, the proud, the immaculate Eugenie!
“There is! and in madamc’s chamber!” he»
faltered, unconsciously.
Eugénie’s quick apprehension seized the foul
thought. Her eyes flashed—her cheeks crim-
sone . But her lofty and generous nature con-
quered even the indignant and scornful burst
that rushed to her lips. The truth !—-could she
trust the man? A doubb—and the charge of
the human life rendered to her might be betray-
ed. Her color fell—tears gushed to her eyes.
“I have been kind to you, Francois. Not a
word !”
“ Madame confides in me : it is enough,” said
the Frenchman, bowing, and with a. slight smile-
on his lips; and he drew back respectfully.
One of the police-officers re-entered.
“We have done, madame : he is not here.
Aha! that curtain!”
“It is madame’s bcd,’7 said Francois.
I have looked behind.”
“ I am most sorry to have disarrangcd you,”
said the policeman, satisfied with the answer-7
“ but we shall have him yet.” And he retired.
The last footsteps died away, the last door of
the apartments closed behind the cllieers, and
Eugenie and her servant stood alone, gazing on
each other.
“ You may retire,” said she, at last, and,
taking her purse from the table, she placed it in
his hands.
The man took it, with a significant look.
“Madame may depend on my discretion.”
Eugénic was alone again. Those words rang
in her ear—Eugenie do Merville dependent on
the discretion of her lackey ! She sunk into her
chair, and, her excitement succeeded by ex-
haustion, leaned her face on her hands and burst
into tears. She was aroused by a low voice;
she looked up, and the young man was kneeling
at her feet.
“Go—go !” she said; “I have done for you
all I can. You heard—you heard—my own
hireling, too! At the‘hazard of my own good
name on are saved. Go 2”
“0' your good name!” for Eugenie forgot
that it was looks, not words, that bad so wrung
“ But


96
NIGHT AND MORNING.
her pride. “Your good name!" he repeated;
and glancing round the room—the toilet, the
curtain, the recess he had quitted—all that he-
spoke that chastcst sanctuary of a chaste woman,
which for a stranger to enter is, as it were, to
profane—her meaning broke on him. “Your
good name! your hirelingl No, madame, no!"
And, as he spoke, he rose to his feet. “ Not for
me that sacrifice ! Your humanity shall not cost
you so dear. Ho, there! I am the man you
seek.” And he strode to the door.
Eugenie was penetrated with the answer.
She sprung to him—she grasped his garments.
“ Hash! hush! for mercy’s sake! What
would you do? Think you I could ever be
happy again if the confidence you placed in me
were betrayed? Be calm—be still. I knew
not what I said. It will be easy to undcceive
the man—later—when you are saved. And you
are innocent—are you not ‘2”
“Oh, madame,” said Morton, “from my soul
I say it, I am innocent—not of poverty—wretch-
cdness—crror—shame—I am innocent of crime.
May Heaven bless you l” And, as he reverent-
ly kissed the hand laid on his arm, there was
something'in his voice so touching, in his man-
ner something so above his fortunes, that Eu-
génie was lost in her feelings of compassion,
surprise, and something, it might be, of admira-
tion in her wonder. ,
“And oh !” he said, passionately, gazing on
her with his dark, brilliant eyes, liquid with
emotion, “you have made my life sweet in
saving it. You—you—of whom, ever since the
first time—almost the sole time—l beheld you,
1 have so often mused and dreamed. lleuce-
forth, whatever befall me, there will be some
recollections that will-that—"’
He stopped short, for his heart was too full
for words; and the silence said more to Eugenie
than if all the eloquence of Rousseau had glowed
upon his tongue.
“And who and what are you ‘2” she asked,
after a pause.
“An exile—an orphan—an outcast!
no name! Farewell !"
“ No—stay yet—the danger is not past. Wait
till my servant is gone to rest; I hear him yet.
Sit down—sit down; and whither would you go 1?”
“I know not.”
“Have you no friends?"
"None."
“ No home ?”
“None.”
“And the police of Paris so ' ilnht!‘I cried
Eugenie, wringing her hands. “ hat is to be
done? I shall have saved you in vain—you will
he discovered! Of what do they charge you?
Not robbery—not—”
And she, too, stopped short, for she did not
dare to breathe the black word “ Murder."
“1 know not," said Morton, putting his hand
to his forehead, “except of being friends with
the only man who befriended me—and they have
killed him I"
“ Another time you shall tell me all."
“Another time l" he exclaimed, eagerly;
“shall I see you again ‘2”
Engénie blushed beneath the gaze and the
voice of joy.
“Yes,” she said, “yes. But I must reflect.
Bo calm—be silent. Ah! a happy thought!"
I have

She sat down, wrote a hasty line,‘sealed, and
gave it to Morton.
“Take this note, as addressed, to Madame
Dufour; it will provide you with a safe lodging.
She is a rson I'can depend on: an old servant
who live with my mother, and to whom I have
given a small pension. She has a lodging—it
is lately vacant—I promised to procure her a
tenant. Go: say nothing of what has passed. I
will see her, and arrange all. Wait! hark! all
is still! I will go first, and see that no one
watches you. Stop” (and she threw open the
window and looked into the court). “The port-
er’s door is open—that is fortunate l Hurry on,
and God be with you !”
In a few minutes Morton was in the streets.
It was still early—the thoroughfares deserted—
none of the shops yet open. The address on the
note was to a street at some distance, on the
other side of the Seine. He passed along the
same Quai which he had trodden but a few
hours since; hztpassed the same splendid bridge
on which he h stood despairing to quit it, re-
vived; he gained the Rue Faubourg St. Honore.
A young man in a cabriolet, on whose fair cheek
burned the hectic of late vigils and lavish dissi-
pation, was rolling leisurely home from the gem-
ing-house, at which he had been more than.
usually fortunate—his pockets were laden with
notes and gold. He bent forward as Morton
passed him. Philip, absorbed in his revery, per-
ceived him not, and continued his way. The
gentleman turned down one of the streets to the
left, stopped, and called to the servant dozing
behind his cabriolet.
“ Follow that passenger! quietly—see where
he lodges—be sure to find out and let me know.
I shall go home without you." With that he
drove on.
Philip, unconscious of the espionage, arrived
at a small house in a quiet but respectable street,
and rang the bell several times before, at last,
he was admitted by Madame Dufour herself, in
her night-cap. The old woman looked nskant
and alarmed at the unexpected apparition. But
the note seemed at once to satisfy her. She con-
ducted him to an apartment on the first floor—
small, but neatly and even elegantly furnished——
consisting of a sitting-room and a bed-chamber,
and said, quietly, _
“ Will they suit monsicur ‘2"
To monsieur they seemed a palace.
nodded assent.
“And will monsieur sleep for a short time '9"
ll Yes."
“The bed is well aired. The rooms have
only been vacant three days since. Can 1 get
you anyithing till your luggage arrives ?”
“ No. '
Norton
The woman left him. He threw ofl‘ his clothes,
flung himself on the bed, and did not wake till
noon.
When his eyes unclosed—when they rested on
that calm chamber, with its air of health, and
cleanliness, and comfort, it was long before he
could convince himself that he was yet awake.
He missed the loud, deep voice of Gawtrey—
the smoke of the dead man’s meerschaum—the
gloomy garret—the distained walls—the stealthy
whisper of the loathed Birnie; slowly the life led
and the life gone within the last twelve hours
grew upon his struggling memory. He groan~


NIGHT AND MORNING.
9'!
ed, and turned uneasily around, when the door
slightly opened, and he sprang up fiercely,
“ Who is there ‘2"
“Iris only I, sir,” answered Madame Dufcur.
“I have been in three times to see if you were
stirring. There is a letter I believe for you, sir,
though there is no name to it," and she laid the
letter on the chair beside him. Did it come from
her—the saving angel? He seized it. The
cover was blank; it was sealed with a small de-
vice, as of a ring seal. Ho tore it open, and
found four billets dz banqne for 1000 francs each;
a sum equivalent in our money to about £160.
“Who sent this: the-the lady from whom I
brought the note 'i‘”
“Madame de Merville ‘2 Certainly not, sir," i
said Madame Dufour, who, with the privilege of
age, was now unscrupulonsly filling the water-
jugs and settling the toilet table. “A young
man called about two hours after you had gone
to bed ; and, describing you, inquired if you
lodged here, and what your name was. I said
you had just arrived, and that I did not yet know
your name. So he went away, and came again
half an hour afterward with this letter, which he
charged me to deliver to you safely."
“ A young man—a gentleman ? ’
“No he seemed a smart but common sort
oflad." Iior the unsophisticated Madame Du-
four did not discover, in the plain black frock
and drab gaiters of the bearer of that letter, the
Simple livery of an English gentleman’s groom.
Whom could it come from, if not from Madame
do Merville? Perhaps one of Gawtrey’s lute

roused the interest and excited the romance of
‘Eugénie de Mervillc, her fancy was yet more
, attracted by the tone of the letter she now read.
~ For, though Morton more accustomed to speak
than to write French, expressed himsclt'with less
precision, and a less euphuistie selection of phrase
than the authors and E/Egans who formed her
1usual correspondents, there was an innate and
rough noblencss—n strong and profound feeling
iin every line of his letter, which increased her
lsurprise and admiration.
i “ All that surrounds him—all that belongs to
lhim is strangeness and mystery!" murmured
lshe; and she sat down to rcpl .
1 When Madame Dufour departed with that let-
ter, Eugenie remained silent and thoughtful for
more than an hour. Morton‘s letter before her
-—and sweet, in their indistinctness, were the
recollections and the images that crowded on her
‘ mind.
Morton, satisfied by the earnest and solemn
iawurances of Eugenie that she was not the un-
known donor of the sum she re-inelosed, after
puzzling himself in vain to form any new conjec-
tures as to the quarter whence it came, felt that,
1 under his present circumstauceg it would be an
absurd Quixotism to refuse to apply what the
very Providence to whom he had anew consign-
, ed himself seemed to have sent to his aid. And
it placed him, too, beyond the offer of all pecun-
iary assistance from one from whom he could least
have brooked to receive it. He consented, there-

! fore, to all that the loquacious tailor proposed to
‘him. And it would have been dirlicult to have
friends. A suspicion ofArthur Beaufort crossed ‘ recognized the wild and frenzied fugitive in
him, but he indignantly dismissed it. Men are the stately and graceful form, with its young
seldom credulous of what they are unwilling \ beauty and air of well-horn pride, which the
to believe! What kindness had the Beauforts next day sat by the side of Eugenie. And that
hitherto shown him ? Left his mother to perish day he told his sad and troubled story, and Eu-
broken-hearted—stolenfrom him his brother, and ;génie wept: and from that day he come daily;
steeled in that brother the only heart wherein he i and two weeks—happy, dream-like, intoxicating
had a right to loolr for gratitude and love ! No, ito both—passed by,- and as their last sun set, be
it must he Madame de Merville. IIe dismissed | was kneeling at her feet, and breathing to one to
Madame Dufour for pen and paper—rose—wrote ' whom the homage of wit, and genius, and cum
8 letter to Eugénie, grateful, but proud, and in-
closed the notes. He then summoned Madame
Dufour, and sent her with his dispatch.
“ Ah, madame !" said the ei-devaat Innate when
she found herselfin Eugénie‘s presence. “The
poor lad! how handsome he is, and how shame-
ful in the vicomto to let him wear suoh clothes!”
“The vicomte I"
“Oh, my dear mistress, you must not deny it.
You told me, in your note, to ask him no ques-
tions.v but I uessed at once. The vicomte told
me himself that he should have the young gentle-
man over in a few days. You need not be
ashamed of him. You will see what a difference
clothes will make in his appearance, and Ihnve
taken it on myself to order a tailor to go to him.
The vicomte must pay me.”
“Not a word to the vicomtae as yet.
surprise him,” said Eugenie, laughing.
Madame de Merville had been all that morn-
ing trying to invent some story to account for
her interest in the lodger, and now how Fortune
favored her!
“But is that a letter for me ‘3'"
“ And I had almost forgotten it,” said Madame
Dufour, as she extended the letter.
Whatever there had hitherto been in the cir-
cumstances connected with Morton that had
G
We will
placent wealth had hitherto been vainly proffer-
ed, the impetuous, agitated, delicious secrets of
the first love. He spoke, and rose to depart for-
ever, when the look and the sigh detained him.
The next day, after a sleepless night, Eugenie
de Merville sent for the Vicomte de Vaudemont.
_.____
CHAPTER XIV.
" A Illver river small
In sweet accents
Its music vents——
The nrhling vlrglnnl
To which the merry blrds do sing,
Timed with stops ofgold the silver string.“
Silt Ricaaan FANSIIAW.
0m: evening, several weeks after the events
_ just commemorated, a stranger, leading in his
hand a young child, entered the church-yard of
H . The sun had not long set, and the short
twilight of deepening summer reigned in the
tranquil skies: you might still hear from the
ltrecs above the graves the chirp of some joyous
bird; what enrcd he, the denizen of the skies,


l for the dead that slept below? what did he value
save the greenness and repose of the spot—to
him alike, the garden or the grave! As the


Oh
NIGHT AND MORNING.
man and the child passed, the robin, scarcely
scared by their tread from the long grass heside
one of the mounds, looked at them with its
bright, blithe eye. It was a famous spot for the
robin—the old church~ynrdl That domestic bird
.—-“ the friend of man,” as it had been called
by the poets—found a jolly supper among the
worms!
The stranger, on reaching the middle of the
sacred ground, paused and looked round him
wistfully. He then approached, slowly and hesi-
tatingly, an oblong tablet, on which were gravcn,
in letters yet fresh and new, these words:
TO THE '
MEMORY OF ONE CALUMNIATED AND WRONGED,
THIS BURIAL-STONE IS DEDICATED
BY HER SON.
Such, with the addition of the dates of birth
and death, was the tablet which Philip Morton
had directed to be placed over his mother’s bones;
'and around it was set a simple palisade, which
defended it from the tread of the children, who
sometimes, in defiance of the beadle, played over
the dust of the former race.
“ Thy son l” muttered the stran or, while the
child stood quietly by his side, peased by the
trees, the grass, the song of the birds, and reck-
ing not of grief or death, “ thy son !—but not thy
favored son—th darling—thy youngest born—
on what spot 0 earth do thine eyes look down
on him! Surely in heaven thy love has pre-
served the one whom on earth thou didst most
cherish, from the sufferings and the trials that
have visited the less-favored outcast. Oh, moth-
er, mother! it was not his crime—not Philip’s-—
that he did not fulfill to the last the trust be-
queathed to him! Happier, perhaps, as it is!
And oh! if thy memory be graven as deeply in
my brother’s heart as my own, how often Will it
warn and save him! That memory! it has been
to me the angel of my life! To thee—to thee,
even _in death, I owe it, if, though erring, I am
not criminal—if I here lived with the lepers,
and am still undefiled l” His lips then were si-
lent—not his heart!
After a few minutes thus consumed, he turn-
ed to the child, and said, gently and in a tremu-
loos voice, “Funny, you have been taught to
pray—you will live near this spot—will you
come sometimes here and pray that you may
grow up good and innocent, and become a bless-
ing to those who love you l” ‘
“ Will papa ever come to hear me pray ?"
That sad and unconscious question went to
the heart of Morton. The child could not com-
prehend death. He had sought to explain it, but
she had been accustomed to consider her pro-
tector dead when he was absent from her, and
she still insisted that he must come again to life.
And that man of turbulence and crime, who had
passed unrepentant, unnbsolved, from sin to judg-
ment: it was an awful question, “If he should
hear her pray ‘2”
“Yes!” said he, after a pause, “yes, Fanny,
there is a Father who will hear you pray; and
pray to Him to be merciful to those who have
been kind to you. Fanny, you and I may never
meet again!7
“ Are you oing to die too '? Méchant, every
one dies to gunnyl” and, clinging to him en-
waringly, she put up her lips to kiss him. He

took her in his arms; and, as a tear fell upor
her rosy cheek, she said, l‘Don’t cry, brother,
for I love you."
“Do you, dear Fanny ? Then, for m sake,
when you come to this place, if any Will give
you a few flowers, scatter them on that stone.
And now we will go to one whom you must love
also, and to whom, as I have told you, he sends
you; he who— Come!”
As he thus spoke, and placed Fanny again on
the ground, he was startled to see, precisely on
the spot where he had seen before the like ap-
parition—on the same spot where the father had
cursed the son—the motionless form of an old
man. Morton recognized, as if by an instinct
rather than by any effort of 'the memory, the
person to whom he was bound.
He walked slowly toward him; but Fanny
abruptly left his side, lured by a moth that flitted
duskily over the raves.
“Your name, str, 1 think, is Simon Gawtrey ‘2"
said Morton. “I have come to England in quest
of you.”
“ Of me 1'” said the old man, half rising; and
his eyes, now completely blind, rolled vacauily
over.Morton’s person. “Of me? For what?
Who are you ? I don’t know your voice!”
“I come to you from your son !” _
“ My son l" exclaimed the old man, with great
vehemence; “the reprobate! the dishonored!
the infamous! the nccursed—”
“ Hush! you revile the dead 1”
“Dead l” muttered the wretched father, tot-
tering back to the seat he had quittcd, “dead I”
and the sound of his voice was so full of anguish,
that the dog at his feet, which Morton had not
hitherto perceived, echoed it with a dismal cry,
that recalled to Philip the awful day in which he
had seen the son quit the father for the last time
on earth.
The sound brought Fanny to the spot; and,
with a laugh of delight, which made to it a
strange contrast, she threw herself on the grass
beside the dog, and sought to entice it to play.
So there, in that place of death, were knit to-
gether the four links in the Great Chain: lusty
and blooming life—desolate and doting a e—
infaney, yet scarce conscious of a soul—an the
dumb brute, that has no warrant of a hereafter!
“Dead !—dead I” repeated the old man, cov-
ering his sightless balls with his withered bands.
“Poor \Villiam l”
“ He remembered on to the last. He bade
me seek you out; he gade me replace the guilty
son with a thing pure and innocent as he had
been had he died in his cradle: a child to com-
fort your old age! Kneel, Fanny; I have found
you a father who will cherish you (oh! you will,
sir, will you not '2) as he whom you may see no
more!”
There was something in Morton’s voice so
solemn that it awed and touched both the old
man and the infant; and Fanny, creeping to the
protector thus assigned to her, and putting her
little hands confidingly on his knees, said—
“ Fanny will love you, if papa wished it. Kiss
F army.”
“Is it his child—his ?” said the blind man,
sobbing. “Come to my heart, here—here!
Oh, God, forcive me l”
Morton did not think it riflht at that moment
to undeceive him with regard to the poor child's


NIGHT AND MORNING.
99
true connection with the deceased; and he waits
ed in silence till Simon, after a burst of passion-
ate grief and tenderness, rose. and, still clnsping
the child to his breast, said— '
“Sir, forgive me! I am a very weak old
man—r-l have many thanks to give—J have
much, too, to learn. My poor son! he did not
die in want—slid he 7”
The particulars of Gawtrey’s fate, with his
real name, and the various aliases he had as-
mmed, had appeared in the French journals
and been partially co ied into the English; and
Morton had expec to have been saved the
painful narrative of that fearful death; but the
utter seclusion of the old man, his infirmity, and
his estranged habits, had shut‘him out from the
intelligence that it now devolved on Philip to
communicate. Morton hesitated a little before
he answered :
“It is late now; you are not yet prepared to
receive this poor infant at your home, nor to hear
the details I have to state. I arrived in England
but to-day. I shall lodge in the neighborhood,
for it is dear to me. In may feel sure, then,
that you will receive and treasure this sacred
and ast deposit bequeathed to you by your an-
happy son, I will bring my charge to you to-
morrow; and we will then, more calmly than
we can now, talk over the past."
“You do not answer my question,” said Simon,
passionately; “ answer me that, and I will wait
for the rest. They call me a miser! Did I
send put my only child to starve? Answer
that!”
“ Be comforted. He did not die in want; and
he has even left some little fortune for Fanny,
which I was to place in your hands.”
“ And he thought to bribe the old miser to be
human! Well—well—woll! Iwill go home.”
“Lean on me.” 7
The dog leaped playfully on his master as the
latter rose, and Fanny slid from Simon’s arms to
caress_and talk to the animal in her own way.
As they slowly passed through thechurch-yard,
Simon muttered incoherently to himself for some
paces, and Morton would not disturb, since he
could not comfort him.
At last he said, abruptly, “Did my son re-
pent?’7
“I hope," answered Morton, evasively, “ that
hadnhis life been spared, he would have amend-
ed !
"' Tush, sir! I am not seventy—we repent!
we never amend!” Ind Simon again sunk into
his own dim and disconnected roveries.
At length they arrived at the blind man’s
house. The door was opened to them by an
old woman of disagreeable and sinister aspect,
dressed out much too gayly for the station of a
servant, though such was her re uted capacity;
but the misor’s afiliction snv her from the
chance of comment on her extravagance. As
she stood in the doorway, with a candle in her
hand, she scanned curiously, and with no wel-
coming eye, her master’s companions.
“Mrs. Boxer, my son is dead!" said Simon,
in a hollow voice.
“And a good thing it is, then, sir!”
“For shame, Woman!’7 said Morton, indig-
nantly.
“Hey-day, sir! whom have we 0t here ‘2."
"One," said Simon, sternly, “ w om you will

He brings me a blessing to
One harsh word to this child,
'11
treat with respect.
lighten my loss.
and mu quit my house
The woman looked perfectly thunderstruck;
but, recovering herself, she said whiningly,
“I! a harsh wo d to any thin" that my dear,
kind master cares fo’! And, Lor , what a sweet,
pretty creature it is.‘ Come here, my dear!"
But Fanny shrunk back, and would not let go
Philip’s hand.
“ To-morrow, then,” said Morton; and he was
turning away, when a sudden thought seemed to
cross the old man.
"‘ Stay, sir, stay! I—I—did my son say I
was rich? I am voR', very poor; nothing in
the house, or I shoul have been robbed long
a o! ’
g“~Your son told me to bring mot ey not to ask
for it ‘2”
“ Ask for it! No; but--—’7 added the old man,
and a gleam of cunning intellect shot over his
face; “ but he had got into a had set. Ask !—
no! Put u the door-chain, Mrs. Boxer "
It was wrth doubt and misgivings, that M r-
tOn the next day consigned the child, who had
already nestled herself into the warmest c-‘r '- at
his heart, to the care of Simon. Nothing allurt
Of that an rstitious respect which all men owe
to the wisliZs of the dead, would have made him
select for her that asylum; for fate had now, in
brightening his own prospects, given him an al-
ternative in the benevolence of Madame de Mer-
ville. But Gawtrey had been so earnest on the
subject, that he felt as if he had no right to
hesitate. And was it not a sort of atonement to
any faults the son might have committed against
the parent, to place by the old man‘s hearth so
sweet a charge ‘2
The strange and peculiar mind and character
of Fanny made him, however, yet more anxious
than otherwise he might have been. She cer-
tainly deserved not the harsh name of imbecile
or idiot, but she was dill'erent from all other
children; shefcl! more acutely than most of her
age, but she could not be taught to reason.
There was something either oblique or deficient
in her intellect, which justified the most melan-
choly apprehensions; yet often, when some dis-
ordered, incoherent, inexplicable train of ideas
most saddened the listener, it would be followed
by fancies so exquisite in their tenderness, that
suddenly she seemed as much above, as before
she had seemed below the ordinary measure of
infant comprehension. She was like a creature
to which Nature, in some cruel but bright ca-
price, has given all that belongs to poetry, but
denied all that belongs to the common under-
standinn necessary to mankind; or as a fairy
changcling, not indeed according to the vulgar
superstition, malignant and deformed, but love-
lier than the children of men, and haunted by
dim and struggling associations of a gentler and
fairer hein , yet wholly incapable to learn the
dry and har elements which make up the knowl-
edge of actual life.
Morton, as well as he could, sought to explain
to Simon the peculiarities in Fanny‘s mental
constitution. He urged on him the necessity of'
providing for her careful instruction, and Simon
promised to send her to the best school the
neiflhborbood could afford; but, as the Old man
spoie, he dwelt so much on the supposed fact


100
NIGHT AND MORNING.
that Fanny was William’s daughter, and with
his remorse or atfection there ran so interwoven
a thread of selfishness and avarice. that Morton
thought it would be dangerous to his interest in
the child to undcecivc his error. He therefore
-—perhaps excusany enough—remained silent
on that subject.
Gawtrey had placed with the superior ofttho
convent, together with an order to give up the
child to any one who should demand her in his
true name, which he c'onfided to the superior, a
sum of nearly £300, which he solemnly swore
had been honestly obtained, and which, in all his
shifts and adversities,-he had never allowed him
self to touch. This sum, with the trifling deduc-
tion made for arrears due to the convent, Mor-
ton now placed in Simon’s hands. The old man
clutched the money, which was for the most. in!
French gold, with a convulsive vripe ; and then,
as if ashamed of the impulse, said,
“But you, sir—will any sum—that is, any
reasonable sum—ho of use to you ?"
“No! and if it were, it is neither ours nor
mine—it is hers. Save it for her, andyudd to it
what you can." ,
While this conversation took place, Fanny had
been consigned to the care of Mrs. Boxer, and
Philip now rose to see and bid her farewell be-
fore he departed.
“I ma come twain to visit you, Mr. Gaw-
trcy; an I pray ileavcn to find that you and
Funny have been a mutual blessing to each
other. Oh, remember how your son loved her!’7
“ He had a good heart in spite of all his sins.
Poor William l” said Simon.
Philip Morton heard, and his lip curled with a
sad and ajnst disdain.
If, when, at the age of nineteen, lVilliam Gaw-
trey had quittcd his father‘s roof, the father had
then remembered that the son’s heart was good,
the son had been alive still, an honest and a
happy man. Do ye not laugh, oh ye all-listening
tionds! when men praise those dead whose virtues
they discovered not when aliyc ? It takes much
marble to build the scpulchcr—how little of lath
and plaster would have repaired the garrctl
On turning into a small room adjoining? the
parlor in which antrey sat, Morton found
Fanny standing gloomily by a dull, soot-grimed
window, which looked out on the dead walls of
a small yard. Mrs. Boxer, seated by a table,
was employed in trimming a cap, and putting
questions to Fanny in that falsctto voice of en-
dearment in which people not used to children
are apt to address them.
“ And so, my dear, they’ve never taught you
to read or write ! You“ ve been sadly neglected,
poor thing!”
“ We must do our best to supply the deficien-
cy,” said Morton, as he entered.
“Bless me, sir, is that you?” And the gou-
vcrnante bnstled up and dropped a low courtesy;
for Morton, dressed then in the garb of a gen-
tleman, was of a mien and person calculated to
strike the gaze of the vulgar.
“Ah, brother !" cried Funny, for by that
name he had taught her to call him; and she
flew to his side. “Come away—it’s ugly here
—it makes me cold."
“ My child, I told you you must stay; butI
shall hope to see4you again some day. Will 01]
not be kind to this poor creature, ma’am ? or-

give me if I offended you last night, and favor
me by accepting this to show that we are
friends.” As he spoke he slid his purse into the
woman’s hand. “I shall feel ever grateful for
whatever you can do for Fanny.”
“Fanny wants nothing from any one else-
Fanny wants her brother."
“Sweet child! I fear she don’t take to me.
W'ill you like me, Miss Funny ‘2”
“ No! get along l”
“ Fie, Fanny : you remember you did not take
to me at first. But she is so atl'ectionute, ma'am
—-she never forgets a kindness.”
“I will do all I can to please her, sir. And
so she is really master’s grandchild ‘2" The
woman fixed her~eycs, as she spoke, so intently
on Morton, that he felt embarrassed ; and busicd
himself, without answering, in caressing and
soothing Fanny, who now seemed to awake to
the utiliction about to visit her: for, though she
did not weep—she very rarely wept—her slight
frame trembled, her eyes closed, her cheeks, even
her lips, were white, and her delicate hands were
clasped tightly round the neck of the one about
to abandon her to strange breasts.
Morton was greatly moved. “ One kiss, Fan-
ny ! and do not forget me when we meet again.”
The child pressed her lips to his check, but
the lips were cold. He put her down gently:
she stood mute and passive.
“Remember that he wished me to leave you
here,” whispered Morton, using an argument
that never failed. “We must obey him: anu
so—God bless you, Funny l”
He rose and retreated to the door; the ehilc
unclosed her eyes, and gazed at him with a
strained, painful, imploring gaze : her lips moved,
but she did not speak. Morton could not beat
that silent woe. He sought to smile on her con
solingly, but the smile would not come. He
closed the door, and hurried from the house.
From that day Funny settled into a kind of
dreary, inanimate stupor, which resembled that
of the somnambulist whom the magnetizer for-
gets to waken. Hitherto, with all the eccentri-
cities or deficiencies of her mind, had mingled a
wild and airy gnyety. That was vanished. She
spoke little—she never played—no toys could
lure her—even the poor dog failed to win her
notice. If she was told to do an thing, she
stared vncantly, and stirred not. be evinced,
however, a kind of dumb regard to the old, blind
man; she would creep to his knees, and sit there
for hours, seldom answering when he addressed
her, but uneasy, anxious, and restless if he left
her.
“ Will you die too ?” she asked once; the old
man understood her not, and she did not try to
explain. Early one morning, sume days after
Morton was gone, they missed her; she was
not in the house, nor the dull yard where she
was sometimes dismissed and told to play—told
in vain. In great alarm, the old man accused
Mrs. Boxer of having s irited her away; and
threatened and storme so loudlly, that the
woman, against her went orth to the
search. At last she found the child in tho
church-yard, standing wistl'ully beside a tomb.
“ What do you here, you little plague ‘1'" said
Mrs. Boxer, rudely seizing her by the arm.
“This is the way they will both come back
someday ! I dreamed so !”


NIGHT AND MORNING. 101
“ If ever I catch you here again l” said the ' they were admired-that she was praised instead
housekeeper; and, wiping her brow with onelof blamed—her vanity was pleased, and she
hand, she struck the child with the other. Fanny , learned so readily all that they could teach in
had never been struck before. She recoilcd in ‘ this not unprofitable accomplishment. that Mrs.
terror and amazement; and, for the first time Boxer slyly and secretly turned her tasks to ac-
since her arrival, burst into tears. l count, and made a weekly pcrquisite of the poor
“Come, come, no crying! and, if you tell , pupil’s industry. Another faculty she possessed.
master, [11 beat you Within an inch of your in common with persons usually deficient and
life l” So saying, she caught Fanny in her with the lower species, viz.,am0st accurate and
arms; and, walking about, scolding and mcnac- faithful recollection of places. At first Mrsv
ing till she had frightened back the tears, she rc- ‘ Boxer had been duly sent, morning, noon, and
turned triumphantly to the house, and, bursting evening, to take her to or bring her from the
into the parlor, exclaimed, “Here’s the little‘school; but this was so great a grievance to
darling, slr l” Simon's solitary superintendent, and Fanny
When old Simon learned where the child had coaxed the old man so cndearingly to allow her
beau found, he. was glad; for it was his constant to go and return alone, that the-attendance, un-
habit, whenever the evening was fine, to glide welcome to both, was waved. Fanny cxulted
out to that church-yard—his dog his guide—and in this liberty; and she never, in going or in
sit on his one favorite spot opposite the setting l returning, missed passing through the burial-
suu: this not so much for the sanctity of the ground, and gazing wistfully at the tomb from
place, or the meditations it might inspire, as which she yet believed Morton would one day
ecanse it was the nearest, the safest, and the reappear. With his memory she cherished also
loneliest spot in the neighborhood of his home that of her earlier and more guilty protector;
where the blind man could inhale the air and ' but they were separate feelings, which she dis-
baak in the light of heaven. Hitherto, thinking tinguished in‘her own way.

it sad for the child, he had never taken her with
him: indeed, at the hour of his monotonous
excursion, she had generally been banished to
bed. Now she was permitted to accompany
him; and the old man and the infant would sit
there, side by side, as Age and Infancy rested
side by side in the graves below. The first
symptom of child-like interest and curiosity that
Fanny betrayed was awakened by the affliction
of her protector. One evening, as they thus sat,
she made him explain what the desolation of
blindness is. She seemed to comprehend him,
though he did not seek to adapt his complaints
to her understanding.
“Fanny knows," said she, touchingly; “for
She, too, is blind here," and she pressed her
hands to her temples.
Notwithstanding her silence and strange ways,
*‘ Papa had given her up. She knew that he
would not have sent her away, far—far over the
great water, if he had meant to see Fanny again:
but her brother was forced to leave her—he
would come to life one day, and then they should
live together!”
One day, toward the end of autumn, as her
schoolmistress, a good woman on the whole, but
who had not yet had the wit to discover by what
chords to tune the instrument over which so
wearily she drew her unskillful hand—one day,
we say, the schoolmistress happened to be dressed
for a christening party to which she was invited
in the suburb; and, accordingly, after the morn»
ing lessons, the pupils were to be dismissed to a.
holiday. As Fanny now came last with the
hopeless spelling-book, she stopped suddenly
short, and her eyes rested with avidity upon a

and although he could not see the exquisite luvc- large bouquet of exotic flowers with which the
liness which Nature, as in remorseful pity, had , good lady (she was thin) had enlivened the cen-
lavished on her outward form, Simon soon learn- l ter of the parted kcrchief, whose yellow gauze
ed to love her better than he had ever loved modestly vailed that tender section of female
yet: for they most cold to the child are often
dotards to the rundchild. For her even his
avarice slept. aintics, never before known at
his sparing board, were ordered to tempt her
appetite—toy-shops ransacked to amuse her in-
dolcncc. He was long, however, before he could
prevail on himself to fulfill his promise to Mor-
ton, and rob himselfof her presence. At length,
however, wearicd with Mrs. Boxer's lamenta-
tions at her ignorance, and alarmed himself at
some evidences of helplessness, which made him
dread to think what her future might be when
left alone in life, he placed her at a day-school in
the suburb. Here Funny, for a. considerable
time, justified the harshest assertions of her stu-
pidity. She could not even keep her eyes two
minutes together on the page from which she
was to learn the mysteries of reading; months
passed before she mastered the alphabet; and. a
month after, she had again forgotten it, and the
labor was renewed. The only thing in which
she showed ability, if so it might be called, was
in the use of the needle. The sisters of the con-
vent had already taught her many pretty devices
in this art; and when she found that at the school
beauty which poets have likened to'hills of snow
i—a chilling similcl It was then autumn, and
l field and even garden flowers were growing rare.
“Will you give me one of those flowers ‘2‘”
said Fanny, dropping her book.
“One of these flowers, child! Why ?”
Fanny did not answer; but one of the elder
and clcvercr girls said,
“ 0h l she comes from France, you know,
ma‘am, and the Roman Catholics put flowers,
land ribbons, and things over the graves; you
know, ma’am, we were reading yesterday about
Péro la Chaise ‘2”
" Well ! what then ‘3”
“And Miss Fanny will do any kind of work
for us if we will give her flowers."
“ Brother told me where to put them ; but
these pretty flowers, I never had any like them;
they may bring him back again ! I'll be so good
if you’ll give me one—only one !”
“ Will you learn your lesson ifI do, Funny ‘2"
“Oh! 'cs! Wait a moment l”
And Funny stole back to her desk, put the
hateful book resolutely before her, pressed both
[hands tightly on her temples—Eureka I the
l


102
NIGHT AND MORNING.
chord was touched—and Fanny marched in tri-
umph through half a column of hostile double-
syllables!
From that (lay the schoolmistrcss knew how
to stimulate her, and Funny learned to read,
her path to knowledge thus literally strewn with
flowers! Catharine, thy children were far off,
and thy grave looked guy!
It naturally happens that these short and
simple rhymes, often sacred, which are repeated
in schools as helps to memory, made a part of
her studies; and, no sooner had the sound of
verse struck upon her fancy, than it seemed to
confuse and agitate anew all her senses. It
was like the music of some breeze, to which
dance and tremble all the young leaves ofa wild
lant. Even when at the convent she had been
ml of t‘qwating the infant rhymes with which
they had sought to lull or to amuse her, but now
the taste was more strongly developed. She
confounded, however, in meaningless and met-
ley disorder, the various snatches of song that
came to her ear, weaving them together in some
form which she understood, but which was jar-
wnn to all others; and often, as she went alone
rough the green lanes or the bustlinn' streets,
the passenger would turn in pity and fear to
hear her bulf chant, half murmur ditties that
seemed to suit only a wandering and unsettled
imagination. And as Mrs. Boxer, in her visits
to the various shops in the suburb, took care to
bemoan her hard fate in attending to a creature
so evidently moon-stricken, it was no wonder
that the manner and the habits of the child,
coupled with that strange predilection to haunt
the burial-ground, which is not uncommon with
persons of weak and disordered intellect, con-
firmed the character thus given to her.
So, as she tripped gayly and lightly along the
thoroughfares, the children would draw aside
from her path, and whisper, with superstitious
fear minoled with contempt, “ It‘s the idiot
irirl l" idiot! How much more of heaven’s
light was there in that cloud than in the rush-
lights that, flickerin in sordid chambers, shed
on dull things the d‘ l ray, esteeming themselves
as stars! -
Months—years passed: Fanny was thirteen,
when there dawned a new era to her existence.
Mrs. Boxer had never got over her first grudge
to Fanny. Her treatment of the poor girl was
always harsh, and sometimes cruel. But Fanny
did not complain; and as Mrs. Boxer’s manner
to her before Simon was invariably eringiufr and
caressing,.the old man never guessed the ard-
shi hissupposed grandchild underwent. There
been scandal some years back in the suburb
about the relative connection of the master and
the housekeeper; and the daunting dress of the
latter, something bold in her regard, and certain
whispers that her youth had not been vowed to
Vesta, confirmed the suspicion. The only reason
why we do not feel sure that the rumor was
false, is this: Simon Gawtrey had been so hard
on the early follies of his soul Certainly, at all
events, the woman had exercised great influence
over the miser before the arrival of Fanny, and
she had done much to steel his selfishness against
the ill-fated William. And, as certainly. she
had fully calculated on succeeding to the savings,
whatever the ' might be, of the miser, whenever-
Providence s ould be pleased to terminate his

days. She knew that Simon had, many years
book, made his will in her favor: she knew that
he had not altered that will; she believed, there-
fore, that, in spite of all his love for Fanny, he
loved his gold so much more, that he could not
accustom himself to the thought of hequeathing
it to bands too helpless to guard the treasure.
This had, in some measure, reconciled the house-
'keeper to the intruder; whom, nevertheless, she
hated as a dog hates another dog, not only for
taking his bone, but for lookin at it.
But, suddenly, Simon fell ilE His age made
it probable he would die. He took to his bed—
his breathing grew fai nterand fainter—he seemed
dead. Fann', all unconscious, sat by his bed-
side as usua , holding her breath not to vraken
him. Mrs. Boxer flew to the bureau—she un-
locked it—she could not find the will, but she
found three bags of bright old guineas: the sight
charmed her. . She tumbled them forth on the
distained green cloth of the bureau—she began
to count them; and, at that moment, the old
man, as if there were a secret magnetism be-
tween himself nnd the guiness, woke from his
trance. His blindness saved him the pain, that
might have been fatal, of seein the unhallowed
rofanation; but he heard the c ink ofthe metal.
he very sound restored his strength. But the
infirm are always cnrmino: he brenthod not a
suspicion. “Mrs. Boxer, ’ said he, faintly, “I
think I could take some broth.” Mrs. Boxer
rose in great dismay, gently reclosed the bureau,
and ran down stairs for the broth. Simon took
the occasion to question Funny; and, no sooner
had he learned the operation of the heir-expect-
ant, than he bade the girl first lock the bureau
and bring him the key, and next run too lawyer
(whose address he gave her), and fetch him
instantly.
With a malignant smile the old man took the
broth from his handmaid : “ Poor Boner, you are
a disinterested creaturc,” said he, fecbly, “I
think you will grieve when I go.”
Mrs. Boxer subbed; and before she had re-
covered, the lawyer entered. That day a new
will was made; and the lawyer politely inform-
ed Mrs. Boxer that her services would be dis-
pensed with the next morning, when he should
ring a nurse to the house. Mrs. Boxer heard,
and took her resolution. As soon as Simon
again fell asleep, she crept into the room, led ‘
away Fanny, locked her up in her own chamber,
returned, searched for the key to the bureau,
which she found at last under Simon’s pillow,
possessed herself of all she could lay her hands
on, and the next morning she had disappeared
forever!
Simon's loss was greater than might have
been supposed; for, except a trifling sum in the
Savings’ Bank, he, like many other misers, kept
all he had, in notes or specie, under his own lock
and key. His whole fortune, indeed, was far
less than was supposed; for money does not make
money unless it Is put out to interest: and the
miser cheated himself. Such portion as was in
bank-notes Mrs. Boxer probably had the pru-
dence to destroy; for those numbers which Si-
men could remember were never traced: the
gold, who could swear to ? Except the pittance
in the Savings’ Bank, and whatever might be
the paltry worth of the house he rented, the
father, who had enriched the menial to exile the


NIGHT AND MORNING.
103
son, was a beggar in his dotage. This news,
however. was carefully concealed from him, by
the advice of the doctor, whom, on his own re-
sponsibility, the lawyer introduced, till he had
recovered sutliciently to bear the shock without
danger; and the delay naturally favored Mrs.
Boxer‘s csuape.
Simon remained for some moments perfectly
stunned and speechless when the news was
broken to him. Fanny, in alarm at his increas-
ing paleness, sprang to his breast. He pushed
her away: “ Go—go—go, child," he said; “I
can't feed you now. Leave me to starve.”
“ To starve 2” said Fanny, wonderingly; and
she stole away, and sat herself down as if in deep
thought. She then crept up to the lawyer as he
was about to leave the room, after exhausting his
stock of common lace consolation, and, putting
her hand in his, w ispcred, “I want to talk to you
—this way.” She led him through the passage
into the open air. “Tell me,” she said, “when
poor people try not to starve, don’t they work ‘2”
“ My dear, yes."
“ For rich people buy poor people’s work ?”
"Certainly, my dear—to be sure.”
“ Very well. Mrs. Boxer used to sell my
work. Fanny will feed grandpapa! Go and
tell him never to say ‘starve’ again.”
The good-natured lawyer was moved. “Can
you work, indeed, my poor girl? Well, put on
your bonnet, and come and talk to my wife.”
And that was a new era in Fanny‘s exist-
ence! Her schooling was stopped. But now life
schooled her. Necessity ripened her intellect.
And many a hard eye moistened as—seeing her
glide with her little basket of fancy work along
the streets, still murmuring her happy and bird-
like snatches of unconnected song—men and
children alike said, with respect, in which there
was now no contempt, “It‘s the idiot girl who
supports her blind grandfather!"
They called her idiot still!
BOOK IV.
,.§in git tillflll roficn Mme
tIrirb mid; feincr 913tllen Euiel;
SIlor ntir licgt't in mritrr erre,
Wither bin id; nicbt bcm 3m."
SCHILLER: Der Pilgrim.
_.—_.
CHAPTER I.
“Oh, that sweet gleam ofsunshine on the lake!"
WILBON'! City of the Plague.
Ir, reader, you have ever looked through a
solar microscope at the monsters in a drop of
water, perhaps you have wondered to yourself
how things so terrible have been hitherto un-
known to you; you have felt a loathing at the
iimpid element you hitherto deemed so pure;
'ou have half fancied that you would cease to
a water-drinker; yet the next day you have
forwotteu the grim life that started before you,

vouring, gorging each other, in the liquid you
so tranquilly im ibe : so is it with that ancestral
and master element called Life. Lapped in
your sleek comforts, and lolling on the sofa of
your patent conscience—when, perhaps for tho
first time, you look through the glass of Science
upon one hastly globule Ill the waters that heave
around—t at fill up, with their succulcnce, the
pores of earth—that moisten every atom subject
to your eyes or handled by your touch—you are
startled and dismayed; you say, mentally, “Can
such things be ? I never dreamed of this before !
I thou ht what was invisible to me was non-ex-
istent in itself: I will remember this dread ex-
periment.” The next day the experiment is
forgotten. The chemist may rarcfy the globulc;
can Science make pure the world ?
Turn we now to the ieasant surface, seen in
the whole, broad and‘ air to the common eye.
Who would judge well of God’s designs, if he
could look on no drop pendant from the rose-
tree or sparkling in the sun without the help of
his solar microscope ‘? ,
It is ten years after the night on which Will-
iam Gawtrcy perished: I transport you, reader,
to the fairest scenes in England; scenes con-
secrated, by the only true pastoral poetry we
have known, to Contemplation and Repose.
Autumn had begun to tinge the foliage on the
banks of Winandcrmcrc. It had been a summer
of unusual warmth and beauty; and if that your
you had visited the En lish lakes, you might,
from time to time, amid the groups of happy
idlcrs you encountered, have singled out two
persons for interest, or, perhaps, for cnv ': two
who might have seemed to you in peculiar har- '
mony with those serene and soft retreats: both
young—both beautiful. Lovers you WOuld have
guessed them to be; but such lovers as Fletcher ,
might have placed under the care of his “ Holy
Shepherdess z", forms that might have reclined
b
“The virtuous well. about whose flowery brink!
The nimble-footed fairies dance ther rounds
By the pale moonshine."
For in the love of those persons there seemed
a purity and innocence that suited well their
youth and the character of their beauty. Per-
aps, indeed, on the girl’s side, love sprun
rather from those affections which the spring 0
life throws upward to the 'surface, as the spring
of earth does its flowers, than from that concen-
trated and deep absorption of self in self, which
alone promises endurance and devotion, and of
which first love, or rather, first fancy, is often
less susce tible than that which grows out of
the more t oughtful fondness of maturer years.
Yet he, the lover, was of so rare and singular a
beauty, that he might well seem calculated to
awaken to the utmost the love which wins the
heart through the eyes.
But to begin at the beginning. A lady of
fashion had, in the autumn previous to the year
on which our narrative reopens, taken, with her
daughter, a girl then of about cinhtecn, the tour
of the English lakes. Charmed by the beauty
of Winnndermere, and finding one of the most
commodious villas on its banks to he let, they
wit its countless shapes, in that teeming glob- 1 had remained there all the winter. In the early
1112; and, if so tempted by your thirst, you hare l spring a severe illness had seized the elder lady;
not shrunk from the lying crystal, although mvr- ‘
lads of the horrible unseen are mangling, do:
and, finding herself, as she slowly recovered,
unfit for tho gayeties of a London season, nor


104 NIGHT AND MORNING.
unwillinn', perhaps—for she had been a beauty {of the poet, ardent and sensitive—would break
in her diiy—to postpone for another year the ‘ forth at times. He had scarcely ever, since his
ilébut of her daughter, she had continued her earliest childhood, quilted those retreats; he
tojoum, with short intervals of absence, for a know nothing of the world, except in books—-
whole year. Her husband, a busy man of the books of poetry and romance. Those With
world, with occupation in London and fine es-1 whom he lived—his relations, an old bachelor,
tatcs in the country, joined them only occasion- and the old bachelor’s sisters, old maids—seemed
ally, glad -to esca the still beaut ' of landscapes
which broacht him no rcntal, an , therefore, af- ,
forded no c rm to his cyc.
In the first month of their arrival at Winan-
dormerc, the mother and daughter had made an
eventful acquaintance in the following manner.-
()nc evening, as they were walking on their
lawn, which sloped to the lake, they heard the‘
sound of a flute, played with a skill so exquisite ,
as to draw them, surprised and spell-bound to‘
the banks. The musician was a Young man, in
a boat, which he had moored beneath the trees
of their demcsne. He was alone, or, rather, he
had one companion in a large Newfoundland
d that sat watchful at the helm of the boat,
:35 appeared to enjoy the music as much as his
master. As the ladies approached the spot, the
dog growled, and the young man ceased, though
without seeing the fair causes of his companion’s
displeasure. The sun, then setting, shone full
on his countenance as he looked round; and
that countenance was one that might have
haunted the nymphs of Dclos; the face of Apollo,
not as the hero, but the shepherd—not of the how,
but of the lutc——not of the Python-slayer, but the
young dreamer shady places—he whom the
sculptor has portrayed leaning idly against the
trce—ihc boy-god whose home is yet on earth,
and to whom the Oracle and the Spheres are
still unknown.
At that moment the dog leaped from the boat,
and the elder lady uttered a faint cry of alarm,
which, directing the attention of the musician,
brought him also ashore. Ho called off his dog,
and owlogimd, with a not ungraccful mixture
of ditlidencc and case, for his intrusion. He was
not aware the place was inhabited—it was a
favorite haunt of his—he lived near. The elder
lady was pleased with his address, and struck
with his appearance There was, indeed, in
his manner that indefinablc charm, which is more
equally innocent and inexperienced. It was a
family whom the rich respected and the poor
loved—inoffensive, charitable, and well off. To
whatever their easy fortune might be, he appeared
the heir. The name of this young man was
Charles Spencer; the ladies were Mrs. Beaufort,
and Camilla her daughter.
Mrs. Beaufort, though a shrewd woman, did
not at first perceive any danger in the growing
intimacy between Camilla and the younger
Spencer. Her daughter was not her favorite—
not the object of her one thought or ambition.
Her whole heart and soul were wrapped in her
son Arthur, who lived principally abroad. Clever
enough to be considered capable, when he pleased,
of achieving distinction; goodlooking enough to
be thought handsome by all who were on the qm'
aim: for an advantageous match; good-natured
enough to be popular with the society in which
he lived, scattering to and fro money without
limit, Arthur Beaufort, at the age of thirty, had
established one of those brilliant and evanescent
reputations, which, for a few years, reward the
ambition of the fine gentleman. It was precisely
the reputation that the mother could appreciate,
and which even the more saving father secretly
admired, while, over respectable in phrase, Mr.
Robert Beaufort seemed openly to regret it.
This son was, I say, every thing to them; they
cared little, in comparison, for their daughter.
How could a daughter keep up the proud name
of Beaufort? However well she might marry,
it was another house, not theirs, which her graccs
and beauty would adorn. Moreover, the better
she mi“ ht marry, the greater her dowry would
natural ' be—thc dowry to go out of the family!
And Arthur, poor fellow! was so extravagant,
that really he would want every sixpencc.
Such was the reasoning of the father. The
mothcr reasoned loss upon the matter. Mrs.
Beaufort, failed and meager, in blonde and

attractive than mere personal appearance, and,c1u'lwmcrc, was jealous of the charms of her
which can never be imitated or acquired. They l daughter, and she herself, as silly women often
parted, however, without establishing any formal i do. growing sentimental and lachrymosc as she
acquaintance. A few days after, they met at advanced in life, had convinced herself that Ca-
dinner at a neighboring house, and were intro- milla was a girl of no feeling.
duced by name. That of the young man seemed Miss Beaufort was, indeed, of a character
strange to the ladies; not so theirs to him. He singularly calm and placid; it was the character
turned pale when he heard it, and remained silent , that charms men in proportion, perhaps, to their
and aloof the rest of the evening. They met} own strength and passion. She had been rigidly
again, and often; and for some weeks—nay, brought up; her affections had been very early
even for months—he ap ared to avoid, as much ‘ chilled and subdued ; they moved, therefore, now,
as possible, the acquaintance so auspiciouslyl with ease, in the serene path of her duties. She
begun; but, by little and little, the beauty of the ' held her parents, especially her father, in rever-
youngcr lady seemed to vain ground on his dif-
fidence or repugnance. Bxcursions among the
neichboring mountains threw them together,
an at last he fairly surrendered himself to the
charm he had at first determined to resist. |
This young man lived on the o posite side of}
the lake, in a quiet household, 0 which he was
the idol. His life had been one ofalmost monastic
purity and repose; his tastes were accomplished,
is character seemed soft and gentle; but beneath ,
that calm exterior, flashes of passion—the nature


ential fear, and never dreamed of the possibilit
of resisting one of their wishes, much less their
commands. Pious, hind, gentle, of a fine and
never-rallied tem r, Camilla, an admirable
daughter, was like y to make no less admirable
a wife; you might depend on her principles, if
ever vou could doubt her affection. Few girls
were more calculated to inspire love. You
would scarcely wonder at. any folly, any mad-
ness, which even a wise man might commit for
her sake. This did not depend on her beauty


NIGHT AND MORNING.
105
alone, though she was extremely lovely rather
than handsome, and of that style of loveliness
which is universally fascinating : the figure,
especially as to the arms, throat, and bust, was
exquisite; the eyes of that velvet softness which
to look on is to love. But her charm was in a
certain prettiness of manner, an exceeding inno-
cence mixed with the most captivating, because
unconscious, coquetry. With all this there was
a freshness, a joy, a virgin and bewitching can-
dor in her voice, her laugh—you might almost
say in her very movements. Such was Camilla
Beaufort at that age. Such she seemed to others.
To her parents she was only a great girl rather
in the way. To Mrs. Beaufort a rival, to Mr.
Beaufort an encumbrance on the property.
__.—
CHAPTER II.
“The moon
Saddcning the solemn night, yet with that sadness
Mingling the breath of undisturbed pence."
WXLIUI : City of the Plagia-
“ Tell me his fate.
Say that he lives, or any thnt he is dead;
But tell nae—tell me!
laeeihlm not: some cloud envelops him."—Ibid.
ONE day (nearly a year after their first intro-
duction), as, with a party of friends, Camilla
and Charles Spencer were riding through those
wild and romantic scenes which lie between the
sunny Winandormero and the dark and sullen
Wastwuter, their conversation fell on topics
more personal than it had hitherto done; for,
as yet, if they felt love, they had never spoken
of it.
The narrowness of the path allowed only two
to ride abreast, and the two to whom I confine
my description were the last of the little bnnd.
“ How I wish Arthur were here!” said Ca-
milla; “I am sure you would like him."
“ Are you ? He lives much in the world—the
world of which I know nothing. Are we, then,
characters to suit each other?”
“ He is the kindest—the best of human
beings!” said Camilla, rather evasively, but
with more warmth than usually dwelt in her
soft and low voice.
“ Is he so kind ‘5'" returned Spencer, musing-
lv. “ Well, it may be so. And who would not
be kind to you? Ah! it is a beautiful connec-
tion, that of brother and sister: I never had a
sister!"
“Have vou then a brother ?"’ "asked Camilla,
in some surprise, and turning her ingeuuous
eyes full on her companion. I
Spencer’s color rose—rose to his temples:
his voice trembled as he answered, “No—no
brother l” then, speaking in a rapid and hurried
tone, he continued, “My life has been a strange
and lonelv one. lam an orphan. I have mixed
with few'of my own ago; my boyhood and youth
have been spent in these scenes; my education
such as Nature and books could bestow, with
marccly an ' guide or tutor save my guardian—
the dcar ol man! Thus the world, the stir of
Cities, ambition, enterprise. all seem to me as
things belonging to a distant land to which I
shall‘never wander. Yetl have had my dreams,
Miss Beaufort; dreams of which these solitudes

still form a part; but solitudes not unshared.
And lately I have thought that those dreams
might be prophetic. And you—do you love the
world 5” ’
“I, like you, have scarcely tried it,” said
Camilla, with a sweet laugh. “ But I love the
country better—oh! far better than what little I
have seen of towns. But for you,” she continued,
with a charming hesitation, “a man is so differ-
ent from us—for you to shrink from the world—
you, so young, and with talents too—nay, it is
true !-—it seems to me strange.”
“It may be so, but I can not tell you what
feelings of dread—what vague furebodings of
terror seize me if I carry my thoughts beyond
these retreats. Perhaps my 00d guardian—”
“ Your uncle ?” interrupte Camilla.
“ Ay, my uncle—may have contributed to on-
gender feelings, as you say, strange at my age;
but still—”
“ Still what '1‘”
“ My earlier childhood," continued Spencer,
breathing hard and turning pale, “was not spent
in the happy home I have now; it was passed
in a premature ordeal of suffering and pain. Its
recollections have left a dark shadow on my
mind, and under that shadow lies every thought
that points toward the troublous and laboring
career of other men. But," he resumed, after
a pause, and in a deep, earnest, almost solemn
voice, “but, after all, is this cowardice or wis-
dom? I find no monotony, no tedium in this
quiet life. Is there not a certain morality, a
certain religion in the spirit of a secluded and
country existence? In it we do not know the
evil passions which ambition and strife are said
to arouse. I never feel jealous or envious of
other men; I never know what it is to hate;
my boat, my horse, our garden, music, books,
and, if I may dare to say so, the solemn gladness
that comes from the hopes of another life—these
fill up every hour with thoughts and pursuits,
peaceful, happy, and without a cloud, till of late,
when—when—l’
“ When what ?" said Camilla, innocently.
“ When I have longed, but did not dare, to
ask apother if to share such a lot would content
her i”
Ilc bent, as he spoke, his soft blue eves full
upon the blushino face of her whom he addressed,
and Camilla hall smiled and half sighed.
“' Our companions are far before us,” said
she, turning away her face ; “and, see, the road
is now smooth.’ She quickened her horse’s
pace as she said this; and Spencer, too new to
woman to interpret favorably her evasion of his
words and looks, fell into a profound silence,
which lasted during the rest of their excursion.
As, toward the decline of day, he bent his
solitary way home, emotions and passions to
which his life had hitherto been a stranger, and
which, alas! he had vainly imagined a life so
tranquil kept everlastineg restrained, swelled
his heart.
“ She does not love me," he muttered, half
rtloud; “she will leave me, and what then will
all the beauty of the landscape seem in my eyes?
And how dare I look up to her? Even ll her
cold, vain mother—her father, the man, they
say, of forms and scruples, were to consent,
would they not question closely of my true birth
and origin? And if the one blot were over-


106
NIGHT AND MORNING.
looked, is there no other? His early habits and
vices—Iii; l—a brother’s—his unknown career
terminating at any day, perhaps, in shame, in
crime, in exposure, in the gibbet—will they
overlook this ‘2” As he spoke he groaned aloud;
and, as if impatient to escape himself, spurred
on his horse, and rested not till he reached the
belt oftrim and sober evergreens that surrounded ‘
his hitherto happy home.
Leaving his horse to find its way to the sta-
bles, the youn man passed through rooms,
which he foun deserted, to the lawn on the
other side, which sloped to the smooth waters
of the lake.
Hero, seated under the one large tree that
formed the pride of the lawn, over which it cast
its shadow broad and far, he perceived his
guardian poring idly over an oft-rcad book—one
of those books of which literary dreamers are
apt to grow fantastically fond—books by the old
English writers, full of phrases and conceits
half quaint and half sublime, interspersed with
praises of the country, imbued with a poetical
rather than orthodox religion, and adorned with
a strange mixture of monastic learning and
aphorisnis collected from the weary experience
of actual life.
To the left, by a green-house, built between
the house and the lake, might be seen the white
dress and lean form of the eldest spinster sister,
to whom the care of the flowers—for she had
been early crossed in love—was consigned; at
a little distance from her the other two were
seated at work, and conversing in whispers, not
to disturb their studious brother, no doubt upon
the nephew, who was their all in all. It was
the calmest hour of cve; and the quiet of the
several forms—their simple and harmless occu-
pations, if occupations they might be called—
the breathless foliage rich in the depth of sum-
mer; behind, the old-fashioned house, unpre-
tending, not mean, its open doors and windows
giving gliin of the comfortable repose within;
before, the ake, without a ripple, and catching
the gleam of the sunset clouds—all made a
picture of that complete tranquillity and stillness
which sometimes soothes and sometimes saddens
us, according as we are in the temper to woo
Con-rnu'r.
The young man glided to his guardian and
touched his shoulder; “Sir, may I s eak to you?
Hush! they need not see us now! t is only you
I would speak with."
The elder Spencer rose, and, with his book
still in his hand, moved Side by side with his
nephew under the shadow of the tree, and to-
ward a walk to the right, which led for a short
distance along the margin’ of the lake, backed
by the interlaced boughs of a thick eopse.
“Sir!” said the young man, speaking first,
and with a visible effort, “your cautions have
been in vain! I love this girl—this daughter of
the haughty Beauforts! I love her—better than
life I love her !”
“ My poor boy,” said the uncle, tenderly, and
with a simple fondness passing his arm over the
speaker's shoulder, “do not think I can chide
you: I know what it is to love in vain !”
“In vain! but why in vain?” exclaimed the
younger Spencer, with a vehement-e that had in
it something of both agony and fierccncss. “ She
may love inc—she shall love me!” and, almost

! for the first time in his life, the proud conscious-
' ness of his rare gifts of person s oke in his‘kin-
dlcd eye and dilated stature. “ 0 they not say
1 that Nature has been favorable to me? What
rival have I here? Is she not young ‘? And
(sinking his voice till it almost breathed like
music) is not love contagious?”
“I do not doubt that she may love you—who
would not? But—but—the parents—will they
ever consent?”
“Nay !" answered the lover, as, with that
inconsistency common to passion, he now ar-
gued stubbornly against those fears in another
to which he had just before yielded in himself,
“no ! after all, am I not of their own blood?
Do IY not come from the elder branch? WasI
not reared in equal luxury and with higher
hopes? And my mother—my poor mother—
did she not to the last maintain our birth-right—
her own honor? Has not accident or law un-
justly stripped us of our true station? Is it
not for us to forgive spoliation? Am 1 not, in
fact, the person who descends—who forgets the
wrongs of the dead, the heritage of the living?"
The young man had never yet assumed this
tone—had never yet shown that he looked back
to the history connected with his birth with the
feelings of resentment and the memory of wrong.
It was a tone contrar to his habitual calm and
contentment—it struc forcibly on his listener—
and the elder Spencer was silent for some mo-
ments before he re lied, “If you feel thus (and
it is natural), you ave yet stronger reason to
struggle against this unhappy affection.”
“I have been conscious of that, sir," replied
Spencer, mournfully. “I have struggled! and
I say again it is in vain! I turn, then, to face
the obstacles! M birth—let us suppose that
the Beauforts over 00k it. Did you not tell me
that Mr. Beaufort wrote to inform you of the
abrupt and intemperate visit of my brother—of
his determination never to forgive it ? I think
I remember something of this years ago.”
“It is true!” said the guardian; "and the
conduct of that brother is, in fact, the true cause
why you never ought to reassume your proper
name—never to divulge it, even to the family
with whom you connect yourself by marriage;
but, above all, to the Beauforts, who, for that
cause, if that cause alone, would reject your
suit.”
The young man groaned—placed one hand
before his eyes, and with the other grasped his
gnardian’s arm oonvulsively, as if to check him
rem proceeding farther; but the good man, not
divining his meaning and absorbed in his subject,
went on, irritating the wound he had touched.
“Reflect! your brother, in boyhood—in the
dying hours of his mother, scarcely saved from
the crime of a thief; flying from a friendly pur-
suit with a notorious re rebate; afterward im-
plicated in some discreditable transaction about
a horse; re'ccting all—every hand that could
save him; 0 inging by choice to the lowest com-
nions’ and the meanest habits; disappearing
from the country, and last seen, ten years
--the heard not yet on his chin—with that same
reprobate of whom I have spoken, in Paris, a
day or so only before his companion, a coiner—
a murderer—fell by the hands of the police!
You remember that when, in your seventeenth
year, you evinced some desire to retake your


NIGHT AND MORNING.
107
name—nay, even to refind that guilty brother, I
placed before you, as a sad and terrible duty,
the newspaper that contained the particulars of l
the death and the former adventures of that
wretched accomplice, the notorious Gawtrcy:
and telling yothat Mr. Beaufort had long since
written to inform me that his own son and Lord
Lilburne had seen your brother in company with
the miscreunt just before his fate—nay, was, in
all probability, the very youth described in the
account is found in his chamber and escaping
the pursuit, l asked you if you would now ven-
ture to leave that disguise—that shelter under
which you would forever be safe from the op-
probrium of the world—from the shame that,
sooner or later, your brother must bring upon
your name i"
“It is true—it is true!” said the pretended
nephew, in a tone of great anguish, and with
trembling lips which the blood had forsaken.
“Horrible to look either to his past or his fu-
ture! But—but—we have heard of him no
more; no one ever has learned his fate. Per-
haps—perhaps (and he seemed to breathe more
freelyl—my rather is no more I"
And poor Catherine, and poor Philip, had it
come to this? Did the one brother feel a senti-
ment of release, ofjoy, in conjecturing the death
—’perhaps the death of violence and shame—of
his fellow-orphan? Mr. Spencer shook his head
doubtingly, but made no reply. The young man
sighed heavily, and strode on for several paces
in advance of his protector; then, turning back,
he laid his hand on his shoulder :
“ Sir,” he said, in a low voice, and with down-
out eyes, “you are right: this disguise, this
false name, must be forever borne ! Why need
the Beauforts, then, ever know who and what I
am? Why not, as your nephew, nephew to one
so respected and exemplary, proffer my claims
and plead my cause 1’“
“They are proud, so it is said, and worldly;
you know my family was in trade, still—but—”
and here Mr. Spencer broke mi from a tone of
doubt into that of despondency; “but, recollect,
though Mrs. Beaufort may not remember the
circumstance, both her husband and her son have
seen me, have known my name. Will they not
suspect, when once introduced to you, the strat-
agem that has been adopted? Nay, has it not
been from that very fear that you have wished
me to shun the acquaintance of the family?
Both Mr. Beaufort and Arthur saw you in child-
hood, and, their suspicion once aroused, they may
recognize you at once; your features are devel-
oped, but not altogether changed. Come, home!
my adopted, my dear son, shake off this fantasy
betirnes: let as change the scene: I will travel
with you; read with you; go where—”
“Sir, sir!” exclaimed the lover, smiting his
breast, “you are ever kind, compassionate, gen-
erous; but do not, do not rob me of hope. I
have never—thanks to you—felt, save in a mo-
mentary dejection, the curse of my birth. Now,
how heavily it falls! Where shall I look for
comfort ‘3"
As he spoke, the sound of a bell broke over
the translucent air and the slumbering lake: it
was the hell that every eve and morn summoned
that innocent and pious family to prayer. The
old man’s face changed as he heard it, changed
from its customary indolent, absent, listless as-
!pect, into an expression of dignity, even of ani-
l mation.
“Hark!” he said, pointing upward; “hark!
it chides you. Who shall say ‘ where shall I look
‘ for comfort,’ while God is in the heavens 'r'”
The young man, habituated to the faith and
observance of religion till the had )ervaded his
whole nature, bowed his head in re uke; a few
tears stole from his eyes.
“You are right, father,” he said, tenderly,
.giving emphasis to the deserved and endearing
,narne. “1 am comforted already l”
So, side by side, silently and noiselessly, the
young and the old man glided back to the house.
Vthn they gained the quiet room in which
the family usually assembled, the sisters and
servants were already gathered round the table.
They knelt as the loitcrers entered. It was the
wonted duty of the younger Spencer to road the
prayers; and, as he now did so, his graceful
countenance more hushed, his sweet voice more
earnest than usual in its accents, who that heard
could have deemed the heart within convulsed
by such stormy passions? Or was it not in that
hour, that solemn commune, soothed from its
woe ? Oh, beneficent Creator! thou who in-
spirest all the tribes of earth with the desire to
pray, hast thou not, in that diviuest instinct, bo-
stowed on us the happiest of thy gifts?
.-_-_.-__
CHAPTER III.
“ Bert-ram. 1 mean the business is not ended, as fearing
to hear ofit hereafter.
\ 3I e {l t
“ lat Soldier. Do you know this Captain Dnumin ‘i"
1111‘; Well that End: Well.
ONE evening, some weeks after the date of
the last chapter, Mr. Robert Beaufort sat alone
in his house in Grosvenor-square. He had ar-
rived that morning from Beaufort Court, on his
way to W inandermcre, to which he was sum-
moned by a letter from his wife.
That year was an agitated and eventful epoch
in England; and Mr. Beaufort had recently
one through the bustle of an election, not, in-
ecd, contested, for his popularity and his prop-
erty defied all rivalry in his own county.
The richman had just dined, and was seated
in lazy enjoyment by the side of the fire, which
he had had lighted less for the warmth—though
it was then September—than for the companion-
ship, engaged in finishing his Madeira, and, with
half-closed eyes, munching his deviled biscuits.
“I am sure,” he soliloquized, while thus em-
ployed, “I don’t know exactly what to do, my
wife ought to decide matters where the girl is
concerned; a son is another affair: that’s the
use of a wife. Humph!”
_“Sir," said a fat servant, opening the door,
“a gentleman wishes to see you upon very par-
'ticulur business."
“Business at this hour!
Mr. Blackwell.”
“ Yes, sir.”
“Stay! perhaps he is a constituent, Simmons.
Ask him if he belongs to the county.”
“ Yes, sir.”
“ A great estate is a great plague," muttered
Mr. Beaufort; “so is a great constituency. It
lis pleasanter, after all, to be in the house of
Tell him to go to


108
NIGHT AND
MORNING.
lords. I suppose I could if I wished, but then]
one must rat—that’s a bore. I will consult'
Lilburne. Humph l” The servant reappeared.
“ Sir, he says he does belong to the county.”
“Show him in. What sort of a person ?"
“ A sort of gentleman, sir; that is," continued
the butler, mindful of five shillings just slipped
within his palm by the stranger, “ quite the
gentleman.”
“ More Wine, then: stir up the fire.”
In a fc w moments the visitor was ushered into
the apartment. He was a man between fifty and
sixty, but still aiming at the appearance of youth.
His dress evinced military pretensions; consist-
ing of a blue coat, buttoned up to the chin, a
black stock, loose trowsers of the fashion called
Cossacks, and brass spurs. He wore a wig, of
cat; luxuriance in our], and rich auburn in
ne; with large whiskers of the same color,
slightly tinged with gray at the roots. By the
imperfect light of the room it was not percepti-
ble that the clothes were somewhat threadbare,
and that the boots, cracked at the side, admitted
glimpses of no very white hosiery within. Mr.
eaufort, reluctantly rising from his repose, and
gladly sinking back to it, motioned to a chair,
and put on a dolcful and doubtful semi-smile of
welcome. The servant placed the wine and
glasses before the stranger : the host and visitor
were alone. ,
“So, sir,’7 said Mr. Beaufort, languidly, “you
are from shire; I suppose about the canal:
may I oder you a glass of wine ‘3”
“Most hauppy, sir—your health l" and the
stranger, with evident satisfaction, tossed 011' a
bumper to so complimentary a toast.
“About the canal?” repeated Mr. Beaufort.
“No, sir, no ! You parliament gentlemen.
must hauvo a vaust deal of trouble on your,
haunds—vcry foine property lunderstaund yours ‘
is, sir. Sir, allow me to drink the health of
your good lady l”
“I thank you, Mr.— Mr.— what did you say ,
your name was ‘:‘ I beg you athousand pardons.” I
“ No otl'aunce in the least, sir; no ceremony'
with me—this is perticlcr good Madeira !”
“May I ask you how I can serve you '1’” said ‘
Mr. Beaufort, struggling between the sense of ‘
annoyance and the fear to be uneivil. “Andh
pray, had I the honor of your vote in the last.
election ?”
“No, sir, no! It‘s mauny years since I have
been in your part of the world, though I wasi
born there.”
“ Then I don’t exactly 500—" began Mr.
Beaufort, and stopped with dignity.
“ Why [call on you,” put in the stranger, tap-
ping his boots with his cane; and then, recog-1
nizing the rent, he thrust both feet under the table. j
I don’t say that; but at this hour I am seldom l
at leisure—not but what I am always at the,
service of a constituent, that is, a voter ! I make ‘
a distinction between the two—’tis the dot ' of 1
a member; Mr.— I beg your pardon, I did not'
catch your name.” i
“Sir,” said the stranger, helping himself to'
a third glass of wine, “ here's a health to your;
young folk! And now to business.” Here the'
visitor, drawing his chair nearer to his host, as-
suming a more grave aspect, and droppin
something of his stilted pronunciation, continue ,
“You had a brother ?"
!


l
“Well, sir,” said Mr. Beaufort, with a. very
changed countenance.
“And that brother had a wife !”
Had a cannon gone ofl‘ in the ear of Mr.
Robert Beaufort, it could not have shocked or
stunned him more than that simple word, with
which his companion closed his sentence. He
fell back in his chair, his lips apart, his 0 as
fixed on the stranger. He sought to speak, at
‘ his tongue clove to his mouth.
“ That wife had two sons horn in wedlock l”
“ It is false I” cried Mr. Beaufort, findi
voice at length and springing to his feet. “ A
who are you, sir ? and what do you mean hy—”
“Hush !" said the stranger, perfectly uncon-
cerned, and regaining the dignity of his haw-haw
enunciation: “ better not let the servants hear
auny thing. For my pawt, I think servants
hauve the longest pair of ears of anny persons,
not excepting jankasses; their ears stretch from
the pauntry to the parlor. Hush, sir l—pertic-
lcr good Madeira, this l”
“ Sir!” said Mr. Beaufort, struggling to pre-
serve, or, rather, recover his temper, “your
conduct is exceedingly strange: but allow me
to say that you are wholly misinformed. My
brother never did marry; and, if you have any
thing to say on behalf of those young men—his
natural sons—I refer you to my solicitor, Mr.
Blackwell, ofLincoln’s Ian. I wish you a good-
evening.”
“ Sir! the same to you: I won‘t trouble you
auny farther; it was only out of koindness I
called; I am not used to be treated so; sir, I
am in his maujesty’s service ; sir, you will foind
that the Witness of the marriage is forthcoming;
you will think of me then, and, perhaps, be sorry.
But I’ve done: ‘Your most obedient humble,
sir l' ” And the stranger, with a flourish of his
hand, turned to the door.
At the sight of this determination on the part
of his strange guest, :1 cold, uneasy, vague- pre-
sentiment seized Mr. Beaufort. There, not
flashed, but rather l'rozc, across him the recol.
lection of his brother’s emphatic but disbelieved
assurances—of Catharine‘s obstinate assertion
of her sons’ alleged rights—of her then hope-
less lawsuit: hopeless because the witness she
invoked was not found. With this remembrance
came a horrible train of shadowy fears—litiga-
tion, witnesses, verdict, surrender; spoliation—
arrears—ruin !
The man, who had gained the door, turned
back and looked at him with a complacent, half
triumphant leer upon his impudent, reckless face.
“ Sir,” then said Mr. Beaufort, mildly, “I
repeat that you had better see Mr. Blackwell."
The tempter saw his triumph. “I have a.
secret to communicate, which it is best for you
to keep snug. How mauny people do you wish
me to see about it? Come, sir, there is no
need of a lawyer; or, if vou think so, tell him
'ourself. Now or never, Mr. Beaufort.”
“ lean have no objection to hear any thing you
have to say, sir,” said the rich man, yet more
mildly than before; and then added with a forced
smile, “Though my rights are already too con-
firmed to admit of a doubt.”
Without hecding the last assertion, the stran-
ger coolly walked back, resumed his seat, and.
placing both arms on the table, and looking Mr.
Beaufort full in the face, thus proceeded:


NIGHT AND MORNING.
109
“ Sir, of the marriage between Philip Beau- , hesitated, and finally suffered two fingers to be
fort and Catharine Morton there were two wit-
nesses—the one is dead, the other went abroad
—the last is alive still 1”
“If so,"7 said Mr. Beaufort, who, not naturally
deficient in cunning and sense, felt every faculty
new prodigiously sharpened, and was resolved to
know the precise grounds for alarm; if so, why
did not the man—it was a servant, sir, a. man-
servant, whom Mrs. Morton pretended to rely on
—appear at the trial ‘2"
“Because, 1 say, he was abroad, and could
not be found; or, the search after him miscar-
ried, from clumsy management and a lack of the
rhino."
“Hum!” said Mr. Beaufort; “one witness—
one witness, observe, there is only one !—does
not alarm me much. It is not what a man do-
poses, it is what ajury believe, sir! Moreover,
what has become oi the oung men? They
have never been heard of or years. They are
probably dead; if so, I am heir-at-law l”
“I know where one of them is to be found, at
all events.”
“The elder? Philip ‘3" asked Mr. Beaufort,
anxiously, and with a fearful remembrance of the
energetic and vehement character prematurely
exhibited by his nephew.
“Pawdon me! I need not answer that ques-
tion.”
“Sir! a lawsuit of this nature, a ainst one in
possession, is very doubtful, and, ’ added the
rich man, drawing himself up, “and, perhaps,
very expensive !"
“ The young man I speak of does not want
friends, who will not grudge the money."
“Sir!” said Mr. Beaufort, rising' and placing
his back to the fire; “sir! what is your object
in this communication ? Do you come, on the
part of the young men, to propose a compromise?
fso, be plain l”
“I come on my own pawt. It rests with you
to say if the young men shall never know it I”
“And what do you want ?”
k “Five hundred a year as long as the secret is
apt.”
“ And how can you prove that there is a se-
cret, after all '?” ,
“B producing the witness, if you wish.”
“Vdill he go halves in the £500 a year ?” ask-
ed Mr. Beaufort, artfully.
“That is moy atfair, sir,” replied the stranger.
“ What on say,” resumed Mr. Beaufort, “is
so extraor inary, so unexpected, and still, to me,
seems so im robable, that I must have time to
consider. I you will call on me in a week, and
produce your facts, I will give you my ansvver.
I am not the man, sir, to wish to keep any one
out of his true rights; but I will not yield, on
the other hand, to imposturc.”
“ If you don‘t want to keep them out of their
rights, I’d best go and tell my young gentlemen,"
said the stran or, with cool impudence.
“Itell you izmust have time, ’repeated Beau-
fort, disooneertcd. “Besides, I have not myself
alone to look to, sir,” he added, with dignified
emphasis; I am a. father!”
“This day week I will call on you again.
Good-evening, Mr. Beaufort!” And the man
stretched out his hand with an air of amicable
condescension.
T he respectable Mr. Beaufort changed color,
l

enticed into the grasp of the visitor, whom he
ardently wished at that bourn whence no visitor
returns.
The stranger smiled, stalked to the door, laid
his finger on his lip, winked knowingly, and van-
ished, leaving Mr. Beaufort a prey to such feel-
ings of uneasiness, dread, and terror, as a man
whom, on some inch or two of slippery rock, the
tides have suddenly surrounded.
He remained perfectly still for some moments,
and then, glancing round the dim and spacious
room, his eyes took in all the evidences of luxury
and wealth which it betrayed. Above the huge
sideboard, that on festive days groaned beneath
the bearded weight of the silver heir-looms of the
Beauforts, hung, in its gilded frame, a large-
picture of the family seat, with the stately porti-
cocs the noble park, the groups of deer; and
around the wall, interspersed here and there with
ancestral portraits of knight and demo, long since
gathered to their rest, were placed master- pieces
of the Italian and Flemish art, which generation
after eneration had slowly accumulated, till the
Beaufdrt Collection had become the theme of con-
noiscurs and the study of youn genius
The still room, the dumb pictures, even tne
heavy sideboard, seemed to gain votce, ana
speak to him audibly. He thrust his hand into
the folds of his waistcoat, and griped his own
flesh convulsively; then, striding to and fro the
apartment, he endeavored to re-collect his
thou hts.
“ dare not consult Mrs. Beaufort,” he mut-
tered; “No—no—she is a fool! Besides, she’s
not in the way. No time to lose—I will go to
Lilburne."
Scarce had that thought crossed him than he
hastened to put it into execution. He rang for
his hat and gloves, and sallied out on foot to
Lord Lilburne's house in Park-lane; the dis-
tance was short, and impatience has long strides.
He knew Lord Lilburne was in town, for that
personage loved London for its own sake; and,
even in September, he would have said, with the
old Duke of Queensbury, when some one ob-
served that_London was very empty, “ Yes; but
it is fulleF than the oountr .”
Mr. Beaufort found Lor Lilburne reclined on
a sofa by the open window of his drawing-room,
beyond which the early stars shone upon the
glimmering trees and silvered turf of the desert-
ed park. Unlike the simple dessert of his re-
spectable brother-in-law, the costliest fruits, the
richest wines of France graced the small table
laced beside his sofa; and, as the starch man of
arms and method entered the room at one door,
a rustling of silk, that vanished through the
aperture of another, seemed to betray tokens of
a té‘te-d-téte, probably more agreeable to Lil-
burne than the one with which only our narra-
tive is concerned.
, It. would have been a curious study for such
men as love to gaze upon the dark and wily
features of human character, to have watched
the contrast between the reciter and the listener,
as Beaufort, with much circumloeution, much
affected disdain, and real anxiety, narrated the
singular and ominous conversation between him-
self and his visitor. ' _ _
The servant, in introducing Mr. Beaulort, ha<
added to the light of the room; and tho candle-r


110
NIGHT AND MORNING.
All about that gentleman was so completely in
unison with the world’s forms and secmings,
that there was somethin moral in the very
sight of him ! Since his ortune, he had grown
less pale and less thin; the angles in his figure
were filled up. On his brow there was no trace
of younger passion. No able vice had ever
sharpened the expression, no exhausting vice
ever deepened the lines. He was the 1mm itlfal
of a county member; so sleek, so staid, so busi-
ness-like; yet so clean, so neat, so much the
gentleman. And now there was a kind of pathos
in his gray hairs, his nervous smile, his agitated
hands. his quick and uneasy transition of posture,
tho tremble of his voice. He would have ap-
peared to those who saw, but heard not, The
Good Man in trouble. Cold, motionless, speech-
less, seemitwly apathetic, but, in truth, observ-
ant, still rccllined on the sofa, his head thrown
back, but one eye fixed on his‘ companion, his
hands clasped before him, Lord Lilburne listen-
ed; and in that repose, about his face, even about
his person, might be read the history of how dif-
ferent a life and character! What native acute-
ness in the stealthye e! What hardened resolve
in the full nostril an firm lips! What sardonic
contempt for all t 'ngs in the intricate lines about
the mouth ! What animal enjoyment of all things
so despised in that delicate nervous system,
which, combined with original vigor of constitu-
tion, yet betrayed itself in the veins on the hands
and temples, the occasional quiver of the upper
lip! His was the frame, above all others, the
most alive to pleasure—deep-chested, compact,
sinewy, but thin to leanness; delicate in its tex-
ture and extremities almost to eifeminac . The
indill'ercnce of the posture, the very habit of the
dress—not slovenly, indeed, but eas , loose, care-
less—seemed to speak of the man s manner of
thought and life—his profound disdain of ex-
ternals.
Not till Beaufort had concluded did Lord Lil-
burne change his position or open his lips; and
then, turning to his brother-in-law his calm face,
he said, drily, '
“I always thought your brother hatharricd
that woman; he was the sort of man to do it.
Besides, why should she have gone to law with-
out a vestige of roof, unless she was convinced
of her rights? mposture never proceeds with-
out some evidence. Innocence, like a feel, as it
is, fancies it has only to speak to be believed.
But there is no cause for alarm.”
“No cause! And yet you think there was a
marriage.”
“It is quite clear,” continued Lilburne, with-
out heading this interruption, “that the man,
whatever his evidence, has not got sufficient
proofs. If he had, he would go to the young
men rather than you: it is evident that they
would promise infinitely lar er rewards than he
could expect from yoursel . Men are always
more generous with what they expect than what
they have. All rogues know this. ’Tis the way
Jews and usurers thrive upon heirs rather than
ussessors; ’tis the philosophy of post-obt‘ts. I
re say the man has found out the real witness
oi the marriage; but ascertained, also, that the
testimony of that witness would not suffice to
dispossess you. He might be discredited: rich
, men have a way sometimes of discrediting poor

shone full on the face and form of Mr. Beaufort. l witnesses.
Mind, he says nothing of the lost
copy of the register, whatever may be the value
of that document, which I am not lawyer enough
to say—of any letters of your brother avowing
the marriage. Consider, the register itself is
destroyed—the clergyman dead. Pooh! make
yourself easy.”
“True,” said Mr. Beaufort, much comforted;
“ what a memory you have !”
“Naturally. Your wife is my sister—I hate
poor relations—and I was therefore much inter-
ested in your accession and your lawsuit. No;
you may feel at rest on this matter, so far as a
successful lawsuit is concerned. The next ques-
tion is, Will you have a lawsuit at all ‘." and is it
worth while buying this fellow? That I can’t
say, unless I see him myself.”
“I wish to Heaven you would!"
“Ver willingly: ’tis a sort of thing I like—
I’m fontrof dealing with rogues—it amuses me.
This day week? I’ll be at your house—your
proxy; I shall do better than Blackwell. And,
since you say you are wanted at the Lakes, go
down and leave all to me.”
“ A thousand thanks. I can’t. say how grate-
ful I am. You certainly are the kindest and
cleverest person in the world." '
“You can’t think worse of the world’s clever-
ness and kindness than I do,” was Lilburne’s
rather ambiguous answer to the compliment.
“But why does my sister want to see you '2"
“Oh, I forget! Here is her letter. I was
going to ask your advice in this, too.”
Lord Lilburne took the letter, and glanced
over it with the rapid eye of a man accustomed
to seize in every thing the main gist and pith.
“ An offer to my pretty niece—M r. Spencer—
requires no fortune—his uncle will settle all his
own—(poor silly old man!) All! Why that’s
only £1000 a year. You don’t think much of
this, eh? How my sister can even ask you about
it puzzles me.”
“ Why, you see, Lilburne,” said Mr. Beaufort,
rather embarrassed, “there is no question of for-
tune—nothing to go out of the family; and, real-
ly, Arthur is so expensive; and, if she marry
well, I could not give her less than £15,000 or
£20,000."
“Aha! I see; every man to his taste: here a
daughter, there a dowry. You are devilish fond
of mpney, Beaufort. Any pleasure in avarice,
ch ‘2’
Mr. Beaufort colored very much at the remark
and the question, and, forcing a smile, said,
“You are severe. But you don’t know what
it is to be fathervto a young man.” '
“ Then a great many young women have told
me sad fibs! But you are right, in your sense of
the phrase. No, I never had an heir-apparent,
thank Heaven! No children imposed on me by
law: natural enemies, to count the years be-
tween the bells that ring for their majority and
those that will tell for my decease. It is enough
for me that I have a brother and a sister; that
my brother‘s son will inherit my estates; and
that, in the mean time, he grudges me every tick
in that clock. What then ‘? If he had been my
uncle I had done the same. Meanwhile, I see
as little of him as good-breeding will permit.
On the face of a rich man’s heir is written the
rich man‘s memmto mori I But, rt'vrnons & nos
moutons. Yes, if you give your daughter no


NIGHT AND MQRNING.
Ill
fortune. your death will be so much the more
profitable to Arthur!”
“ Really, you take such a very odd view of the
matter,” said Mr. Beaufort, exceedingly shock-
ed. “But I see you don’t like the marriage;
perhaps you are right."
“Indeed, I have no choice in the matter; I
never interfere between father and children. If
I had children myself, I will, however, tell you,
for your comfort, that they might marry exactly
as they pleased; I would never thwart them.
I should be too happy to get them out of my way.
If they married well, one would have all the
credit; if ill, one would have an excuse to disown
them. As I said before, I dislike poor relations.
Though, if Camilla lives at the Lakes when she
is married, it is but a letter now and then; and
that’s your wife's trouble, not yours. But, Spen-
cer—what Spencer? what family? Was there
not a Mr. Spencer who lived at. Winandermere
-—who-—”
“Who went with us in search of these boys,
to be sure. Very likely the same; nay, he must
be so. I thought so at the first.”
“ Go down to the lakes to-morrow. You may
hear something about your nephews ,-” at that
word Mr. Beaufort winced. “’Tis well to be
forearmod.’7
“Many thanks for all your counsel,” said
Beaufort, rising and glad to escape; for though
both he and his wife held the advice of Lord Lil-
burne in the highest reverence, they always
smarted beneath the quiet and careless stings
which accompanied the honey. Lord Lilburne
was singular in this: he would give to any one
who asked it, but especially a relation, the best
advice in his power; and none gave better, that
is, more worldly advice. Thus, without the least
benevolence, he was often ofthc greatest service;
but he could not help mixing up the drau ht with
as much aloes and bitter-apple as possib e. His
intellect delighted in exhibiting itself even gra-
tuitously. His heart was equally delighted in
that only cruelty which polished life leaves to its
tyrants toward their equals: thrusting pins into
the feelings, and breaking self-love upon the
wheel. But, just as Mr. Beaufort had drawn on
his gloves and gained the doorway, a thought
seemed to strike Lord Lilburne. .
“By-the-by,” he said, “you understand that
when I promised I would try and settle the mat-
ter for you, I only meant thatI would learn the
exact causes you have for alarm on the one hand,
or for a. compromise with this fellow on the oth-
er. If the last be advisable, you are aware that
I can not interfere. I might get into a scrape;
and Beaufort Court is not my property.”
“I don’t quite understand you."
“I am plain enough, too. If there is money
to be given, it is given in order to defeat what
is called justice—to keep these nephews of yours
out of their inheritance. Now, should this ever
come to light, it would have an ugly appearance.
They who risk the blame must be the persons
Who possess the estate.”
“If you think it dishonorable 0r dishonest—-—n
said Beaufort, irresolutely.
“I! I never can advise as to the feelings; I
can on] advise as to the policy. If you don’t
think t ere ever was a marriage, it may be
honest in you to prevent the bore of a law-
suit.

“But if he can prove to me that they were
married “P”
“ Pooh !” said Lilburne, raising his eyebrows
with a slight expression of contemptuous impa-
tience; it rests on yourself whether or not he
prove it to youa satisfaction I For my part, as
a third person, I am persuaded the marriage did
take place. But il'I had Beaufort Court, my cou-
vietions would be all the other way. You under-
stand. I nm too happy to serve you. But no
man can be expected tojcopardizc his character,
or eoquet with the law, unless it be for his own
individual interest. Then, of course, he must
judge for himself. Adieu ! I expect some friends
—l'oreigners—Carlists-to whist. You won’t
join them ?"
“I never play, you know. You will write to
me at Winandermere; and, at all events, you
will keep oil" the man till I return ?”
“Certainly.”
Beaufort, whom the latter part of the conver-
sation had comforted far less than the former,
hesitated, and turned the door-handle three or
four times; but glancinu' toward his brother-in-
law, he saw in that cold face so little hope of
sympathy in the struggle between interest and
conscience, that he judged it best to withdraw at
once.
As soon as he was gone, Lilburne summoned
his valet who had lived with him many years,
and who was his confidant in all the adventurous
gallantries with which he still enlivened the au-
tumn of his life.
“ Dykeman,” said he, “you have let out that
lady ?”
“ Yes, my lord.”
“I am not at home if shc calls again. She is
stupid; she can not get the girl to come to her
again. I shall trust you with an adventure,
D kcrnan; an adventure that will remind you
oi our young days, man. This charming creat-
ure—I tell you she is irresistible-her very
oddities bewitch me. You must-well, you look
uneas . What would you say ?”
“ idly 0rd, I have found out more about her-
and—and—"
“ Well, well.”
The valet drew near, and whispered something
in his master’s ear.
“ They are idiots who say it, then,” answered
Lilburne.
“And,” faltered the man, with the shame of
humanity on his face, “she is not worthy your
lordship s notice; a poor—”
“ Yes, I know she is oor; and, for that
reason, there can be no di culty if the thing is
properly managed. You never, perhaps, heard
of a certain Philip, king of Macedon; but I will
tell you what he once said, as well as I can re-
member it : ‘ Lead an ass with apannier of gold:
send the ass into the gates of a city and all the
sentinels will run away.’ Poor! Where there
is love there is charity also, Dykeman. Be-
sides—"
Herc Lilburno’s countenance assumed a sud-
den aspect of dark and angry passion; he broke
ofl" abruptly, rose, and paced the room, mutter-
ing to himself. Suddenly he stopped, and put
his hand to his hi , as an expression of pain
again altered the c araeter of his face.
“The limb pains me still. Dykcman—Iwas
scarec—twenty-one—whon—I became a cripple


112
NIGHT AND MORNING.
for life.” He paused, drew a long breath, smiled,
rubbed his hands gently, and added, "Never
fear—you shall be the ass; and thus Phlh of
Macedon begins to fill the pannier.” An be
tossed his purse into the hands of the valet,
whose face seemed to lose its anxious embar-
rassment at the touch of the gold. Lilburne
glanced at him with a quiet sneer : “ Go: I will
give on my orders when I undress." _
“ es!” he repeated to himself, “ the limb
pains me still. But he dicdl—shot as a man
would shoot a joy or a polecat! I have the news-
paper still in that drawer. He died an outcast
—a felon—a murderer ! AndI blasted his name
--and I seduced his mistress—and l—am John
Lord Lilburnc !”
About ten o’clock.l some half a dozen of those
gay lovers of London, who, like Lilburne, re-
main faithful to its charms when more vulgar
worshipers desert its sunburned streets—mostly
single men—mostly men ofiniddle age—dropped
in. And soon after came three or four high- orn
foreigners, who had followed into England the ex~
ile of the unfortunate Charles X. Their looks, at
once proud and sad—their mustacth curled
downward—their beards permitted to grow—
made at first a strong contrast with the smooth,
ay Englishmen. But Lilburne, who was fond of
g‘reneh society, and who, when he pleased, could
be courteous and agreeable, soon placed the ex-
iles at their ease; and, in the excitement of high
play,‘ell differences of mood and humor speedily
vanished. Morning was in the skies before they
sat down to su per.
“ You have con very fortunate to-night, mi-
lor ” said one of the F renchmeu, with an envi-
ous tone of congratulation.
“But, indeed,” said another, who, havin been
several times his host‘s partner, had won argo-
ly, “ you are the finest player, milord, I ever en-
countered.”
“ Always exceptin Monsieur Doschapelles
and **=l‘**,” replic Lilbnrne, indifferently.
And, turning the conversation, he asked one of
the guests why he had not introduced him to a
French officer of merit and distinction: “with
Whom,” said Lord Lilburne, “I understand that
you are intimate, and of whom I hear your coun-
trymen very often 5 103k."
“You mean De audemont. Poor fellow!”
said a middle-aged Frenchman, of a graver ap-
pearance than the rest.
“But why ‘poor fellow,’ Monsieur dc Lian-
oourt ?"
, “ He was risin so high before the Revolution.
There was not a raver ofiicer in the army. But
he is but a. soldier of fortune, and his career is
closed.”
“ Till the Bourbons return,” said another Carl-
ist, laying with his mustache.
“ on will really honour me much by intro-
ducing me to him,” said Lord Lilburne. “ De
Vaudemont—it is a good name—perhaps, too,
he plays at whist.”
“But,” observed one of the Frenchmen, “I
am by no means sure that he has the best right
in the world to the name. ’Tis a strange story.”
“ May I hear it ‘3” asked the host.
“ Certainly. It is briefly this: There was an
old Vicnmte do Vaudemont about Parin good
birth, but extremely poor—a mauvrzis sujet. He
had already had two wives, and run through their

fortunes. Being old and ugly, and men who sur-
vive two wives having a bad reputation among
marriageable ladies at Paris, he found it difficult
to get a third. Despairing of the noblvsse, he
went among the bourgeoisie with that hope.
His family was kept in perpetual fear ofa ridicu-
lous mésallitmre. Among these relations was
Madame de Merville, whom you may have heard
of.”
“Madame de Merville!
some, was she not 5"”
“It is true. Madame de Merville, whose
failing was pride, was known more than once to
have bought otl‘ the matrimonial inclinations of
the amorous vicomtc. Suddenly there appeared
in her circles a very handsome Young man. He
was presented formally to her riends as the son
of the Vicomte do Vaudemont by his second
marriage with an English lady, brought up in
England, and now, for the first time, publicly
agkno’wledgcd. Some scandal was circulat-
e __l
“Sir,’7 interrupted Monsieur de Lianconrt,
ver gravely, “ the scandal was such as all hon-
ora 1e men must stigmatize and despise—it was
only to be traced to some lying lackey—a scan-
dal that the young man was already the lover of
a woman of stainless reputation the ve ' first
day that he entered Paris! I answer for the
falsity of that report. But that report, I own,
was one that decided not only Madame de Mer-
ville, who was a sensitive—too sensitive a per-
son, but my friend young De Vaudemont, to a'
marri we, from the pecuniary advantages of
which 0 was too high-spirited not to shrink."
“Well,” said Lord Lilburnc, “ then this
young De Vaudemont married Madame de Mer-
ville ?”
“No,” said Do Lianeourt, somewhat sadly,
“it was not so decreed; for De Vaudemont,
with a feeling which belongs to a gentleman,
and whichI honor, while deeply and gratefully
attached to Madame de Merville, desired that
he might first carve for himself, at least, some
honorable distinction before he claimed a hand
to which men of fortunes so much higher had
aspired in vain. I am not ashamed,” he added,
after ashort pause, “to so that I had been one
of the re§ected suitors, an thatl still revere the
memory of Eugénie do Merville. The young
man, therefore, was to have entered my regi-
ment. Before, however, he had joined it, and
while yet in the full flush of a young man's love
for a woman formed to excite the strongest nt-
tachment, she—she—” The Frenchman’s voice
trembled, and he resumed, with atfected compo-
sure, “Madame de Merville, who had the best
and kindest heart that over heat in a human
breast, learned one day that there was a poor
widow in the garret of the hotel she inhabited
who was. dangerously ill—without medicine and
without food—having lost her only friend and
supporter in her husband some time before. In
the impulse of the moment, Madame de Mer-
ville tended herself this widow—cauflht the
fever that preyed upon her—was confined to her
bed ten days—and died, as she had lived, in
serving others and forgetting self. And so
much, sir, for the scandal you s eak of!”
“A warning,” observed 0rd Lilburne,
“against trifling with one’s health by that van-
ity of parading a kind heart which is called
Ah, yes ! Hand-


NIGHT AND MORNING. 113
charity. If charity, mmt char, begins at home, , it is, you see him in London, like the rest of us,
it is in the drawing-room, not the garret!” an exile l"
The Frenchman looked at his best in some “And, Isuppose, without a son.”
disdain, bit his lip, and was silent. “No; I believe that he had still saved, and
“But still,” resumed Lord Lilburne, “ still it even augmented, in India, the portion he allotted
is robable that your old vieomte had a son- 	o himself, from Madame de Merville’s bequest."
and) 1 can so perfectly understand why he did,l “And if he don’t pla whist, he ought to play
not-wish to be embarrassed with him as long as‘ it," said Lilbnrne. “ on have roused my curi-
he could help it, that I do not understand why 0sity: I hope you will let me make his acquaint-
there should be any doubt of the younger De once, Monsieur de Lianoourt. I am no politi-
Vaudemont's parentage.” ,7 cian, but allow me to pro ose this toast: ‘Suc-
“Because,” said the Frenchman who had first cess to those, who have t e wit to plan and the
commenced the narrative, “because the yeungistrength to execute.’ In other words, ‘Thc
man refused to take the legal steps to proclaim Right Divine l’ ”
his birth and naturalize himself a Frenchman; Soon afterward the guests retired.
because, no sooner was Madame de Merville
dead, than he forsook the father he had so newl -_.__.
discovered—forsook France, and entered wit
some other oflicers, under the brave *****, in CHAPTER IV,
the service of one of the native princes of India.” “ _ ‘ _ u
it. But perhaps he was poor," Observed Lord Ru. Happily he: the second time come wbtlhcqi}
Lilburne. “ A father is a very good thing, and a“ ' '
a country is a very good thing, but still a man IT was the evening after that in which the
must have money; and if your father does not conversations recorded in our last chapter were
do much for you, somehow or other, your coun- held—evening in the quiet suburb of H—-.
try lginerally follows his example.” The desertion and silence of the metropolis in
“J- _v lord," said De Linneonrt, “my friend September had extended to its neighboring ham-
here has forgotten to say that Madame dc Mer- lets—41 village in the heart of the country could
ville left to young Vaudemont the bulk of her scarcely have seemed more still—the lam swcre
fortune; and that, when sufficiently recovered lighted, many of the shops already close , a few
from the stupor of his grief, he summoned her of the sober couples and retired spinstcrs of the
relations round him, declared that her memory place might here and there be seen slowly wen-
was too dear to him for wealth to console him dcring homcward after their evening walk; two
for her loss, and, reserving to himself but a or three dogs, ins ite of the prohibitions of the
modest and bare sufficiency for the common magistrates plncnr ed on the wafls~manifestoes
necessaries-of a gentleman, he divided the rest which threatened all such stragglers with death,
among them, and repaired to the East, not only and all the inhabitants with madness—were play-
to conquer his sorrow by the novelty and stir of ing in the main road, disturbed from time to time
an exciting life, but to carve out with his own as the slow coach, lying between the city and
hand the re utation of an honorable and brave the suburb, crawle along the thoroughihrc, or
man. My riend remembered the scandal long as the brisk mails whirled rapidly by, announced
buried—he forgot the generous action.” by the cloudy dust and the guard’s lively horn.
“ Your friend, you see, my dear Monsieur de Gradually even these evidences of life ceased;
Lianeourt,” remarked Lilburne, “is more a man the saunterers disappeared, the mails had passed,
of the world than you are l” the dogs gave place to the later and more stealthy
“And Iwas just going to observe,” said the pcrambulations of their feline successors “who
friend thus referred to, “that that very notion love the moon.” At unfrequent intervals, the
seemed to confirm the rumor that there had been more important shops—the linen-drapers', the
some little maneuvering as to this unexpected chemists’, and the gin-palacc—still poured out
addition to the name of De Vundemont; for, if across the shadowy road their streams of light
himself related, however distantly. to Madame from windows yet unclosed. But, with those
de Merville, why have such scruples to receive exceptions, the business of the place stood still.
her bequest?” At this time there emerged from a milliner‘s
“ A very shrewd remark," said Lord Lilbnrue, ‘ house (shop, to outward appearance, it was not,
looking With some respect at the speaker; “ and evincing its gentility and its degree above the
I own that it is a ver unaccountable proceed- Cnpelocracy, to use a certain classical neolo-
ing, and one of whic I don’t think you or I gism, by a brass plate on an oak door, whereou
would ever have been guilty. “'ell, and the old was graven, “Miss Sem er, Millincr and Dress-
vicomte ?” maker, from Madame evy”)—nt this time, I
“Did not long live i” said the Frenchman, say, and from this house, there emerged the
evidently ratified by his host’s compliment, light and graceful form of a young female. She
while De Eiaueourt threw himself back in his held in her left hand a little basket, of the cen-
chair in grave displeasure. “The young man, tents of which (for it was empty) she had appar
remained some years in India; and, when he re- . ently just disposed; and, as she stepped across
turned to Paris, our friend here, Monsieur do I‘ the road, the lamplight fell on a face in the first
lLianeourt, (then in favor with Charles K), and' bloom of youth, and characterized by an oxpres
e do Merville’s relations, took him up. i sion of childlike innocence and candor. It was
He had already acquired a reputation in this for- a face regularly and exquisitely lovely, yet some-
eign service, and he obtained a place at the thing there was in the aspect that saddencdyou;
court, and a commission in the king’s guards. . you knew not wh , for it was not sad its-ell; on
I allow that he would certainly have made al the contrary, the ips smiled and the eyes 5 h-
weer, had it not been {pr the Three days. As! led. As she now glided along the owy


[14
NIGHT AND MORNING.
street with alight, quick stop, a man, who had
hitherto been concealed by the rtico of an at-
torney’s house, advanecd‘stealthily, and f ollowcd
her at a little distance; Unconscious that she
was dogged, and seemingly fearless of all dan-
ger, the girl went lightly on, swinging her bask-
ct playfully to and fro, and chanting, in a low
but musical tone, some verses, that seemed rath-
er to belong to the nursery than to that age which
the fair singer had attained.
As she came to an angle which the main street
formed with a lane narrow and partially lighted,
a policeman stationed there looked hard at her,
and then touched his hat with an air of respect,
in which there seemed also a little of compas-
sion.
“Good-night to you,” said the girl, passing;
him, and with a frank, gay tone. '
"Shall I attend you home, miss ‘3” said the
“What for? I am very well i” answered the
young woman, with an accent and look of inno-
cent surprise.
Just at this time, the man who had hitherto
followed her gained the spot and turned down
the lane. '
“ Yes,” replied the policeman ; “ but it is
getting dark, miss.”
“ So it is every night when I walk home, ex-
cept there’s a moon. Good-by. The moon,”
she repeated to herself, as she walked on, “I
used to be afraid of the moon when Iwas a little
child ;" and then, after a pause, she murmured,
in a low chant,
“ The moon, she is a wandering ghost,
That walks in penance nightly.
How and she Is, that wandering moon,
For all she shine: so brightly !
“I watched her eyes when l was young,
Until they turned my brain,
And now I often weep to think
"1‘will ne‘er be right again."
As the murmurof these words died at distance
down the lane in which the girl had disappeared,
the policeman, who had paused to listen, shook
his head mournfully, and said, while he moved on,
“ Poor thing! they should not let her always
go about hy herself: and yet, who would harm
her ‘3”
Meanwhile the girl-proceeded along the lane,
which was skirted by small but not mean houses,
till it terminated in a cross-stile that admitted
into a church-yard. Hero hung the last lamp
in the path, and a few dim stars broke pulcly
over the long grass and scattered grave-stones,
without piercing the deep shadow which the
church threw over a large portion of the sacred
ground. Just as she passed the stile, the man
whom we have before noticed, and who had
been leaning, as if waiting for some one, against
the pales, approached, and said gently,
“Ah, miss! it is a. lone place for one so beau-
tiful as you are to be alone. You ought never
to be on foot.” .
The girl stopped, and looked full, but without
any alarm in her 0 es, into the man’s face.
“Go away!” s a said, with a half peevish,
half kindly tone of command. “1 don’t know
you.”
" But I have been sent to speak to you by one
who does know you, miss—one who loves you
to distraction; he has seen you before at Mrs.
. shadow of the church.
\West‘s. He is so grieved to think that you
should walk—you, who ought, he says, to have
every luxury—that he has sent his carriage for
,you. It is on the other side of the yard. Do
I come, now;” and he laid his hand, though very
lightly, on her arm.
“At Mrs. West’s!” she said; and, for- the
first time, her voice-and look showed fear. “ Go
away dircctlyl How dare you touch Fanny l”
“ But, my dear miss, you have no idea how
my employer loves you, and how rich he is.
See, he has sent you all this money; it is old—
real gold. You may have what on like if you-
will but come. Now don’t be si ly, miss.”
The girl made no answer, but, with a sudden
spring, passed the man, and ran lightly and rap-
idly ulong the path, in on opposite direction
from that to which the temptcr had pointed
when inviting her to the carriage. The man,
surprised but not baffled, reached her in an in-
stant, and caught hold of her dress.
" Stay l you must come—you must!” he said,
threateningly; and, loosening his grasp on her
shawl, he threw his arm round her waist.
“Don-’t!” cried the girl, plendingly, and ap.
parcntly subdued, turning her fair, soft face upon
her pursucr, and clasping her hands. “ Be quietl
Fanny is silly! No one is ever rude to poor
Fanny !"
“ And no one will be rude to you, miss,” said
the man, apparently touched; “ but I dare not
go without you. You don't know what you re-
fuse. Come l" and he attempted- gently to draw
her back.
“No, no !" said the girl, changing from sup-
plicntion to anger, and raising her voice into a
loud shriek, “No! I will—"
“ Nay, then,” interrupted the man, looking
round anxiously; and, withaquick and dextrous
movement, he threw a large handkerchief over
her face, and, as he held it fast to her lips with
one hand, he lifted her from the ground. Still
violently struggling, the girl contrived to-removo
the handkerchief, and once more'hcr shriek of
terror rang through the violated sanctuary.
At that instant a loud, deep voice was heard,
“ Who calls ?” And a tall figure seemed to rise,
as from the grave itself, and emerge from the
A moment more, and a
strong gripe was laid on the shoulder of the
ravisher. “What is this': On God‘s ground,
tool Release her, wretchl”
The man, trembling, half with superstitious,
half with bodily fear, let go of his captive, who
fell at once at the knees of her deliverer.
“Don’t hurt me, too,” she said, as the tears
rolled down her eyes. “I am a good girl—and
my grandfather’s blind.”
The stranger bent down and raised her; then
‘ looking round for the assailant with an eye whose
dark fire shone through the gloom, be perceived
the coward stealing oll'. He disdained to pursue.
“My poor child,” said he, with that voice
which the strong assume to the weak—the man
‘to some wounded infant—the voice of tender
lsupcriority and compassion, “there is no cause
for fear now. Be soothed. Do you live near?
; Shall I see you home ?" *
“Thank you ! That’s kind ! Pray do l"
And, with an infantine confidence, she took his
hand, as a child does that of a grown-up person;
f so they walked on together.


NIGHT AND MORNING.
115
" And,” said the stranger, “do you know that
man ? Has he insulted you before ‘2”
“No—don‘t talk of him: cc me fail ml!”
And she put her hand to her forehead.
The French was spoken with so French an
accent, that, in some curiosity, the stranger cast
his eye over her plain dress.
“ You speak French well.”
“Do I? I wish I knew more words; I only
recollect a few. When I am very happ or
very sad they come into my head. But ly am
happy now. I like your voice—I like you.
I have dropped my basket!"
“Shall I go back for it, or shall I buy you
another.”
“Another! Oh, not come back for it. How
kind you are! Ah! I see it!" and she broke
away and ran forward to pick it up.
When she had recovered it, she laughed~she
spoke to it-she kissed it.
Her companion smiled as he said,
“Some sweetheart has given you that basket
-it seems but a common basket, too.”
“I have had it—oh, ever since—since—I don’t
know how long ! It came with me from France
-it was full of little toys. They are gone—l
am so sorry l”
“ How old are you ‘2’”
" I don't know."
“My pretty one," said the stranger, with
deep pity in his rich voice, “your mother should
not let you go out alone at this hour.”
“Mother! mother!” repeated the girl, in a
tone of surprise.
“Have you no mother 2‘"
“No! I had a father once. But he died, they
say. Idid not see him die. I sometimes cry
when I think that I shall never, never see him
again! But,” she said, changing her accent
from melancholy almost to joy, “ he is to have a
grave here like the other girl’s fathers—a fine
stone upon it—and all to be done with my
mone !’
“Ylbur money, my child ”
“ Yes, the money I make. I sell my work
and take the money to my grandfather; but I
lay by a. little every week for a. grave-stone for
my father.”
“Will the grave-stone be placed in that church-
yard 2?" They were new in another lane, and,
as he spoke, the stranger checked her, and, bend-
ing down to look into her face, murmured to
himself, “Is it possible? Yes, it must bo_—it
must !”
“Yes! I love that church-yard; my brother
told me to put flowers there; and grandfather
and I sit there in the summer, without speaking.
But I don’t talk much, I like singing better: i
' All things that good and harmless are,
Are taught, they my, to slag;
The mnlden resting at her work ;
The bird upon the wing;
The llttle‘ones at church, ln prayer,
The angels In the sky—
The angels less when babes are born
Than when the aged die.‘ "
Oh!
And, unconscious of the latent moral, dark or
cheerin , according as we estimate the value
of this ife, couched in the concluding rhyme,
Fanny turned round to the stranger and said,
" Why should the angels be glad when the aged
'die ?’ ‘
“That they are released from a false. unjust,

and miserable world, in which the first man was
a. rebel, and the second a murderer l” muttered
the stra 7 or between his teeth, which he gnashed
as he spo a.
The girl did not understand him;-she shook
her head gently, and made no reply. A few
moments, and she paused before a small house.
“ This is my home."
“ It is so,” said her companion, examining the
exterior of the house with an earnest gaze;
“and your name is Fanny.”
“ Yes-*very one knows Fanny. Come in ;"
and the girl opened the door with a latch-key.
The stranger bowed his stately height as he
crossed the low threshold, and followed his guide
into a little parlor.
Before a table, on which burned dimly, and
with unheeded wick, a single candle, sat a man
of advanced age; and, as he turned his face to
the door, the stranger saw that he was blind.
The girl bounded to his chair, passed her arms
round the old man’s neck, and kissed his fore-
head; then nestling herself at his feet, and lean-
ing her clasped hands caressingly on his knee,
she said,
“Grandpapn, I have brought you somebody
you must love. He has been so kll‘ld to Fanny."
“And neither of you can remember me l"
said the guest.
The old man, whose dull face seemed to indi-
cate dotage, half raised himself at the sound of.
the stranger’s voice.
“Who is that “P” said he, with a feeble and
querulous voice. “ Who wants me ?”
“I am the friend of your lost son. I am he
who, ten years ago, brought Fanny to your roof,
and gave her to your care—your son’s last !
charge. And you blessed our son, and forgave
him, and vowed to be a fat er to his Fanny.”
The old man, who had now slowly risen to
his feet, trembled violently, and stretched out
his hands.
“Come near—near; let me put my hands on
your head. I can not see you; but Fanny talks
of you, and prays for you; and Fanny—she has
been an angel to me !"
The stranger approached and half knelt, as
the old man spread his hands over his head,
muttering inaudibly. Meanwhile Fanny, pale
as death—her lips apart—an eager, painful ex-
pression on her face—looked inquiringly on the
dark, marked countenance of the visitor, and,
creeping toward him inch by inch, fearfully
touched his dress, his arms, his countenance.
“Brother!” she said at last, doubtingly and
timidly, “Brother, I thought I could never for-
get you! But you are not like my brother; you
are older; you are—-you are—no! no! you are
not my brother l”
“I am much changed, Fanny, and you too !"
He smiled as he spoke; and the smile—sweet
and pitying—thoroughly changed the character
of his face, which was ordinarily stern, grave,
and proud.
“I know you now,“ exclaimed Fanny, in a
tone of wildjoy. “And you come back from that
gravel My flowers have brought you back at
last! I knew the would. Brother! brother!"
And she threw erself on his breast and burst
into passionate tears. Then, suddenly drawm
herself back, she laid her finger on his one, an
looked up at him beseechingly.


116 _
NIGHT AND MORNING.
“Pray, now, is he really dead? He, my
father! he, too, was lost like you. Can’t he
come back again as you have done ‘3‘"
“Do you grieve for him still, then? Poor
irl !" said the stranger, evasively, and seating
'mself. Fanny continued to listen for an an-
swer to her touching question; but, finding that
none was given, she stole away to a corner of
the room, and leaned her face on her hands, and
seemed to think; till, at last, as she so sat, the
tears began to flow down her cheeks, and she
wept, but silently and unnoticed.
“ But, sir,” said the guest, nftera short pause,
“ how is this ? Fanny tells me she supports you
by her work. Are you so poor, then? Yetl
left your son’s bequest; and you, too, I under-
stood, though not rich, were not in want ‘2"
“ There was a curse on my gold," said the old
man, stemly. “ It was stolen from us."
There was another pause. Simon broke it.
“ And you, young man, how has it fared with
you? You have prospered, I hope.”
"I am as I have been for years: alone in the
world, without kindred and without friends. But,
thanks to God, I am not a beggar !"
“No kindred and no friends!" repeated the
old man. “ No father—no brother—no wife—
no sister !”
“None! No one to care whether I live or
die,’7 answered the stranger, with a mixture of
pride and sadness in his voice. “But, as the
song has it,
‘1 care for notxxly—no. not I.
For nobody cares for me 1' "'
There was a certain pathos in the mockery
with which the repeated the homely lines, al-
though, as he did, he gathered himself up, as if
conscious of a certain consolation and reliance
on the resources not dependent on others which
he had found in his own strong limbs and his
own stout heart.
At that moment he felt a soft touch upon his
hand. and he saw Fanny looking at him through
the tears that still flowed.
“ You have no one to care for you? Don’t
say so! Come and live with us, brother; we’ll
care for ou. I have never forgot the flowers—
nevcr! come! Fanny shall love you. Fanny
can work for three! ”
“ And they call her an idiot!” mumbled the
old man, with a vacant smile on his lips.
“ My sister! You shall be my sister! For-
lorn one, whom even Nature has fooled and be-
trayed! Sister!—we, both orphansl—Sister!”
exclaimed that dark, stern mun, passionately,
and with a broken voice; and he opened his
arms, and Fanny, without a blush or a thought
of shame, threw herself on his breast. He
kissed her forehead with a kiss that was, indeed,
pure and holy as a brother’s: and Funny felt
that he had left upon her check a tear that was
not her own.
“ Well,” he said, with an altered voice, and
taking the old man’s hand, “what say you? Shall
Italze up my lodging with you? I have a little
money; I can protect and aid you both. I shall
he often away, in London or elsewhere, and will
not intrude 100 much on you. But you blind,
and she" (here he broke oli‘ the sentence abrupt-
ly, and went on)—“ you should not he left alone.
And this neighborhood, that burial-place, are

dear to me. I too, Fanny, have lost a parent;
and that grave—”
He paused, and then added, in a trembling
voice, “ and you have placed flowers over that
grave?” _
“Stay with us," said the blind man; “not for
our sake, but your own. The world is a bad
place. I have been long sick of the world.
Yes! come and live near the burial-ground; the
nearer you are to the grave, the safer you are:
and you have a little money, you ay l”
“I will come to-morrow, then. I must return
now. To-morrow, Fanny, we shall meet again.”
“ Must you go," said Fanny. tenderly. “ But
you wi!l come again; you know I used to think
every one died when he left me. I am wiser
now. Yet still, when you do leave me, it is
true that you die for Fanny.”
At this moment, as the three persons were
grouped, each had assumed a posture of form,
an expression of face, which a painter of fitting
sentiment and skill would have loved to study.
The visitor had gained the door; and as he stood
there, his noble height, the magnificent strength
and health of his manhood in its full prime, con-
trasted alike the almost spectral dcbility of ex-
tremc ago and the graceful delicacy of Fanny,
hall'girl, half child. There was something for-
eign in his air, and the half military habit, re.
licved b the red ribbon of the Bourbon knight-
hood. Iis complexion was dark as that of a
Moor, and his ravcn hair curled close to the
stately head. The soldier-mustache, thick, but
glossy as silk, shaded the firm lip; and the point-
ed board. assumed by the exiled Carlists, height-
ened the effect of the strong and haughty features,
and the expression of the martial countenance.
But, as Fanny’s voice died on his car, he half
averted that proud face; and the dark eyes-—
almost Oriental in their brilliancy and depth of
shade—seemed soft and humid. And there
stood Fanny, in a posture of such unconscious
sadness, such childlike innocence; her arms
drooping, her face wistfully turned to his, and a
half smile upon the lips, that made still more
touching the tears not yet (ll ied upon her cheeks.
While thin, frail, shadowy, with white hair and
furrowed checks, the old man fixed his sightless
orbs on space; and his face, usually only ani-
mated from the lethargy of advancing dotaoe by
a certain querulous cynicism, now grew suddenly
earnest, and oven thoughtful, as Fanny spoke of
Death!
_-_+__
CHAPTER V.
“ my". T'nne hath a wallet at his back
Whereln he puts alms for oblivion.
Ponlevernnce. dear my lord,
Keeps honor bright.“— Trnilus and Q‘enida.
I HAVE not sought—as would have been easy,
by a little ingenuity in the earlier portion of this
narrative—whutcvcr source of vulgar interest
might be derived from the mystery of names and
persons. As in Charles Spencer the reader is
allowed at a glance to detect Sidney Morton, so
in Philip do Yaudcmont (the stranger who res-
cued Fanny) the reader at once recognizes the
hero of my talc; but, since neither of these
young men has a better right to the name re-
signed than to the name adopted, it will be sim-


NIGHT AND
MORNING. 117
pier and more convenient to designate them by!
those appellations by _which they were now
known to the world. In truth, Philip de Vaude- ‘
inont was scarcely the same being as Philip
Morton. In the short visit he had paid to the
elder Gawtrey when he consigned Fanny to his :
charge, he had given no name; and the one hel
now took (when, toward evening of the next“
day, he returned to Simon‘s house) the old man
heard for the first time. Once more sunk into
his usual apathy, Simon did not express any sur-
prise that a b renchman should be so well ac-
quainted with English ; he scarcely noticed that
the name was French. Simon’s ago seemed
daily to bring him more and more to that state
when life is mere mechanism, and the soul, pre-
pring for its departure, no longer heeds the
tenement that crumbles silently and neglected
into its lonely dust. Vaudemont came with but
little luggage (for he had an apartment in Lon-
don), and no attendant; a single horse was con-
signed to the stables of an inn at hand; and he
seemed, as soldiers are, more careful for the com-
forts of the animal than his own. There was
but one woman servant in the humble house-
hold, who did all the ruder work; for Fanny’s
industry could atford it. The solitary servant
and the homely fare sufficed for the simple and
hardy adventurer.
Fanny, with a countenance radiant with joy,
took his hand and led him to his room. Poor
child, with that instinct of woman which never
deserted her, she had busied herself the whole
day in striving to deck the chamber according
to her own notions of comfort. She had stolen
from her little hoard wherewithal to make some
small purchases, on which the Dowbiggin of the
suburb had been consulted. And, what with
flowers on the table and a fire at the hearth, the
room looked cheerful.
She watched him as he glanced around,
and felt disappointed that he id not utter the
admiration she expected. Angry at last with
the inditierenee which, in fact, as to external ac-
commodation, was habitual to him, she plucked
his sleeve, and said,
“ Why don’t you speak? Is it not nice?
Fanny did her best.”
“ And a thousand thanks to Fanny !
I could wish.’7
“ There is another room, bigger than this, but
the wicked woman who robbed us slept there;
and, besides, you said you liked the ehu rch-yard.
See!” and she opened the window, and pointed
to the church-tower rising dark against the even~
ing sky.
“ This is better than all !" said Vandemont;
and he looked out from the window in a silent
reverie, which Fanny did not disturb.
And now he was settled ! From a career so
wild, at itated, and various, the adventurer
used in that humble resting-nook. But quiet
ll not repose, obscurity is not content. Often
as, morn and evc, he looked forth upon the spot
where his mother’s heart, unconscious of love
and woe, moldercd awa , the indignant and bitter
feelings of the wronge outcast and the son who
could not clear the mother’s name swept away
the subdued and gentle melancholy into which
time usually softens regret for the dead, and
It is all

with which most of us think of the distant past
and the once joyous childhood!
In this man's breast lay, concealed by his ex-
ternal calm, those memories and aspirations
which are as strong as passions. In his earlier
years, when he had been put to hard shifts for
I existence, he had found no leisure for close and
brooding reflection upon that spoliation of just
rights—that calumny upon his mother's name,
which had first brought the Night into his
Morning. His resentment toward the Bean-
forts, it is true, had ever been an intense, but a
fitful and irregular passion. It was exactly in
proportion as, by those rare and romantic inci-
dents which Fiction can not invent, and which
Narrative takes with diflidence from the great
store-house of Real Life, his step had ascended
in the social ladder, that all which his childhood
hud lost—all which the robbers of his heritage
had gained, the grandeur and the power of
WEALTH—above all, the hourly and the tranquil
happiness of a stainless name, became palpable
and distinct. He had loved Eugenie as a boy
loves, for the first time, an accomplished woman.
He regarded her--so refined, so gentle, so gifted
-—-with the feelings due to a superior being—
with an eternal recollection of the ministerinr1r
angel that had shone upon him when he sto
on the dark abyss. She was the first that had
redeemed his fate—the first that had guided
aright his path—the first that had tamed the
savage at his breast: it was the young lion
charmed by the eyes of Una. The outline of his
story had been truly given at Lord Lilburne’s.
Despite his pride, which rcvolled from such ob-
ligations to another, and a woman—which dis-
liked and struggled against a disguise which at
once and alone saved him from the detection of
the past and the terrors of‘the future—he had
yielded to her, the wise and the gentle, as one
whose judgment he could not doubt; and, in-
deed, the slanderous falsehoods circulated by the
lackcy, to whose discretion, the night of Gaw-
trcy’s death, Eugenie had preferred to confide
her own honor rather than nnother’s life, had (as
Liancourt ri htly stated) left Philip no option
but that whic Madame de Mervillo deemed the
best, whether for her happiness or her good
name. Then had followed a brief season—the
holiday of his life—the season of young hope and
passion, of brilliancy and jo', closing by that
abrupt death which again le t him lonely in the
world. ,
When, from the grief that succeeded to the
death of Eugrinie, he woke to find himself amid
the strange faces and exciting scenes of an
Oriental court, he turned with hard and disgust-
ful contempt from Pleasure as an infidelity to the
dead. Ambition crept over him; his mind hard-
ened as his cheek bronzed under those burning
suns; his hardy frame‘his energies prematurely
awakened—his constitutional disregard to dan-
ger, made him a brave and skillful soldier. He
acquired reputation and rank. But, as time
went on, the ambition took a higher flight; he
felt his sphere circumscribed, the Eastern indo-
lcnce that filled up the long intervals between
Eastern action chafed a temper never at rest:
he returned to France; his reputation, Linn-
court’s friendship, and the relations of Eugenie
-—grateful, as has before been implied, for the
gener05ity with which he surrendered the prin-
cipal part of her bequest—opened for him a new
career, but one painful and gelling. In the In-


118
NIGHT AND MORNING.
than court there was no question of his birth;
one adventurer was equal with the rest. But
in Paris, a man attempting to rise provoked all
the sarcasm of wit, all the cavils of party; and
in polished and civil life, what valor has weapons
against a jest? Thus, in civilization, all the
passions that spring from humiliated self-love
and bullied aspiration again preyed upon his
breast. He saw, then, that the more he strug-
gled from obscurity, the more acute would be-
come research into his true origin: and his
writhin pride almost stung to death his ambi-
tion. '%0 succeed in life by regular means was
indeed difficult for this man: always recoiling
from the name he bore—always strong in the
hope et to retrain that to which be conceived
himse f entitleLcherishing that pride of coun-
try which never deserts the native of a free
state, however harsh a parent she may have
proved—end, above all, whatever his ambition
and his passions, taking, from the very misfor-
tunes he had known, an indomitable belief in the
ultimate justice of Heaven, he had refused to
sever the last ties that connected him with his
lost heritage and his forsaken land—he refused
to be naturalized—to make the name he bore
legally undisputed: he was contented to be an
alien. Neither was Vaudemont fitted exactly
for mat crisis in the social world when the men
of journals and talk bustle aside the men of ac-
tion. He had not cultivated literature—lie had
no book-knowledge; the world had been his
school, and stern life nis teacher. Still, emi-
nently skilled in these physical accomplishments
which men admire and soldiers covet—calm and
self-possessed in manner-—of great personal ad-
vantages—of much ready talent, and of practiced
observation in character, he continued to breast
the obstacles around him, and to establish him-
self in the favor of those in power. It was nat-
ural to a person so reared and circumstanced to
have no s mpathy with what is called the popular
cause. e was no citizen in the state—he was
estran er in the land. He had suffered, and still
suffer too much from mankind to have that
philanthropy—sometimes visionary, but always
noble—which, in fact, generally springs from the
studies we cultivate, not in the forum, but the
closet. Men, alas! too often lose the democratic
enthusiasm in proportion as they find reason to
suspect or despise their kind. And if there were
not hopes for the future which this hard, practical,
daily life does not suffice to teach us, the vision
and the glory that belon to the great popular
creed, dimmed beneath t e injustice, the follies,
and the vices of the world as it is, would fade
into the lukewarm sectariauism of temporary
party. Moreover, Vaudemont’s habits of thought
and reasoning were those of the camp, confirmed
by the s stems familiar to him in the East: he
regarde the populace as a soldier, enamored of
discipline and order, usually does. His theories,
therefore, or, rather, his ignorance of what is
sound in theory, went with Charles the Tenth
in his excesses, but not with the timidity hich
terminated those excesses by dethronement and
disgrace. Chafed to the heart, gnawed with
proud grief, he obe ed the royal mandates, and
ollowed the exile monarch: his hopes over-
thrown, his career in France annihilated forever.


food. In the land where he had no name might
he yet rebuild his fortunes. It was an arduous
effort—an improbable hope; but the words heard
_by the bridge of Paris—words that had often
‘ cheered him in his exile through hardships and
through dangers which it is unnecessary to our
narrative to detail—yet rung again in his car as
he leaped on his native land: “Time, Faith,
Energ .”
Whi e such his character in the larger and
more distant relations of life, in the closer circles
of companionship many rare and noble qualities
were visible. It is true that he was stern, per-
haps imperious—of a temper that always strug-
gled to command ; but he was deeply susceptible
of kindness, and, if feared by those who opposed,
loved by those who served him. About his
character was that mixture of tenderness and
ficrceness which belonged of old to the descrip-
tions of the warrior. Though so little lettered,
Life had taught him a certain poetry of sentiment
and idea: morc poetry, perhaps, in the silent
thoughts that, in his happier moments, filled his
solitude, than in half the pages that his brother
had read and written by the dreaming lake. A
certain largeness of idea and nobility of impulse
often made him art the sentiments of which
bookmen write. With all his passions, he held
licentiousness in disdain; with all his ambition
for the power of wealth, he despised its luxury.
Simple, masculine, severe, abstemious, he was
of that mold in which, in earlier times, the suc-
cessful men of action have been cast. But to
successful action, circumstance is more necessary
than to triumphant study.
It was to be expected that, in proportion as he
had been familiar with a purer and noble-r life,
he should look with great and deep self-humilia-
tion at his early association with Gawtrey. He
was, in this respect, more severe on himself than
any other mind ordinarily just and candid would
have been, when fairly surveying the circum-
stances of nury, hunger, and despair which
had driven iim to Gawtrey’s roof, the imperfect
nature of his early education, the boyish trust
and affection he had felt for his protector, and
his own ignorance of, and exemption from, all
the Worse practices of that unhappy criminal.
But still, when, with the knowledge he had now
acquired, the 1mm looked calmly back, his cheek
burned with remorscful shame at his unreflectin
companionship in a life of subterfuge and equi-
vocation, the true nature of which the boy (so
clrcumstanced as we have shown him) might be
forgiven for not at that time comprehending.
Two advantages resulted, however, from the
error and the remorse: first, the humiliation it
brought curbed, in some measure, a pride that
might otherwise have been arrogant and un-
nmiable; and, secondly, as l have before in-
timated, his profound gratitude to Heaven for
his deliverance from the snares that had beset
his youth, gave his future the guide of an earnest
and heartfelt faith. He acknowledged in life no
such thing as accident. Whatever his struggles,
whatever his melancholy, whatever his sense of
worldly wrong, he never despaired; for nothing
now could shake his belief in one directing
Providence.
The ways and habits of Vuudement were not
But, on entering England, his temper, confident at discord with those of the quiet household in
and ready of resource, fastened itself on new which he was now a guest. Like most men of


120'
NIGHT AND MORNING.
her to call again; but, meanwhile, she met Fan- : knocked at the door; in another moment he was
ny in the streets, and while she was accosting
her, it fortunately chanced that Miss Semper,
tho milliner, passed that way; turned round,
looked hard at the lady, used very angry lan-
guage to her, seized Fanny’s hand, led her!
a'way, while the lady slunk off; and told her
that the said lady was a very bad woman, and
that Fanny must never speak to her again.
Fanny most cheerfully promised this. And, in
fact, the lady, probably afraid, whether of the
mob or the magistrates, never again came near
her.
“ And,” said Fanny, “I gave the money they
had both given to me to Miss Scmper, who said
she would'scnd it back.”
“You did'richt, Funny; and, as you made
one promise to Miss Sompor, so you must make
me one: never to stir from home again without
me or some other person. No, no other person.
—only me. I will give up every thing else to
go with you.”
“Will you? Oh, yes, I promise! I used to
like going alone, but that Was before you came,
brother.”
And.v as Fanny kept her promise, it would
have been a' bold gallant indeed who would
have ventured to molest her by the side of that
stately and strong protector.
-_-_.__-
CHAPTER VI.
“ Tim. Each thing‘s o thief:
The laws, your curb and whip, in their rough
power
Have unchcck‘d theft.
The sweet diegreeb that this. brlel‘ wni'ld affords,
To such as "my the passive drugs of it
Freely command."—’Ii'mou of Illinois.
0:! the day and at the hour fixed for the inter-
v1ew with the stranger who had visited hfr.
Beaufort, Lord Lilburne was seated in the libra-
ry of his brother-in-law; and before the elbow-
chair, in which he lolled carelessly, stood our
old friend, Mr. Sha of Bow-street notability.
“Mr. Sharp,” sai ‘tho peer, “I have sent for
'ou to do me a little favor. I expect a man
ere who professes to give Mr. Beaufort, my.
brother-in-law, some information about a law-i
suit. It is necessary to know the exact value
of his evidence. 1 wish you to ascertain all
particulars about him. Be so good as to seat
yourself in the porter’s chair in the hall; note
him when he enters, unobserved yourself; but,
as he is probably a stranger to you, note him-
. still more when he leaves the house; follow him}
at. a distance; find out where he lives, whom he
associates with, where he visits, their names and
directions, what his character and calling are—
in a word, every thing you can, and report to
me each evening. Dog him.- woll—ncvor lose
sight of him—you will be handsomely paid.
You understand.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Sharp,- “leave me alone, my
lord. Been emplo 'ed before by your lordship’s ‘
brother-in-law. e knows what’s what.”
“I don’t doubt it.
him every moment.”
An'l, in fact, Mr. Sharp had onlyjust ensconced '
h‘uusclt' in the porter's chair when the stranger,

To your post. I expect,
' shown in to Lord Lilburne.
“Sir,” said his lordship, without rising, “be
so good as to take a chair. Mr. Beaufort is
obliged to leave town; he has asked me to see
you; I am one of his family—his wife is my sis-
ter; you may be as frank with me as with him
—more so, perhaps.”
“‘ I beg the fauvor of your name, sir," said the
strnn or, adjusting his collar.
“ ours first—business is business."
“Well, then, Captain Smith.”
“Of what regiment ?”
“ Half-pay.”
“I am Lord Lilburne. Your name is Smith
-—humph !" added the peer, looking over some
notes before him. “I see it is also the name of
the witness appealed to by Mrs. Morton—
humphl”
At this remark, and still more at the look
which accompanied it, the countenance, before
impudent and complacent, of Captain Smith fell
into visible embarrassment; he cleared his
throat, and said, with a little hesitation,
“ My lord, that witness is living !”
“ No doubt of it; witnesses are never wanting
where property is concerned and imposture in,
tended. ’
At this moment the servant entered, and placed
a little note, quaintly folded, before Lord Lil-
burne. He glanced at it in surprise; opened,
and read as follows, in pencil.
“ Mr Loan—I knows the man; take caer of
of him; he is as big a roge as ever stept; he
was transported some three year back, and, un-
lose his time has been shortened by the Home,
he’s absent without love. We used to call him
Dashing Jorry. That ere youngster we went
nrter, by Mr. Bofort‘s wish, was a. pal of his.
Scuze the liberty I take. R. SHARP."
While Lord Lilburne held-this effusion to the
candle and spelled his way through it, Captain
Smith, recovering his self-composure, thus pro-
cccded:
“Imposture, my lord! imposture! I really
don't understand. Your lordship really seems so
suspicions that it is quite uncomfortable. I am
sure it is all the some to me; and, if Mr. Beau'
fort does not think proper to see me himself,
why, I’d best make my bow."
And Captain Smith rose.
“Stay a moment, sir. What Mr. Beaufort
may yet do, I can not say; but I know this : you
stand charged of a very grave otl‘enso; and, if
your witness or witnesses—you may have fifty
for what I care—ore equally guilty, so much the
worse for them.’7
“ My lord, I really don’t comprehend.”
“ Then I will be more plain. I accuse you of
devising an infamous falsehood for the purpose
of extorting money. Let your witnesses appear
in court, and I promise that you, they, and the
young man, Mr. Morton, whose claim they set
up,- shall be indicted for conspiracy—conspiracy,
if accompanied (as in the ease of your witnesses;
with perjury, of the blackest die. Mr. Smith,
know you; and, before too o‘clock to-morrow, I
shall know also if you had his majesty’s leave to
puit thp colonies! Ah ! I am plain enough now,
see.


NIGHT AND MORNING.
121
And Lord Lilburne threw himself back in his ' to commit yourself to Lord Lilburne’s tender
chair, and coldly contemplated the white face
and dismayed expression of the crest-fallen cap-
tain. That most worthy person, after a pause of
confusion, amaze, and fear, made an involuntary
stride, with a menacing gesture, toward Lil-
‘lzeurne: the peer quietly placed his hand on the
ll.
“One moment more,” said the latter; “ifI
ring this bell, it is to place you in custody. Let
Mr. Beaufort but see you here once again—nay,
let him but hear another word of this pretended
lawsuit, and you return to the colonies. Pshaw!
Frown not at me, sir!
in the hall. Begone !—no, stop one moment, and
take a lesson in life. Never again attempt to
threaten people of property and station. Around
every rich man is a wall—better not run your
head against it."
“But I swear solemnly," cried the knavc,
with an emphasis so startling that it carried
with it the appearance of truth, “that the mar-
riage did take place.”
“And I say, no less solemnly, that any one
who swears it in a court of law shall be prose-
cuted for perjury! Bah! you are a sorry rogue,
after all 2’
And with an air of supreme and half-compas-
sionate contempt, Lord Lilburne turned away
and stirred the fire. Captain Smith muttered
and fumbled a moment with his gloves, then
shrugged his shoulders, and sneaked out.
That night Lord Lilburne again received his t
friends, and among his guests came Vaudemont. I
Lilburne was one who liked the study of char-
acter, especially the character of men wrestling ‘
against the world. Wholly free from every
5 eoics of ambition, he seemed tov reconcile
himself to his apathy by examining into the
disquietude, the mortification, the heart’s wear
and tear which are the lot of the ambitions.
Like the spider in his hole, he watched with a
hungry pleasure the flies struggling in the web,
through whose slimy labyrinth he walked with
an easy safety. Perhaps one reason why he
loved gaming was less from the joy of winning
than the philosophical complacency with which
he feasted on the emotions of those who lost.
Always serene, and, except in debaueh, always
passionless—Magendie, tracing the experiments
of science in the agonies of some tortured dog,
could not be more rapt in the science, and more
indifferent to the dog, than Lord Lilburne, ruin-
ing a victim, in the analysis of human passions,
and stoieal to the rithinrrs of the wretch whom
he tranquilly dissected. l-Ie wished to win money
of Vaudemont—to ruin this man, who presumed
to be more generous than other people—to see
a bold adventurer submitted to the wheel of the
Fortune which reigns in a pack of cards; and
all, of course, without the least hate to the man
whom he then saw for the first time. On the
contrary, he felt a respect for Vaudemont.
Like most worldly men, Lord Lilburne was
prepossessed in favor of those who seek to rise
In life; and, like men who have excelled in
manly and athletic exercises, he was also pre-
possessed in favor of those who appeared fitted
for the same success.
Liancourt took aside his friend as Lord Lil-
burne was talking with his other guests:
“I need not caution you, who never play, not ,
A Bow-street oiIieer is-

mercies."
“Nay,” answered Vaudemont, “I want to
know this man: I have reasons which alone
induce me to enter his house. I can afford to
venture something, because I wish to see if I
can gain something for one dear to me. And
for the rest, I know him too well not to he on
my guard." With that he joined Lord Lil-
burno’s group, and accepted the invitation to
the card-table. At supper, Vaudemont eon-
versed more than was habitual to him; he es-
pecially addressed himself to his best, and lie-
tened, with great attention, to Lilburne’s caustic
comments upon every topic successively started.
And whether it was the art of De Vuudemont,
or from an interest that Lord Lilburne took in
studying what was to him a new chai'acter——or
whether that, both men excelling peculiarly in
all masculine accomplishments, their conversa-
tion was ofa nature that was more attractive to
themselves than to others—it so happened that
they were still talking while the daylight already.
peered through the window-curtains.
“And I have outstaid all your guests, said
Do Vaudemont, glancing round the emptied
room.
"It is the best compliment you could pay me.
Another night we can enliven our tite-ri-téte with
écarté ,- though at your age, and with your up-
penranee, I am surprised, Monsieur De Vaude-
mout, that you are fond of play: I should have-
thought that it was not in a pack of cards that
you looked for hearts. But perhaps you are
121an betimcs of tho beau sore.”
“ Yet you devotion to it is, perhaps, as great
now as ever ?”
“ Mine ! No, not as ever. To different ages
different degrees. At your age I wooed, at.
mine I purchase—the better plan of the two: it-
does not take up half so much time." '
“Your marriage, I think, Lord Lilburne, was
not blessed with children. Perhaps sometimes
you feel the want of them “P”
“If I did, I could have them by the dozen.
Other ladies have been more generous in that
department than the Lady Lilburne, Heaven.
rest her !”
“ And,” said Vaudemont, fixing his eyes with
some earnestness on his host, “ if you were real-
ly persuaded that you had a child, or perhaps a
grandchild—the mother, one whom you loved in
your first youth—u child atfectionatc, beautiful,
and especially needing your care and protection,
would you not sutfcr that child, though illegiti-
mate, to supply to you the want of lilial atfee-
tion ?”
“ F ilial affection, man char!” repeated Lord
Lilburne; “needing my care and protection!
Pshaw! In other words, would I give board
and lodging to some young vagabond who was
good enough to say he was son to Lord Lil-
burno ‘2”
“ But if you were convinced that the claimant
were your son, or perhaps your daughter—a ten-
derer name of the two, and a more helpless
claimant?”
“My dear Monsieur do Vaudemont, you are
doubtless a man of gallantry and of the world.
If the children whom the law forces on one, are,
nine times out of ten, such damnable plagues,
judge if one would father those whom the law
I,


122
NIGHT AND MORNING.
ermits us to disown. Natural children are the
arias of the world, and I—am one of the Brah-
mins.”
“ But,” persisted Vaudcmont, “if you had
loved—if you had wronged the mother; if in the
child you saw one who, without your nid, might
be exposed to every curse with which the Parias
(true, the Par-ies!) of the world are too often
visited, and who, with your aid, might become,
as age advanced, your companion, your nurse,
your comforter—”
“Tush!” interrupted Lilburne, with some im-
patience, I"I know not how our conversation fell
on such a topic : perhaps you known young lady
or gentlemen out of a father who wants to at
into one; if so, rest assured that I have no rmnd
to engage the applicant—nay, excuse me, I did
but jest. But look you, Monsieur de Vaudcmont,
vno man has studied the art of happiness more
than I have , and I will tell you the great secret;
have as few ties as possible. Nurse! Pooh! I
could hire one by the week a thousand times
Imore useful and careful than a bore of a child.
Comforter ! a man of mind never wants comfort.
And there is no such thing as sorrow while we
have health and money, and don’t care a straw
for any body in the world. If you choose to love
people, their health and circumstances, if either
go wrong can fret you : that opens many avenues
to pain. Never live alone, but alwaysfccl alone.
You think this unamiable: possibly. I am no
hypocrite, and I never effect to be any thing
but what I am—John Lilburne.”
As the peer thus spoke, Vaudcmont, leaning
against the door, eontem lated him with a strange
mixture of interest an disgust. “ And John
Lilburne is thought a great man, and William
Gawtrey was a great rorrue. You don’t con-
ceal your heart ‘.’—no, I understand. Vt'eulth and
power have no need of hypocrisy: you are the
man of vice, Gawtrey, the man of crime. You
never sin against the law, he was a felon by his
trade. And the felon saved from vice the child,
and from want the grandchild (your flesh and
blood), whom you disown: which will Heaven
consider the worse man? No, poor Funny! I
see I am wrong. If he would own you, I would
not give you up to the ice of such a soul : better
the blind man than the dead heart !”
"Well, Lord Lilburne,” said De Vaudemont,
aloud, shaking off his revcry, “I must own that
your philosophy seems to me the wisest for your-
self. For a poor man it might be different; the
poor need atfcction."
“ Certainly,” said Lord Lilburnc, with an air
of patronizing candor—”
“ And I will own farther,” continued de Vau-
demont, “that I have willingly lost my money in
return for the instruction I have received in hear-
ing you converse.”
-“ You are kind: come and take your revenge
next Thursday. Adieu.”
“Humphl Nothing at this moment! You
manage things so badly, you might get me into
a scrape. I never do any thing the law, or the
police, or even the newspapers can take hold of.
I must think of some other way, humph! I never
give up any thing—do I Dykernan? I never
tail in what I undertake! Il'life had been worth
what fools trouble it with—business and ambition
—-I suppose I should have been a great man with
a very badlivcr—ha! ha! I alone of all the
world ever found what the world was good for l
Draw the curtains, Dykeman." .
_.—-.
CHAPTER VII.
“ Org. Welcome thou ice that sltt‘st about his heart!
No heat can ever thnw thee ‘."—Foar>: Broken Heart.
" Ncardt. Honorable infamy !"—Jbid.
“ flmyc. Her tenderness hath yet deserved no rigor.
So to be crossed by fine !
Arm. You mlsapply, sir,
W'lth favor let me speak It. what Apollo
Hntb clouded la dim sense l“—Ib|'d.
Ir Vaudemont had fancied that, considering
the age and poverty of Simon, it was his duty to
see whether F anny’s not more legal, but. more
natural protector were indeed the unredeemed
and unmalleable cgotist which Gawtrey had
painted him, the conversation of one night was
sutfieient to make him abandon forever the notion
of advancing her claims upon Lord Lilburne.
But Philip had another motive in continuing his
acquaintance with that personage. The sight
of his mother‘s grave had recalled to him the
image of that lost brother over whom he had
vowed to watch. And, despite the deep sense
of wronged affection with which be yet remem-
bered the cruel letter that had contained the last
tidings of Sidney, Philip's heart clung with un-
dying fondness to that fair shape associated with
a l the happy recollections of childhood, and his
conscience as well as his love asked him, each
time that he passed the church-yard, “Will you
make no effort 'to obey that last prayer of the
mother who consigned her darling to your
‘chnrge ‘9” Perhaps, had Philip been in want,
or had the name he now bore been sullied by
his conduct, he might have shrunk from seeking
, one whom he might injure, but could not serve.
But, though not rich, he-had more than enough
for tastes as hardy and simple as any to which
soldier of fortune ever limited his desires. And
the thought, with a sentiment of just and noble
lpride, that the name which ‘Eugénie had forced
‘ upon him had been borne spotless as the ermine
I through the trials and vicissitudes he had passed
{since he had assumed it. Sidney could give him
nothing, and thereforeit was his duty to seek
iSidney out. Now, he had always believed -in
this heart that the Beauforts were acquainted
‘with a secret which he more and more pined to



As Lord Lilburne undressed, and his valet at- t penetrate. He would, for Sidney’s sake, smother
tended him, he said to that worthy functionary,
“ So you have not been able to make out the
,his hate to the Beauforts; he would not reject
their acquaintance, if thrown in his way; nay,
name of the stranger—the new ledger you tell secure by his change of name and his altered
me of?"
features from all suspicion on their part, he
' “No, my lord. They only say he is a very would seek that acquaintance in order to finrl
fine-looking man."
“ You have not seen him ‘2"
“No, my lord. What do you wish me now
to do ?”
his brother, and fulfill Catharine’s last commands.
{His intercourse with Lilburne would necessarily
]bring him easily into contact with Lilburne’s
[family And in this thought he did not reject


NIGHT AND MORNING.
123
the invitations pressed on him. He felt, too, a
dark and absorbing interest in examining a man
who was in himself the incarnation of the world
—tbe world of art—the world as the preacher
paints it—the hollow, sensual, sharp-witted, self-
wrapped world—tho world that is all for this life, i
and thinks of no Future and no God!
Lord Lilburne was, indeed, a study for deep
contemplation. A study to perplex the ordinary
thinker, and task to the utmost the analysis of
more profound reflection. William Gawtrey had
sessed no common talents; he had discovered ‘
that his life had been one mistake: Lord Lil-
burne’s intellect was far kcencr than Guwtrey’s, ,
and he had never made, and, if he had lived tol
the age of old Parr, never would have made a
similar discovery. He never wrestled against
a law, though he slipped through all laws! And
he knew no remorse, for he knew no fear. Lord
Lilburne had married early, and long survived,
a lady of fortune, the daughter of the then
premier: the best match, in fact, of his day.
And for one very brief period of his life he had
suffered himself to enter into the field of politics:
the only ambition common with men of equal
rank. He showed talents that might have raised
one so gifted by circumstance to any height,
and then retired at once into his old habits and
old system of pleasure. “I wished to try,” said
he once, “ if fame was worth one headache; and
I have convinced myself that the man who can
sacrifice the bone in his mouth to the shadow of
the bone in the water, is a fool.” From that
time he never once attended the house of lords,
and declared himself of no political opinions one
way or the other. Nevertheless, the world had
a encral belief in his powers, and Vaudemont
re uctantly subscribed to the world's verdict.
Yet he had done nothing—he had read but little
-—he laughed at the world to its face; and that
was, after all, the main secret of his ascendancy
over those who were drawn into his circle.
That contempt of the world placed the world at
his feet. His sardonic and polished indifl'erence;
his professed code that there was no life worth
caring for but his own life; his exemption from
all cant, prejudice, and disguise; the frigid lu-
bricity with which he glided out of the grasp of
the conventional, whenever it so pleased him,
without shocking the docorums, w osc sense is
in their car, and who are not roused by the deed,
but by the noise; all this had in it the marrow
and essence of a system triumphant with the
vulgar; for little minds give importance to the
man who gives importance to nothing. Lord
Lilburne’s authority, not in matters of taste
alone, but in those which the world calls judg-
ment and common sense, was regarded as an
oracle. He cared not a straw for the ordinary
baubles that attract his order; he had refused

both a ste in the peerage and the garter (both
which barf) at one time been offered him, as in-
ducements to join the administration), and this
was often quoted in his honor. But you only try
a man’s virtue when you offer him something
that he covets. The earldom and the garter
were to Lord Lilburne no more tempting in-
ducements than a doll or a skipping rope; had
you offered him an infallible cure for the gout,
or an antidote against old age, you might have

hired him as your lackey on your own terms.
Lord Lilburne’s next heir was the son of his only '
brother, a person entirely dependent on his uncle.
Lord Lilburne allowed him £1000 a year, and
kept him always abroad in a diplomatic situation.
He looked upon his successor as a man who
wanted power, but not inclination, to become
an assassin !
Though he lived sumptuonsly and grudged
himself nothing, Lord Lilburne was far from an
extravagant man: he might, indeed, be consid-
ered close; for he knew how much of comfort
and consideration he owed to his money, and
valued it accordingly; he knew the best spee-
ulations and the best investments. If he took
shares in an American canal, you might be sure
that the shares would soon be double in value;
if he purchased an estate, you might be certain
it was a bargain. This pecuniary tact and suc-
cess necessarily augmented his fame for wisdom.
He had been, in early life, a successful gam-
bler, and some suspicions of his fair play had
been noised abroad; but, as has been recently
seen in the instance of a man of rank equal to
Lilburne‘s, thou h, perhaps, of less acute if
more cultivated intellect, it is long before the
pigeon will turn round upon a falcon of breed
and metal. The rumors, indeed, were so vague
as to carry with them no weight. During the
middle of his career, when inthe full flush of health
and fortune, he had renounced the gaming-table.
Of late years, as advanoin ago made time more
heavy, he had resumed t e resource, and with
all his former good luck. The money-market,
the table, the sex, constituted the other occupa-
tions and amusements with which Lord Lilburne
filled up his ros leisure.
Another way y which this man had acquired
reputation for ability was this: he never pre-
tended to any branch of knowledge of which be
was ignorant, an' more than to any virtue in
which he was cficient. Honesty itself was
never more free from quackery or deception
than was this imbodied and walking Vicn. If
the world chose to esteem him, he did not buy
its opinion by imposture. No man ever saw
Lord Lilburne’s name in a public subscription,
whether for a new church, or a Bible Society,
or a distressed famil ; no man ever heard of his
doing one generous, benevolent, or kindly action;
no man was ever startled by one philanthropical,
pious, or amiable sentiment from those mocking
lips. Yet, in spite of all this, Lord John 'Lil-
burnc was not only esteemed, but liked by the
world, and set up in the chair of its Rhadaman-
thuses. In a word, he seemed to Vaudemont—
and he was so in reality—a brilliant example of
the might of Circumstance; an instance of what
may be done in the way of reputation and influ-
ence by a rich, well-born man, to whom the
will a kingdom is. A little of genius, and Lord
Lilburne would have made his vices notorious
and his deficiencies glaring; a little of heart,
and his habits would have led him into countless
follies and discreditable scrapes. It was the
lead and the stone that, like the lean poet in a
gale of wind, he carried about him, that pro-
served his equilibrium, no matter which way the
breeze blew. But all his qualities, positive or
negative, would have availed him nothing with!
out~thnt position which enabled him to take his
ease in that inn—the world—which presented,
to every detection of his want of intrinsic noble-
ness, thc irreproachable respectability of a high


124
NIGHT AND MORNING.
name, a splendid mansion, and a rent-roll with-
out a flaw. Vaudemont drew comparisons be-
tween Lilburne and Gawtrey, and he compre-
hended at last why one was a low rascal and
the other a great man.

linterest yourself in natural children, my dear
Vaudemout ?”
“Perhaps you have heard that people have
, doubted ifI were a natural son?”
“ Pardon me, no! But are you going ? I was
Although it was but a few days after their first, in hopes you would have turned back my way,
introduction to each other, Vaudemont had been ‘ and—”
twice to Lord Liburne’s, and their acquaintance
was already on an easy footing, when one after-
noon, as the former was riding through the streets
toward H——, he met the peer, mounted on a
stout cob, which, from- its symmetrical strength,
“You are very good; but I have a. particular
appointment, and I am now too late. Good-
. morning, Lord Lilburne.”
with one of his mother's relations!
Sidney
How bad
Returned, perhaps, to the Martens!
pure English breed, and exquisite grooming, ‘ he never before chanced on a conjecture so prob-
showed something of those s orting tastes foreble? He would go at once! that very night
which, in earlier life, Lord iburne had been I he would
ltaken his
noted.
“ Why, Monsieur de Vaudemont, what brings
you to this port of the town? Curiosity, and
the desire to explore ?”
“That might be natural enough in me; but
on, who know London, so well, rather what
rings you here?”
“ Why, I are returned from along ride. I
have had symptoms of a fit of the goat, and been
trying to keep it elf by exercise. I have been
to a cottage that belongs to me some miles from
town—a pretty place enough, by-the-way—you
must come and see me there next month. I
shall fill the house for a battue I I have some
tolerable covers: you are a good shot, I sup-
.pose ‘2"
“I have not practiced, except with a rifle, for
some years.”
“ That’s apity; for, as I think a week’sshoot-
ing once a year quite enough, I fear that your
visit to me at Fernside may not be sufficiently
long to put. your hand in.”
“ Fer-aside !”
“Yes ; is the name familiar to you ‘3”
“I think I have heard it before. Did your
lordship purchase or inherit it ‘?”
“ I bought it of my brother-in-law. It belong-
ed to hill brother: a gay, wild sort of fellow,
who broke his neck over a six-barred gate;
through that gate my friend Robert walked the
same day into a very fine estate !”
“I have heard so. The late Mr. Beaufort,
then, left no children ‘1‘”
“Yes; two. But they came into the world
in the primitive way Mr. Owen wishes us all to
come: too naturally for the present state of so-
ciety; and Mr. Owen’s parallelogram was not
ready for them. By-the-way, one of them dis-
appeared at Paris: you never met with him, I
suppose '3"
“ Under what name ‘1'“
“ Morton.”
“Morton! hem!
“Philip.”
“Philip! no. But did Mr. Beaufort do noth-
ing for the young men? I think I have heard
somewhere that he took compassion on one of
them.”
“Have you? Ah, my brother-in-law is pre-
cisely one of those excellent men of whom the
world always speaks well. No; he would very
willingly have served either or both the boys,
but the mother refused all his overtures and
went to law, I fancy. The elder of these best-
ards turned out a sad fellow; and the younger
—I don’t know exactly where he is, but no doubt
with one of his mother’s relations. You seem to
What Christian name ‘2”
o to the house from which he had
rother. At least, and at the worst,
E they might give him some elew.
j Buoyed with this hope and this resolve, he
l rode hastily to II to announce to Simon and
iFanny that he should not return to them, per-
haps, for two or three days. As he entered the
l suburb, he drew up by the statuary of whom he
i had purchased his mother’s grave-stone.
The artist of the melancholy trade was at
work in his yard.
“Ho! there I" said.Vnudemont, looking over
the low railinrr, “is the tomb I have ordered
=nearly finishe ‘1"
“Why, sir, as you were so anxious for dis.
| patch, and as it would take a long time to get a
new one ready, I thought of giving you this,
which is finished all but the inscri )thn. It was
meant for Miss Deborah Primme; ut her neph-
ew and heir called on me yesterday to say that,
as the poor lady dicd worth less by £5000 than
he had expected, he thought a handsome wooden
tomb would do as well, ifI could get rid of this
for him. It is a. beauty, sir. It will look so
cheerful—~”
“ Well, that will do : and you can place it now
where I told you ?”
“In three days, sir.”
“So be it.” And he rode on, muttering,
“Fanny, your pious wish will be fulfilled. But
flowers—will the suit that stone ‘3‘"
He put up his orse, and walked through the
lane to Simon’s.
As he approached the house, he saw Fanny’s
bright eyes at the window. She was watching
his return. She hastened to open the door to
him, and the world‘s wanderer felt what music
there is in the footstcp, what summer there is in
the smile, of WCIK'DTNK‘ !
“My dear Fanny,” he said, affected by her
joyous greeting, “it makes my heart warm to
see you. I have brought 'ou a present from
town. When Iwas a/boy, remember that my
poor mother was fond of singing some simple
songs,whieh often, somehow or other, come back
to me when I see and hear you. I fancy you
would understand and like them as well at least
as I do; for, Heaven knows,” he added to him-
self, “my ear is dull enough generally to the
jingle of rhyme.” _And he placed in her band
a little volume of those exquisite songs in which
Burns has set Nature to music.
“Oh! you are so kind, brother,” said Fanny,
with tears swimming in her eyes; and she kissed
the book.
After their simple meal, Vaudemont broke to


Funny and Simon the intelligence of his intended
,departuro for a few days. Simon heard it with


NIGHT AND MORNING.
125
the silent apathy into which, except on rare oc-
casions, his life had settled. But Fanny turned
awa her face and wept.
“It is but for a day or two, Fanny.”
“An hour is very, very long sometimes,” said
the girl, shaking her head mournfully.
“Come, I have a little time yet left, and the
air is mild—you have not been out to-day—shall
we walk—” _
“Hem!” interrupted Simon, clearing his
throat and seeming to start into sudden anima-
tion; “had not you better settle the board and
lodging before you go?”
“Oh, grandfather i" cried Fanny, springing to
her feet, with such a blush upon her face.
“Nay, child,” said Vaudemont, laughingly,
“your grandfather only anticipates me. But 0
not talk of board and lodging; Fanny is a sister
to me, and our purse is in common.”
“I should like to feel asovercign——just tofch
it,” muttered Simon, in a sort of apolocetic tone
that was really pathetic; and, as Iaudemont
scattered some coins on the table, the old man
clawed them up, chuckling and talking to him-
self; and, rising with great alacrity, hobbled out
of the room like a raven carrying some cunning
theft to its hiding-place.
This was so amusing to Vaudemont that he
burst out fairly into an iucoutrollablc laughter.
Fanny looked at him, humbled and wondering,
for some moments, and then, creeping to him,
put her hand gently on his arm and said,
“ Don’t laugh—it ains me. It was not nice
in grandpapa; but— ut—it does not mean any
thing. It—it—Don’t laugh—Fanny feels so
1:1
“Well, you are right. Come, put on your
bonnet; we will go out."
Fanny obeyed, but with less ready delight
than usual. And they took their way through
lanes over which hung, still in the cool air, the
leaves of the yellow autumn.
Fanny was the first to break the silence.
“Do you know," she said, timidly, “that peo-
ple here think me very silly ‘? Do you think so
we???
Vaudemont was startled b ' the sim lieity of
the question, and hesitated. anny looked up in
his dark face anxiously and inquiringly.
“ Well,” she said, “you don’t answer?”
“My dear Fanny, there are some things in
which I could wish you less childlike, and, per-
haps, less charming. These strange snatches
of song, for instance— "
“What! do you not like me to sing? It is
my way of talking."
“Yes; sing, pretty one! but sing something
that we can understand; sing the songs I have
given you, if you will. And now, may ask why
you put to me that question?"
“1 have forgotten,” said Fanny, abscntly, and
looking down. .
“Now, at that instant, as Philip Vaudemont
bent over the exceeding sweetness of that youn
face, a sudden thrill shot through his heart, an
he, too, became silent and lost in thought. Was
it possible that there could creep into his breast
a milder affection for this creature than that of
tenderness and pity? He was startled as the
idea crossed him. He shrunk from it use profu-
nation—as a crime—as a frcnz . He, with his
late so uncertain and cheekere —he to link him-

self with one so helpless—he to debase the very
poetry that clung to the mental temperament of
this are being, with the feelings which every
fair face can give to every coarse heart—to love
Famin No, it was impossible! For what
could he love in her but beauty, which the very
spirit had forgot to guard ? And she—could she
even know what love was? He despised him-
self for even admitting such a thought; and,
with that iron and hardy vigor which belonged
to his mind, resolved to watch closely against
every fancy that would pass the fairy boundary
which separated Fanny from the world of women.
He was roused from this self-commune by an
abrupt exclamation from his companion.
“Oh! I recollect now why I asked you that
question. There is one thing that always puz-
zles me; I want you to explain it. Why does
every thing in life depend upon money? You
see even my poor grandfather forgot how ood
you are to us both when—when—Ahl I on’t
understand—it pains, it puzzles me i"
“Fanny, look there—no, to the left—you see
that old woman, in rags, crawling carily along:
tum now to the right—you see that fine house
glancing through the trees, with a carriage-and-
four at the gates ? The dilferenco between that
old woman.and the owner of that house is—
Money; and who shall blame your grandfather
for liking money ‘?”
Fanny understood; and, while the wise man
thus moralized, the girl, whom his very compas-
sion so haughtily contemned, moved awa ' to the
old woman to do her little best to smoot down
these disparities from which wisdom and moral-
izing never deduct a 'n! Vaudemont felt
this as he saw her glide toward the beggar;
but, when she came ounding back to him, she
had forgotten his dislike to her songs, and was
chantin , in the glee of the heart that a kind net
had tn 0 glad, one of her own impromptu mel-
odies.
Vaudemont turned away. Poor Fanny had
unconsciously decided his self-conquest : she
guessed not what passed within him, but she
suddenly reeollectcd what he had said to her
about her songs, and fancied him displeased.
“Ah! I Will never do it again. Brother,
don’t turn away ‘2"
“But we must go home. Hark! the clock
strikes seven; I have no time to lose. And you
will promise me never to stir out till I return ?”
“I shall have no heart to stir out,” said Fan-
ny, sadly; and then, in a more cheerful voice,
she added, “ And I shall sing the songs you like
before you come back again i"
_+_
CHAPTER VIII.
" Wail did they know that service all by rote;
Home singing loud as it‘they had complained,
Sonic with their union another manner feigned."
Gunman : The Cuckoo and Ute JV'igMiolall
mdmiudby Woaoswon'ru.—Honn'l Id-
Aun once more, sweet Winandcrmere, we are
on the banks of thy happy'lakc! The softest
my of the soft clear sun of early autumn trem-
bled on the fresh waters, and glanced through
the leaves of the limes and willows that were re-
flected—distinct as a home for the Naiads—be.


126
NIGHT AND MORNING.
neath the limpid surface. You mi ht hear in
the bushes the young blackbirds trilling their
first untutorcd notes. And the gracefuldragon-
fly, his win rs glittering in the translucent sun!
shine, darte to and fro the reeds gathered here
and there in the mimic bays that broke the shelv-
ing marge of the grassy shore.
And by that grassy shore and beneath those
shadowy limes set the young lovers. It was the
very ptace where young Spencer had first beheld
Camilla. And now they were met to say “Fare-
well 2"
“ Oh, Camilla!” said he, with great emotion
and eyes that swam in tears, “be firm—b0 true.
You know how my whole life is wrapped up in
your love. You go amid scenes where all will
tempt you to forget me. I linger behind in
those which are consecrated by our remem-
brance, which will speak to me every hour of
you. Camilla, since you do love me—you do,
do you not ?-—since you have confessed it—since
your (parents have consented to our marria e,
provi ed only that your love last (for of me
there can be no doubt) for one year—one terrible
year—shall I not trust you as truth itself? And
yet how darkly I despair at times l"
Camilla innocently took the hands that, clasped
together, were raised to her, as if in supplica-
tion, and pressed them kindly between her own.
“Do not doubt me—never doubt to atfec-
tion. Has not my father consented ? eflect;
it is but a year’s delay!”
“ A year! can you speak thus of a year—a
whole year? Never to see, to hear you for a
whole year, except in my dreams! And if, at
the end, your parents waver? Your father—I
distrust him still. If this delay is but meant to
wean you from _me—-if, at the end, there are new
excuses found—if they then, for some cause or
other not now foreseen, still refuse their assent
-you—may I not still look to you ?”
Camilla sighed heavily, and, turning her
meek face on her lover, said timidly, “Never
think that so short a time can make me unfaith-
ful, and do not suspect that my father will break ‘
his promise.”
“ But if he does, you will still be mine.”
-“ Ah, Charles, how could you esteem me as
a wife if I were to tell you 1 could forget I am
a daughter ?"
This was said so touchinglyz and with so pcr-
feet a freedom from all aflectatlon, that her lover
could only reply by covering her hand with his
kisses. And it was not till after a pause that
he continued passionately,
“ You do but show me how much deeper is
my love than yours.
I love you.
well : it would be impossible.
my earliest childhovd has been passed in these
solitudes. A happy life, though tranquil and
monotonous. You seemed to me the living
form of the very poetry I had worshiped; so
bright—so heavenly—I loved you from the first
moment that we met. I am not like other men
of my age. I have no pursuit—no occupation
—nothing to abstract me from your thou ht.
And I love you so purely, so devotedly, Camilla.
Ihave never known even a passing fancy for
another. You are the first—the only woman-—
it ever seemed to me possible to love. You are
my Eve—your presence my paradise! Think
You can never dream how .
But I do not ask you to love me as ‘
My life from I
i

how Sad I shall be when you are gone; how I
shall visit every spot your footstep has hallowed;
how I, shall count every moment till the year is
ast! ’
While he thus spoke, he had risen in that rest-
less movement which belongs to great emotion ;
and Camilla now rose also, and said, soothingly,
as she laid her hand on his shoulder with tender
but modest frankness, “And shall I not also
think of you? I am sad to feel that you will be
so much alone—no sister—no brother 1”
“Do not rieve for that. The memory of
you will be carer to me than comfort from all
else. And you will be true !” I
Camilla made no answer by words, but her
eyes and her color spoke. And in that moment,
while plighting eternal truth, they forgot that
they were about to part !
Meanwhile, in a room in the house, which,
screened by the foliage, was only partially vis-
ible where the lovers stood, sat Mr. Robert
Beaufort and Mr. Spencer.
“I assure you, sir," said the former, “ that I
am not inscnsible to the merits of 'our nephew,
and to the very handsome proposals you make ;
still I can not consent to abridge the time I have
named. They are both very young. What is
a year?”
“It is a long time when it is a year of sus-
pense,” said the recluse, shaking his head.
“It is a longer time when it is a year of do-
mestic dissension and repentance. And it is a.
very true 'll‘OVOt‘b, ‘Marry in haste and repent
at leisure. No! If, at the end of the year,
the young people continue of the same mind,
and no unforeseen circumstances occur—”
“ No unforeseen circumstances, Mr. Bean-
fort ?—that is a new condition—it is a very
vague phrase.”
“My dear sir, it is hard to please you. Un-
forcseeu circumstances,” said the wary father,
with a wise look, “ means circumstances that
we don’t foresee at present. I assure you that
I have no intention to trifle with you, and I shall
be sincerely happy in so respectable a connec-
tion.”
“ The young people may write to each other ‘9”
“Why, I’ll consult Mrs. Beaufort. At all
events, it must not be very often, and Camilla
is well brought up, and will show all the letters
to her mother. I don’t much like a correspond-
ence of that nature : it often leads to unpleasant
circumstances; if, for instance—"
“If what?”
“Why, if the parties change their minds, and
my girl were to marry another. It is not pru-
dent in matters of business, my dear sir, to put
down any thing on paper that can be avoided.”
Mr. Spencer opened his eyes. “Matters of
business, Mr. Beaufort l” >
“ Well, is not marriage a matter of business,
and a. very grave matter too? More lawsuits
about marriage and settlements, 8.20., than I like
to think of. But to change the subject. You
have never heard any thing more of those young
men, on say ?”
“ I 0,” said Mr. Spencer, rather inaudibly, and
looking down.
“ And it is your firm impresion that the elder
one, Philip, is dead 5’"
“I don’t doubt it.”
“That was a very vexatious and improper


NIGHT AND MORNING.
127
Do
lawsuit their mother brought against me.
you know that some wretched impostor, who, it
appears, is n convict broke loose before his time,
has threatened me with another on the part of
one of these young men? You never heard any
thin" of it, oh ?”
“ lever, upon my honor.”
“And, of course, you would not countenance
so villanous an attempt ‘2”
“Certainly not.”
" Because that would break 013' our contract
at once. But you are too much a gentleman
and a man of honor. Forgive me so improper
a question. As for the younger Mr. Morton, I
have no ill-feeling against him. But the elder!
-oh, a thorough reprobate! a very alarming
character! I could have nothing to do with
any member of the family while the elder lived;
it would only expose me to every species of in-
sult and imposition. And now I think we have
left our young friends alone long enough. But,
stay: to prevent future misunderstanding, I may
aswell read over again the heads of the arrange-
ment you honor me by proposinrr. You agree to
settle your fortune, after your ecease, amount-
ing to £23,000, and ‘your house, with twenty-five
acres, one- rood, an three poles, more or less,
upon your nephew and my daughter, jointly—
reinainder to their cliildren—jointure £500 a
year. Certainly, without offense, in a worldly
point of view, Camilla might do better; still you
are so very respectable, and you speak so hand-
somely, thatI can not touch upon that point;
and Iowa that, though there is a large nominal
rent-roll attached to Beaufort Court (indeed,
there is not a finer property in the county), yet
there are many incumbrances, and ready money
would. not be convenient to me. Arthur—poor
fellow! a very fine youn man, sir—is, asI have
told you in. perfect confi once, a little imprudent
and lavish ; in short, your offer to dispense with
any dowry is extremely liberal, and proves your
nephew is actuated by no mercenary feelings:
such conduct prepossesscs me highly in your
favor, Mid his too.”
Mr. Spencer bowed, and the "rent man, rising
with a stiff atiectation of kindly atl'ability, put
his arm into the uncle’s, and strolled with him
across the lawn toward the lovers. And such
is life: love on the lawn, and settlements in the
parlor!
The lover was the first to perceive the ap-
proach of the elder parties. And a. change came
over his face as he saw the dry aspect, and mark-
ed the stealthy stride of his future father-in-law;
for then there flashed across him a dreary rein-
iniscence of earl childhood; the happy oven-
lng when, with his joyous father, that "rave and
ominous aspect was first beheld; and, then the
dismal burial, the fuucreal sables, the carriage
at the door, and he himself clinging to the cold
uncle to ask him to say a word of comfort to the
mother who now slept far away.
~= Well, my young friend,’7 said Mr. Beaufort,
patronizingly, “ your good uncle and myself are
quite agreed: a little time for reflection, that’s
all. Oh ! I don’t think the worse of you for wish-
ing to abridge it. But papas must be papas.”
There was so little jocular about that sedate
man, that this attempt 8t jovial good-humor
seemed harsh and grating: the hinges of that
wily mouth wanted oil for a hearty laugh.

“ Come, don’t be faint-hearted, Mr. Charles.
“Faint heart’-—you know the proverb. You
must stay and dine with us. We return to-
morrow to town. I should tell you that I re-
ceived this morning a letter from my son Arthur,
announcing his return from Baden; so we must
give him the meeting—a very joyful one, you
may guess. We have not seen him-these three
'ears. Poor fellow! he says he has been very
ill, and the waters have ceased to do him any
00d. 'But a little quiet and country air at
eaufort Court will set him up, I hope."
Thus running on about his son, then about his
shooting—about Beaufort Court and its splen-
dors—about Parliament and its fatigues-—about
the last French revolution and the lust English.
election—about Mrs. Beaufort, and her good
qualities and bad health—about, in short, every-
thing relating to himself, some things relating
to the public, and nothing that related to the
persons to whom his conversation was directed,
Mr. Robert Beaufort were away half an hour,
when the Spencers took their leave, promising
to return to dinner.
“Charles,” said Mr. Spencer, as the boat
which the young man rowed bounded over the
water to their quiet home; “Charles, I dislike
these Beauforts !"
“Not the daughter ‘2”
“No, she is beautiful, and seems good: not
so handsome as our poor mother, but who ever
was ?” Here Mir. Spencer sighed, and repeated
some lines from Shenstone.
“Do you think Mr. Beaufort suspects in the
least who I am ‘3” '
“Why, that puzzles me: I» rather think he
does.”
“And that is the cause of the delay? I
knew it.”
“No; on the contrary, I incline to think he
has some kindly feeling to you, though not to
your brother, and that it is such a feeling that
made him consent to your marriage. He sifted
me very closelyns to what I knew of the youn
Mortons; observed that you were very han -
some, and that he had fancied at first that he
had seen you before.”
“Indeed !"
“ Yes: and looked hard at me while he spoke;
and said more than once, significantly, ‘30 his
name is Charles?’ He talked about some at-
tempt at imposture and litigation; but that was
evidently merely invented to sound me about
our brother, whom, of course, he spoke ill of ;
impressing on me, three or four times, that he
would never have any thing to say to any of the
family while Philip lived.” '
“And you told him," said the young man,
hesitatingly, and with a deep blush of shame
over his lace, “that you were persuarl—that is,
that you believed Philip was—was—"
“Was dead! Yes, and without confusion.
For the more I reflect, the more I think he must
be dead. At all events, you may be sure that
he is dead to us; that we shall never hear more
pfhim." '
“ Poor Philip !”
“Your feelings are natural; they are worthy
of your excellent heart; but remember what
would have become of you if you had staid with
him i”
“True!” said the- brother, with a slight


128 NIGHT AND MORNING.
shudder; “ a career of sufi'cring—crimc—per- ' necessary. Perhaps, by learning their early
he s the gibbet! Ah, what do I owe you ‘9” history, you may learn something to put them
he dinner-party at Mr. Beaufort‘s that day into your power.
was constrained and formal, though the host, in l “l have had a twin 0 of the gout this morn-
unusual good-humor, sought to make himself ing; and am likely,I ear, to be laid up for some
agreeable. Mrs. Beaufort, languid a‘nd afflicted ‘ weeks.
with the headache, said little. The two Spencers
were yet more silent. But the younger sat next “ Liuwmvn.
to her he loved; and both hearts were full: and “PS—Sharp has just been here. He fol-
in the evening they contrived to creep apart into ‘ lowed the man who calls himself ‘Cuptain Smith'
a corner by the window, through which the to a house in Lambeth, where he lodges, and
starry heavens looked kindly on them. They , from which he did not stir till midnight, when
conversed in whispers, with long pauses between; Sharp ceased his watch. On renewing it this
each; and, at times, Camilla’s tears flowed , morning, he found that the captain had gone 06,
“ Yours truly,
silently down her cheeks, and were followed by
the false smiles intended to cheer her lover.
Time did not fly, but crept on breathlesst
and heavily. And then came the last parting—
formal, cold—before witnesses. But the lover
could not contain his emotion, and the hard
father heard his suppressed sob‘as he closed the
door.
“ It will now be well to explain the cause of
Mr. Beaufort’s heightened spirits, and the mo-
tives of his conduct with respect to his daughter’s
suitor.
This, perhaps, can be best done by laying be-
fore the reader the following letters that passed
between Mr. Beaufort and Lord Lilburne.
From Loan LtLButms. to Roar-:a'r BEAUFORT,
Esq., MT.
“ DEAR BEAUFORT—I think I have settled,
pretty satisfactorily, your atTair with your nn-
welcome visitor. The first thing it seemed to
me necessary to do was to learn exactly what
and who he was, and with what parties that
could annoy you he held intercourse. lsent for
Sharp, the Bow-street ofliccr, and placed him in
the hall to mark, and afterward to keep watch
and dog your new friend. The moment the
latter entered, I saw at once, from his dress and
his address, that he was a ‘seamp;’ and thought
it highly incxpetlicnt to place you in his power
by any money transactions. While talkiungith
him, Sharp sent in a billet containing his recog-
nition of our gentleman as a transported convict.
“I acted accordingly; soon saw, from the
fellow’s manner, that he had returned before his
time; and sent him away with a promise, which
you may be sure he believes will be kept, that
if he molest 'ou farther, he shall return to the
colonies; an that, if his lawsuit proceed, his
witness or witnesses shall be indicted for con-
spiracy and perjury. Make your mind easy so
far. For the rest, I own to you that I think
what he says probable enough; but my object
in setting Sharp to watch him is to learn what
other parties he sees. And if there be really
any thing formidable in his proofs or witnesses,
it is with those other parties I advise you to deal.
Never transact business with the go-between if
you can with the principal. Remember, the
two young men arc the persons to arrange with,
after all. They must be poor, and, therefore,
easily dealt with. For, if poor, they will think
a bird in the hand worth two in the bush of a;
lawsuit

to what. place Sharp has not yet discovered.
“Burn this immediately.”
From Roman-r Bnauronr, EsQ., M.P., to flu.
Loan LlLBURNE-
“DEAR Lineman—Accept my warmest
thanks for your kindness: you have done ad-
mirably, and I do not see that I have any thing
farther to apprehend. I sus’pcct that it was an
entire fabrication on that man’s part, and your
firmness has foiled his wicked designs. Only
think, I have discovered—I am sure of it—one
of the Mortons; and he, too, though the younger,
yet, in all probability, the sole pretender the
fellow could set up. You remember that the
child Sidney had disappeared mysteriously— cu
remember, also, how much that Mr. Spent-er tad
interested himself in finding out the same Sidney.
Well, this gentleman at the Lakes is, as we sus-
pected, the identical Mr. Spencer, and his soi-
diszmt nephew, Cnmilla's suitor, is assuredly no
other than the lost Sidney. The moment I saw
the young man I recognized him, for be is very
little altered, and has a great look of his mother
into the bargain. Concealing my more than
suspicions, I, however, took care to sound Mr.
Spencer (a very poor soul), and his manner was
so embarrassed as to leave no doubt of the mat-
ter; but, in asking him what he had heard of
the brothers, I had the satisfaction of learning
that, in all human probability, the elder is dead:
of this Mr. Spencer seems convinced. I also
assured myself that neither Spencer nor the
young man had the remotest connection with
our Captain Smith, nor any idea of litigation.
This is very satisfactory, you will allow. And
now I ho e you will approve of what I have
done. I nd that young Morton, or Spencer, as
he is called, is desperately enamored of Camilla;
he seems a meek, well-conditioned, amiable
young man, writes poetry—in short, rather weak
than otherwise. I have demanded a year’s dc-
lay to allow mutual trial and reflection. This
gives us the channel for constant information
which you advise me to establish, and I shall
have the opportunity to learn if the impostor
makes any communication to them, or if there
be any news of the brother. If by any trick or
chicancry (for I will never believe that there
was a marriage), a lawsuit that might be crit-
ical or hazardous can be cooked up, I can, I am
sure, make such terms with Sidney, through his
love for my daughter, as would effectively and
permanently secure me from all further trouble
“ 1f, through Mr. Spencer, you can learn any , and machinations in regard to my property.
thing of either of the young men, do so; and try E And if, during the year, we convince ourselves
and open some (-h-inncl through which you can that, after all, there is not a leg of law for any
always establish a communication with them, if [claimant to stand on, I may be guided by other


NIGHT AND MORNING.
129
circumstances how far '1‘ shall finally accept or
reject the suit. That must depend on any other
views we may then form for Camilla; and I
shall not allow a hint of such an engagement to
get abroad. At the Worst, as Mr. Spencer’s
heir, it is not so very bad a match, seeing that
they dispense with all marriage-portion, &c.: a
proof how easily they can be managed. I have
not let Mr. Spencer see that I have discovered
his secret; I can do that or not, according to
circumstances hereafter; neither have [ said any
thing of my discovery to Mrs. B. or Camilla.
At present, ‘least said soonest mcnded.’ I heard
from Arthur to-day. He is on his road home,
and we hasten to town, sooner than we expect-
ed, to meet him. He complains still of his
health. We shall all go down to Beaufort Court.
[write this at night, the pretended uncle and
sham nephew having just gone. But, though
we start to-morrow, you will get this a day or
two before we arrive, as Mrs. Beaufort-s health
renders short stages necessary. I really do
hope that Arthur, also, will not be an invalid,
poor fellow! one in a family is quite enough;
and I find Mrs. Beaufort’s delicacy very in-
convenient, especially in moving about and in
keeping a one's county connections. A young
man's heath, however, is soon restored. I am
very sorry to hear of your gout, except that it
carries off all other complaints. I am very well,
thank God; indeed, my health has been much
better of late years: Beaufort Court agrees
with me so well! The more I reflect, the more
i am astonished at the monstrous and wicked
impudenco of that fellow—to defraud a man out
of his own property! You are quite right: cer-
tainly a conspiracy. Yours truly,
' “R. B.
“P,S.-I shall keep a constant eye on the
Spencers.
“ Burn this immediately."
After he had written and sealed this letter,
Mr. Beaufort went to bed and slept soundly.
And the next day that place was desolate, and
the board on the lawn announced that it was
again to be let. But thither daily, in rain or
sunshine, came the solitary lover, as a bird that
seeks its young in the deserted nest: a sin and
again he haunted the spot where he ha strayed
with the lost one; and again and again mur-
mured his passionate vows beneath the fast-
fading limes. Are those vows destined to be
ratified or annulled 7 Will the absent forget or
the lingerer be consoled“? Had the characters
of that young romance been lightly stamped on
the fancy, where, once obliterated, they are
erased forever, or were they graven deep in
those tablets where the writing, even when in-
visible, exists still, and revives, sweet letter by
letter, when the light and the warmth borrowed
from the one bright presence are applied to the
faithful record? There is but one wizard to
disclose that secret, as all others : the old grave-
digccr, whose church-yard is the earth—whose
trade is to find burial-places for passions that
seemed immortal—disinterring the ashes of some
long-crumbling memory, to hollow out the dark
bed of some nc w-perished hope: He who determ-
ines all things, and prophesies none; for his
oracles are uneomprchendcd till the doom is
sealed: He who, in thelbloom of the fairest af-
fection, detects the hectic that consumes it, and,
while the hymn rings at the altar, marks with
his joyless eye the grave for the bridal vow.
Wherever is the sepulcher, there is thy temple,
0h melancholy Tun: !
BOOK V.
,llnb pt rind @tromt @cllnben
Ram id), be: and: 9320mm flofi.‘
SCHILLER: Der Pilgrim.
-_.--_ _
CHAPTER I.
“ Per ambages et mlnisterla deorum."—~Pnaonxca
Mn. ROGER Mon-mu was behind his counter
one drizzling, melancholy day. Mr. Roger Mor-
ton,'alderman, and twice mayor of his native
town, was a thriving man. He had grown portly
and corpulent. The nightly potations of brandy-
and-water, continued year after year with me-
chanical perseverance, had deepened the roses on
his cheek. Mr. Roger Morton was never in-
toxicated; he only “made himself comfortable."
His constitution was strong; but, somehow or
other. his digestion was not as good as it might
be. He was certain that something or other
disagreed with him. He left oif the joint one
day, the pudding another. Now he avoided
vegetables as poison, and now he submitted with
a sigh to the doctor’s interdict of his cigar. Mr.
Roger Morton never thought of leaving off the
brandy-and-water; and he would have resented
as the height of impertinent insinuation any hint
upon that score to a man of so sober and respect-
able a character.
Mr. Roger Morton was seated: for the last
four years, ever since his second mayoralty, he
had arrogated to himself the divinity of a chair.
He received rather than serve his customers.
The latter task was left to two of his sons. For
Tom, after much cogitation, the profession of an
apothecary had been selected. Mrs. Morton
observed that it was a genteel business, and
Tom had always been a likely lnd. And Mr.
Roger considered that it would be a great
saving to have his medical adviser in his own
son-
The two other sons, and the various attendants
of the shop, were plying their profitable trade,
customer after customer, with umbrellas and in
pattens, dropped into the tempting shelter, when
a. man, meanlv dressed, and who was somewhat
past the middle age, with a careworu, hungry
‘ face, entered timidly. He waited in patience by
‘the crowded counter, elbowcd by sharp-boned
and eager spinsters—and how sharp the elbows
of spinsters are, no than can tell who has not

forced his unwelcome way through the agitated
, groups of a linen-draper’s shop !—the man, I say,
; waited patiently and sadly, till the smallest of the
‘shop-boys turned from a lady, who, after much
sorting and shading, had finally decided on two
, yards of lilac-colored penny ribbon, and cake!
in an insinuating professional tone,
, “ What shall I show you, air ‘3"


130
NIGHT AND MORNING.
“I wish to speak to Mr. Morton.
he ‘2”
“ Mr. Morton is engaged, sir. I can give you
whatyou want.”
“No—it is a matter of business—important
business.”
The boy eyed the na less and dripping hat, the
glovcless hands, and t e rusty neckeloth of the
speaker; and said, as he passed his fingers
through a rofusion of light curls,
“Mr. M'brton don't attend much to business
himself now; but that’s he. Any cravats, sir ‘9”
The man made no answer, but moved where,
near the window, and chatting with the banker
of the town (as the banker tried on a pair of
beaver gloves), sat still—after due apology for
sitting—Mr. Roger Morton.
The alderman lowered his spectacles as he
glanced grimly at the lean apparition that shaded
the spruce banker, and said,
“ Do you want me, friend ?”
I “Yes, sir, if you please,” and the man took
off his shabby hat, and bowed low. _
“Well, speak out. No begging petition, I
hope a" ‘
“No, sir! Your nephews—”
The banker turned round, and in his turn
eyed the new-comer. The linen-draper started
back.
“Nephews !” he repeated with a bewildered
look, “ What does the man mean? Wait a
bit."
l‘Oh, I’ve done I” said the banker, smiling.
“I am glad to find we agree so well u n this
question: I knew we should. Out' mem er will
never suit us if he goes on in this way. Trade
must take care of itself. Good-day to you !”
“Nephews !” repeated Mr. Morton, rising,
and beckoning to the man to follow him into the
back parlor, where Mrs. Morton sat casting up
the washing bills.
“Now,” said the husband, closing the door,
“ what do you mean, my good fellow 2’”
“ Sir, what I wish to ask you is, if you can tell
me what has become of—of the young Mr.
Beau—that is, of your sister’s sons. I under-
stand there were two, and I am told that—that
they are both dead. Is it so ‘1‘”
“ W hat is that to you, friend ‘2"
“ An please you, sir, it is a great deal to them !”
"Yes—ha! ha !-—it is a great deal to every
body whether they are alive or dead!” Mr.
Morton, since he had been mayor, now and then
had his joke. “ But really—”
“Roger!” said Mrs. Morton, under her breath,
“R0 er!”
“ es, my dear.”
“Come this way; I want to speak to you
about this bill.” The husband approached, and
bent over his wife. “Who is this man ?"
“I don‘t know."
“Depend on it, he has some claim to make—
sonka bills or something. Don’t commit your-
self- the boys are dead for- what we know l"
. r. Morton hemmed, and returned to his
visitor.
“To tell you the truth, I am not aware of
what has become of the young men.”
“Then they are not dead—I thought not!”
exclaimed the man, joyously.
“That’s more than I can say. It's many
years since I lost sight of the only one I ever
Which is
saw; and they may be both dead for what I
know.H
“Indeed!” said the man. “Then you can
give me no kind of—of—hint like, to find them
out ‘2”
“ No. Do they owe you any thing?"
“It does not stgnify talking now, sir. I beg
your pardon.”
“ Stay—who are you ‘2"
“I am a very poor man, sir.”
Mr. Morton recoiled.
“ Poor! Oh, very well—very well. You
have done with me now. Good-day—good-day.
I’m busy.”
The stranger peeked for a moment at his hat,
turned the handle of the door, peered under his
ra eyebrows at the portly trader. who, with
at hands buried in his ets, his mouth
pnrsed up, like a man about to say “No,” fid -
oted uneasily behind Mrs. Morton’s chair. e
sighed, shook his head, and vanished.
Mrs. Morton rang the bell—the maid-servant
entered. .
“ Wipe the carpet, Jenny: dirty feet! Mr.
Morton, it‘s a Brussels!"
“It was not my fault, my dear. I could not
talk about family matters before the whole shop.
Do you know, I’d quite forgot those poor boys.
This unsettles me. Poor Catharine! She was
so fond of them. A pretty boy, that Sidney, too.
What can have become of them ? My heart re-
bukes me. I wish I had asked the man more."
“More! Why, he was just goinw to beg."
“ Beg-ycs—very true !" said h r. Morton,
pausing irresolutely; and then, with a hearty
tone, he cried out, “and, damme, if he had
begged, I could afford him a shilling! I’ll go
after him.” So saying, he hastened baek through
the shop, but the man was gone—the rain was
falling—Mr. Morton had his thin shoes on—ha
blew his nose, and went back to the counter.
But there still rose to his memory the pale face
of his dead sister; and a voice murmured in his
ear, “Brother, where is my child ‘2”
“Pshaw! it is not my fault if he ran away.
Bob, go and get me the county paper."
Mr. Morton had again settled himself, and
was deep in a trial for murder, when another
stranger strode hau htily into the shop. The
new-comer, wrap in a pelisse of furs, with a
thick mustache, and an eye that took in the
whole shop, from master to boy, from ceiling to
floor, in a. glance, had the air at once of a for-
eigner and a soldier. Every look fastened on
him as he aused an instant, and then, walking
up to the a derman, said,
“ Sir, you are doubtless Mr. Morton ?”
“At your commands, sir,” said Roger, rising
involuntarily.
“ A word with you, then, on business."
“ Business !” echoed Mr. Morton, turning
rather pale, for he began to think himself haunt-
ed; any thing in my line, sir? I should be—”
The stranger bent down his tall stature, and
hissed in Mr. Morton‘s foreboding ear.
“Your nephews !”
Mr. Morton was literally dumbstriekcn. Yes,
lhe certainly was haunted! He stared at this
{second questioner, and fancied that there was
, something very supernatural and unearthly about
‘ him. He was so tall, and so dark, and so stern,
. and so strange. Was it the Unspeakable him-


NIGHT AND MORNING.
131
self come for the linen-draper ? Nephews again !
The uncle of the babes in the wood could hardly
have been more startled by the demand!
“ Sir,” said Mr. Morton, at last recovering his
dignity, and somewhat peevishly, “sir, I don’t
know why eople should meddle with my family
atfairs. I on‘t ask other folks about their neph-
ews. I have no nephew that I know of.”
“ Permit me to speak to you alone for one in-
stant." '
Mr. Morton sighed, hitched up his trowsers,
and led the we to the parlor, where Mrs. Mor-
ton, having finished the washing-bills, was now
engaged in tying certain pieces of bladders round
certain pots of preserves. The eldest Miss Mor-
ton, a young woman of five or six-snid-twenty,
who was about to be very advantageously mar-
ried to a young gentleman who dealt in coals
and played the violin (for N was a very
musical town), had just joined her for the pur-
pose of extorting “ The Swiss Boy, with varia-
tions,” out of a sleepy little piano, that emitted
a very painful cry under the awakening fingers
of M iss Margaret Morton.
Mr. Morton threw open the door with a root,
and the stranger ‘pausing at the thresho d, the
full flood of soun (key C) upon which “the
Swiss Boy” was swimming along, “kine” and
all, for life and death. came splas upon him.
“Silence! can’t you ‘2” cried the father, put-
ting one hand to his ear, while with the other he
pointed to a chair; and, as Mrs. Morton looked
up from the preserves with that air of indignant
suffering with which female mcekness upbraids
a husband’s wanton outrage, Mr. Roger added,
shru ding his shoulders,
“ My nephews again, Mrs. M.
Miss Mar aret turned round and dropped a
courtesy. .N rs. Morton gently let fall a napkin
over the preserves, and muttered a sort of salu-
tation as the stranger, taking ofl'his hat, turned
to mother and daughter one of those noble faces
in which Nature has written her grant and war-
ranty of the lordship of creation.
“ Pardon me,” he said, “if I disturb you.
But my business will be short. I have come to
ask you, sir, frankly, and as one who has a right
to ask it, what tidings you can give me of Sidney
Morton 2’”
“Sir, I know nothing whatever about him.
He was taken from my house, about twelve
years since, by his brother. Myself, and the
two Mr. Beauforts, and another friend of the
famil , went in search of them both. My search
fail .”
“And theirs ‘2”
“I understood from Mr. Beaufort that they
had not been more successful. I have had no
communication with those gentlemen since. But
that’s neither here nor there. In all probability,
the elder of the boys, who, I fear, was a sad
character, corrupted and ruined his brother;
and, by this time, Heaven knows what and where
they are.”
“And no one has inquired of you since—no
one has asked the brother of Catharine Morton
—nay, rather, of Catharine Beaufort—Where is
the child intrustcd to your care ?"
This question, so exactly similar to that
which his superstition had rung on his own
cars, perl'eetl' up alled the worthy alderman.
He staggere bae , stared at the marked and

l"

stern face that lowered upon him, and at last
cried,
“For pity’s sake, sir, he just! What could I
do for one who left me of his own accord 1‘"
“ The day you had beat him like a dog. You
see, Mr. Morton, I know all!”
“ And what are you?” said Mr. Morton, ro-
oovering his English courage, and feelino him-
self stran ely browbenten in his own house;
“ what and who are you, that you thus take the
liberty to eateehise a man- of my character and
respectability ?”
“ Twice mayor—" began Mrs. Morton.
“Hush, mother!” whispered Miss Margaret;
“ don’t work him up.”
“I repeat, sir, what are you 5’"
“ \Vhat am 1? Your nephew! Who am 1‘?
Before men, I hear a name that I have assumed
and not dishonored ; before Heaven, I am Philip
Beaufort !”
Mrs. Morton dropped down upon her stool.
Margaret murmured, “My cousin!”v in a tone
that the car of the musical coal-merchant might
not have greatly relished. And Mr. Morton,
after a long pause, came up with a frank and
manly expression of joy, and said,
“ Then, sir, I thank Heaven, from my heart,
that one of my sister’s children stands alive be-
fore me !”
“ And now, ain, I—I, whom you accuse of
having corrupte and ruined him—him, for whom
I toiled and worked—him, who was to me, then.
as a last surviving son to some anxious father; I,
from whom he was rcft and robbed; I ask you
again for Sidney—for my brother!”
“ And again I say that I have no information
to give you—that—stay a moment—stay. You
must pardon what I have said of you before you
made yourself known. I went but by the ad-
counts I had received from Mr. Beaufort. Let
me speak plainly. That gentleman thought,
right or wrong, that it would be a. great thing
to separate your brother from you. He may
have found him—it must be so—and kept his
name and condition concealed from us all, lest
yet; ,s’hould detect it. Mrs. M., don’t you think
so .
“ I’m sure I’m so terrified I don’t know what
to think,” said Mrs. Morton, putting her hand
to her forehead, and see-sawing herself to and fro
upon her stool.
“But since they wronged you—since you—-
you seem so very—very—"
“ Very much the gentleman,” suggested Miss
Mar nret.
“ es, so much the entlernan; well off, too,
I should hope, sir,’7 an the experienced eye of
Mr. Morton glanced at the costly sablcs that
lined the pclisse, “there can be no difficulty in
your learning from Mr. Beaufort all that you
wish to know. And pray, sir, may I ask, did you
send any one here today to make the very in-
quiry you have made ‘2"
“ I! No. What do you mean ?”
" Well, well—sit down; there may be some-
thing in all this that you may make out better
than I can.”
And, as Philip obeyed, Mr. Morton, who was
really and honestly rejoiced to see his sister's
son alive, and apparently thriving, proceeded to
relate pretty exactly the conversation he had
held with the previous visitor. Philip listened


I32
NIGHT AND MORNING.
earnestly and with attention. Who could this { garters! Will, so that’s you!” At the sound
questioner be ? ” Some one who knew his birth
—some one who sought him out—some one who
—-Good Heavensl could it be the long-lost wit-
ness of the marriage ?
As soon as that idea struck him, he started
from his seat, and intreated Morton to accom-
pany him in search of the stranger.
“ You know not,” he said, in a tone impress-
cd with that energy of will in which lay the
talent of his mind; ‘f you know not of what im-
portance this may be to my prospects—to your
sister’s fair fame. If it should be the witness
returned at last! Who else, of the rank you
describe, would be interested in such inquiries?
Come l”
“What witnen?” said Mrs. Morton, fret-
l'ully. “You don’t mean to come over us with
the old story of the marriage ? ”
“ Shall your wife slander your own sister, sir?
A marriage there was; God yet will proclaim
the right; and the name of Beaufort shall be
yet placed on my mother’s grave-stone. Come l”
“Here are your shoes and umbrella, pa,"
cried Miss Margaret, inspired by Philip’s earn-
estness.
“ M y fair cousin, I guess ;” and, as the soldier
took her hand, he kissed the unreluotant cheek,
turned to the door, Mr. Morton placed his arm
in his, and the next moment they were in the
street.
When Catharine, in her meek tones, had said,
“ Philip Beaufort was my husband,” Roger Mor-
ton had disbelicved her. And now one word
from the son, who could, in comparison, know
so little of the matter, had almost sufficed to
convert and to convince the skeptic. Why was
this? Because—Man believes the Strong!
._+_
CHAPTER II.
“ Quid Vlrtus et quid Saplentla posslt
Ulile proposuit nobis exemplar Ulysses."—Hol..
MEAN'WHILE, the object of their search, on
quitting Mr. Morton’s shop, had walked slow]
and sadly on, through the plashing streets, til
he came to a public house in the outskirts and
on the high road to London. Here he took
shelter for a short time, drying himself by the
kitchen fire, with the license purchased by four-
pennyworth of gin; and having learned that the
next coach to ondon would not pass for some
hours, he finally settled himself in the in lo till
the guard’s horn should arouse him. y the
same coach that the night before had conveyed
Philip to N , had. the very man he sought
been also a passenger !
The poor fellow was sickly and wearied out;
he had settled into a doze, when he was suddenly
wakened by the wheels of a coach and the
trampling of horses. Not knowing how long he
had sle t, and imagining that the vehicle he had
awaitedl was at the door, he ran out. It was a
coach coming front London, and the driver was
joking with a. pretty barmaid, who, in rather
short pctticoats, was holding up to him the cus-
tomary glass. The man, after satisfying him-
self that his time was not yet come, was turning
back to the fire, when a head popped itself out
of the window, and a voice cried, “Stars and


1 of the voice the man halted abruptly, turned very
‘ pale, and his limbs trembled. The inside pas-
senger opened the door, jumped out with a little
carpet-bag in his hand, took forth a long leathern
purse, from which he ostentatiously selected the
coins that paid his fare and satisfied the coach-
man, and then, passing his arm through that of
the acquaintance he had discovered, led him
back into the house.
“Will, Will,” he whispered, “ you have been
to the Mortons. Never moind, let’s hear all.
Jenny, or Dolly, or whatever your sweet, praetty
name is, a private room and a pint of brandy,
my dear. Hot water, and lots of the grocery.
That’s right.’7
And, as soon as the pair found themselves,
with the brandy before them, in a small parlor
with a good fire, the last comer went to the door,
shut it cautiously, flung his ha under the table,
took olf his gloves, spread himself wider and
wider before the fire, until he had entirely ex-
cluded every ray from his friend, and then, sud-
denly turning, so that the back might enjoy
what the front had gained, he exclaimed,
_“Damme, Will, you’re a preatty sort of a
breather to ive me the slip‘ in that way. But,
in this worl , every man for his-self!”
“I tell you,” said William, with something
like decision in his voice, “ thatI will not do any
wrong to these young men, if they live.”
“ Who asks you to do awrong to them, booby?
Perhaps I may be the best friend they may have
yet—ay, or you too, though you’re the ungrate-
fullest, whimsicallest sort of a son of a gun that
ever I came across. Come, help yourself, and
don’t roll up your eyes in that way, like a
Muggletonian asoide of a Fie-Fie !”
Here the speaker paused a moment, and then,
with a graver and more natural tone of voice,
proceeded,
“ So you did not believe me when I told you
that these brothers were dead, and you have
been to‘ the Mortons to learn more ‘3"
Lb Yes-I7
“ Well, and what have you learned ‘3”
“ Nothing. Morton declares that he does not
know that they are alive, but he says also that
he does not know that they are dead.”
“Indeed l” said the other, listening with great
attention; “and you really think that he does
not know any thing about them ?”
“I do, indeed.”
“ Hum! Is he a sort of man who would post
down the rhino to help the search '2”
“ He looked as if he had the yellow fever
when I said I was poor,” returned William,
turning round, and trying to catch a glimpse of
the fire as he gulped his brandy and water.
“Then I’ll be d—d if I run the risk of calling.
I have done some things in this town by war of
business before now; and, though it‘s a ong
time ago, yet folks don’t forget a handsome man
in a hurry, especially if he has done ’em! Now,
then, listen to me. You see, I have iven this
matter all the ’tention in my power. f the lads
be dead, said I to you, it is no use burning one’s
fingers by holding a candle to bones in a coffin.
But Mr. Beaufort need not know they are dead,
and we’ll see what we can get out of him - and
if I succeeds, as I think I shall, you and may
hold up our heads for the rest of our life. Ac-


NIGHT AND MORNING.
133
oordingly, as I told you, I went to Mr. Beaufort,
and—’Gad, I thought we had it all our own way.
But, since I saw you last, there’s been the devil
and all. IVhen I .called again, Will, I was
shown in to an old lord, shar as a gimlet.
Hang me, William, if he did not frighten me out
of my seven senses l”
Here Captain Smith (the reader has, no doubt,
already discovered that the speaker was no less
a personage) took three or four nervous strides
across the room, returned to the table, threw
himself on a chair, placed one foot on one hob
and one on the other, laid his finger on his nose,
aud, with a significant wink, said in a whisper,
“ Will, he knew I had been lagged. He not
only refused to hear all I had to say, but threat-
ened to prosecute, persecute, hang, draw, and
quarter us both if we ever dared to come out
with the truth.’7
“ But what’s the good of the truth if the boys
are dead ‘1” said William, timidly.
The captain, without heeding this question,
continued, as he stirred the sugar in his glass,
“ Well, out I sneaked, and, as soon as I had got
to my own door, I turned round, and saw Sharp
the runner on the other side of the way: I felt
doused queer. However, I went in, sat down,
and began to think. I saw that it was up with
us so far as the old uns were concerned; and
now it might be worth while to find out if the
young uns reull P were dead.”
“Then you id not know that, after all! I
thought so. Oh, Jerry!"
“ Why, look you, man, it was not our interest
to take their side if we could make our bargain
out of the other. ‘Cause wh '1’ You are only
a witness: you are a good fel ow, but poor, and
with very shaky nerves, Will. You does not
know what them big wigs are when a man’s
caged in a. witness-box; they flank one up and
they flank one down, and they bully and bother,
till code like a horse at Astley's dancing on hot
iron. If your testimon' broke down, why, it
would be all up with t e case, and what then
would become of us? Besidt'sf7 added the cap-
tain, with dignified candor, “I have been lagged,
it's no use denying it; I am back before my
time. Inquiries about your respectability would
soon bring , the bulkics about me. And you
would not have poor .Icrry sent back to that
d—d low place on t’other side of the Herring-
pond, would you ‘2”
“Ah, Jerr l” said William, kindly placing
his hand in is brother’s, “you know how I
hel ed you to escape. I left all to come over
wit ou.”
‘5
you did, and you’re a good fellow; though
as to leaving all, why, you had got rid of all
first. And when you told me about the mar-
riage, did not Isay that I saw our way to a snug
thing for life ‘? But to return to my story. There
is danflcr in going with the youn stcrs. But
since, 'ill—since nothing but. hur words is to
be got on the other side, we’ll do our duty, and
I'll find themput, and do the bestI can for us—
that is, if they be yet above ground. And now
I'll own to you that I think I knows that the
youn er one is alive.”
“ Igou do ?"
“Yes! But as he won’t come in for any
thing unless his brother is dead, we must have
a hunt for the heir. N ow I told you that, many
years ago, there was a lad with me, who, put-
ting all things together—seeing how the Beau-
forts came after him, and recollecting difl'erent
things he let out at the time—I feel pretty sure
is your old master’s Hopeful. I knew that poor
Will Gawtrey gave this lad the address of old
Gregg, a friend of mine. So, after watt-hing
Sharp ott' the sly, I went that very night, oi:
rather, at two in the morning, to Grcgg’s house,
and, after brushing up his memory, I found that
the lad had been to him, and gone over after-
ward to Paris in search of Gawtrey, who was
then keeping a. matrimony shop. As I was not
rich enough to go off to Paris in a pleasant.
gentlemanlike way, I allowed Gregg to put me
up to a noice, quiet little bit of business. Don’t
shake your head—all safe—a rural affair! That
took some days. You see it has helped to new
rig me ;” and the captain glanced complacently
over a very smart suit of clothes. “Well, on
my return, I went to call on you, but you were
flown. I half suspected you might have gone to
the mother’s relations here; and I thought, at ’
all events, I could not do better than go mvself.
and see what they knew of the matter. trom
what you say, I feel I had better now let that
alone, and 0 over to Paris at once; leave me
alone to finil out. And, faith, what with Sharp
and the old lord, the sooner I quit England, the
better."
“ And you really think you shall get hold of
them after all? Oh, never fear my nerves if
I’m once in the right; it’s living with you, and
seeing you do wrong, and hearing you talk
wickedly, that makes me tremble.”
“Bother!” said the captain, “you need not
crow over me. Stand up, \Vill; there, now.
look at us two in the glass! Why, I look ten
years younger than you do, in spite of all my
trdubles. I dress like a. gentleman, as I am; I
have money in my pocket ; I put money in yours;
without me you'd starve. Look you, you carried
over a little fortune to Australia—you married
-—you farmed—lived honestly—and yet that d—d
shilly-shally disposition of yours, ’ticed into one
speculation to-day, and scared out of another to-
rnorrow, ruined you l”
“Jerry! Jerry!” cried William, writhing;
“ don’t—don"t.”
“ But it’s all true, and I wants to cure you of
preaching. And then, when you were nearly
run out, instead of putting a bold face on it, and
setting your shoulder to the wheel, you gives it
tip—you sells what you have—you bolts river,
wife and all, to Boston, because some one tells
you you can do better in America—you are out
of the way when a search is made for you—years
ago, when you could have benefited yourself and
your master’s family without any danger to you
or me, nobody can find you; ‘cnuso why, you
could not bear that your old friends in England,
or in the colony either, should know that you
were turned a slave-driver in Kentucky. You
kick up a mutiny among the niggers by moaning
over them instead of keeping ’em to it—you get
kicked out yourself—your wife begs you to go
back to Australia, where her relations will do
rsomething for yon—you work your passage PM.
looking as rugged as u colt from grass—Wife’s
uncle don"t like ragged-mphews-in-luw—wifo
dies broken-hearted—nntl you might be breaking
stones on the road with the convicts, if I, myself


134
NIGHT AND MORNING.
a convict, had not taken compassion on you. formation sought for. In case he does, I will
Don’t cry, \Vill, it is all for your own good: I trouble you to direct to—yes—to Monsieur de
hates cantl Whereas I, my own master from l Vaudemont, according to this address."
eighteen, never stooped to serve any other—have ‘ "‘ Not to you, then 2""
dressed like a gentleman—kissed the pretty girls “It is the some thing," replied Philip, dryly.
—drove my pheaton—hccn in all the papers as
the ‘celebrated Dashing Jerry’—never wanted
a guinea in my pocket—and, even when lagged
“You have confirmed my suspicions that the
Beauforts know something of my brother. What
did you say of some other friend of the family
at last, had a pretty little sum in the colonial who assisted in the search ‘3”
bank to lighten my misfortunes. I escape—ll “Oh—a Mr. Spencer! an old acquaintance
bring you over-and here I am, supporting you, of your mother’s.” Here Morton smiled; but,
and, in all probability, the onl one on whom dc- 1 not being encouraged in a joke, went on, “ How-
pends the fate of one of the rst families in the ‘ ever, that’s neither here nor there; he certainly
country. And you preaches at me, do you? never found out your brother; for I have had
Look you, Will, in this world honesty’s nothing i several letters from him at different. times, ask-
without force of character! And so your
health I"
Here the captain emptied the rest of the bran-
dy into his glass, drained it at a draught, and, I
while poor William was wiping his eyes with a;
ragged blue pocket-handkerchief, rang the hell, i
and asked what coaches would pass on the way i
to , a sea-port town at some distance. On
hearing that there was one at six o’clock, the
captain ordcrcd the best dinner the larder would
afford to be got ready as soon as possible; and,
when they were again alone, thus accosted his
brother :
“Now you go back to town: here are four
shiucrs for you. Keep quiet—don't speak to a
soul—don’t put your foot in it, that’s all, I beg,
and I’ll find out whatever there is to be found.
It is damnably out of my way embarking at
—, but I had best keep clear of Lunnon. And
i tell you what, if these youngsters have hopped
the twig, there’s another bird on the bough that
may prove a goldfinch after all: young Arthur
Beaufort. I hear, he is a wild, expensive chap,
and one who can’t live without lots of money.
Now it’s easy to frighten a man of that sort, and
] sha'n’t have the old lord at his elbow.”
“But I tell you that I only care for my poor
master’s children."
“Yes; but if they are dead, and, by saying
they are alive, one can make old age comfort-
able, there’s no harm in it, oh ‘2”
“I don’t know,” said William, irresolutely.
"But certainly it is a hard thing to be so poor at
my time of life; and so honest and painstaking
as I’ve been, too!"
And there was a touch of envy in the glance
that the helpless Honesty cast on the careless face
and sturdy form of the strong-willed Knavery.

-—--¢——
CHAPTER III.
“.Miti's. This Mucilcnrc, signior, begins to be morclo- i
ciable on u snddcn."—-Eury Man out (If his Humor.
“ Punt. Slgn'mr, you are sufficiently instructed.
Hut. 	ho'! I, sir i"—-Ilt|'d.
AFTER spcnding the greater part of the d-ayI
in vain inquiries and a. vain search, Philip and
Morton returned to the house of the latter.
“And now,” said Philip, “all that remains to ;

ing any news had been heard of either of
on.
And, indeed, Spencer had taken particular
pains to deceive the Mortons, whose interposi-
tion he feared little less than that of the Beau-
forts.
“ Then, it can he of no use to apply to him,"
said Philip, carelessly. not having any recollec-
tion of the name of Spencer, and, therefore,
attaching little importance to the mention of
him.
“ Certainly I should think not.
Mr. Beaufort must know.”
“True,” said Philip. “And I have only to
thank you for your kindness, and return to
town.”
“But stay with us this dtry—do—lct me feel
that we are friends. I assure you that poor
Sidney’s fate has been a load on my mind ever
since he left. You shall have the bed he slept
in, and over which your mother bent when she
left him and me for the last time.”
These words were said with so much feeling,
that the adventurer wrung his uncle's hand, and
said, “Forgive me—I wronged you—l will be
your guest.”
Mrs. Morton, strange to say, evinced no symp-
toms of ill-humor at the news of the proffered
hospitality. In fact, Miss Margaret had been
so eloquent in Philip’s praise durinrr his absence,
that she suffered herself to be favorably im-
pressed. Her daughter, indeed, had obtained a
sort of ascendancy over Mrs. M. and the whole
house ever since she had received so respectable
an offer. And, moreover, some people are like
dogs: they snarl on the ragged, and fawn on the
well-dressed. Mrs. Morton did not object. to a
nephew dcfacto ,- she only objected to a nephew
in form} pauperis. The evening, therefore,
passed more cheerfully than might have been
anticipated, though Philip found some difficulty.
in parrying the many questions put to him on
the past. He contented himself with saying,
as briefly as possible, that he had served in a
foreign service, and acquired what sufficed him
Depend on it,
,for an independence; and then, with the ease
which a man picks up in the great world, turned
the conversation to the prospects of the family
whose guest he was. Having listened with due
attention to Mrs. Morton’s eulogics on Tom,
be done is this: first, give to the police of the \ who had been sent for, and who drank the
town a detailed description of the man; and, {praises on his own gentility into a very large
secondly, let us put an advertisement both in the pair of blushing curs—also, to her self-felicita-
county journal and in some of the London papers, I tions on Miss Margaret‘s marriawe; item, on the
to the effect, that ifethc person who called on service rendered to the town by i/Ir. Roger, who
you will take the trouble to apply again, either
had repaired the town-hull in his first mayoralty
personally or by letter, he may obtain the in- ! at'his own expense; item, to a long chronicle of


NIGHT AND MORNING.
13b
her own genealogy: how she had one cousin a
clergvrnan, and how her great-grandfather had
been linighted', itmt, to the domestic virtues of
all her children ; item. to a confused explanation
of the chastisement inflicted on Sidney, which
Philip cut short in the middle—he asked, with a
smile, what had become of the Plaskwiths.
“Oh !" said Mrs. Morton, "my brother Kit has
retired from business. Ilis son-in-law, Mr. Plim-
mins, has succeeded.”
" 0h, then, Plimmins married one of the young
ladies ?"
“Yes. Jane: she had a sad squint l—Tom,
there is nothing to laugh at! we are all as God
made us: ‘Handsome is as handsome does.’ She
has had three little nus !”
"Do they squint too?" asked Philip- and
Miss Margaret giggled, and Tom roared, and
the other young men roared too. Philip had
certainly said something very witty.
This time Mrs. Morton administered no re-
proof, but replied, pensively,
“ Natur is very mysterious: they all squint
Mr. Morton conducted Philip to his chamber.
There it was, fresh, clean, unaltered; the same
white curtains, the same honeysuckle paper, as
when Catharine had crept across the threshold.
“Did Sidney ever tell you that his mother
placed a ring round his nee that night ‘2” asked
Mr. Morton.
7“ Yes; and the dear boy twept when he said
that he had slept too soundly to know that she
was by his side that last, last time. The ring—
oh, how well I remember it l—she never put it
orf till then; and often in the fields—for we were
wild wanderers together in that day—often,
when his head lay on my shoulder, I felt that
ring still resting,r on his heart, and fancied it was
:\ talisman—a blessing. Well, well—good-night
to 'ou l"
so was alone.
p:
_+_
CHAPTER IV.
" The man oflnw ' ‘ '
And .1 great suit is like to be between them."
c- BIN Jossos : Staple of News.
On arriving in London, Philip went first to
the lodging he still lrept there, and to which his
letters were directed; and, among some commu-
nications from Paris, full of the politics and the
hopes of the Carlists, he found the following note
from Lord Lilburne :
“1)EAII Stu—When I met you the other day,
I told you I had been threatened with the gout.
The enemy has now taken possession of the
field. I am sentenced to regimen and the sofa.
But as it is my rule in life to make afflictions as
light as possible. so I have asked a few friends
to take compassion on me, and ' help me ‘to
shuffle off this mortal coil,‘ by dealing me, if
they can, four by honors. Any time between
nine and twelve to-night, or to-morrow night,
And he shut the door on his uncle, t

town this morning, and are kind enough ‘ to
nurse me,’ as they call it; that is to say, their
cook is taken ill! “ Yours,
“LILBUHNIZ.
“Park Lane, Sept. —."
“ The Beauforts ! Fate favors me—I will go.
The date is for to-day."
He. sent off a hasty line to accept the invita-
tion, and, finding he had a few hours yet to
spare, he resolved to employ them in consulta-
tion with some lawyer as to the chances of re-
gaining his inheritance—a hope which, however
wild, he had, since his return to his native shore,
and especially since he had heard ofthe strange
visit made to Roger Morton, permitted himself
to indulge. With this idea he sallied out, mean-
ing to consult Liancourt, who. having a large
acquaintance among the English, seemed the
best person to advise him as to the choice of a
lawyer at once active and honest, when he sud-
den y chanced on that gentleman himself.
“This is lucky, my dear Linncourt.
just going to your lodgings.”
“And I was coming to yours, to know if you
dine with Lord Lilburne. He told me he had
asked you. I have just left him. And by the
sofa of Mephistopheles there was the prettiest
Margaret you ever beheld.”
“Indeed ! Who ‘2”
“ He called her his niece; but I should doubt
if he-had any relation on this side the Styx so
human as a niece.”
“ You seem to have no great prcdileetion for
our host."
“ My dear Vaudemont, between our blunt,
soldierly natures, and those wily, icy, snccring
intellects, there is the antipathy of the'dog to
the cat.”
“Perhaps so on our side, not on his; or why
does he invite us ‘3”
“London is empty: there is no one else to
ask. We are new faces, new minds to him.
We amuse him more than the hackney'ed com-
rades he has worn out. Besides, he plays—and
you too. Fie on you I"
“ Lianeourt, I had two objects in knowing
that man, and I pay the toll for the bridge.-
When I cease to want the passage I shall cease
to pay the toll.”
“ But the bridge may be a. drawbridge, and
the meat is devilish deep below. Without meta- .
phor, that man may ruin you before you know
where you are.”
“Bah! I have my eyes open. I know how
much to spend on the rogue whose service I hire
as a laeke ’s, and I know also where to stop.
Lianeourt, ’ he added, after a short pause, and
in a tone deep with suppressed passion, “ when
I first saw that man, I thought of appealing to his
heart for one who has a claim on it. That was
a vain hope. And then there came upon me a
sterner and dcndlier thought: the scheme of the
Avenger! This Lilburne—this rogue, whom
the world sets up to worship, ruined, body and
soul, ruined—one whose name the world gibbets
I was
you will find me at home; and if you are notl with its scorn] Well, I thought to avenge that
better engaged, suppose you dine with me to- 1 man. In his own house, amid ye all, I thought
day—or, rather, dine opposite to me—and excuse I to detect the sharper and brand the cheat !”
my Spartan broth.
You will meet (besides any}
“ You startle me! It has been whispered, in-
two or three friends whom an impromptu invita- ] deed, that Lord Lilburne is dangerous—but skill
tion may find disengaged) my sister, with Beau-
fort and their daughter; they only arrived in
l is dangerous.
I man! a nobleman l—irnpossiblel"
To cheat !—nn English gentle-


136
NIGNT AND MORNING.
“ Whether he do or not,” returned Vaudemunt,‘
in a calmer tone, “ I have foregone the vengeance,
because he is—”
“ Is what ‘1’”
“No matter,” said Vaudemout, aloud, while
he added to himself, “ Because he is the grand-
father of Fanny !”
“You are very enigmatical to-day." .
“Patience, Liancourt; I may solve all the
riddles that make up my life yet. Bear with
me a little longer. And now can you help me
to a lawyer?” a man experienced, indeed, and
of repute, but young, active, not overladen with
business; 1 want his zeal and his time for a haz-
ard that your monopolists of clients may not deem
worth their devotion.” '
“I can recommend you, then, the very men
on require. I had a suit some years ago at
uris, for which English witnesses were neces—
sary. My urora! employed a solicitor here,
whose activity in collecting my evidence gained
my cause. I will answer for his diligence and
his honest 2"
“His a dress ‘3”
“ Mr. Barlow—somewhere by the Strand—let
me sec—Esscx—yes, Essex-street.”
“Then good-by to you for the present.
dine at Lord Lilburne 5 too ‘1’"
“ Yes. Adieu till then.”
Vnudcmont was not long before he arrived at
Mr. Barlow’s: a brass plate announced to him
the house. He was shown at once into a parlor,
where he saw a man whom lawyers would call
young, and spinsters middle-aged, viz., about
two-and forty; with a bold, resolute, intelligent
countenance, and that steady, calm, sagacious
eye which inspires at once, confidence and esteem.
Vaudcmont scanned him with the look of one
who has been accustomed to judge mankind, as
a scholar docs books, with rapidity because with
ractiee. He had at first resolved to submit to
im the heads of his case without mentioning
names, and, in fact, he so commenced his narra-
tive; but, by degrees as he terceived how much
his own earnestness arrestci and engrossed the
interest of his listener, he warmed into fuller con-
fidence, and ended by a full disclosure, and u can-
tion as 10 the profoundest secrecy, in case, if
there were no hope to recover his rightful name
he might yet wish to retain. unannoyed by curi-
osity or suspicion, that by which he was not dis-
~'creditnbly known.
You

“ Sir,” said Mr. Barlow, after assuring him of
the most scrupulous discretion, “sir, I have some ,
recollection ol'tho trial instituted by your mother, |
Mrs. Beaufort ,-” and the slight emphasis he laid ,
on that name was the most grateful compliment ;
he could have paid to the truth of Philip’s recital. l
“ My impression is, that it was managed in a1
very slovenly manner by her lawyer, and somel
of his oversights we may repair in a suit institu-J
ted by yourself. But it would be absurd to con-
ceal from you the great ditfictuties that beset us;
your mother’s suit, designed to establish her own
rights was for easier than that which you must
commence, viz., an action for ejectruent against
a man who has been some years in undisturbed
possession. Of course, unti the missing witness
is found out, it would be madness to commence
litigation. And the question then will be, how
far that witness will suffice ? Itis true, that one
witness of a marriage, if the others are dead, is

held stillicient by law. But I need not add that
that witness must be thoroughly credible. In
suits for real property V831 little documentary or
secondary evidence is a mitted. I doubt even
whether the certificate of the marriage on which
—in the loss or destruction of the register—you
lay so much stress, would be available in itself.
But if an examined copy, it becomes of the last im-
portance, for it will then inform us of the name of
the person who extracted and examined it. Heav-
en grant it may not have been the clergvmnn him-
self who performed the ceremony, and who, you
say is dead; if some one else, we should then
have a second no doubt credible and most valu-
able witness. The document would thus be-
come available as proof, and I think that we
should not fail to establish our case.”
“But this certificate, how is it ever to be
found ‘? I told you that we had searched every
where in vain.”
“ T rue; but you say that your mother alwanys
said that the late Mr. Beaufort had so solem y
assured her, even just prior to his decense, that
it was in existence, that I have no doubt as to
the fact. It may be possible, but it is a terrible
insinuation to make, that if Mr. Robert Beau-
fort, in examining the papers of the deceased.
chanced upon a document so important to him,
he abstracted or destroyed it. But to return.
If this should not have been the case (and Mr.
Robert Beaufort’s moral character is unspotted
—and we have no right to suppose it), the prob-
ability is, either that it was intrusted to some
third person, or placed in some hidden drawer or
deposit, the secret of which your father never
disclosed. Who has purchased the house you
lived in ?”
“Fernside ? Lord Lilburne, Mrs. Robert
Beaufort’s brother.”
“Humph! probably, then he took the fumi-
ture and all. Sir, this is a matter that requires
some time for close consideration. \Yith your
leave, I will not only insert in the London papers
an advertisement to the effect that you suggest-
ed to Mr. Roger.Mort0n (in case you should
have made a right conjecture as to the object
of the man who applied to him), but I will also
advertise for the witness himself. William Smith
on say his name is. Did the lawyer employed
iy Mrs. Beaufort send to inquire for him in the
colony ?”
“No, I fear there could not have been time
for that. My mother was so anxious and eager,
and so convinced of the justice of her case—”
“That’s a pity; her lawyer must have been
a sad drivelcr."
"' Besides, now I remember, inquiry was made
of his relations in England. His father, a former,
was then alive; the answer was that he had eer-
tninly left Australia. His last letter, written
two years before that date, which had conlniu-
ed a request for money, which the hither, him-
self made a bankrupt by reverses, could not
give. had stated that he was about to seek his
fortune elsewhere; since then they had heard
nothing of him.H
"' Ahem ! Well, you will perhaps let me know
where any relations of his are yet to be found,
and I will look up the former suit, and go into
the whole case without delay. In the mean
time, you do right, sir—if you will allow me to
say it—-not to disclose either your own identity


NIGHT AND MORNING.
137
or a hint of your intentions. It is no use putting
suspicion on its guard. And my search for this
certificate must be managed with the greatest
address. Bot, by-the-way, speaking of identity,
there can be no difficulty, I hope, in proving
yours ‘3”
Philip was startled. “ Why, I am greatly al-
tered.” .
“ But probably your beard and mustache may
contribute to that change; and, doubtless, in the
village where you lived, there would be many
with whom you were in sufficient intercourse,
and on whose recollection, by recalling little
anecdotes and circumstances with which no one
but yourself could be acquainted, your features
would force themselves along with the moral
ccnvietion that the man who spoke to them
could be no other but Philip Morton—or, rather,
Beaufort.”
“You are right; there must be many such.
There was not a cpttagc in the place where I
and my dogs were not familiar and half domes-
tieated."
“All’s right so far, then.
must not be too sanguine. Law is not justice—-
“But God is,” said Philip; and he left the
room.
But, I repeat, we
_+_
CHAPTER V.
" Velpmlc. A little in a mist, but not dejected ;
Never-hut still myself."
BIN Jonson: Volpzmc.
“ Peregrine. Am I enough disguised?
Mar. Ay. l warrant you.
Per. Save youI fair lady."-—Ib\'d.
IT is an ill wind that blows nobody ood.
The ill wind that had blown lgout to 0rd
Lilburne had blown Lord Lilburne away from
the injury he had meditated against what he
called “the ob'ect of his attachment." How
com letcly an entirely, indeed, the state of
Lord’Lilhurno’s feelings depended on the state
of his health, may be seen in the answer he
ve to his valet, when, the morning after his
fist attack of the goat, that worthy erson, by
way of cheering his master, propose to ascer-
tain somethimz of the movements of one~with
whom Lord Lilburne professed to be so violent-
ly in love. "Confound you, Dykeman!" ex-
claimed the invalid, “wh do you trouble me
about women when I’m in this condition? I
don’t care if they were all at the bottom of the
sea! Reach me the colchicum; I must keep
my mind calm.”
Whenever tolerably well, Lord Lilburne was
careless of his health; the moment he was ill,
Lord Lilburne paid himself the greatest possible
attention. Though a man of firm nerves, in
outh of remarkable daringyund still, though no
longer rash, of sufficient personal courage, he
was by no Jneans fond of the thought of death—
that is, of his own death. Not that he was tor-
mented by any religious apprehensions of the
Dread Unknown, but simply because the only
life of which he had any experience seemed to
him a peculiarly pleasant thing. He had a sort
of instinctive persuasion that John Lord Lilburne
would not be better off an where else. Always
disliking solitude, he dis iked it more than ever
when he was ill, and he therefore welcomed the
Ml
‘ visit of his sister and the gentle hand of his pretty
niece. As for Beaufort, he bored the sufferer;
, and when that gentleman on his arrival, shuttin
‘ont his wife and daughter, whispered to Lif-
burne, “Any more news of that impostor ‘3"
1 Lilburne answered peevishly, “I never talk
‘ about business when I have the out! I have
5 set Sharp to keep a look-out for him, but he has
. learned nothing as yet: and now go to your club.
You are a worthy creature, but too solemn for
Imy spirits just at this moment. I have a few
‘ people coming to dine with me; your wife will
ldo the honors, and—you can come in the even-
lin .”
f{I'hough Mr. Robert Bennfort‘s sense of import-
, once swelled and ehafed at this very unceremo-
, nious congé, he forced a smile and said,
“Well, it is no wonder you are a little fretful
with the gout. I have plenty to do in town, and
Mrs. Beaufort and Camilla can come back with-
out waiting for me.”
“Why, as your cook is ill, and they can’t dine
at a club, you may as well leave them here till
vI am a little better; not that I care, for I can
hire a better nurse than either of them.”
“ My dear Lilburne, don‘t talk ofhiring nurses ,
certainly I am too happy if they can be of com-
fort to you.”
“ 0! on second thoughts, you may take back
your wife—she’s always talking of her own com-
laints—and leave me Camilla; you can‘t want
er for a few days.”
“Just as you like. And
have managed as well as
young man, eh ‘P”
“ Yes—yes! And so you go to Beaufort Court
in a few days ‘1’"
"I propose doing so.
enouwh to come.” I
“ m! Chambers says that it would be a very
good air for me—bctter than Fernside; and as
to my castle in the North, I would as soon go to
Siberia. Why, if I am better, I will pay you a
visit, only you always have such a stupid set of
respectable people about you. I shook them,
and they oppress me.”
“Why, as I hope soon to see Arthur, I shall
make it as agreeable to him as loan, and Ishall
be very much obliged to you if you would invite
a few of your own friends.”
“Well, you are a good fellow, Beaufort, and
I will take you at your word; and, since one
good turn deserves another, I have now no seru-
ple in telling you that I feel quite sure that you
will have no farther annoyance from this trouble-
some witness-monger.”
“In that case,” said Beaufort, “I may pick
,up a better match for Camilla! Good-by, my

you really think I
could about this
I wish you were well

dear Lilburne.”
“ Form and ceremony of the world l” snarled
the peer, as the door closed on his brother-in-
law, "ye make little men very moral, and not a
'bit the better for bcin so l”
i It so happened lhatgi'audemont arrived before
. any of the other guests that day, and during the
half hour which Dr. Chambers assigned to 'his
illustrious patient, so that, when he entered,
'there were only Mrs. Beaufort and Camilla in
the drawing-room.
Vnudemont drew back involuntarily as he rec-
ognized in the faded countenance of the elder
llady features associated with ono of the dark


138
NIGHT AND MORNING.
passages in his earlier life; but Mrs. Beaufort’s
gracious smile, and urbane, though languid wel-
come, sufliecd to assure him that the recognition
was not mutual. He advanced, and again stop-
ped short as his eye fell upon that fair and still
childlike form, which had once knelt by his side,
and pleaded with the orphan for his brother.
While he spoke to her, many recollections, some
dark and stern—but those, at least, connected
with Camilla, soft and gentle—thrilled through
his heart. Occupied as her own thou hts and
feelings necessarily were with Sidney, t ere was
something in Vaudemont’s ap aranee—his
manner—his voice—which force upon Camilla
a. strange and undefined interest; and even Mrs.
Beaufort was roused from her customary apathy
as she glanced to that dark and commandinrr
face with something between admiration and
fear. Vaudemont had scarcely, however, spoken
ten words, when some other guests were an-
nounced, and Lord Lilburne was wheeled in
upon his sofa shortly afterward. Vaudemont
continued, however, seated next to Camilla, and
the embarrassment he had at first felt disappear-
ed. He possessed, when he pleased it, that
kind of eloquence which belongs to men who
have seen much and felt deeply, and whose talk
has not been frittered down to the commonplace
jargon of the world. His very phraseology was
distinct and peculiar, and he had that rarest of
all charms in polished life, originality both of
thought and of manner. Camilht blushed when
she found at dinner that he had placed himself
by her side. That evening, De Vaudernont ex-
cused himself from playing; but the table was
easily made without him, and still he continued
to converse with the daughter of the man whom
he held as his worst foe. By degrees, he turned
the conversation into a channel that might lead
him to the knowledge he sought.
“ It was m fate,” said he, “ once to become
acquainted With an intimateriend of the late
Mr. Beaufort. Will you pardon me if I venture
to fulfill a promise I made to him, and ask you
to inform me what hm become of a—a—that
is, of Sidney Morton?"
“Sidney Morton! I don’t even remember
the name. Oh, yes! I have heard it,” added
Camilla.v innocently, and with a candor that
showed howlittle she knew of the secrets of the
family; "he was one of two poor boys in whom
my brother felt a deep interest—some relations
to my uncle. Yes—yes! I remember now. I
I never knew Sidney, but I once did see his
brother."
“ Indeed! and you remember—”
“Yesl I was very young then. I scarcely
recollect what passed, it was all so confused
and strange ; but I know that I made papa very
an , and I was told never to mention the name
of orton again. I believe they behaved very
ill to pa :1.“
“An you never learned—neverl—the fate
of either—of Sidney ?”
“ Never l”
“ But your father must know ?”
“I think not; but tell me,” said Camilla, with
irlish and unaffected innocence, “ I have always
elt anxious to know—what and who were those
r boys '1”
What and who were they? So deep, then,
was the stain upon their name, that the modest

mother and the decorous father had never said
to that young girl, “They are your cousins:
the children of the man in whose gold we revel !"
Philip hit his lip, and the spell of Camilla’s
presence seemed vanished. He muttered some
inaudible answer, turned away to the card-table,
and Liancourt took the chair he had left vacant.
“ And how does Miss Beaufort like my friend
Vaudemont? I assure you that I have seldom
seen him so alive to the fascination of female
beauty.”
“ Oh I” said Camilla, with her silver laugh,
“your nation spoils us for our own countrymen.
You forget how little we are accustomed to
flattery. ’
“Flatteryl What truth could flatter on the
lips of an exile? But you don’t answer my
question: what think on of Vaudemont ‘? Few
are more admired. e is handsome I”
“Is he?” said Camilla; and she glanced at
Vaudemont, as he stood at'a little distance,
thoughtful and abstracted. Every girl forms to
herself some untold dream of that which she
considers fairest. And Vaudemout had not the
delicate and faultless beauty of Sidney. There
was nothing that corresponded to her ideal in
his marked features and lordly shape ! But she
owned, reluctantly to herself, that she had seldom
seen, among the trim gallants of every-day life,
a form so striking and impressive. The air,
indeedJ was rofessional: the most careless
glance could etcct the soldier; but it seemed
the soldier of an elder age or a wilder clime.
He recalled to her those heads which she had
seen in the Beaufort Gallery and other collec-
tions yet more celebrated—portraits by Titian
of those warrior statesmen who lived in the old
republics of Italy in a perpetual struggle with
their kind—images of dark, resolute, earnest
men. Even whatever was intellectual in his
countenance spoke, as in those portraits, of a
mind sharpened rather in active than in studious
life; intellectual, not from the pale hues, the
worn exhaustion, and the sunken cheek of the
bookman and dreamer, but from its collected
and stern repose, the calm depth that lay be-
neath the fire of the eyes, and the strou will
that spoke in the close, full lips, and the high
but not cloudless forehead.
And, as she gazed, Vaudemont turned round;
her eyes fcll beneath his, and she felt angry with
herself that she blushed. Vaudemont saw the
downcast eye, he saw the blush, and the attrac-
tion of Camilla’s presence was restored. He
would have approached her, but at that moment
Mr. Beaufort himself entered, and his thoughts
went again into a darker channel. .
“ Yes," said Liancourt, “ you must allow
Vaudemont looks what he is—a noble 'fellow
and a gallant soldier. Did you never hear of
his battle with the tigress? It made a noise in
India. I must tell it you as I have heard it.”
And, while Linncourt was narrating the ad-
venture, whatever it was, to which he referred,
the card-table was broken up, and Lord Lilburne,
still reclining on his sofa, lazily introduced his
brother-in-law to such of the guests as were
strangers to him—Vaudcmont among the rest.
Mr. Beaufort had never seen Philip Morton
more than three times; once at Fernside, and
the other times by an imperfect light, and when
his features were eonvulsed by passion, and his


NIGHT AND MORNING.
139
t'arm disfigured by his dress. Certainly, there-
.fore, had Robert Beaufort even possessed that
l
her for the night, sat down thoughtfully in her
own room. The dark eyes of Vaudemont seemed
faculty of memory which is supposed to belong still to shine on her; his voice yet rung in her
peculiarly to kings and princes, and which recalls
every face once seen, it might have tasked the
gift to the utmost to have detected in the bronzed
and decorated foreigner to whom he was now
presented the features of the wild and long-lost
boy. But still some dim and uneasy presenti-
ment, or some struggling and painful effect of
recollection, was in his mind as he spoke to
Vaudemont, and listened to the cold, calm tone
of his reply.
“ Who do you say that Frenchman is?” he
whispered to his brother-in-lew, as Vaudemont
turned away.
“ Oh! a cleverish sort of adventurer—a gen-
tleman; he plays—he has seen a good deal of
the world—he rather nmuscs me—dili'crcnt from
other people. I think of asking him to join our
circle at Beaufort Court.”
Mr. Beaufort coughed huskily; but, not seeing
any reasonable objection to the proposal, and
afraid of rousing the sleeping hymns of Lord
Lilburne’s sarcasm, he merely said,
“Any one you please:" and, lookinor round
for some one on whom to vent his displeasure,
perceived Camilla still listening to Lianeourt.
He stalked up to her, and, as Liaucourt, seeing
her rise, ruse also and moved away, he said
peevishly, “You will never learn to conduct
yourself properly; you are to be left here to
nurse and comfort your uncle, and not to listen
to the gibberish of eve French adventurer.
Well, Heaven be praised have a son! girls are
a great. plague l" \
“So they are, Mr. Beaufort," sighed his wife,
who had just joined him, and who was jealous
of the preference Lilburne had given to her
daughter.
“And so selfish !" added Mrs. Beaufort; “they
only cure for their own amusements, and never
mind how uncomfortable their parents are for
want of them.” I
“Oh! dear mamma. don’t say so! Let me
go home with you: I’ll speak to my uncle !”
“Nonsense, child! Come along, Mr. Bean-
fort,” and the ntfeotionate parents went out
arm-in-arm. They did not perceive that Vaude-
mont had been standing close behind them; but
Camilla, now looking up with tears in her eyes,
again caught his gaze: he had heard all.
“And they ill-treat her,” he muttered: “that
divides her from them .'—she will be left here—-
I shall see her again."
hi As he turned to depart, Lilburne beckoned to
m.
“ You do not mean to desert our table ?"
“No; but I am not very well to-night; to-
morrow, if you will allow me."
“Ay, to-morrow; and if you can spare an
hour in the morning, it will be a charity. You
See,” he added, in a whisper, “I have a nurse,
though I have no children. D’ye think that’s
love? Bah! sir—a legacy! Good-night!"
“No—no—no!" said Vaudemont to himself,
as he walked through the moon-lighted streets,
“No! though my heart burns—poor murdered
felon !-to avenge thy wrongs and thy crimes,
revenge can not come from me; he is Fanny‘s
grandfather nnd—C'amilla’s uncle I”
And Camilla, when that uncle had dismissed

ear; the wild tales of during and danger with
which Liancourt bed associated his name yet
haunted her bewildered fancy: she started,
frightened at her own thoughts. She took from
her bosom some lines that Sidney had addressed
to her, and, as she read and re-reed them, her
spirit became calmed to its wonted and faithful
melancholy. Vaudemont was forgotten, and the
name of Sidney yet murmured on her lips when
sleep came to renew the image of the absent
one, and paint in dreams the fairy-land of a hap-
py Future!
—-.-__-
CHAPTER VI.
“ Ring on, ye bells, most pleasant is your chime !"
\Viuson: Isle of Palm.
“Oil, fnlry child! what can I wish for thee 1“-lbid.
VAUDEMONT remained six days in London
without going to H——-, and each of those days
he paid a ,visit to Lord Lilburne. On the
seventh da ', the invalid being much better,
though still unable to leave his room, Camilla
returned to Berkeley-square. On the some day
Vaudemont went once more to see Simon and
poor Fanny.
As he approached the door, he heard from the
window, partially opened, for the day was clear
and fine, Fanny’s sweet voice. She was chant-
ing one of the simple songs she had promised to
learn by heart; and Vuudemont, though but It
or judge of the art, was struck and affected
if; the music of the voice and the earnest depth
of the feeling. He paused opposite the window
and called her by her name. Funny looked forth
joyously, and run, as usual, to open the door to
him. ‘
“Oh! you have been so long away; but I
know so many of the songs: they say so much
that I always wanted to say i” ‘
Vaudernont smiled but languidly.
“How strange it is,” said Fanny, musingly,
“that there should be so much in a piece of
paper! for, after all,” pointing to the open page
of her book, “this is but a piece of paper—only
there is life in it I”
“Ay,” said Vaudemont, gloomily, and far
from seizing the subtle delicacy of Fanny’s
thought—her mind dwelling upon poetry and
his upon law; “ay; and do you know that upon
a mere scrap of paper—yes, a mere scrap of
paper, if I could but find it, may depend my
whole fortune, my whole happiness, all that I
care for in life ‘3”
“Upon a scrap of paper? Oh! how Iwish I
could find it! Ah! you look as if you thought
I should never be wise enough for that l"
Vaudcmont, not listening to her, uttered a deep
sigh. Fanny approached him timidly.
“Do not sigh, brother—I can’t bear to hear
you sigh. You are changed. Have you, too,
not been happy ‘i’"
“ Happy, Fanny!
too happy !”
“ Happy, have you ‘i' and 1—" the girl stopped
short; her tone had been that of sadness and
reproach, and she stopped—why ? she knew not,
but she felt her heart sink within her. Fanny
Yes, lately, very happy—-


140
\ .
NIGHT AND MORNING.
suffered him 'to pass her, and he went straight! tion, and almost gayly, “hark! I accept the
to his own room. Her eves followed him wrst-
fully; it was not his habit to leave her thus
abruptly. The family meal of the daywas over,
and it was an hour before Vaudemont descended
to the parlor. Fanny had put aside the songs;
she had no heart to recommence those entle
studies that had been so sweet: they had rawn
no pleasure, no praise from him. She was seat-
ed, idly and listlessly, beside the silent old man,
who every day grew more and more silent still.
She turned her head as Vaudemont entered, and
her pretty lip pouted as that of a neglected child.
But he did not heed it, and the pout vanished,
and tears rushed to her eyes.
Vuudemont was changed. His countenance
was thoughtful and overcast, his manner ab-
stracted. He addressed a few words to Simon,
and then, seating himself by the window, leaned
his check on his hand. and was soon lost in
reverie. Fanny, finding that he did not speak,
and after stealing many a long and earnest
glance at his motionless attitude and gloomy
brow, rose gentl , and gliding to him with her
light step, said, in a trembling voice,
“Are you in pain, brother ‘3"
“No, pretty one l”
“ Then why won’t you speak to Fanny? WVill
you not walk with her ? Perhaps my grandfather
will come too."
“ N at this evening. I shall go out, but it will
be alone."
“Where? Has not Fanny been good? I
have not been out since you left us. And the
grave, brother! I have sent Sarah with the
flowers; but—" .
Vaudemout rose abruptly. The mention of the
grave brou ht back his thou hts from the dream-
ing channe into which they ad flowed. Fanny,
whose very childishness had once so soothed him,
now disturbed; he felt the want of thht complete
solitude which makes the atmosphere of growing
passion; he muttered some scarcely audible ex-
cuse, and quitted the room. Fanny saw him no
more that evening. He did not return till mid-
night. But Fanny did not sleep till she heard
his step on the stairs, and his chamber-door
close; and, when she did sleep, her dreams were
disturbed and painful. The next morning, when
they met'at breakfast (for Vaudemont did not
' return to London), her eyes were red and heav ,
and her cheek pale. And, still buried in m i-
tation, Vaudernont’s eye, usually so kind and
watchful, did not detect those signs of a grief
that Fanny could not have explained. After
breakfast, however, he asked her to walk out;
and her face brightened as she hastened to put
on her bonnet, and take her little basket full of
fresh flowers, which she had already sent Sarah
forth to purchase.
“Fanny!” said Vaudcmont, as, leaving thc
house, he saw the basket on her arm, “to-day
you may place some of those flowers on another
tombstone] Poor child, what natural goodness
there is in that heart! what pity that—"
f He paused. Fanny looked delightcdly in his
ace.
“ You were praising inc—you. And what is
a ity, brother ‘2"
hile she spoke, the sound of the joy-bells was
heard near at hand. .
“Hark I" said Vaudemont, forgetting her ques-


omen. It is a marriage peal !”
He quickened his steps, and they reached the
church-yard.
There was a crowd already assembled, and
Vaudemont and Funny paused, and leaning over
the little gate, looked on.
_“Why are these people here, and why does
the bell ring so merrily ‘1'”
“There is to he a wedding, Fanny.”
“I have heard of a. wedding very often,” said
Fanny, with a pretty look of puzzlement and
doubt, “but I don’t know exactly what it means.
Will on tell me? And the bells, too '2”
“ es, Fanny; those bells toll but three times
for man! The first time, when he comes into .
the world; the last time, when he leaves it; the
time between, when he takes to his side a part-
ner in all the sorrows, in all the joys that yet
remain to him; and who, even when the last
bell announces his death to this earth, may yet,
forever and forever, be his partner in that world
to come, that heaven, where they who are as in-
nocent as you, Fanny, may hope to live and to
love each other in a land where there are no
"raves E”
"And this hell ‘3”
d “T’olls for' that partnership—for the wed-
ing!
“I think I understand you, and they who are
to be wed are happy ‘3”
‘e‘ Happy, Fanny, if they love, and their love
continue. Oh! conceive the happiness to know
some'one person dearer to you than your own
self; some one breast into which you can pour
every thought, every grief, every joy! One per-.
son, who, if all the rest of the world were to
calumniate or forsake you, would never wrong
you by a harsh thought or an unjust word; whu
would cling to you the closer in sickness, in
poverty, in care; who would sacrifice all things
to you, and for whom you Would sacrifice all;
from whom, except by death, night nor day, can
you ever be divided; whose smile is ever at your
hearth; who has no tears while you are well
and happy, and your love the same. Fanny,
such is marriage, if they who marry have hearts
and souls to feel that there is no bond on earth
so tender and so sublime. There is an opposite
picture; 1 will not draw that! And as it is,
Fanny, you can not understand me."
He turned away; and Fanny’s tears were
falling like rain upon the grass below: he did
not see them! He entered the church-yard, for
the bell now ceased. The ceremony was to be-
gin. He followed the bridal party into the church,
and Fanny, lowering her vail, crept after him,
awed and trembling.
They stood at a little distance and heard the
service.
The betrothed were of the middle class of life,
young, both comely; and their behavior was
such as suited the reverence and sanctity of the
rite. Vaudemont stood, looking on intently,
with his arms folded on his breast. Fanny
leaned behind him, and apart from all, against
one of the pews. And still in her hand, while
the riest was solemnizing Marriage, she held
the owers intended for the Grave. Even'to
that Momma—hushed, calm, earnest, with her
mysterious and unconjecturcd heart—her shape
brought a thought of Nmn'r.


NIGHT AND MORNING.
141
When the ceremony was over—when the bride
fell on her mother‘s breast and wept: and then,
when turning thence, her eyes met the bride-
groom‘s, and the tears were all smiled away——
when, in that one rapid interchange of looks,
spoke all that holy love can speak to love, and
with timid frankness she placed her hand in his
to whom she had just vowed her life—a thrill
went through the hearts of those present, Vaude-
mont sighed heavily. He heard his sigh echoed,
but by one that had in its sound no breath of
'n: he turned; Fanny had raised her vail;
2:- eyes met his, moistened, but bright, soft,
and her cheeks were rosy red. Vaudemont re-
coiled before that gaze, and turned from the
church. The crowd dispersed. The persons
interested retired to the vest to sign their
names in the registry, and Van emoat and Fan-
ny stood alone in tho burial-ground.
“Look, Fanny,” said the former, pointing to
a tomb that stood far from his mother’s (for
thou ashes were too hallowed for such a neigh-
borhood). “Look yonder; it is a new tomb,
Fanny; let us approach it. Can you read what
is there inscribed 'P”
The inscription was simply this :
ToW G
KAN SEES THE DEED—GOD THE CIRCUMSTANCE.
JUDGE NOT, THAT YE BE NOT JUDGED.


“Fanny, this tomb fulfills your pious wish: it
is to the memory of him whom you called your
father. \Vhatevcr was his life here—whatever
sentence it hath received, Heaven, at least, will
not condemn your piety, if you honor one who
was good to you, and place flowers, however
idle, even over that grave."
“It is his—my father’s; and you thought of
this for me,” said Fanny, taking his hand, and
sobbing. “And I have been thinking that you
were not so kind to me as you were i" -
“Have I not? Nay, forgive me, I am not
haPPY- '
“ Not ? You said yesterday you had been too
hB I”
“To remember happiness is not to be happy,
Fann .”
“' hat’s true; and—”
Funny stopped; and, as she bent over the
tomb, musing, Vaudcmont, willing to leave her
undisturbed, and feeling bitterly how little his
conscience could vindicate, though it might find
palliation for, the dark man who slept not there,
retired a few paces.
At this time the new-married pair, with their
witnesses, the clergyman, &c., came from the
vestry and crossed the path. Fanny, as she
turned from the tomb, saw them, and stood still,
looking earnestly at the bride.
“What a lovely face i” said the mother; “is
it—yes, it is—the poor idiot girl.”
“Ah i” said the bridegroom, temlerly, “and
she, Mary, beautiful as she is, she can never
make another as happy as you have made me."
Vaudemont heard, and his heart felt sad.
“Poor Fanny! And yet, but for that afliiction,
.1 might have loved her ere I met the fatal face
of the daughter of my fuel” And with a deep
compassion, an inexpressible and holy fondness,
he moved to Fanny.
“Come, my child, now let us go home.”
“ Stay," said Fanny, l‘you forget.” And she
went to strew the flowers still left over Catha-
rine‘s grave.
“Will my mother,” thought Vaudemont,
“forgive me if I have other thoughts than hate
and vengeance for that house which builds its
greatness over her slandered name ‘3" He
groaned: and that grave had lost its melan-
choly charm.
+
CHAPTER VII.
“ Of all men, 1 say,
That dare, for 'tll a desperate adventure,
Wear on their free necks the yoke of women,
Give me a soldier.”-—Knight of Malta.
“So lightly doth this little boat
Upon the aearco-touch‘d billows float ;
Bo careless doth she seem to be.
Thus left by herselfon the ltmnelcss sari,
To in there with her ehecrt'ul sail,
Till eaven shall semi some gracious gale."
Wtuou: Isle of Palm.
VAUDEMONT returned that evening to London,
and found at his lodgings a note from Lord Lil-
burne, stating that, as his gout was now some-
what mitigated, his physician had recommended
him to try change of air—that Beaufort Court
was in one of the western counties, in a genial
climate—that he was therefore going thither the
next day for a short time—that he had asked
some of Monsieur do Vaudemont’s countrymen
and a few other friends, to enliven the circle 0
a dull country-house—that Mr. and Mrs. Beau-
fort would be delighted to see Monsieur do
Vaudemont also—and that his compliance with
their invitation would be a charity to Monsieur
de Vaudemont’s faithful and obliged
LILBonnn.
The first sensation of Vaudemont, on reading
this effusion, was delight. “I shall see her,
he cried; “I shall be under the same roof !"
But the glow faded at once from his cheek.
The roof—what roof? Be the guest where he
held himself the lord! Be the "nest of Robert
Beaufort ! Was that all? Did he not meditate
the deadliest war which civilized society admits
of—the IVar of Law—war for name, property,
that very hearth, with its household gods, against
this man? Could he receive his hospitality?
“And what then i” he exclaimed, as he paced
to and fro the room; “because her father
wronged me, and because I would claim mine
own, must I therefore exclude from my thoughts,
from my sight. on image so fair and gentle; the
one who knelt by my side, an infant, to that hard
man ‘? Is Hate so noble a passion that it is not
to admit one glimpse of Love? Love! what
word is that? Let me beware in time i" He
paused in fierce self-contest, and, throwing open
the widow, gasped for air. The street in which
he lodged was in the neighborhood ofSt. James‘s;
and, at that very moment, as if to defeat all op-
osition and to close the strug 1e, Mrs. Beau-
iort’s barouehe drove by, Camila at her side.
Mrs. Beaufort, glancing up, languidly bowed;
and Camilla herself perceived him, and he saw
her change color as she inclined her head. He
l gazed, alter them almost breathless, till the ear-
; riage disappeared; and then, reclosing the win-
]dow, he sat down to collect his thoughts, and


142 NIGHT AND MORNING.
again to reason with himself. But still, as he he ascribed the aflliction of an imbecility which
reasoned, he saw ever before him that blush and would give such a sentiment—all the attributes
that smile. At last he sprang up, and a noble Ieither of the weakest rashness or of dishonor ap-
and bright expression elevated the character of 1
his face: “Yes; if] enter that house, il'I eat
that man’s bread, and drink of his cup, I mustl
forego, not justice—not what is due to my moth- ;
er's name—but whatever belongs to hate and1
vengeance. If I enter that house, and if Provi-
dencc permit me the means whereby to regain
my rights, why, she—the innocent one—she may
be the means of saving her father from ruin, and
stand like an angel by that boundary where jus-
tice runs into revenge! Besides, is it not my
duty to discover Sidney ? Here is the only clew
Ishnll obtain.” With these thoughts he hesi-
tated no more—he decided: he would not reject i
this hospitality, since it might be in his ower
to pay it back ten thousand-fold. “An who
knows,” he murmured again, “if Heaven, in
throwing this sweet being in my way, might not
have designed to subdue and ohasten in me the
angry passions I have so long fed on ? I have
seen her : can I now hate her father 1’”
Ho sent otf his note accepting the invitation.
When he had done so, was he satisfied? He
had taken as noble and as large a view of the
duties thereby imposed on him as be well could
take; but something whispered at his heart,
“There is weakness in thy enerosity. Darest
thou love the daughter of ' ohert Beaufort 1'"
And his heart had no answer to this voice.
The rapidity with which love is ripened de-
pends less upon the actual number of years that
have passed over the soil in which the seed is
cast, than upon the freshness of the soil itself.
A young man who lives the ordinary life of the
world, and who fritters away, rather than ex-
hausts, his feelings upon a variety of quick suc-
ceeding subjects—the Cynthias of the minute-—
is not apt to form a real passion at the first
sight. South is not inflammable unless the
heart is young.
There are certain times oflife when, in either
sex, the alli-ciions are prepared, as it were, to
be impressed with the first fair face that attracts
the fancy and delights the eye. Such times are
when the heart has been long solitary, and when
some interval of idleness and rest succeeds to

preaching to sacrilege—that the wings of the
deitv were scared away the instant their very
shadow fell upon his mind. And thus, when
Camilla rose upon him, his heart was free to
receive her image. Her graces, her accom-
plishments, a certain nameless charm that in-
vested her, pleased him even more than her
beauty; the recollections connected with that
first time he had ever beheld her were also
grateful and endearing; the harshness with
which her parents spoke to her moved his com-
assion, and addressed itself to a temper pecu-
iarly alive to the generosity that leans toward
the weak and the wronged; the engaging mix-
ture of mildncss and gayety with which she
tended her peevish and sneering unclo, con-
vinced him of her better and endurin qualities
of disposition and womanly heart. An even—so
strange and contradictory are our feelings-—
the very remembrance that she was connected
with a family so hateful to him made her own
image the more bright from the darkness that
surrounded it. For was it not with the daugh-
ter of his foe that the lover of Verona fell in love
at first sight ? And is not that a common type of
us all; as if Passion deliohted in contradictions?
As the diver, in Schiller s exquisite ballad, fast-
ened, in the midst of the gloomy sea, upon the
rock of coral, so we cling the more gratefully to
whatever of fair thought and gentle shelter-
smiles out to us in the~depths of Hate and
Strife.
But perhaps Vaudemont would not so sud-
denly and so utterly have rendered himself to a
passion that began, already, completely to mas-
ter his strong spirit, if he had not, from Camilla’s
embarrassment, her timidity, her blushes, in-
toxicated himself with the belief that his feelings
were not unshared. And who knows not that.
such a belief, once cherished, ripens our own
love to a development in which hours are as
years ?
It was, then, with such emotions as made him
almost blind to every thought but the luxury of
breathing the same air as his cousin, which swept
from his mind the Past, the Future, leaving noth-
periods of harsher and more turbulent excite- 4 ing but a joyous, a breathless Passsnr on the
meat. This was precisely such a period in the l face of Time, that be repaired to Beaufort Court.
life of Vaudemont. Although his ambition had He did not return to H before he went, but
been for many years his dream, and his sword ' he wrote to Fanny a short and hurried line to
his mistress, yet, naturally atfectionate, and sus- explain that he might be absent for some days
ceptible of strong emotion, he had often repined l at least, and promised to write again if he should

at his lonely lot. By degrees, the boy's fantasy l
and reverence, which had wound themselves :
round the im e of Eugénie, subsided into that;
gentle and ten er melancholy, which, perhaps, by
weakening the strength of the sterner thoughts, l
leaves us inclined rather to receive than to re-,
sist a new attachment; and on the verge of the
sweet Memo trembles the sweet Hope. The'
suspension 0 his profession, his schemes, his
struggles, his career, left his passions unem-
ployed. Vaudemont was thus unconsciously}
prepared to love. As we have seen, his first‘
and earliest feelings directed themselves to Fan-
ny. But he had so immediately detected the
danger, and so immediately rccoiled from nurs-
ing those thoughts and fancies, without which
lovo dies for want of food, for a person to whom i
be detained longer than he anticipated.
In the mean while, one of those successive rc-
volutions which had marked the eras in Fanny’s
moral existence, took its date from that last time
they had walked and conversed together.
The very evening of that day, some hours after
Philip was gone, and after Simon had retired to
rest. Fanny was sitting before the dying fire in
the little parlor, in an attitude of deep and pen-
sive reverie. T he old woman-servant, Sarah,
who, very ditferent from Mrs. Boxer, loved F an-
ny with her whole heart, came into the room, as
was her wont before going to bed, to see that
the fire was duly out and all safe; and, us she
approached the hearth, she started to see Fanny
still up.
“Dear heart-alive !" she said; “ why, Miss


niuii'r AND moalcz'mo.
143
Fanny, you will catch your death of cold : what
are you thinking about?”
“ Sit down, Sarah; [ want to speak to you.”
Now, though Fanny was exceedingly kind and
attached to Sarah, she was seldom communica-
tive to her, or, indeed, to any one. It was
usually in its own silence and darkness that that
level mind worked out its own doubts.
“ you, my sweet young lady? I’m sure
any thing I can do—” and Sarah seated herself
in her master's great chair, and drew it close to
Fanny. There was no light in her room but the
expiring fire, and it threw upward a pale glim-
mer on the two faces bending over it, the one so
beautiful, so smooth, so blOoming. so exquisite
in its youth and innocence, the other withered,
wrinkled, me or, and astute. It was like the
Fa' and the itch together.
“ all, miss,” said the crone, observing that,
after a considerable pause, Fanny was still
silent; “ woll—”
“ Sarah, I have seen a wedding !”
“Have you ‘2” and the old woman laughed.
“Oh! I heard it was to be today !—young
Waldron’s wedding! Yes, they have been long
sweethearts.”
“Were you ever married, Sarah ?”
“Lord bless you, yes! and a very good hus-
band I had, poor man! But he‘s dead these
many years; and, if you had not taken me, I
must have gone to the workhus.”
“He is dead! Wasn’t it very hard to live
after that, Sarah?”
“The Lord strengthens the hearts of wid-
ders l" observed Sarah, sanctimoniously.
“Did you marry'your brother, Sarah ?” said
Fanny, playing with the corner of her apron.
“My brother!” exclaimed the old woman,
aghast. “La! miss, you must not talk in that
way: it’s quite wicked and heathenish! One
must not marry one’s brother !”
“No!” said Fann ', trembling] Y, and turning
very pale, even by at light. “ o! Are you
sure of that?”
“It is the wickedest thing even to talk about,
my dear young mistress; but you’re like a hobby
unborn !’
Fanny was silent for some moments. At
length she said, unconscious that she was speak-
ing aloud, “ But he is not my brother, after all 1”
“Oh, miss, fie! Are you letting your pretty
head run on the handsome gentleman? You,
too—dear, dear! I see we’re all alike, we poor
t'emel creturs! You! who’d have thought it?
Oh, Miss Fanny! you’ll break your heart if you.
goes for to fancy any such thing.”
“ Any what thing !”
“ Why, that that gentleman will marry you!
I’m sure, thof he’s so simple like, he’s some
great gentleman! .They say his boss is worth
a hundred pounds! Dear, dear! why didn’t I
ever think of this before? He must be a very
wicked man. I see, now, why he comes here. I’ll
speak to him, that I will !—-a very wicked man!"
Sarah was startled from her indignation by Fan-
ny's rising suddenly, and standing before her in the
flickering twilight, almost like a shape transform-
ed, so tall did she seem, so stately, so dignified.
“Is it of him that you are speaking?” said
the, in a voice of calm but deep resentment:
“ of him ! I! so, Sarah, we two can live no more
in the same house.”

And these words were said with a propriety
and collectedness that even, through all her
terror, showed at once to Sarah how much they
now wronged Fanny who had sull'erod their lips
to re at the parrot-cry ol' the “idiot girl!”
“ h! racious me! miss—ma’am—I am so
sorry—PE rather bite out my tongue than say a
word to ofl‘end you; it was only my love for you,
dear innocent creature that you are!” and the
honest woman sobbed with real passion as she
clasped Fanny‘s hand. “There have been so
many young persons, ood and_harmless, es,
even as you are, ruin But you don't un er-
stand me. Miss Fanny! hear me: I must try
and say what I would say. That man—that
gentleman—so proud, so well-dressed, so grand-
ike—will never marry you, never—never. And
if ever he says he does love you, and you say 'ou
loves him, and you two don t marry, you will' be
ruined and wicked, and die—die of a broken
heart ‘2"
The earnestness of Sarah’s manner subdued
and almost awed Fanny. She sunk down again
in her chair, and sufl'ered the old woman to
caress and weep over her hand for some mo-
ments, in a silence that concealed the darkest
and most agitated feelings Fanny‘s life had
hitherto known. At length she said,
“ hy may he not marry me if he loves me?
He is not my brother, indeed he is not! I’ll
never call him so again."
"' He can not marry you,” said Sarah, resolved,
with a sort of rude noblencss, to persevere in
what she felt to be a duty; “1 don’t say
any thing about money, because that does not
always signify. But he can not marry you, be-
cause—because people who are hedicated one
way never marry those who are hcdicnted and
brought up in another. A gentleman of that
kind requires a wife to know—oh—to know ever
so much; and you—”
“ Sarah," interrupted Fanny, rising again, but
this time with a smile on her face, “don’t say
any thing more about it; I forgive you, if you
promise never to speak unkindly of him again—
ncver—never—never, Sarah!”
“ But I may just tell him that—thnt—”
“ That what 2?”
“That you are so young and innocent, and
no protector like 3 and that, if you were to love
him, it would be a shame in him—that it would l”
And then (oh! no, Fanny, there was nothing
clouded now in your reasonl)-—ond then the
woman’s alarm, the modesty, the instinct, the
terror, came upon her.
“Never! never! I will not love him—I do
not love him, indeed, Sarah. If you spbak to
him, I will never look you in the face again. It
is all past—all, dear Sarah 1"
She kissed the old woman; and Sarah, fancy-
ing that her sagacity and counsel had prevailed,
promised all she was asked; so they went up
stairs together—friends.
_-_.-_
CHAPTER VIII.
‘ " As the wind
Bobs, an uncertain sweetness comes from out
The ornngeqrees.
Ilise lup. élymia'm. 'She sleep-s soundly: Ho!
Stirring ll last."—Buutv COINWALL-


144
NIGHT AND MORNING.
Tin-z next day Fanny was seen by Sarah,
counting the little hoard that she had so long,
and so painfully saved for her benefactor’s tomb.
The money was no longer wanted for that object
—-Fanny had found another; she said nothing to :
Sarah or to Simon. But there was a shame, ‘
complacent smile upon her lip as she busted
herself in her work that puzzle the old woman.
Late at noon came the postman’s unwonted‘
knock at the door. A letter! a letter for Miss
Fanny. A letter! the first she had ever re-
ceived in her life. And it was from him! and
it began with “ Dear Fanny.” Vaudemont had ,
called her “dear Fanny" a hundred times, and
the expression had become a matter of course.
But “Dear Fanny" seemed so ve difi'erent
when it was written. The letter can d no well
be shorter, nor, all things considered, colder.
But the girl found no fault with it. It began
with “DcanFanny,” and ended with “Yours,
truly.” “Yours, truly—mine, truly-and how
kind to write at all!” Now it so happened
that Vauden‘iontq having never inerwed the art
of the penman into that rapid scrawlsinto which
people who are compelled to write hurriedly
and eonstantl degenerate, wrote a remarkably
good hand— old, clear, symmetrical—almost
too good a hand for one who was not to make
money by caligraphy. And, after Fanny had
got the words by heart, she stole gently to a
cupboard. and took forth some specimens of her
own hand, in the shape of house and work mem-
oranda, and extracts which, the better to help
her memory, she had made from the poem-book
Vaudeinont had given her. She gravely laid his
letter by the side of these specimens, and blush-
ed at the contrast; yet, after all, her own writ-
ing, though trembling and irresolute, was far
from a bad or vulgar hand. But emulation was
now fairly roused within her. Vaudemont, pre-
occupied by more engrossing thoughts, and, in-
deed, forgetting a danger which had seemed so
thorough y to have passed away, did not, in his
letter, caution Fanny against going out alone.
She remarked this; and, having completely re-
covered her own alarm at the attempt that had
been made on her liberty, she thought she was
now released from her promile to guard against
a past and imaginary eril. So after dinner she
slipped out alone, an went to the mistress of
the school where she had received her element-
ary education. She had ever since continued
her acquaintance with that lady, who, kind-
hearted, and touched by her situation, often em-
ployed her industry, and was far from blind to
the improvement that had for some time been
silently working in the mind of her old pupil.
Fanny had a long conversation with this lady,
and she brought back a bundle of books. The
light might have been seen that night, and many
nights alter, burning ion and late from her lit-
tle window. And, havin recovered her old
freedom of habits, which gimon, poor man, did
not notice, and which Sarah, thinking that any
thing was better than moping at home, did not
remonstrate against, Fanny went out regularly
for two hours, or sometimes for even a longer
period, every evening, after old Simon had com-
posed himself to the nap that filled up the inter-
short—Fanny’s handwriting was not the same
thing; her manner of talking became different;
she no longer called herself “Fanny” when she
spoke; the music of her voice was not quiet and
settled; her sweet expression of face was more
thoughtful; the eyes seemed to have deepened
in their very color; she was no longer heard
chanting to herself as she tripped along. The
books that she nightly fed on had passed into her
mind; the poetry that had ever unconsciously
sported round her young years be an new to
create poetry in herself. Nay, it might almost
have seemed as if that restless disorder of the
intellect, which the dullards had called Idiotey,
had been the wild eflbrts, not of Folly, but of
Games seeking to find its path and outlet from
the cold and dreary solitude to which the circum-
stances of her early life had compelled it. Days,
even weeks passed: she never spoke of Vande-
mont. And once, when Sarah, astonished and
bewildered by the change in her young mistress,
asked,
“When does the gentleman come back ‘2”
Fanny answered, with a mysterious smile,
“Not yet, I hope—not quite yet l"
+
CHAPTER IX.
"TM. 1 do begin
To feel an alteration in my nature,
And in his full-sailed confidence a shower
Ofgnlle rain, that, falling on the fire,
Ha quenched it.
I Hdw lslmy lieart divided
Between the duty of a son and love !"
Beaumon- AND Fan-ream: Thin-11 and Thmdaret.
VAUDEMONT had now been a month at Beau-
fort Court. The scene of a country house, with
the sports that enliven it and the accomplish-
ments it calls forth, was one in which he was
well fitted to shine. He had been an excellent
shot as a boy; and, though long unused to the
fowling-picee, had in India acquired a deadly
precision with the rifle; so that a very few days
of practice in the stubbles and covers of Beaufort
Court made his skill the theme of the guests and
the admiration of the keepers. Hunting began,
and—this pursuit, always so strong a passion in
the active man, and which, to the turbulence and
agitation of his half-tamed breast, now excited
by a kind of frenzy of hope and fear, gave a vent
and release—was a sport in which he was yet
more fitted to excel. His horsemanship, his
during, the stone walls he leaped, and the floods
through which he dashed, furnished his compan-
ions with wondcring tale and comment on their
return home. Mr. Marsden, who, with some
other of Arthur’s early friends, had been invited
to Beaufort Court in order to welcome its ex-
pected heir, and who, retaining all the rudence
which had distinguished him of ore, w en, hav-
ing ridden over old Simon, he dismounted to ex-
amine the knees of his horse—Mr. Marsden, a
skillful huntsman, who rode the most experienced
horses in the world, and who generally contrived
to be in at the death, without having leaped over
any thing higher than a hurdle, suffering the
holder quadru ed (in case what is called the

val between dinner and tea.
In a very short time—a time that, With ordina-
ry stimulants, would have seemed marvelously=
“ knowledge 0? the country”—-that is, the knowl~
edge of ga s and gates—failed him) to perform
the more angerous feats alone, as he quietly


NIGHT AND MORNING.
145
scrambled over or scrambled through upon foot,
and remonnted the well-taught animal when it
halted after the exploit, safe and sound—Mr.
Marsden declared that he never saw a rider with
so little judgment as Monsieur do Vaudcmont,
and that the devil was certainly in him.
This sort of reputation, commonplace and
merely physical as it was in itself, had a certain
effect upon Camilla: it might be an effect of
fear. I do not say, for I do not know, what her
feelings toward Vauderuont exactly were. As
the culmest natures are often those the most
hurried away by their contrarics, so perhaps he
awed and dazzled rather than pleased her; at
least, he certainly forced himself on her interest.
Still she Would have started in terror if any one
had said to her, “Do you love your betrothed
less than when you met by the happy lake ‘2” and
her heart would have indigncutly rebuked the
questioner. The letters of her lover were still
long and frequent; hers were briefer and more
subdued. But then there was constraint in the
correspondence : it was submitted to her mother.
Whatever might be Vandctnont’s manner to
Camilla whenever occasion threw them alone
together, he certainly did not make his attentions
glaring enough to be remarked. His eye watch-
ed her rather than his lip addressed; he kept as
much aloof as possible from the rest of her fam-
ily, and his customary hearing was silent even
to gloom. But there were moments when he in-
dulged in a fitfnl exuberance of spirits, which
had something strained and unnatural. He had
outlived Lord Lilburne’s short liking; for, since
he had resolved no longer to keep watch on that
noble gamester’s method of play, he played but
little himself ; and Lord Lilburne saw that he
had no chance of ruining him: there was, there-
fore, no longer any reason to like him. But this
. was not all: when Vaudemont had been at the
house somewhat more than two weeks, Lil-
burne, petulant and impatient, whether at his re-
fusals to join the card-table, or at the moderation
with which, when he did, be confined his ill-luck
to petty losses, one day hobbled up to him as he
stood at the embrasure of the window, gazing
on the wide lauds beyond, and said,
“ 	'audcmont, you are holder in hunting, they
tell me, than you are at whist."
“ Honors dcn’ttell against one—overo hedge l”
“What do you mean ‘3" said Lilburne, rather
haughtily.
Vaudemout was at that moment in one of those
hitter moods whenthe sense of his situation—4M
sight of the usurpcr in his home—often swept
away the gentler thoughts inspired by his fatal
passion. And the tone of Lord Lilburne, and
his loathing to the man, were too much for his
temper.
“ Lord Lilburne,” he said, and his lips curled,
“ if you had been born poor, you would have
made a great fortune; you phty luckily l"
“ How am I to take this, sir ‘2"
“ As you please,’7 answered Vaudemcnt,
calmly, but with an eye of fire. And he turned
sway.
Lilburne remained on the spot very thought-
ful. “ Hum ! he suspects me. I can not quar-
rel on such ground—tho suspicion itselfdishonors
Inc—I must seek another."
The next day, Lilburne, who was familiar with
Mr. Marsdcn (though tl? latter gentlemannever

played at the same table), asked that prudent
person, after breakfast, if he happened to have
his pistols with him. '
“ Yes, I always take them into the country;
one may as well practice when one has the op-
portunity. Besides, sportsmen are often quar-
relsome; and if it is known that one shoots well,
it keeps one out of narrcls l”
“Very true,” sai Lilburne, rather admiring-
] ; “ I have made the some remark myself when
was younger. I have not shot with a pistol
for some years. I am well enough now to walk
out with the help of a stick. Suppose we prac-
tice for half an hour or so."
“ With all my heart,” said Mr. Marsden.
The istols were brought, and they strolled
forth : 0rd Lilburne found his hand out.
“As I never hunt now,” said the peer, and he
gnashed his teeth and glanced at his maimed
limb; “ (for, though lameness would not prevent
my keepin my seat, violent exercise hurts my
leg; and rodie says any fresh accident might
bring on tic douloureux), and as my gout does
not permit me to join the shooting parties, it
would be a kindness in you to lend me your pis-
tols—it would while away an hour or so—though,
thank Heaven, my duelin days are over !”
“Certainly,” said Mr. Inrsden; and the pis‘
tols were consigned to Lord Lilburne.
Four days from that date, as Mr. Mnrsden.
Vaudemont, and some other gentlemen, were
making for the covers, they came upon Lord
Lilburne, who, in a part of the park not in sight
or sound of the house, was amusin himself with
Mr. Marsden’s pistols, which Dy cman was at
hand to load for him. He turned round, not at
all disconcerted by the interruption.
“ You have no idea how I’ve improved, Mars-
den; just see !” and he pointed to a glove nailed
to a tree. “I’ve hit that mark twice in five
times; and every time I have gone straight
enough along the line to have killed my man.”
“Ay, the mark itself does not so much sig-
nify,” said Mr. Marsden; “ at least, not in actual
dueling; the great thin is to be in the line.”
While he spoke, Lor Lilburnc’s bull went a.
third time throu h the glove. His cold, bright
eye turned on audemont as he said, with a
smile,
“ They tell me you shoot well with a fowling-
piece, my dear Vaudemont—ure you equally
adroit with the pistol?”
"- You may see, if you like; but you lake aim,
Lord Lilburne; that would be of no use in En-
glish dueling. Permit me.”
He walked to the glove and tore from it one
of the fingers, which he fastened separately to
the tree, took the pistol from Dykcman as he
walked past him, gained the spot whence to fire, ,
turned at once round, without apparent aim, and
the finger fell to the ground.
Lilburne stood aghast.
“That's wonderful!” said Marsdon, “quite
wonderful. Where the devil did you get such
a knack? for it’s only knack, after all! ’
“I lived for many years in a country where
the practice was constant—where all that be-
longs to rifle-shooting was a necessary accom-
plishment: a country in which man had often to
contend against the wild beast. In civilized
states, man himself so plies the place of the
wild beast—but we don t hunt him! Lord Ld’


146
NIGHT AND MORNING.
home” (and this was added with a smiling and
disdainl‘ul whisper), “you must practice a little
more."
But, disregnrdful of the advice, from that day
Lord Lilburne‘s morning occupation was gone.
He thought no more of a duel with Vaudemont.
As soon as the sportstuen had left him, he bnde
Dykeinnn take upthe pistols, and walked straight
home into the library, where Robert Beaufort,
who 'was no sportsman, generally spent his
_ mornings.
He flung himself down on an arm-chair, and
said, as he stirred the fire with unusual vehe-
mence,
“ Beaufort, I’m very sorry I asked you to in-
vite Vaudemont. He’s a very ill-bred, disagree-
ablo fellow l”
Beaufort threw down his steward’s account-
book on which he was employed, and replied,
“Lilburne, I have never had an easy moment
since that man has been in the house. As he
was your guest, I did not like to speak before;
but don’t you observe—you must observe—how
like he is to the old family portraits! The more
I have examined him, the more another resem-
blance grows upon me. “In a word,” said
Robert, pausing, and breathing hard, “if his
name were not audemont—if his history were
not, apparently, so well known, I should say—I
should swear that it is Philip Morton who sleeps
under this roof!"
“ Ha !“ said Lilburne, with an earnestness that
surprised Beaufort, who expected to have heard
his brother-in-low’s sneering sarcasm at his
fears, “the likeness you speak of to the old por-
traits did strike me; it struck Marsdcn, too, the
other day, as we were passing through the pic-
ture-gallery; and Marsden remarked it aloud to
Vaudemont. I remember, now, that he changed
countenance, and made no answer. Hush! hush!
hold your tongue; let me think—let me think.
This Philip—yes—yes—I and Arthur saw him
with—with—Gowtrey—in Paris—”
“ Gawtrey! Was that the name of the rogue
he was said to—"
“ Yes—ycs—yes. Ah! now I guess the mean-
ing of those looks—those words," muttered Lil-
burne, between his teeth. “This protension to
the name of Vaudcmont was always apocryphal
—the story always but half believed—the inven-
tion of a woman in love with him. The claim
on your property is made at the very time he
appears in England. Hal have you a newspa-
per there? Give it me. No! it’s not in this
paper. Ring the bell for the file!”
“What’s the matter? You terrify me l”
gasped out Mr. Beaufort, as he rang the bell.
“Why! have you not seen an advertisement
repeated several times within the last month?”
“I never read advertisements, except in the
county paper, if land is to be sold.’7
“ Nor I often ; but this caught my eye. John
(here the servant entered), bring the file of the
newspa era. The name of the witness whom
Mrs. l ortou appealed to was Smith, the same
name as the captain: what was the Christian
name ?"
“I don’t remember."
“Here are the papers—shut the door—end
here is the advertisement : ‘If Mr. William
Right Hon. Charles Leopold Beaufort (that’s
your uncle), and who emigrated in the year 18—
‘ to Australia, will app] to Mr. Barlow, Solicitor,
Essex-street, Strand, he will hear of something
i to his advantage.’ “
l "‘ Good Heavens! why did you not mention
, this to me before ‘2”
“ Because I did not think it of any importance.
lIn the first place, there might be some legacy
--left to the man, quite distinct from your business.
Indeed, that was the probable supposition: or,
‘ even if connected with the claim, such ‘an adver-
ltisement might be but a despicable attempt to
ffrighten you. Never mind—don’t look so pale
l—after all, this is a proof that the witnessis not
found; that Captain Smith is neither the Smith,
nor has discovered where the Smith is l”
“True !” observed Mr. Beaufort: “ true—'
very true !"
“ Humph!” said Lord Lilburne, who was still
rapidly glancing over the file, “here is another
advertisement which I never saw before: this
looks suspicious. “If the person who called,
on the —- of September, on Mr. Morton, linen-
draper, &c., of N , will renew his applica-
tion, personally or by letter, he may now obtain
the information he sought for.’ ”
“Morton! the woman’s brother! their uncle!
it is too clear l”
“But what brings this man—if he be really
Philip Morton, what brings him here ?— to spy
or to threaten ?”
“ I will get him out of the house this day.”
“No—no; turn the watch upon himseéf. I
see, now: he is attracted by your daughter;
sound her quietly; don’t tell her to discourage
his confidences; find out if he ever speaks of
these Mortons. Ha! lrec-ollect—he has spoken
to me of the Mortons, but vaguely—I forget
what. Humph! this is a man of spirit and
daring; watch him, I say—watch him! When
does Arthur come back?”
“ He has been traveling so slowly, for he still
corn lains of his health, and has had relapses:
but 0 ought to he in Paris this week; perhaps
he is there now. Good Heavens! he must not
meet this man 1”
“Do what I tell you. Get out all from your
daughter. Never fear: he can do nothing
against you except by law. But if he really
like Camilla—”
“ He! Philip Morton—the adventurer—the—"
“ He is the eldest son; remember, you thought
even of accepting the second. He may find the
witness—he may win his suit; if he like Camilla,
there may be a. compromise.”
Mr. Beaufort felt as if turned to ice.
“You think him likely to win this infamous
suit, then ‘2” he faltercd.
“Did you not guard against the possibility by
securing the brother ? More worth while to do
it with this man. Hark yet the politics of pri-
vate are like those of public life: when the state
can not crush a dcmagogue, it should entice him
over. If you can ruin this dog” (and Lilburne
stumped his foot fiencely, forgetful of the gout),
“ruin him! hang him! If you can’t” (and
here, with a. wry face, he caressed the injured
foot), “if you can’t (’sdoath, what a twinge l),


and he can ruin you, bring him into the family,
Smith, son of Jeremiah Smith, who formerly! and make his secrets ours! I must go and lie
rented the farm of Shipdale-Bury, under the late l down—I have over excited myself.”


NIGHT AND MORNING.
147
In great pcrplexity Beaufort repaired at once
to Camilla. His nervous agitation betrayed itself,
though he smiled a ghastly smile, and intended to
be exceedingly cool and collected. His questions,
which confused and alarmed her, soon drew out
the fact, that the very first time Vaudemont had
been introduced to her, he had spoken of the
Mortons; and that he had often afterward al-
luded to the subject, and seemed at first strongly
impressed with the notion that the younger
brother was under Beaufort’s protection, though
at last he appeared reluctantly convinced of the
contrary. Robert, however agitated, preserved
at least enough of his natural slyness not to let
out that be suspected Vaudemont to be Philip
Morton himself, for he feared lest his daughter
should betray that suspicion to its object.
“But,” said he, with a look meant to win
confidence, “I dare say he knows these young
men. I should like to know myself more about
them. Learn all you can, and tell me; and I
say—I say, Camilla—he! he! hel—you have
made a conquest, you little flirt, you! Did he,
this Vaudcmont, ever say how much he admired
you ?”
“He! Never!” said Camilla, blushing, and
then turnin pale.
“But he ooks it. Ah! you say nothing, then.
Well, well, don’t discourage him—that is to say
—yes, don"t discourage him. Talk to him as
much as you can; ask him about his own early
life. I’ve a particular wish to know; it’s of great
importance to me.”
“But, my dear father," said Camilla, trem-
bling, and thoroughly bewildered, “I fear this
man—I fear—I fear—”
Was she going to add, “I fear myself?" I
know not; but she stopped short, and burst into
tears.
“Hang these girls l” muttered Mr. Beaufort,
“always crying when they ought to be of use
to one. Go down; dry your eyes; do as I tell
you, get all you can from him. Fear himl Yes,
I dare say she does!” muttered the poor man,
as he closed the door. ~
From that time, what wonder that Camilla’s
manner to Vaudcmont was yet more embarrassed
than ever? what wonder that he put his own
heart’s interpretation on that confusion ? Beau-
fort took care to thrust her more often than be-
fore in his wa '; he suddenly atfccted a creeping,
fawning civility to Vaudemont; he was sure he
was fond of music: what did he think of that
new air Camilla was so fond of ? He must be a
judge of scenery, he who had seen so much:
there were beautiful landscapes in the neighbor-
hood, and, if he would forcoo his sports, Camilla
drew prettily, had an eye lor that sort of thing,
and was so fond of riding.
Vaudemont was astonished at this change,
but his delight was greater than the astonish-
ment. He began to perceive that his identity
was suspected: perhaps Beaufort, more gener-
ous than he had deemed him, meant to repay
every early wrong or harshness by'that one in-
estimable blessing. The generous interpret
motives in extremes, ever too enthusiastic or
too severe. Vaudemont felt as if he had wronged
the wronger; he began to conquer even his
dislike to Robert Beaufort. For some days he
was thus thrown much with Camilla: the ques-
tions her father forced her to put to him, uttered

tremulously and fearfully, seemed to him proofs
of her interest in his fate. His feelings to
Camilla, so sudden in their growth, so ripened
and so favored by the sub-ruler of the world—
Cmcunrs'mivcs—might not, perhaps, have the
depth and the calm completeness of that one
true love, of which there are many counterfeits,
and which, in man at least, possibly requires the
touch and mellowness, if not of time. at least of
many memories, of perfect and tried conviction
of the faith, the worth, the value, and the beauty
of the heart to which it clings; but those feelings
were nevertheless strong, ardent, and intense.
He believed himself beloved, he was in Elysium.
But he did not yet declare the passion that
beamed .in his eyes. No! he would not yet
claim the hand of Camilla Beaufort, for he
imagined the time would soon come when he
could claim it, not as the inferior or the suppli-
ant, but as the lord of her father‘s fate.
-_+_._
CHAPTER X.
“ Here‘s something got among us !"—Kniglit of Malta.
Two or three nights after his memorable con-
versation with Robert Beaufort, as Lord Lilbume
was undressing, he said to his valet,
“Dykeman, I am getting well.”
“ Indeed, my lord, I never saw your lordship
look better."
“There you lie. I looked better last year; I
looked better the year before; and I looked bet-
ter and better every year back to the age pf
twenty-one! But I’m not talking of looks—no
man with money wants looks—I am talking of
feelings. I feel better. The gout is almost
gone. I have been quiet now for a month;
that’s a long time; time wasted when, at my
age, I have so little time to waste. Besides, as
you know, I am ve much in love."
“In love, my lot ? I thought that you told
me never to speak of—”
“Blockhead! what the deuce was the good
of speakinr' about it when I was wrapped in
flannels! 2I am never in love when I am ill-—
who is? I am well now, or nearly so; and I've
had things to vex rue—things to make this
place very disagreeable; I shall go to town,
and before this day week I shall have that pret-
ty little girl to enliven the solitude of Fernsidc.
I shall look to it myself now. I see you’re
going to say something : spare yourself the
trouble! Nothing ever goes wrong if I myself
take it in hand.”
The next day Lord Lilburnc, who, in truth,
felt himself uncomfortable and gém in the pres-l
once of Vaudemont, who had won as much as
the guests at Beaufort Court seemed inclined to
lose, and who made it the rule of his lifeto con-
sult his own pleasure and amusement before any
thing else, sent for his post-horses, and informed
his brother-in-law of his departure.
“And you leave me alone with this man just
when I am convinced that he is the person we
suspected! My dear Lilburnc, do stay till he
oes.‘ '
“ Impossible! I am between fifty_and sixty:
every moment is precious at that time of life.
Besides, I’ve said all I can may; rest quiet—act
on the defensive—entangle this cursed Vaude-


148
NIGHT AND MORNING.
mont, or Morton, or whoever he be, in the mesh
of your daughter’s charms, and then get rid of
him, not before. This can do no harm, let the
matter turn out how it will. Read the papers,
and send for Blackwell if you want advice on
an new advertisements. I don’t see that any
thing more is to be done at present. You can
write to me: I shall be at Park-lane or Fern-
side. Take care of yourself. You’re a lucky
fellow—you never have the gout! Good-
by !H
And in half an hour Lord Lilburne was on the
road to London.
The departure of Lilburne was a signal to
many others, especially and naturally to those he
himself had invited. He had not announced to
such visitors his intention of going till his car-
riage was at the door. This might be delicacy
or carelessness, just as ople chose to take it:
and how they did take it, Lord Lilburne, much
too selfish to be well-bred, did not care a rush.
The next day, half at least of the guests were
gone; and even Mr. Marsden, who had been
specially invited on Arthur’s account, announced
that he should go after dinner : he always travel-
ed by night—he slept well on the road—a day
was not lost by it.
“And it is so long since you saw Arthur!”
said Mr. Beaufort, in remonstrance, “and I ex-
pect him every day.”
“Very sorry—best fellow in the world—but
the fact is, that I am not very well myself. I
want a. little sen. air; I shall go to Dover or
Brighton. But I suppose you will have the
youse full again about Christmas; in that case,
shall be delighted to repeat ru ' visit.’7
The fact was, that Mr. Mars en, without Lil-
burne’s intellect on the one hand, or vices on the
other, was, like that noble sensualist, one of the
broken pieces of the great looking-glass “ SELF.”
He was noticed in society as always haunting
the places where Lilburne played at cards, care-
fully choosing some other table, and as carefully
betting upon Lilburne’s side. The card-tables
were now broken up; Vuudomont’s superiority
in shooting, and the manner in which he en-
grossed the talk of the sportsmen, displeased
im. He was bored—he wanted to be off—and
of he went. V audemont felt that the time was
come for him to depart too; but Robert Beaufort
—-who felt in his society the painful fascination
of the bird with the boa—who hated to see him
there, and dreaded to see him depart—who had
not yet extracted all the confirmation of his per-
suasions that he required, for Vaudemont easily
enough parried the artless questions of Camilla
—prcsscd him to stay with so eager an hospital-
_ ity, and made Camilla herself falter out against
her will, and even against her remonstranccs
(she never before had dared to remonstrate with
either father or mother), “ Could not you stay a
few days longer?” that Vaudemout was too con-
tented to yield to his own inclinations; and so,
for some little time longer, he continued to move
before the eyes of Mr. Beaufort—stern, sinister,
silent, mysterious—like one of the family pic-
turcs stepped down from its frame. Vaudemont
- wrote, however, to Fanny, to excuse his delay;
and, anxious to hear from her as to her own and
Simon’s health, bade her direct her letter to his
lod ing in London (of which he gave her the
adfress), whence, if he still continued to defer

his departure, it would be forwarded to him.
He did not do this, however, till he had been at
Beaufort Court several days after Lilburne’s de-
parture, and till, in fact, two days before the
eventful one which closed his visit.
The party, now greatly diminished, were at
breakfast when the servant entered, as usual,
with the letter-bag. Mr. Beaufort, who was
always important and pompous in the small eer-
emonials of life, unlocked the precious deposit
with slow dignity, drew forth the newspapers,
which he threw on the table, and which the gen-
tlemen of the party eagerly seized; then, diving
out one byQone, jerked first a letter to Camilla,
next a letter to Vaudemont, and, thirdly, seized
a letter for himself.
“I beg that there may be no ceremony, Mon-
sieur de Vaudemont. Pray excuse me. and fol-
low my example: I see this letter is from my
son;" and he broke the seal.
The letter ran thus:
“ MY DEAR FATHER—Almnsl as soon as you
receive this, I shall be with you. Ill us I am, I
can have no peace till I see and consult you.
The most startling—the most painful intelligence
has just been conveyed to me. It is like a
dream! It is of a nature not to bear any but
personal communication.
“Your affectionate son.
“Artrnun BEAUFORT.
“BeuIag'M.
“ P.S.--This will go by the same packet-boat
that I shall take myself, and can only reach you
a few hours before I arrive.”
Mr. Beaufort’s trembling hand dropped the
letter; be grasped the elbow of the chair to save
him from falling. It was clear the some visitor
who had persecuted himself had now sought his
son. He grew sick; his son might have heard
the witness—might be convinced. His son him-
self nma appeared to him as a foo; for the father
dreaded the son's honor! He glanced furtivcly
round the table, till his eye rested on Vaudemont,
and his terror was redoubletl, for Vaudemont’s
face, usually so calm, was animated to an ex-
traordinary degree as he now lifted it from the
letter he had just read. Their eyes met. Robert
Beaufort looked on him as a prisoner at the bar
looks on the accusing counsel when he first com-
mences his harnngue.
“Mr. Beaufort,” said the guest, “the letter
you have given me summons me to London on
important business, and immediately. Suffer
me to send for horses at your earliest conve-
nicnce.”
“What’s the matter?" said the feeble and
seldom-heard voice of Mrs. Beaufort. “ What's
the matter, Robert? Is Arthur coming‘ ?"
“He comes to-day,” said the father, with s
deep sigh; and Vaudemont, at that moment ris~
ing from his half-finished breakfast, with a how
that included the group, and with a glance that
lingered on Camilla as she bent over her own
unopened letter (a. letter from Winandermere, ,
the seal of which she dared not yet break). quit-
ted the room. He hastened to his own chamber,
and strode to and fro with a stately step—the
step of the master ; then taking forth the letter,
h; again hurried over its contents. They ran
t US:
is. L...


NIGHT AND MORNING.
149
“ DEAR. Sta—At last the missing witness has
applied to me. He proves to be, as you conjec-
tured, the same person who called on Mr. Roger
Merton; but, as there are some circumstances
on which I wish to take your instructions with-
out a moment‘s delay, I shall leave London by
the mail, and wait you at D-—- (at the princi-
inn), which is, I understand, twenty miles on
the high-road from Beaufort Court.
“I have the honor to he, sir, yours, &e.,
“Joun BARLOW.
"Essex-strut."
Vandemont was yet lost in the emotions that
this letter amused, when they came to announce
that his chaise was arrived. As he went down
the stairs he met Camilla, who was on the way
to her own room.
~‘ Miss Beaufort,” said he, in a low and trem-
ulous voice, “in wishing you farewell, I may not
now say more. I leave you, and, strange to say,
I do not regret it, for I go upon an errand that
may entitle me to return again, and speak those
thoughts which are uppermost in my soul even
at this moment.”
He raised her hand to his lips as he spoke, agd
at that moment Mr. Beaufort looked from t e
deor of his own room, and cried “ Camille..’7
She was too glad to escape. Philip gazed after
her light form for an instant, and then hurried
down the stairs.
._._‘__..
CHAPTER XI.
"Loaguenilla. What! are you married, Beaufort!
Beaufort. Ay, as fast
As words, and hands, and hearts, and priest
Could make us."
Bsumorrr AND Furor-run: Noble Gentlemen.
In the parlor of the inn at D sat Mr. John
Barlow. He had just finished his breakfast, and
was writing letters and looking over papers
connected with his various business, between the

intervals in his progress through a pint of sherry, ;
when the door was thrown open, and a gentleman
entered abruptly.
“ Mr. Beaufort,” said the lawyer, rising, “Mr.
Philip Beaufort—for such I now feel you are by
right, though,” he added, with his usual formal
and quiet, smile, “not yet by law; and much,
very much, remains to be done to make the law
and the right the same—I cungratulate you on
having something at last to work on. I had
begun to despair of finding up our witness after
a month’s advertisin , and had commenced other
investigations, of w ich I will speak to you
presently, when yesterday, on my return to
town from an errand on your business, I had
the pleasure of a visit from William Smith him-
self. My dear sir, do not et be too sanguine.
It seems that this poor fellow, having known
misfortune, was in America when the first fruit-
less inquiries were made. Long after this he
returned to the colony, and there met with a
brother, who, as I drew from him, was a con-
vict. He helped the brother to escape. They
bOth came to England. William learned from
adistant relation, who lent him some little money,
of the inquiry .that had been set on foot for him;
consulted his brother, who desired him to leave
all to his management. The brother afterward

assured him that you and Mr. Sidney were both
dead; and it seems (for the witness is simple
enough to allow me to extort all) he then went
to Mr. Beaufort, to hold out the threat of a law-
suit, and to otl'or the sale of the evidence yet ex-
isting—" '
“And Mr. Boaufort—”
“I am happy to say, seems to have spurned
the ofi'er. Meanwhile William, incredulous of
his brother’s report, proceeded to N , learned
nothing from Mr. Morton, met his brother again,
and the brother (confessing that he had deceived
him in the assertion that you and your brother
were dead) told him that he had known you in
earlier life, and set out to Paris to seek you—”
“Known me? To Paris ‘2”
“ More of this presently. William returned
to town, living hardly and penuriously on the
little his brother bestowed on him, too melancholy
and too poor for the luxury of a newspaper, and
never saw our advertisement, till, as luck would
have it, his money was out, he had heard nothing
farther of his brother, and he went for new as-
sistance to the same relation who had before
aided him. This relation, to his surprise, received
the poor man very kindly, lent him what he
wanted, and then asked him if he had not seen
our advertisement. The newspaper shown him
contained both the advertisements: that relating
to Mr. Morton’s visitor, that containing his own
name. He empled them both together, and
called on me at once. I was from town on your
business. He returned to his own home. The
next morning (yesterday morning) came a letter
from his brother, which I obtained from him at '
last, and with promises that no harm should hap-
pen to the writer on account of it."
Vaudemont took the letter and read as follows:

“ DEAR WILLIAM—N0 go about the oungster
I went after: all researches in vane. Parlsdevelish
expensive. Never mind, I have sene the other—
the young 3—; dilferent sort ol'fcllow from his
father—very ill—frightened out of his wits—will
go oil‘to the governor—take me with him as far
as Bullone. I think we shall settel it now. Mind,
as I saide before, don’t put your foot in it. I send
you a Nap in the sole—all I can spare.
t: yous,
“ JEREMIAH SMlTH.
“ Direct to me, Monsieur Smith—always a safe
name—Ship Inn, Bullone.”
“ Jeremiah—Smith—Jeremiah I"
“Do you know the name, then ?” said Mr.
Barlow. “Well, the poor man owns that he
was frightened at his brother—that he wished
to do what is right—that he feared his brother
would not let him—that your father was very
kind 'to him—and so he came 05 at once to me,
and I was very luckily at home to assure him
that the heir was alive and prepared to assert
his rights. Now, then, Mr. Beaufort, we have
the witness, but will that suffice us ‘2 I fear not.
Will the jury believe him with no other testimony
at his back? Consider! When he was gone, I
put myself in communication with some oriieers
at Bow-street about this brother of his :- a most
notorious character, commonly called in the police
slang Dashing Jerry—"
“Ah! Well, proceed!”
“ Your one witness, then, is a very poor, pen-


150
NIGHT AND MORNING.
niless man; his brother a rogue, a convict : this
witness, too, is the most timid, fiuotuatin r, ir-
resoluto fellow I ever saw: I should tremb e for
his testimony against a sharp, bullying lawyer.
And that, sir, is all at present we have to look to.”
“I see—I see. It is dangerous, it is hazard-
ous. But truth is truth; justice—justice! I will
run the risk."
“ Pardon me if I ask, Did you ever know this
brother ? Were you ever absolutely acquainted
with him ? in the same house ?”
“Many years since—years of early hardship
and trial—l was acquainted with him: what
then 2‘”
“I am sorry to hear it;” and the lawyer
looked grove. “Do you not see that if this
witness is browbeat—is disbelieved, and if it can
be shown that you, the claimant, was—forgive
my saying it—intimate with a brother of such a
character, why, the whole thing might be made
to look like perjury and conspiracy. If we stop
here, it is an ugly business I”
“ And is this all you have to say to me? The
witness is found—the only surviving witness—
thc only proof I ever shall or ever can obtain,
and you seek to terrify me—qnc, too—from using
the means for redress Providence itself vouch-
safes me. Sir, I will not hear you t”
"' Mr. Beaufort, you are impatient: it is nat-
ural. But if we go to law—that is, should I
have any thing to do with it, wait—wait till
your case is good. And hear me yet. This is
not the only proof—this is not the only witness:
you forgot that there was an examined cop of
the register; we may yet find that copy, with
person who copied it may yet be alive to attest
it. Occupied with this thought. and weary of
waiting the result of our advertisement, I resolved
to go into the neighborhood of Fernside. Luck-
ily, there was a gentleman’s seat to be sold in
the village. I made the survey of this place my
apparent business. After going over the house,
I appeared anxious to see how far some altera-
tions could he made—alterations to render it
more like Lord Lilburne’s villa. This led me
to re nest a sight of that villa: a crown to the
house ceper got me admittance. The house-
keeper had lived with your father, and been re-
tained by his lordship. I soon, therefore, knew
which were the rooms the late Mr. Beaufort
had principally occupied: shown into his study,
where it was probable he would keep his papers;
I inquired if it were the same furniture (which
seemed likely enough, from its age and fashion)
as in our father’s time: it was so; Lord Lil-
burne had bought the house just as it stood, and,
save a few additions in the drawing-room, the
general equipment of the villa remained unal-
tered. You look impatient! I’m coming to
the point. My eye fell upon an old-fashioned
bureau—7’
“But we searched every drawer in that bu-
reau!"
“Any secret drawers ‘2"
“ Secret drawers! No! there were no secret
drawers that I ever heard of!”
Mr. Barlow rubbed his hands, and finished his
pint before he proceeded:
“ [was struck with that bureau, for my father
had had one like it. It is not English—it is of
Dutch manufacture.”
“ Yes, I have heard that my father bought it

at a sale three or four years after his mar-
ri e.”
“ I heard this from the housekeeper, who was
flattered by my admiring it. I could not find
out from her at what sale it had been purchased,
but it was in the neighborhood, she was sure.
I had now a date to go upon; I learned, by care-
less inquiries, what sales near F ernside had taken
place in a certain year. A gentleman had died
at that date whose furniture was sold by auction.
With great difficulty,I found that his Widow
was still alive, living for up the country: I paid
her a visit; and, not to fatigue you‘with too
longan account, I have only to say thatshe not only
assured me that she perfectly remembered the
bureau, but that it had secret drawers and wells
very curiously contrived; nay, she showed me
the very catalogue in which the said receptacles
are noticed in capitals, to arrest the eye of the
bidder, and increase the price of the bidding.
That your father should never have revealed
where he stowed this document is natural enough
during the life of his uncle; his own life was
not spared long enough to give him much op-
portunity to explain afterward; but I feel per-
fectly persuaded in my own mind, that, unless
Mr. Robert Beaufort discovered that paper
among the others he examined, in one of those
drawers will be found all we want to substantiate
your claims. This is the more likely from your
father never mentioning, even to your mother,
apparently, the secret receptacles in the bureau.
Why else such mystery? The probability is,
that he received the document either just before
or at the time he purchased the bureau, or that
he bought it for that very purpose; and, havin
once deposited the paper in a place he decme
secure from curiosity—accident, carelessness,
policy, perhaps rather shame itself (pardon me),
for the doubt of your mother's discretion that
his sccrec seemed to imply, kept him from
ever alluding to the circumstance, even when
the intimacy of after years made him more as-
sured of your mother’s self-sacrificing devotion
to his interests. At his uncle’s death he thought
to repair all i”
“And how, if that be true—if that Heaven
which has delivered me hitherto from so many
dangers, has, in the very secrecy of my r
father, saved my birth-right from the gripe 0 the
usurper—how, I say, is--” ,
“The bureau to pass into our possession?
That is the difficulty. But we must contrive it
somehow, if all also fail us; meanwhile, as I
now feel sure that there has been a copy of that
register made, I wish to know whether I should
not immediately cross the country into Wales,
and see if I can find any person in the neighbor-
hood of A*** who did examine the copy taken;
for, mark you, the said copy is only of import-
ance as leading us to the testimony of the actual
witness who took it.”
“Sir,” said Vaudcmont, heartily shakin Mr.
Barlow by the hand, “forgive my first petu anee.
I see in you the very man I desired and wanted;
your acutcness surprises and encourages me.
Go to Wales, and God speed you !”
“Very well! in five mhiutes I shall be off.
Meanwhile, see the witness yourself; the sight
of his bencfactor’s son will do more to keep him
steady than any thing else. There’s his address,
and take care not to give him money. And


NIGHT AND MORNING.
151
now I will order my chaise: the matter begins |
to look worth.expense. Oh! I forgot to say
that Monsieur Liancourt called on me yesterday
about his own affairs. He wishes much to con-
sult you. I told him you would probably be
this evening in town, and he said he would wait
you at your lodging.”
“ Yes; I will not lose a moment in going to!
London and visiting our witness. And he saw
my mother at the altar! My poor mother !—
ah, how could my father have doubted her!"
and, as he spoke, he blushed for the first time
with shame at that father’s memory. He could
not yet conceive that one so frank, one usually
so bold and open, could for years have preserved ‘
from the woman who had sacrificed all to him,
a secret to her so important! That was, in
fact, the only blot on his father’s honor: a foul
and grave blot it was. Heavily had the punish-
ment fallen on those whom the father had loved
best. Alas! Philip had not yet learned what
terrible corrupters are the hope and fear of im-
meme wealth—Pay, even in men reputed the
most honorable, if they have been reared and
pampered in the belief that Wealth is the arch
lessing of life! Rightly considered, in Philip
Beanfert’s solitary meanness lay the vast moral
of this world’s darkest truth !
Mr. Barlow was gone. Philp was about to
enter his own chaise, when a dormeuse and four
drove up to the inn door to change horses. A
young man was reclining at his length in the,
carriage, wrapped in cloaks, and with a ghastly‘
puleness—the palencss of lon r and deep disease
—-upon his cheeks Hemrnc his dim eye with,
perhaps, a glance of the sick man’s envy on that
strong and athletic form, majestic with health,
and vigor, as it stood beside the more humblel
vehicle. Philip did not, however, notice the new!
arrival; he sprang into the chaise, it rattled on, l
and thus, unconsciously, Arthur Beaufort and
his cousin had a ain met! To which was now
the Night—to w ich the Morning ‘3
.__._..____
CHAPTER XII.
" Bahia. Let my men guard the walls.
Syana. And mlno the temple."-— The Island Princess.

Wmne thus eventfully the days and the weeks i
had passed for Philip, no less eventfully, so far!
as the inner life is concerned, had they glided!
away for Fanny. She had feasted in quiet andl
delightful thought on the consciousness that she
was improving—that she was growing worthier
brilliant woman; nor was it accomplishments of
which Fanny stood in need, so much as the
opening of her thoughts and mind by profitable
books and rational conversation. Beautiful as
were all her natural feelings, the sehoolmistrcss
had now little difficulty in educating feelings up
to the dignity of principles.
At last, hitherto patient under the absence of
one never absent from her heart, Fanny received
from him the letter he had addressed to her two
days before he uitted Beaufort Court; another
letter—a. secon letter—u. letter to crcuar him-
self for not coming before—a. letter that gave
her an address, that asked for a. reply. It was
a morning of unequaled delight, approaching to
transport. And then the excitement of answer-
ing it—the pride of showing how she was im-
proved—what an excellent hand she now wrote!
She shut herselfup in her room: she did not go
out that day. She placed the paper before her,
and, to her astonishment, all that she had to say
vanished from her mind at once. How was she
even to begin ? She had always hitherto called
him “Brother.” Ever since her conversation
with Sarah, she felt that she could not call him
that name again for the world—no, never ! But
what should she call him, what couhl she call
him? He signed himself “ Philip.” She knew
that was his name. She thought it a musical
name to utter, but to write it! No! some in-
stinct she could not account for seemed to whis-
per that it was improper—presumptuous to call
him “Dear Philip." Had Burns’s songs—the
songs that unthinkingly he had put into her hand,
and told her to read—songs that comprise the
most beautiful love-poems in the world—had
they helped to teach her some of the secrets of
her own heart? And had timidity come with
knowledge? Who shall say, who guess what
passed within her? Nor did Fanny herself,
perhaps, know her own feelings: but write the
words (‘Dcar Philip" she could not. And the
whole of that day, though she thought of noth-
ing else, she could not even got through the
first line to her satisfaction. The next morning
she sat down again. It would be so unkind i
she did not answer immediately: she must an-
swer. She placed his letter before her—she
resolutely began ; but copy after copy was made
and torn. And Simon wanted her—and Sarah
wanted her—and there were bills to be paid;
and dinner was over before her task was really
begun. But after dinner she began in good
earnest.
“How kind in you to write to rue” (the diffi-
of him—that he would perceive it on his return. unity of any name was dispensed with by adopt-
Her manner was more thoughtful, more collected ing none), “ and to wish to know about my dear
—less childish, in short, than it had been. And grandfather! He is much the same, but hardly
yet, with all the stir and flutter of the aroused‘ cvcr walks out new, and lhave had a good deal
intellect, the charm of her strange innocence of time to myself. Ithink something will sur-
was not scared away. She rejoiced in the an- prise you, and make you smile, as you used to
cient liberty she had regained of going out and do at first, when you come back. You must not
coming back when she pleased; and, as the be angry with me thatI have gone out by my-
wcaihcr was too cold ever to tempt Simon froml self very often—every day, indeed. I have been
his fireside, except, perhaps, for half an hourin so safe. Nobod has ever offered to be rude
the forenoon, so, the hours of dusk, when he again to Fanny“ (the word “Fanny” was here
least missed her, were those which she chieflyi carefully scratched out with a penknife, and me
appropriated for stealing away to the good, substituted.)
sclioolmistrcss, and growing wiser and wiser come.
every day in the ways of God and the learning
of his creatures. The schoolmistress was not a]
“ But you shall know all when you
And are you sure you are oll; quite
—quite well? Do you never have the headaches
you complained of sometimes? Do say this!


152
NIGHT AND MORNING.
Do you walk out—every day? Is there any
pretty church-yard near you now? \Vhom do
you walk with ‘3
“I have been so happy in putting the flowers
on the two graves. But I still give yours the
prettiest, though the other is so dear to me. I
feel sad when I come to the last, but not whenI
look at the one I have looked at so long. Oh,
how good you were! But you don't like me to
thank you.”
“ This is very stupid i" cried Fanny, suddenly
throwing down her pen, “and I don’t thinkI am
improved at all;” and she half cried with vexa-
tion. Suddenly a bright idea crossed her. In
the little parlor where the schoolmistress pri-
vately received her, she had seen among the
books, and thought, at the time, how useful it
might be to her if ever she had to write to Philip,
0. little volume entitled “The Complete Letter-
writer." She knew by the title-page that it con-
tained models for every description of letter: no
doubt it would contain the precise thing that
would suit the present occasion. She started up
at the notion. She would go—she could be back
to finish the letter (if she paid sixpence for it)
before post-time. She put on her bonnet; left
the letter, in her haste, open on the table; and,
just looking into the parlor in her way to the
street-door, to convince herself that Simon was
asleep and the wire guard was on the fire, she
hurried to the kind schoolmistress.
One of the fogs that in autumn gather sullenly
over London and its suburbs covered the declin-
ing day with premature dimness. It grew dark-
er and darker as she proceeded, but she reached
the house in safety. She spent a quarter of an
hour in timidly consulting her friend about all
kind of letters except the identical one that she
intended to write; and, having had it strongly
impressed on her mind that, if the letter was to
a gentleman at all genteel, she ought to begin
“Dear Sir,” and end with “I have the honor to
remain,” and that he would be everlastingly
offended if she did not in the address affix
“Esquire” to his name (that was a great dis-
covery), she carried off the precious volume and
quitted the house. There was a wall that,
bounding the demesnes of the school, ran for
some short distance into the main street. The
increasing fog here faintly struggled against the
glimmer of a single lamp at some little distance.
Just in this spot her eye was caught by a dark
object in the road, which she could scarcely per-
ceive to be a carriage, when her hand was seized,
and a voice said in her ear,
“ Ab! you will not be so cruel to me, Ihope,
as you were to my messenger! I have come
myself for you.”
She turned in great alarm, but the darkness
prevented her recognizing the face of him who'
thus accosted her.
“ Let me go I” she cried; “let me go 1”
“Bush! hush! _No—-nol Come with me.
You shall have a house—carriawe—servantsl
You shall wear silk gowns and Jewels! You
shall be a great lady!
As these various temptations succeeded in
re id course each new struggle of Fanny, a
voice from the coach-box said, in a low tone,
“ Take care, my lord, 1 see somebody coming
—perhaps the policeman !”
Fanny heard the caution, and screamed for
rescue. -
“Is it so?” muttered the molester. And sud-
denly Fanny felt her voice checked, her head
5 mantled, her light form lifted from the ground.
I She clung—she struggled: it was in vain. It
was the all'air of a moment: she felt herself
borne into the carriage—the door cIOsed—the
stranger was by her side, and his voice said,
“Drive on, Dykeman. Fast! fast!”
Two or three minutes, which seemed to her
terror as ages, elapsed, when the gag and the
mantle were gently removed, and the same voice-
(she still could not see her companion) said, in
l a very mild tone,
“ Do not alarm yourself; there is no cause-—
indeed there is not. I would not have adopted
this plan had there been any other—any gentler
one. But Ieould not call at your own house; I
knew no other where to meet you. This was
the only course left to rue—indeed it was. I
made myself acquainted with your movements.
Do not blame me, then, for pryinga‘nto your foot-
‘I steps. I watched for you all last night; you did
not come out. sts in despair. At last I find
you. Do not be so terrified: Iwill not even
touch your hand if you do not wish it.”
As he spoke, however, he attempted to touch-
it, and was repulsed with an energy that rather
diseoncerted him. The poor girl recoiled from
him into the farthest corner of that prison in
speechless horror—in the darkest confusion of
ideas. She did not weep, she did not sob, but
her trembling seemed to shake the very carriage.
The man continued to address, to expostulate,
to pray, to soothe. His manner was respectful :v
his protestations that he would not harm her for
the world were endless.
“ Only just see the home I can give you—for~
two days—for one day. Only just hear how
rich I can make you and your grandfather, and
thm, if you wish to leave me, you shall."
More—much more to this etfect did he con:
tinue to pour forth, without extracting any sound
from Fanny but gasps as for breath, and now
and then a low murmur :
“Let me go—let me go!
my blind grandfather!”
And finally tears came to her relief, and she
;sobbed with a passion that alarmed, and, per-
haps, even touched her companion, cynical and
icyas he was. Meanwhile the carriage seemed"
to fly. Fast as two horses, thorough-bred and
almost at full speed, could go, they were whirled
along, till about an hour, or even less from the
time in which she had been thus captured, the
carriage stopped.
“ Are we here already ‘2” said the man, ut-
My grandfather-—
ting his head out of the window. “ Do, t en,
as told you. Not to the front door.—to my
study.”
In two minutes more the carri e halted again
before a building which looked w ite and ghost-
like through the mist. The driver dismounted
—opened with a latch-key a window door—en-
tered for a moment to light the candles in a sol-
itary room from a fire that blazed on the hearth
—reappeared and opened the carriage-door. It
was with a difficulty for which they were
scarcely prepared that they were enabled to get
Fanny from the carria e. No soft words, no
i whispered prayers cou draw her forth; and it


NIGHT AND MORNING. 153
was with no trifling address—for her companion j I shall see you to-morrow.” So saying, be torn-
sought to be as gentle as the force necessary to ed on his heel and walked out. I
employ would allow—that he disengaged her} Fanny felt something like liberty—something
hands from the window-frame—the lining—the' like joy again. She rose, and looked so plead-
cushions—to which they clung, and at last bore ingly, so earnestly, so intently into the woman’s
her into the house. The driver closed the win- I face, that Harriet turned away her bold eyes
dew again as he retreated, and they were alone. i abashod ; and at this moment Dykeman himself
Fanny then cast a wild, scarce conscious glance l looked into the room,
over the apartment. it was small and simply! “ You-arc to bring us in dinner here yourself,
furnished. OppOsite to her was an old-fashioned i uncle, and then go to my lord, in the drawing-
burean, over which was the portrait of a female l room."
in the bloum of life: a face so fair, :1 brow so, Dykeman looked pleased. and vanished. Then
candid, an eye so pure, a lip so rich in youth and ‘3 Harriet came up' and took Fanny’s hand and said,
joy, that Fanny felt comforted—felt as if some kindl ,
living protectrcss was there as her gaze rested l “ on’t be frightened. I assure you, half the
on the features. The walls were hung with 1 girls in London would give I don’t know what
prints of horses and hunts, and the draperies l to be in your place. My lord never will force
were of a gay and lively, but somewhat faded you to do any thing you don’t like: it's not his
chintz. .Thc fire burned bright and merrily; a ' way; and he’s the kindest and best man. and so
table, spread as for dinner, was drawn near it. rich he does not know what to do with his
To any other eye but hers the place would have money!"
seemed a picture of English comfort. At last “To all this Fanny made but one answar; she
her looks rested on her companion. He hudlthrew herself suddenly upon the woman’s breast,
thrown himself, with a long sigh, partly of fa- | and sobbed out,
tigue, partly of Satisfaction, on one of the chairs, “ My grandfather is blind—he can not do with-
lnd was contemplating her, as she thus stood out me~he will die—die. Have you nobody
and gazed, with an expression of mingled ou- ; you love too ? Let me go—lct me out l What
riooity and admiration: she recognized at once | can they want with me ‘3 1 never did harm to
her first, her only pcrsecutor. She recoiled, and l any one."
covered her face with her hands. The man ap-l “And no one will harm you: I swear it!"
proached her: said Harriet, earnestly. " I see you don't know
"Do not hate me, Fanny—do not turn away. my lord. But here’s the dinner, come and take
Believe me, though I have acted thus violently, a bit of something, and a glass of wine. Now
here all violence will cause. 1 love you, but llgo, uncle; we don’t want you.”
will not be satisfied till you love me in return. Fanny could not touch any thing excepta glass
Im not young, and I am not handsome; but I of watc; and. that nearly choked her. But at
am rich and great, and 1 can make those whom , last, as she recovered her senses, the absence of

Ilove happy—so happy, Fanny !” l
But Fanny had turned away, and was now
busily employed in trying,r to ro-open the door at

her tormentor—the presence of o. woman—the
solemn assurances of Harriet that, if she did not
like to stay there after a day or two, she should
which she had entered. Failing in this, she l go back, tranquilized her in some measure. She
suddenly darted away, opened the inner door, \ did not heed the artful and lengthened eulogiums
and rushed into the passage with a loud cry. that the she-tompter then proceeded to pour forth
Her persecutor stifled an oath, and sprung after » upon the virtue, and the love, and the genorosit ,
and arrested her. He now spoke sternly, and l and, above all, the money, of my lord. She on y
with a smile and a frown at once: kept repeating to herself, “I shall go back in a
“ This is folly; come back, or you will repent ‘ day or two." At length Harriet, having ate and
it] I have promised you, as n gentleman—us a i drank as much as she could by her single self,
nobleman, if you know what that is, to respect and growing wearied with efl'ortsli'om which so
on.
iior insulted. There must be no screams!”
His look and his voice awed Fanny in spite
of her bewilderment and her loathing, and she
sufl'ered herself passively to be drawn into the
room. He closed and bolted the door. She
threw herself on the ground in one corner, and
moaned low, but pitcously. He looked at her
musingl for some moments as he stood by the
fire, an at last went to the door, opened it, and
called “ Harriet” in a low voice. Presently a
yoan woman of about thirty appeared, neatly
but gainly dressed, and of a countenance that,
if not very winnin , might certainly be called
very handsome. o drew her aside for a few
moments, and a. whispered conference wasv
exchanged. He then walked gravely up to“
Fanny:
“ y young friend," said he, “I see my pres-
ence is too much for you this evening. This
young woman will attend you—will get you all
on want. She can tell you, too, that I am not

But neither will I myself be trilled with ‘ little resulted, proposed to Funny to retire to rest
She opened a door to the right of the tire-place,
and lighted her up u. winding staircase to u pretp
ty and comfortable chamber, where she offered
to help her to undress. Fanny‘s complete inno-
cence, and her utter ignorance of the precise
nature of the danger that awaited her, though
she fancied it must be very great and very awful,
prevented hor quite comprehending all that Har-
riet meant to convey by her solemn assurances
that she should not be disturbed. But she under-
stood, at least, that she was not to see her hate-
ful jailer till the next morning; and when Har-
riet, wishing her “good-night,” showed her a
bolt to her door, she was less terrified at the
thought of being alone in that strange place. She
listened till Hurrict’s footsteps had died away,
and then, with a beating heart tried to open the
door: it was locked from without. She sighed
heavily. The window? Alas! when she had-
removed the shutter, there was another one
barred from without, which precluded all hope
the terrible sort of person you seem I) suppose. 2 there; she had no help for it but to bolt her door,


154
NIGHT AND MORNING.
stand forlorn and amazed at her own condition,-
aud, at last, falling on her knees, to pray, in her
own simple fashion, which, since her recent
visits to the schoolmistress, had become more
intelligent and earnest, to Him from whom no
bolts and no bars can exclude the voice of the
human heart.
+ I
CHAPTER XIII.
“ [a te omnis domus inclinata recumbit.“—Viaolt..
Loan LILBURNE, seated before a tray in the
drawing-room, was finishing his own solitary
dinner, and Dykeman was standing close behind,
nervous and agitated. The confi ence of many
years between the master and the servant—the
peculiar mind of Lilburne, which excluded him
from all friendship with his own equals—had es-
tablished between the two the kind of intimacy
so common with the noble and the valet of the
old French rigimc; and, indeed, in much, Lil-
burne more resembled the men of that day and
land than he did the nobler and statelier being
that belongs to our own. But to the end
time, whatever is at once vicious, polished, and
intellectual, will have a common likeness.
“ But, my lord," said Dykeman, “just reflect.
This girl is so well known in the place, she will
be sure to be missed; and if any violence is done
to her, it‘s a capital crime, my lord—a capital
crime. I know they can’t hang a great lord‘
like you, but all concerned in it may—”
Lord Lilburne interrupted the speaker by,
“Give me some wine, and hold your toague !”
Then, when he had emptied his glass, he drew
himself nearer to the fire, warmed his hands,
mused a moment, and turned round to his con-
fidant :
“Dykeman,” said be, “though you’re an ass
and a coward, and you don’t deserve that I
should be so condescending, I will relieve your
fears at once. I know the law better than you
can; for my whole life has been spent in doin"
exactly as I please, without ever putting myself
in the power of LAW, which interferes with the
pleasures of other men. You are right in say-
ing violence would be a capital crime. Now,
the difference between vice and crime is this:
Vice is what parsons write sermons against,
Crime is what we make laws against. 1 never
committed a crime in all my life; at an age be-
tween fifty and sixty I am not going to begin.
Vices are safe things—I may have my vices
like other men—but crimes are dan erous things
—-illegal things—things to be carefully avoided.
Leok you” (and here the speaker, fixing his puz-
zled listener with his eye, broke into a grin of
sublime mockery), “let me suppose you to be
the World—that cringing valet of valets the
Woaan! I should say to you this: ‘My dear
World, you and I understand each other well;
we are made for each other; Inever come in
your way, nor you in mine. If I got drunk‘
every day in my own room, that’s vice—you;
can’t touch me ; ifI take an extra glass for thel
first time in my life, and knock down the watch-
man, that’s a crime. which, ifI am rich, costs
me one pound—perhaps five pounds; ifI am poor,
sends me to the tread-mill. If I break the hearts '
of five hundred old fathers, by buying with goldl

or flattery the embraces of five hundred young
daughters. that’s vicc ——your servant, Mr.
World! If one termagaut wonch scratches my
face, makes a noise, and goes brazen-faced to
the Old Bailey to swear to her shame, why,
that’s crime, and my friend, Mr. World, pulls a
hemp-rope out of his pocket.7 Now do you un~
derstand? Yes, I repeat," he added, with a
change of voice, “I never committed a crime in
my life; I have never even been accused of one;
never had an action of crim. com—Of seduction,
even, against me. I know how to manage such
matters better. I was forced to carry off this
girl, because I had no other means of courting
her. To court her is all I mean to do now. I
am perfectly aware that an action for violence,
as you call it, would be the more disagreeable,
because of the very weakness of intellect which
the girl is said to possess, and of which report I
don’t believe a word. I shall most certainly
avoid every the remotest appearance that could
be so construed. It is for that reason that no
one in the house shall attend the girl except
yourself and your niece. Your niece I can de-
nd on,I know: I have been kind to her; I
ave got her a good husband; Ishall get her
husband a 00d place; I shall be godfather to
her first chi d. To be sure, the other servants
will know there’s a lady in the house, but to that
the are accustomed: I don’t set up for a Jo-
sep . They need know no more unless you
choose to blah it out. Well, then, supposing
that at the end of a few days, more or less, with
out any rudeness on my part, a young woman,
after seeing a few jewels, and fine dresses, and
a pretty house, and being made very com forlablc,
and being convinced that her grandfather shall
be taken care of without her slaving herself to
death, chooses of her own accord to live with
me, where’s the crime, and who can interfere
with it ‘2"
“Certainly, my lord, that alters the case,”
said Dykeman, considerably relieved. “ But-
still,” he added, anxiously, “ if the inquiry is
made—if, before all this is settled, it is found
out where she is ?”
“ Why, then, no harm will be done, no vio-
lence will be committed. Her grandfather-—
driveling and a miser, you say—can be appeased
by a little money, and it will be nobody’s busi-
ness, and no case can be made of it. Tush, man!
I always look before I leap! People in this
world are not so charitable as you suppose.
What more natural than that a poor and pretty
girl—not as wise as Queen Elizabeth—should
be tempted to pay a visit to a rich lover! All
they can say of the lover is, that he is a very
gay man or a very bad man, and that’s saying
nothing new of me. But I don’t think it will be
found out. Just get me that stool: this has
been a very troublesome piece of business—rath-
er tired me—I am not so young as I was. Yes,
Dykeman, something which that Frenchman,
Vaudemont, or Vaut-rien, or whatever his name
is, said to me once, has a certain degree of
truth. I felt it in the last fit of the out, when
my pretty niece was smoothin my pillows. A
nurse, as we grow older, may it} of use to one.
I wish to make this girl like me or be grate-
ful to me. I am meditating a longer and
more serious attachment than usual—a com-
panioal”


NIGHT AND MORNING.
155
“A companion, my lord, in that poor creat-
ure! so ignorant, so uneducated!”
“ So much the better. This world palls upon
me," said Lilburne, almost gloomily. “I grow
sick of the miserable quaekeries—of the piteous
conceits that men, women, and children call
‘knowled e.’ I wish to catch a glimpse of
nature belore I die. This creature interests me,
and that is something in this life. Clear those
things away, and leave me.”
“ Ay l" muttered Lilburne, as he bent over the
fire alone, “ when I first heard that that girl was
the grand-daughter of Simon Gawtre —and,
therefore, the child of the man whom am to
thank that I am a cripple—I felt as if love to her
were a part of that. hate which I owe to him; a
segment in the circle of my ven eance. But
note, poor child! I forget all this. feel for her,
not passion, but what I never felt before—
afl'eclion. I feel that if I had such a child, I
could understand what men mean when they
talk of the tenderness of a father. I have not
one impure thought for that girl—not one. But
I would give thousands if she could love me.
Strange! strange! in all this I do not recognize
myself!”
Lord Lilburne retired to rest betirues that
night; he slept sound; rose refreshed at an
earlier hour than usual; and what he considered
as a fit of vapors of the previous night was
ed away. He looked with eagerness to an
interview with Fanny. Proud of his intellect,
pleased in any of those sinister exercises of it
which the code and habits of his life so long
rmitted to him, he regarded the conquest of
is fair adversary with the interest of a scientific
game. Harriet went to Form f"s room to prepare
her to receive her host; and 0rd Lilburne now
resolved to make his own visit the less unwel-
come, b’ reserving for his especial gift some
showy, it not valuable trinkets, which, for similar
a, never failed the depositories of the villa,
he had purchased for his pleasures. He rec-
ollected that these gewgaws were placed in the
bureau in the study ; in which, as having a lock
of foreign and intricate workmanship, he usually
kept whatever might tempt cupidity in those
frequent absences when the house was left]
guarded but by two women-servants. Finding
that Fanny had not yet quitth her own chamber,
while Harriet went up to attend and reason with
her, he himself limped into the study below, un-
locked the bureau, and was searching in the
drawers, when he heard the voice of Fanny
above, raised a little, as if in remonstrance or
entreaty, and he paused to listen. He could not,
however, distinguish what was said; and, in the
mean while, without attending much to what he
was about, his hands were still employed in open-
ing and shutting the drawers, passing through
the pigeon-holes, and feeling for a topaz brooch,
which be than ht could not fail of pleasing the
nnsophisticate eyes of F anny. One of the
recesses was deeper than the rest; he thought
the brooch was there; be stretched his hand into
the recess; and, as the room was partially
darkened by the lowrzr shutters from without
being still unclosed to prevent any attempted
escape of his captive, he had only the sense of
touch to depend on, not finding the brooch, he
stretched on till he came to the extremity of the
recess, and was suddenly sensible of a sharp
'pain; the flesh seemed caught, as in a trap; he
[drew back his finger with sudden force and a
half-suppressed exclamation, and he perceived
l the bottom or floor of the pigeon-hole recede, as
l if sliding back. His curiosity was aroused; he
, again felt, warin and cautiously. and discovered
‘ a very slight inequality and roughness at the ex- ,
l tremity of the recess. He was aware instantly
that there was some secret spring; he pressed
with some force on the spot, and he felt the
board give wa ; he pushed it back toward him,
and it slid su denly with a whirring noise, and
‘left a cavity below exposed to his sight. He
peered in, and drew forth a paper ; he opened it
1 at first carelessly, for he was still trying to listen
to Fanny. His eye ran rapidly over a few
preliminary lines, till it rested on what follows :
“ Marriage.
“No. 83, page ‘21.
“Philip Beaufort, of this parish of A , and
Catharine Morton, of the parish of Botolph, Ald-
Eate, London, were married in this church by
ans, this 12th day of November, in the year
one thousand eight hundred and——,‘"‘ by me.
“CALEB PRICE, Vicar.
The year 18—

“ This marriage was solemnized between us,
PHILIP BEAUFORT-
CATHARINF. Mou'ros'.
“ In the presence of gum APREECE.
ILLIAM Smrn.
“The above is a true copy, taken from the
registry of marriages in A——- parish, this 19th
‘ day of March, 18—, by me, -
“Momma Jones, Curate of C—-.”
Lord Lilburne again cast his eye over the lines
prefixed to this startling document, which, being
those written, at Caleb’s desire, by Mr. Jones to
Philip Beaufort, we need not here transcribe to
tho reader.l' At that instant Harriet descended
, the stairs and came into the room; she crept up
|0n tiptoe to Lilburne, and whispered.
“ She is coming down, I think; she does not
- know you are here.”
“Very well—go," said Lord Lilburne. And
scarce had Harriet left the room, when a carriage
drove furiously to the door, and Robert Beaufort
rushed into the study.
+
CHAPTER XIV.
“ Gone and none know it.
blow-nowi'.l V-Vhat'new's, wlint hopes hull steps- din.
covered 1"
Environ no Fan-ream: The Pilgrim.
Warm Philip arrived at his lodgings in town
it was very late, but he still found Liancourt
waiting the chance of his arrival. The French-
man was full of his own schemes and projects.
He was a man of high repute and connections;
negotiations for his recall to Paris had been on-


, " This is according to the form customary at the date
{ at which the copy was made. There has since been an
alteration.
| TSeepage'l.


156
NIGHT AND MORNING.
tered into; he was divided between a Quixotic
loyalty and a rational prudence; he brought his
doubts to Vaudcmont. Occupied as he was with
thoughts of so important and personal a nature,
Philip could et listen patiently to his friend, and
weigh with im the pros and com. And, after
having mutually agreed that loyalit and pru-
dence would both be best consulte by Walt-
ing a little, to see if the nation, as the Carlists
yet fondly trusted, would soon, after its first
fever, otter once more the throne and the purple
to the descendant of St. Louis, Lianeourt, as he
. lighted his cigar to walk home, said, “ A thou-
sand thanks to you, my dear friend; and how have
you enjo'ed yourself in your visit? I am not
surprise nor jealous that Lilburne did not invite
me, as I do not play at cards, and as I have said
some sharp thin s to him.”
" I fancy I shall have the same disqualifications
for another invitation,” said Vaudcmont, with a
severe smile. “I may have much to disclose to
you in a few days. At present my news is still
unripe. And have you seen any thing of Lil-
burne? He left us some days since. Is he in
London ?” .
“ Yes; I was riding with our friend Henri,
who wished to try a new horse off the stones,
a little way in to the country yesterday. We
went through and H—. Pretty places,
those. Do you know them?”
“Yes, 1 know H ."
“And just at dusk, as we were spurring back
to town, whom should I see walking on the path
of the high road but Lord Lilburne himself! I
could hardly believe my eyes. I stopped, and,
after asking him about you, I could not help ex-
pressing my surprise to see him on foot at such a
place. You know the man’s sneer. ‘ A French-
man so allant as Monsieur de Liancourt,’ said
he, ‘ nee not be suprised at much greater mira-
cles; the iron moves to the magnet: I have a
little adventure here. Pardon me il'I ask you to
ride on.’ Of course I wished him good-day;
and, a little further up the road, I saw a dark,
plain chariot—no coronet—no arms—no footman
--only the man on the box; but the beauty of
the horses assured me it must belong to Lil-
burne. Can you conceive such absurdity in a
man of that age—and a very clever fellow too ‘?
Yet how is it that one does not ridicule it in
Lilburne as one would in another man between
fifty and sixty ?"
“ l’iecause one does not ridicule—one loathes
him. ’
“ No, that's not it. The fact is, that one can’t
fancy Lilburne old. His manner is young, his
eye is young. I never saw any one with so
much vitality. ‘The bad heart and the good di-
gestion :’ the twin secrets for wearing well, eh !”
“ Where did you meet him ‘9 not near H— ‘2”
“Yes, close by. Why? Have you any ad-
venture there, too? Nay, forgive me, it was
but a jest. Good-night !’
Vaudemont fell into an uneasy reverie; he
could not divine exactly why he should be
alarmed, but he was alarmed at Lilburne being
in the neighborhood of H It was the foot
of the profane violating the sanctuary. An un-
defined thrill shot through him as his mind
coupled together the associations of Lilburne
and Fanny; but there was no ground for fore-
bodings. Fanny did not stir out alone. An ad-




venture, too—pooh! Lord Lilburne must be
awaiting a willing and voluntary appointment,
most prohablv from some one of the fair but
doeorous frailties in London. Lord Lilburne’s
more, recent conquests were said to be among
those of his own rank: suburbs are useful for
such assignations. Any other thought was too
horrible to be contemplated. He glanced to the
clock : it was three in the morning. He would
go to H early—even before he sought out
Sir. William Smith. With that resolution, and
even his hardy frame worn out by the excitement
of the day, he threw himself on his bed and fell
asleep.
He did not wake till near nine; and had just
dressed and hurried over his abstentious break-
fast, when the servant of the house came to tell
him that an old woman, apparently in great agi-
tation, wished to see him. His head was still
full of witnesses and lawsuits, and he was
vaguely expecting some visitor connected with
his primary objects, when Sarah broke into the
room. She cast a hurried, suspicious look round
her, and then, throwing herself on her knees to
him, “ Oh!” she cried, “if you have taken that
poor young thing away, God forgive you. Let
her come back again. It shall be all hushed
up. Don‘t ruin her! don’t! that‘s a dear, good
gentleman !”
“ Speak plainly, woman ; what do you mean ?”
cried Philip, turning pale. _ >
A very few words sufficed for explanation:
Fanny’s disappearance the previous night—the
alarm of Sarah at her non-rcturn—the apathy of
old Simon, who did not comprehend what had
happened, and quietly went to bod—the search
Sarah had made during half the night—the in-
telligence she had ickcd up, that the police-
man, going his roun s, had heard a female shriek
near the school, but that all he could perceive
through the mist was a carriage driving rapidly
post him—Sarah’s suspicions of Vaudeinont cou-
lirmed in the morning, when, entering Fanny’s
room, she perceived the poor girl’s unfinished
letter with his own—the clew to his address
that the latter gave her—all this, ere she well
understood what she herself was talking about,
his alarm seized, the reflection of a moment
construed : the carriage—Lilburne seen lurking
in the neighborhood the previous day—the for-
mer attempt—all flashed on him with an intoler-
able glare. While Sarah was yet speaking be
rushed from the house—he flew to Lord Lil-
burne’s, in Park Lane—he composed his manner
—he inquired calmly. His lordship had slept
from home - he was, they believed. at Fernside.
Fernsidel -— was on the direct way to that
villa! Scareely ten minutes had elapsed since
he heard the story are he was on the road, with
such speed as the promise of a guinea a mile
could extract from the spurs of a young post-boy
applied to the flanks of London post-horses.

—*___
CHAPTER XV.
“Ex humili magna l'ltl fastigin rernm
Extollit."—Juvltsst.
Wnnx Harriet had quittcd Fanny, the wait.
ing-woman, eraftily wishing to lure her into
Li burne’s presence, had told her that the room


\
157
NIGHT AND MORNING.
below was empty, and the captive’s mind natu-
rally and instantly seized on the thought of es-
cape. After a brief breathing (pause, she crept
noiselessly down the stairs an gently opened
the door; and, at the very instant she did so,
Robert Beaufort entered from the other door;
she drew hack in terror when, what was her as-
tonishment in bearing a name uttered tliat spell-
bound her: the last name she could have ex-
Kcted to hear; for Lilburne, the instant he saw
aul'ort, pale, haggard, agitated, rush into the
room and hang the door after him, could only
suppose that something of extraordinar moment
had occurred with regard to the dreat ed guest,
andc-ried, “ You come about Vaudemont ! Some-
thing has happened about Vaudcmont ! about
Philip! What is it? Calm yourself.”
Fanny, as the name was thus abruptly uttered,
actually thrust hfi' face through the door; but,
at the sight of a. stranger, she drew hack, and,
all her senses preternaturally quickened at that
name, while she held the door almost closed, lis-
tened with her whole soul in her ears.
- The faces of both the men were turned from
her, and her partial entry had not been perceived.
“ Yes,” said Robert Beaufort, leaning his
weight, as if ready to sink to the ground, a on
Lilburne’s shoulder, “yes; Vaudemont, or Philip.
for they are one—yes, it is about that man I
have come to consult you. Arthur has arrived.”
“ Well ‘2”
“ And Arthur has seen the wretch who visited
us; and the rascal‘s manner has so imposed on
him, so convinced him that Philip is the heir to
all our propert ', that he has come over—ill—ill
-—I fear” (ad ed Beaufort, in a hollow voice),
“dying to-—t0—”
“ To guard against their machinations ‘2"
"No, no, no; to say that, if such be the case,
neither honor nor conscience will allow us to re-
sist his rights. He is so obstinate in this matter
—his nerves so ill bear reasoning and contradic-
tion, that I know not what to do—"
“Take breath—go on.” '
“Well, it seems that this man found out Arthur
almost as soon as my‘son arrived at Paris: that
he has persuaded Arthur that he has it in his
power to prove the marriage; that he pretended
to be very impatient for a. decision; that Arthur,
in order to gain time to see me, aflected irresolu-
tion ; took him to Boulogne—for the rascal does
not dare to return to England—left him there;
and now comes back, my own son as my worst
enemy, to conspire against me for my property!
I could not keep my temper if I had staid. But
that’s not all—that’s not the worst: Vaudcmont
left me suddenly in thc morning on the receipt
of a letter. In taking leave of Camilla he let
fall hints which fill me with fear. Well, I in-
quired his movements as I came along; he had
stopped at D , been closeted for above an
hour with a. man whose name the landlord of the
inn knew, for it was on his carpet-bag : the name
was Barlow! You remember the advertisements!
Good Heaven! what is to be done ? I would not
do any thing unhandsomo or dishonest. But there
never was a marriagc. I never will believe there
was a marriage—never l”
“There was a marriage, Robert Beaufort,"
said Lord Lilburne, almost enjoying the torture
he was about to inflict; “and I hold here a paper
that Philip Vaudemont—for so we will yet call

‘him—would ive his right hand to clutch for a
,moment. I lave but just found it in a secret
cavity in that bureau. Robert, on this paper
may depend the fate, the fortune, the prosperity,
the greatness of Philip Vaudemont; or his pover-
ty, hiscexile, his rain. See I"
l Robert Beaufort glanced over the paper held
out to him, dropped it on the floor, and staggered
to a seat. Lilburne coolly replaced the document
in the bureau, and, limping to his brother-in-law,
said, with a smile,
“ But the paper is in my possession: I will not
destroy it. No, I have no right to destroy it.
Besides, it would be a crime; but [give it to
you, you can do with it as you please."
“Oh, Lilburne, spare me, spare me. I meant
to be an honest man. I—I—” And Robert
Beaufort sobbed.
Lilburne looked at him in soornful surprise.
“Do not fear that I shall ever think worse of
you: and who else will know it? Do not fear
me. No; I too have reasons to hate and to fear
this Philip Vaudemont; for Vaudcmont shall be
his name, and not Beaufort, in spite of fifty such
scraps of paper! He has known a man—my
worst foe; he has secrets of mine—of my past-—
perhaps of my present; but I laugh at his knowl~
cdge while he is a wandering adventurer; I should
: tremble at that knowledge if he could thunder it
' out to the world as Philip Beaufort, of Beaufort
Court! There, I am candid with you. Now
hear my plan. Prove to Arthur that his visitor
is a. convicted felon, by sending the officers of
justice after him instantly; off with him again to
the settlements; defy a single witness; cntrap
Vaudemont hack to France, and prove him (I
think I will prove him such—I think so—with a
little money and a little pains)—-prove him the
accomplice of William Gawtrcy, a coiner and a
murderer! Pshaw! take you paper. Do with
it as you will—keep it—give it to Arthur—let
Philip Vaudemont have it, and Philip Vaudcmont
will be rich and great, the h ppiest men between
earth and paradise! On t e other hand, come
and tell me that you have lost it, or that I never
gave you such a paper, or that no such paper
ever existed, and Philip Vuudemont may ive a
pauper, and die, perhaps, a slave at the galleys!
Lose it, I say—lose it—and advise with me upon
the rest."
Horror-struck, bewilde red, the weak man gazed
upon the calm face of tho master-villain as the
scholar of the old fables might have gazed on the
fiend who put before Illtll worldly prosperity here
and the loss of his soul hereafter. He had never
‘ hitherto regarded Lilburne in his true light,
lHe was appalled by the black heart that lay
‘ bare before him. -
“I can’t destroy it—I can’t,” he faltered out;
“and if I did, out of love for Arthur, don’t talk
of galleys—of vengeance; I—I—"
“The arrears of the rents you have enjoyed
will send you to jail for your life. No, no, don"t
l destroy the paper I"
Beaufort rose with a desperate effort; be moved
,to the bureau. Fanhy’s heart was in her lips;
‘of this long conference she had understood only
lthe one broad point on which Lilburne had In-
: sisted with an emphasis that could have eulight~
ened an infant—and he looked on Beaufort?“ an
i infant then—On that paper rested Philip Vaude-
" mont’sfate : happiness if saved, ruin ifdulroyed;


158
NIGHT AND MORNING.
a
Philip—her Philip! And Philip himself had
said to her once—when had she ever forgotten
his words? and now, how those words flashed
across her—Philip himself had said to her once,
“Upon a scrap of paper, if I could but find it,
may depend my whole fortune, my whole happi-
ness, all that I care for in life." Robert Beau-
fort moved to the bureau, seized the document,
looked over it again hurriedly, and, ere Lilburne,
who by no means wished to have it destroyed in
his own presence, was aware of his intention, he
hastened with tottering steps to the hearth,
averted his eyes, and cast it on the fire. At
that instant, somethino white-—he scarce knew
what: it seemed to hnn as a spirit, as a ghost
-—dartcd by him, and snatched the paper from
the embers! There was a pause for the hun-
dredth part of a moment—a gurgling sound of
astonishment and horror from Beaufort—an ex-
clamation from Lilburne—a laugh from Fanny,
as, her eyes flashing light, with a proud dilation
of stature, with the paper clasped tightly to her
bosd’m, she turned her looks of triumph from one
to the other. The two men were both too amazed
at the instant for rapid measures. But Lilburne,
recovering himself first, hastened to her; she
eluded his grasp; she made toward the door to
the passage; when Lilburne, seriously alarmed,
seized her arm.
“Foolish child! give me that paper !”
“Never but with my life l” And Fanny’s cry
for help ranrr through the house.
“Then—’ the speech died on his lips, for at
that instant a rapid stride was heard without—
a momentary scuffle—voices in altercation—the
door gave way, as if a battering-ram had forced
it—not so much thrown forward as actually
hurled into the room, the body of Dykeman fell
heavilv, like a dead man’s, at the very fact of
Lord Lilburne—and Philip Vaudemont stood in
the doorway !
The grasp of Lilburne on Fanny’s arm relaxed,
and the girl, with one bound, sprung to Philip’s
breast, “Here, here!” she cried; “take it—take
it!" and she thrust the paper into his hand.
“ Don’t let them have it—read it—see it—never
mind me I” But Philip, though his hand unoon~
sciously closed on the precious document, did
mind Fanny ;' and in that moment her cause was
the only one in the world to him.
" Foul villain !” he said, as he strode to Lil-
burne, while Fanny still clung to his breast:
“speak! speak! Is she—is she—man, man,
speak! on know what I would say! She is
the ehil of your own daughter, the grandchild
of that Mary whom you dishonored, the child
of the woman whom William Gawtrey saved
from pollution! Before he died, Gawtrey oom-
mended hcr to my care. Oh, God of Heaven!
speak! I am not too late!”
The manner, the words, the face of Philip left
Lilburne struck, and (for, after all, he was hu-
man terror-struck with conviction. But the
man s crafty ability, debased as it was, tri-
umphed even over remorse for the dread guilt
meditated, over gratitude for the dread guilt
spared. He glanced at Beaufort, at Dykeman,
who now, slowly recovering, gazed at him with
eyes that seemed starting from their sockets,
and, lastly, fixed his look on Philip himself.
There were three witnesses : presence of mind
was his great attribute.

“ And if, Monsieur de Vaudemont, I knew, or,
at least, had the firmest persuasion that Fanny
was my grandchild, what then ? Whyelse should
'she be here? Pooh! sir, I am an old man.”
Philip recoiled a step in wonder; his plain
sense was baffled by the calm lie. He looked
down at Fanny, who, comprehending nothing of
what whs spoken—for all her faculties, even her
very sense of sight and hearing, were absorbed
in her impatient anxiety for him—cried out,
“No harm has come to Fanny—none: only
frightened. Read, read! Save that papep!
You know what you once said about a. mere
scrap of paper. Come away ! Come !’,’
He did now cast his 0 es on the paper he
held. That was an awfu moment for Robert
Beaufort, even for Lilburne! To snatch the
fatal document from that gri e! they would as
soon have snatched it from tiger. He lifted
his e es: they rested on his mother’s picture.
Her ips smiled on him! He turned to Beaufort
in a state of emotion too exulting, too blessed
for vulgar vengeance—for vulgar triumph—al-
most for words.
“Look yonder, Robert Beaufort, look!” (and
he pointed to the picture). “ Her name is spot-
less. I stand arrain beneath my father’s roof,
the heir of Beaufort! We shall meet before the
justice of our country. For you, Lord Lilburne,
I will believe you: it is too horrible to doubt
even lyour intentions. If wrong had chanced to
her, would have rent you where you stand,
limb from limb. And thank her” (for Lilburne
recovered, at this language, the darinrJr of his
oath, before calculation, indolcncc, an excess
ad dulled the edge of his nerves; and, unawed
by the height, and manhood, and strength of his
menacer, stalked haughtily up to him)-—“and
thank your relationship to her,” said Philip,
sinking his voice into a whis r, “that I do not
brand you as a pilferer an a cheat. Hush,
knave! Hush, pupil of George Gawtrcy!
There are no duels for me but with men of
honor!”
Lilburne now turned white, and the big word
stuck in his throat. In,aaother instant Fanny
and her guardian had quitted the house.
“Dykeman,” said Lord Lilburne, after a long
silence, “I shall ask you another time how you
came to admit that impertincnt person; at pres-
ent, go and order breakfast for Mr. Beaufort.”
As soon as Dykeman, more astounded, per-
haps, by his lord’s coolness than even by the
preceding circumstances, had left the study,
ilburne came up to Beaufort, who seemed ab-
solutely struck as if by palsy, and, touching him
impatiently and rudely, said,
“ ’Sdeath, man, rouse yourself! There is not
a moment to be lost. I have already decided on
what you are to do. This paper is not worth a
rush, unless the curate who examined it will
depose to that fact. He is a curate—a Welsh
curate; you are yet Mr. Beaufort, a rich and a
reat man. The curate, properly nianarred, may
epose to the contrary; and then we'll indict
them all for forgery and conspiracy. At the worst,
you can, no doubt, get the parson to forget all
about it, to stay away. His address was on the
certificate, C . Go yourself into Wales with-
out an instant’s delay. Then, having arranged
with Mr. Jones, hurry back ' cross to Boulognc,
and buy this convict and his witness—yes, buy


NIGHT AND MORNING.
159
them! 27m, new, is the only thing. Quick!
quick! quick! Zounds, man! if it were my
affair, my estate, I would not care a pin for that
fragment of paper; I should rather rejoice at it.
I see how it could be turned against them! Go l”
“ No, no, I am not equal to it. Will you man-
age it? will you ? Half my estate! all! Take
it; but save—”
“ Tut !” interrupted Lord Lilburne, in great
disdain. “ I am as rich as I want to be. Money
does not bribe me. I manage this! I I Lord
Lilburne! I! Why, if found out, it is subor-
nation of witnesses—-it is exposure—it is dis-
honor—it is ruin. What then ‘1‘ You should take
the risk, for you must meet ruin, if you do not.
learn not. I have nothing to gain l"
“ I dare not! Idare not l” murmured Beaufort,
quite spirit-broken. “ Subornation—dishonor—
exposure! And I, so respectable—my charac-
ter! And my son against me too! my son in
whom I lived again ! No, no, let them take all !
let them take it! Ha! ha! let them take it!
Good-day to you.”
“Where are you going ‘3”
“I shall consult Mr. Blackwell, and I’ll let
you know.”
And Beaufort walked tremalously back to his
carriage.
“Go to his lawyer!” rowled Lilburne. “Yes,
if his lawyer can help im to defraud men law-
fully, he’ll defraud them fast enough. That will
be the respectable way of doing it! Um! this
may be an ugly business for me—the paper
found hero—if the girl can depose to what she
heard, and she must have heard something. No,
I think the laws of real property will hardly al-
low her evidence; and if they do—Uml—My
grand-daughter! Is it possible! And Gawtrey
rescued her mother, my child, from her own
mother’s vices! I thought my liking to that
girl different from any other I have ever felt : it
was pure—it warJ—it was pity—affection. And
I must never see her again! must forget the
“whole thing! And I am growing old—and I
am childless—end alone l“ He paused, almost
with a groan: and then, the expression of his
face changing to rage, he cried out, “The man
threatened mc—and I was a coward! What
to do? Nothing ? The defensive is my line. I
shall pla no more. I attack no one. Who will
accuse 0rd Lilburne? Still, Robert is a fool.
I must not leave him to himself. He, there!
Dykcman! the carriage ! I shall go to London.”
Fortunate no doubt it was for Philip that Mr.
Beaufort was not Lord Lilburne. For all his-
tory teaches us—public and private history—
eonquerors—statesmen—sharp hypocrites and
brave designers—yes, they all teach us how
mighty one man of great intellect and no scru-
ple is against the justice of millions! The One
Man moves, the Mass is inert. Justice sits on
a throne—Rogue never rests—Activity is the
lever of Archim es.
-—.—


CHAPTER XVI.
"Guam mulla injusta ac pmva fiunt moribiu-"-Tuu..
“ Volnt ambigull
Mobilis alis llora."-—S:x:cn.
‘7 Ma. Honour BEAUFORT sought Mr. Black-

well, and lon , rambling, and disjointed was his
narrative. l r. Blackwell, after some consider-
ation, proposed to set about doing the very things
that Lilburne had proposed at once to do. But
the lawyer cxprcsscd himself legally and covert-
ly, so that it did not seem to the sober sense of
Mr. Beaufort at all the same plan. He was not
the least alarmed at what Mr. Blackwell pro-
posed, though so shocked at what Lilburne die-
tatcd. Blackwell would go the next day into
Wales—ire would find out Mr. J oncs—hc would
sound him! Nothing was more common, with
people of the nicest honor, than just to get a
witness out of the way! Done in election peti.
tions, lbr instance, every day.
“True,” said Mr. Beaufort, much relieved.
Then, after having done that, Mr. Blackwell
would return to town, and cross over to Boulogne
to see this very impudent person whom Arthur
(young men were so apt to bc takenin !) had ac-
tually believed. He had no doubt he could set-
tle it all. Robert Beaufort returned to Berkeley
square actually-in spirits. -
There he found Lilburne, who, on reflection,
seeing that Blackwell was at all events more up
to the business than his brother, assented to the
propriety of the arrangement.
Mr. Blackwell accordingly did set off the next
day. That next day, perhaps, made all the dif-
ference. Within two hours from his gaining the
document so important, Philip, without any sub-
tler exertion of intellect than the decision of a
plain, bold sense, had already forcstallcd both
the peer and the lawyer. He had sent down
Mr. Barlow’s head clerk into Wales with the
document, and a short account of the manner in
which it had been discovered. And fortunate,
indeed, was it that that copy had been found:
for all the inquiries of Mr. Barlow at A— had
failed, and probably would have failcd, without
such a clew, in lhstenin upon any one probable
person to have officiat ' as Caleb Price’s amen-
uensis. The sixteen hours’ start Mr. Barlow
gained over Blackwell enabled the former to
see Mr. Jones—to show him his own handwrit-
ing—to get a written and witnessed attestation,
from which the curate, however poor and how-
ever tcmptcd, could never well have escaped
(even had he been dishonest, which he was not),
of his perfect recollection of the fact of making
an extract from the registry at Caleb‘s desire,
though he owned he had quite forgotten the
names be extracted till they were again placed
before him. Barlow took care to arouse Mr.
Jones’s interest in the casc—quitted Wales-—
hastened over to Boulognc—saw Captain Smith,
and, without bribes, without threats, but by plain-
ly proving to that worthy person that he could
not return to England not see his brother with-
out bcing immediately arrested—that his broth-
er’s evidence was already pledged on the side of
truth—and that, by the acquisition of new tes-
timony, there could be no doubt that the suit
would be successful, he scored the captain from
all disposition toward pertidy, Convinced him on
which side his intcrcst lay, and saw him return
to Paris, where, very shortly afterward, be dis-
appeared forever from this world, being forced
into a duel, much against his will, with a
Frenchman whom he had attempted to defraud,
and shot through the lungs: thus verifying _a
favorite maxim of Lord Lilburne‘s, Viz., that it


160 NIGHT AND MORNING.
does not do, on the long run, for little men to ' mother's last sigh. And with that sigh there
play the great game! was a smile that lasted when the sigh was gone:
On the same day that Blackwell returned, forlpromised to befriend her children. Heaven
frustrated in his half-and-hnlf attempts to cor- knows how anxiously I souoht to fulfill that
rupt Mr. Jones, and not having been able to‘solemn vow! Foeble and sick_ myselfhl fol-
discover Mr. Smith, Mr. Robert Beaufort re-;lowed you and your brother with no am, no
ceived notice of an action of ejectment to be | prayer, but this; to embrace you and say, ‘ Ac-
~brought by Phili Beaufort at the next assizes. ‘ eept a new brother in me.’ I spare you the
And, to add to his afllictions, Arthur, whom he ._ humiliation—for it is yours, not mine—of recall-
hnd hitherto endeavored to amuse by a sort of iing what passed between us when at last we
ambiguous shilly-shally correspondence, became _‘ met. Yet still sought to save at least_$idn_ey,
so alarmingly worse that his mother brought , more especially confided to my care by his dying
‘him up to town for advice. Lord Lilburne was, ! mother. He mysteriously eluded our search;
of course, sent for; and, on learning all, his’bllt we had reason, by a letter received from
counsel was prompt.
some unknown hand, to believe him saved and
“I told you before that this man loves your,provided for. Again I met you at Paris. 1
daughter.
'The lawsuit will be ugly, and probably ruinous.
He has a right to claim six years’ arrears; that
See if you can etfect a compromise. saw you were poor.
Judging from your asso-
ciate, I mi ht with justice think you depraved.
Mindful of your declaration never to accept
is, above £100,000, Make yourself his fathér- ! bounty from a Beaufort, and remembering with
iri-lmv and me his uncle-in.lu,w; and, since we ; natural resentment the outrage I had before re-
can’t kill the wasp, we may at least soften the
venom of his sting.”
Beaufort, still perplexed, irrosolute, sought his
son ; and, for the first time, spoke to him frank-
ly—that is, frankly for Robert Beaufort! He
owned that the copy of the register had been
found by Lilburne in a secret drawer. He made
the best of the story Lilburne himself furnished
him with (adhering, of course, to the assertion
uttered or insinuatcd to Philip) in regard to
Fanny’s abduction and interposition; he said
nothing of his attempt to destroy the paper.
Why should he 7 By admitting the cop in
court—if so advised—he could get rid of un-
ny’s evidence alto ether; even without such
concession her ovi ence might possibly be ob-
'ectcd to or cluded. He confessed that he
cared the witness who copied the register and
the witness to the marriage were alive. And
thou he talked pathetically of his desire to do
what was right, his dread of slander and mis-
interpretation. He said nothing of Sidney, and
his belief that Sidney and Charles Spencer were
the some; because, if his daughter were to be
the instrument for effecting a compromise, it
was clear that her engagement with Spencer
must be canceled and concealed. And, luckily.
Arthur’s illness and Camilla's timidity, joined
now to her father’s injunctions not to excite
Arthur in his present state with any additional
causes of anxiety, prevented the confidence that
mi ht otherwise have ensued between the brother
an sister. And Camilla. indeed, had no heart
for such a conference. How, when she looked
on Arthur’s glassy eye, and listened to his bow
tie cough. could she talk to him of love and
marriage ? As to the automaton Mrs. Beaufort,
Robert made sure of her discretion.
Arthur listened attentively to his father’s com-
munication, and the result of that interview was
the following letter from Arthur t,o his cousin :
“I write to you without fear of misconstrue-



l
|
l
oeived from you, I judged it vain to seek and
remonstrate with you; but I did not judge it vain
to aid. I sent you, anonymously, what at least
would suffice, it' absolute poverty had subjected
you to evil courses, to rescue you. from them if
your heart were so disposed. Perhaps that sum,
trifling as it was, may have smoothed your path
and assisted your career. And why tell you all
this now? To dissuade you from asserting
rights you conceive to he just? Heaven forbid!
Ifjustioe is with you, so also is the duty due to
your mother‘s name. But simply for this : This
in asserting such rights, you content yoursel
with justice, not revenge; that, in righting yonr~
self, ou do not wrong others. If the law should
dcci o for you, the arrears you could demand
would leave my parents and my sister beggars.
This may be law—it would not be 'ustice; for
my father solemnly believed himself, and had
every apparent probability in his favor, the true
heir of the wealth that devolved upon him. This
is not all. There may be circumstances con-
nected with the discovery of a certain document,
that, if authentic—and I do not presume to ques-
tion it—may decide the contest so far as it rests
on truth: circumstances which might seem to
bear hard upon my father’s good name and faith.
I do not know sutficiently of law to say how far
these could be publicly urged, or, if urged, ex-
aggerated and tortured by an advocatc‘s calurn-
nious ingenuity. But again I say, justice and
not. revenge ! And with this I conclude, in-
closing to you these lines, written in your own
hand, and leaving you the arbiter of their value.
“An'ruun BuAus-oa'r."
The lines inclosed were these, a second time
placed before the reader:
“I can not guess who you are : they say that
you call yourself a relation; that must be some
mistake. I knew not that my poor mother had
relations so kind. But, whoever you be, you
tion, for I write to you unknown to all my family; ; soothed her last hours—she died in your arms-
and I am the onl one who can have no interest and If ever—yew, long Will‘s» hencefwe Should
in the struggle it out to take place between my~ chflneo to meet. and 1 can do any thing to and
father and yourself.
between you, I shall be in my grave.
this—from the bed of Death.
this—l, who stood beside a death-
Before the law can decide} another, my blood, and my life, and my heart,
I write and my soul all are slaves to your will.
Phili I write , be really of her kindred, l commend to you my
more brother; he is at -— with Mr. Morton. If
If you
sacred to you than mine—I, who received your you can servo him, my mother's soul will watch


NIGHT AND MORNING.
16l
ever you its a guardian angel. As for me I ask
no help from any one: I go into the world, and
will carve out my own way. So much do I
shrink from the thought of charity from others,
that I do not believe I could bless you as I do
new if your kindness to me did not close with
the stone upon my mother’s grave.
“ PHILIP."
This letter was sent to the only address of
Monsieur do Vaudcmont which the Beauforts
knew, viz., his apartments in town, and he did
not rccctve it the day it was sent.
Mean while Arthur Beaufort’s malady contin-
ued to gain ground rapidly. His father, absorbed
in his own more selfish fcnrs (though, at the first
sight of Arthur, overcome by the alteration of
his appearance), had ceased to consider his ill-
ness fatal. In fact, his alfection for Arthur was
rather one of pride than love: long absence had
weakened the ties of early custom. He prized
him as an heir rather than treasured him as a
'00. It almost seemed that, as the heritage
was in danger so the heir became less dear:
this \VRLS‘ only because he was less thought of.
Poor Mrs. Beaufort, at but partially acquainted
with the tenors of her husband, still clung to
hope for Arthur. Her aifection for him brought
out from the depths of her cold and insignificant
character qualities that had never before been
apparent. She watched, she nursed, she tended
lllm. The fine lad was gone; nothing but the
mnthcr was left be ind.
Will] a delicate constitution, and with an easy
temper which yielded to the influence of compan-
ions inferior to himself except in bodily v' or and
more sturdy will, Arthur Beaufort ha been
ruined by prosperity. His talents and acquire-
ments, it' not first-rate, at least for above medioc-
rity, had only served to refine his tastes, not to
strengthen his mind. His amiable impulses, his
charming disposition, and sweet temper, had only
served to make him the dupe of the parasites
that feasted on the lavish heir. His heart," frit-
tered away in the usual round of light intrigues
Ind hollow pleasures, had become too sated and
carbon :ietl for the redeeming blessings of a deep
and n noble love.
He had 30 lived for Pleasure that he had never
known Happiness. His frame broken by ex-
cesscs in which his better nature never took
glelight, he came home—to hear of ruin and to
'e!
It was evening in the sick‘room. Arthur had
risen from the bed to which, for some days, he
had voluntarily taken, and was stretched on the
sofa before the fire. Camilla was leaning over
him, keeping in the shade, that he might not see
the tears which she could not suppress. His
mother had been endeavoring to amuse him, as
she would have amused herself, by reading aloud
'one of the light novels of the hour: novels that
paint the life of the higher classes as one gor-
geous holiday.
“My dear mother,” said the patient, quoru-
lously, “ I have no interest in these false descrip-
tions of the life I have led. I know that life’s
worth—ah! had I been trained to some em-
ployment, some profession; had I—vvell, it is
weak to rcpine. Mother, tell me—you have
seen Monsieur do Vaudemont—is he strong and
healthy .1”
L

“Yes; too much so.
gance, dear Arthur."
“ And do you admire him, Camilla?
other caught your heart or your time ‘3”
“My dear Arthur,” interrupted Irs. Beau-
fort, “you forget that Camilla is scarcely out;
and, of course, a young girl's affections, if she’s
well brought up, are regulated by the expe-
rience of her parents. It is time to take the
medicine; it certainly agrees with you; you
have more color to-day, my dear, dear son.”
While Mrs. Beaufort was pouring out the
medicine, the door gent] opened, and Mr. Rob-
ert Beaufort appeared; ehind him there rose a
taller and a statelier form, but one which seemed
more bent, more humbled, more agitated. Beau-
fort advanced. Camilla looked up and turned
pole. The visitor escaped from Mr. Beaufort’s
grasp on his arm; he came forward, trembling;
he fell on his knees beside Arthur, and seizing
his hand, bent over it in silence; but silence so
stormy ! silence more impressive than all words;
his breast heaved, his whole frame shook. Ar-
thur guessed at once whom he saw, and bent
down gently, as if to raise his visitor.
“Oh! Arthur, Arthur!” then cried Philip,
“forgive me! My mother's comforter—my
cousin—my brother! Oh! brother, forgive me!”
And, as be half rose, Arthur stretched out his
arms, and Philip clasped him to his breast.
It is in vain to describe the ditl'erent feelings
that agitated those who beheld : tb selfish con-
gratulations of Robert, mingled with a better and
purer feeling—the stupor of the mother—the
emotions that she herself could not unravel,
which rooted Camilla to the spot.
“ You own me, then —-you own me!” cried
Philip. “You accept the brotherhood that my
mad assions once rejected! And you too—you,
Camilla—you, who once knelt by my side under
this very roof—do you remember me now! Oh,
Arthur! that letter, that letter! Yes, indeed;
that aid which I ascribed to any one—t0 felons
and to malcfactors rather than to you, made the
date of a fairer fortune. I might owe to that aid
the very fate that has preserved me till now—
the very name which I have not discredited. No,
no, do not think you can ask me a favor; you
can but claim your due. Brother l my dear
brother!"
He has not your ele-
Has no
__-._
CHAPTER XVII.
“ Warwick. Exceedingly well, his care:
over." Henry
are now all
IV.
Tun excitement of this interview soon over-
powering Arthur, Phili 1, in quitting the room
with Mr. Beaufort, aske a conference with that
wentloman, and thcyvrcnt into the very parlor
from which the rich man had once threatened to
expel the haggard supplinnt. Philip glanced
round the room, and the whole scene came again
before him. He motioned Beaufort to seat him-
self, and, after a pause, thus began:
" Mr. Beaufort, let the past be forgotten. we
may have need of mutual forgiveness; and I,
who have so wronged our noble sou, am illm
to suppose that l misJudged you. lean not, it
lis true, forch this lavisuit."


162
NIGHT AND MORNING.
Mr. Beaufort’s face fell. I
“I have no right to do so. I am the trustee ,
of my father’s honor and my mother’s name: I
must vindicate both: I can not forego this law-l
suit. But when once I bowed myself to enter.“
your house—then only with a hope, where new,
I have the certainty, of obtaining my heritage—
it was with the resolve to bury in oblivion every
sentiment that would transgress the most tem-
perate justice. Nowl will do more. If the law
decide against me, we are as we were; if with
rue—listen : I will leave you the lands of Beau-
fort for your life and your son’s. I ask but for ;
me and for mine such a deduction from your,
wealth as will enable me, should my brother he l
yet living, to provide for him; and (if you up-
prove the choice that out of all earth would
desire to make) to give whatever belongs to,
more refined or graceful existence than 1 care
'for, to her whom I would call my wife. Robert
Beaufort, in this room I once asked you to re-
store to me the only being I then loved : I am
new again your suppliant, and this time you
have it. in your power to grant my prayer. _Let
Arthur be in truth my brother: give me, if I
prove myself, asI feel assured, entitled to hold
the name my father bore, give me your daughter
as my wife; give me Camilla, and I will not
envy you the lands I am willing for myself to
real n; and if they pass to my children, those
chil ren will be your daughter‘s!”
The first impulse of Mr. Beaufort was to
grasp the hand held out to him—to pour forth
an incoherent torrent of praise and protesta-
tion, as assurances that he could not hear of
such generosity—that what was right was
right—that he should be proud of such a son-
in-law, and much more to the same key. And
in the midst of this, it suddenly occurred to Mr.
Beaufort that, if Philip’s case were really as
good as he said it was, he could not talk so cool-
ly of resigning the property it would secure him
for the term of a life (Mr. Beaufort thought of
Iris own) so uncommonly good, to say nothing of
Arthur’s. At this notion he thought it best not
to commit himself too far; drew in as artfully
as he could, until he could consult Lord Lil-
burne and his lawyer; and, recollecting also
that he had a creat deal to manage with respect
to Camilla an her prior attachment, he began
to talk of his distrcss for Arthur; of the neces-
sity of waiting a little before Camilla was spoken
to, while so agitated about her brother; of the
exceeding stron case which his lawyer advised
him he possesse —not but what he would rather
rest the matter on justice than law—and that if
the law shouId be with him, he would not the less
(provided he did not force his daughter’s in-
clinations, of which, indeed, he had no fear) be
most happy to bestow her hand on his brother’s
son, with such a portion as would be most hand-
' some to all parties.
It often happens to us in this world, that when
we come with our heart in our hands to some
person or other—when we pour out some gen-
erous burst of feeling so enthusiastic and self-
socrificing that a by-stander would call us fool
and Quixote—it often, I say, happens to us to
find our warm self suddenly thrown back upon
._our cold self; to discover that we are utterly
-uncomprehcnded; and that the swine who would

have munched up the acorn does not know what
to make of the pearl. That sudden ice which
then freezes over us—that supreme disgust and
despair almost of the whole world, which, for
the moment, we confound with the one world-
ling—they who have felt may reasonably ascribe
to Philip. He listened to Mr. Beaufort in ut-
ter and contemptuous silence, and then replied
onl .
‘ySir, at all events, this is a question for law
to decide. If it decide as you think, it is for you
to act; if as I think, it is for me. Till then, 1
will speak to you no more of your daughter or
my intentions. Meanwhile, all I ask is the
liberty to visit your son. I would not be banish~
ed from his sick-room l”
“ My dear nephew l” cried Mr. Beaufort1
again alarmed, “consider this house as your
home.”
Philip bowed and retreated to the door, fol-
lowed obsequiously by his uncle.
It chanced that both Lord Lilburne and Mr.
Blackwell were of the same mind as to the
course advisable for Mr. Beaufort new to pur-
sue. Lord Lilburne was not only anxious to
exchange a hostile liti ation for an amicable
lawsuit, but he was rea ly eager to put the seal
of relationship upon any secret with regard to
himself that a man who might inherit £20,000
a year—a dead shot and a bold tongue—might
think fit to disclose. This made. him more car-
nest than he otherwise might have been in ad-
vice as to other people’s afl'airs. He spoke to
Belaufort as a man of the world, to Blackwell as
a a or.
“Pm the man down to his generosity,” said
Lilburne, “before he gets the property. Pos-
session makes a great change in a man’s value
of money. After all, you can’t enjoy the prop-
erty when you’re dead: he gives it next to Ar-
thur, who is not married; and, if any thing hap-
pen to Arthur, poor fellow! why, in returning
to your daughter’s husband and children, it goes
in the right line. Pin him down at once: at
credit with the world for the most noble and is-
intcrcsted conduct, by letting your counsel state
that, the instant you discovered the lost docu-
ment, you wished to throw no obstacle in the
way of proving the marriage, and that the only
thing to consider is, if the marriage be proved;
if so, you will be the first to rcjoicc, 810., 810.
You know all that sort of humbug as well as any
man !”
Mr. Blackwell, suggesting the same counsel,
though in different words, proposed that, as an
intermediate step, the examination of the facts
should be submitted to the private arbitration of
some three of the most eminent lawyers, accord-
ing to whose verdict the defense should be fou ht
gallantly or waived nobly. This idea Bea ort
caught. The arbitration was suggested to Phi-
lip; agreed to, with some hesitation, by Mr.
Barlow. The arbiters were selected, and they
soon came to a unanimous opinion that the mar-
ria e could be proved, and Philip Beaufort
tab ish his claims. .
As soon as this report was made, Mr. Beat»
fort saw Philip. It was settled that the lawsuit,
though equally necessary, should be merely for-
mal, so for as the defendant was concerned;
and, in short, he let Philip understand that he
was sensible of his generosity, and not unwilling
to profit by it.


NIGHT AND MORNING.
While this went on, Arthur continued radu-l
ally to decline. Philip was with him a ways.
The sufferer took a strange liking to the long-
dreaded relation, this man of iron frame andt
thews. In Philip there was so much of life, thati
Arthur almost felt as if in his presence itself
there was antagonism to death. And Camilla;
saw thus her cousin, day by day, hour by hour,
in that sick chamber, lending himself, with the
gentle tenderness of awoman, to soften the pang,
to arouse the weariness, to cheer the dejeetion.
Philip never spoke to her of love: in such a[
lcene that had been impossible. She overcame,
in their mutual cares, the embarrassment she
had before felt in his presence; whatever her‘
other feelings, she could not, at least, but be
grateful to one so tender to her brother. Three g
letters of Charles Spencer‘s had been, in the‘
afllictions of the house, only answered by a,
brief line. She now took the occasion of a mo-f
mentary and illusivo amelioration in Arthur’s:
disease to write to him more at length. She,
was carrying, as usual, the letter to her mother,
when Mr. Beaufort met her and took the letter
from her hand. He looked embarrassed for a!
vmoment, and bade her follow him into his study. ‘
It was then that Camilla learned, for the first
time distinctly, the claims and rights of her
cousin; then she learned also at what price the
more valuable part of those rights was to bel
lacrificed. Mr. Beaufort naturally put the case i
before her in the strongest point of the dilemma. l
He was to be ruined, utterly ruined; a pauper,
a beggar, if Camilla did not save him. The
master of his fate demanded his daughter’s hand.
Naturally subservient to every whim of her
parents, this intelligence—the entreaty—the
command with which it was accompanied—over-
whelmed her. She answered but by tears; and '
Mr. Beaufort, assured of her submission, left her,
to consider of the tone of the letter he himself
should write to Mr. Spencer. He had sat down
to this very task when he was summoned to,
Arthur’s room. His son was suddenly taken
worse : spasms, that threatened immediate dan-
g; convulsed and exhausted him; and, when!
e were allayed, he continued for three days '
so feeble that Mr. Beaufort, his eyes now thnr-i
onghly open to the loss that awaited him, had,
no thoughts even for worldly interests. l
On the night of the third day, Philip, Robert,
Beaufort, his wife, his daughter, Were grouped ‘
round the death-bed of Arthur. He had Justi
wakened from a sleep, and he motioned to Philip i
to raise him. Mr. Beaufort started as by the
dim light he saw his son in the arms of Cattle.
Much: I and another Chamber of Death scented,
lhadow-like, to replace the one before him. ,





CHAPTER XVIII.
“ Jul. And what reward do you propose ‘I
It must be my loi'e.“—Tltc Double Marriage.
Warm: these events—dark. hurried. and stormy
—had befallen the family of his betrothed, Sid-
ney Beaufort (as we are now entitled to call
him) had continued his calm life by the banks of
the lovely lake. After a few weeks, his contr-
dence in Camilla’s fidelity overbore all his ap-
prehensions and forebodings. Her letters, though
constrained by the inspection to which they
were submitted, gave him inexpressible conso-
lation and delight. He began, however, early
to fancy that there was a chan c in their tone.
The letters were of the same ength, but they
seemed to shun the one subject to which all
others were as naught; they turned rather upon
the guests assembled at Beaufort Court; and
why I know not—for there was nothing in them
to authorize jealousy—the brief words devoted
to Monsieur do Vaudemont filled him with un-
easy and terrible suspicion. He gave vent to
these feelings as full as he dared do, under the
knowledge that his etter Would be. seen; and
Camilla never again even mentioned the name
of Vaudemont. Then there was a long pause-
then her brother‘s arrival and illness were an-
nounced—then, at intervals, but a few hurried
lines—then a complete, long, dreadful silence—
and, lastly, with a deep, black border and a
solemn black seal, came the following letter
from Mr. Beaufort:
“ MY nssa SIR—I have the unuttorablc grief
to announce to on and your worth uncle the
irreparable loss Ihave sustained in t 0 death of
my only son. It is a month to-day since he
departed this life. He died. sir, as a Christian
should die—humbly, penitentl '; exaggerating
the few faults of his short life, ut—" (and here
the writer’s hypocrisy, though so natural to him
—was it that he knew not that he was hypocrit»
ical‘P—fairl ‘ gave way before the real and hu-
man anguis for which there is no dictionary !)
—-“ but I can not pursue this theme! ,
“ Slowly now awakening to the duties yet left
me to discharge, I can not but be sensible of the
material difference in the prospects of m re-
maining child. Miss Beaufort is now the eir»
ass to an ancient name and a large fortune
She subscribes with me to the necessity of con-
sulting those new considerations which so me?»-
aneholy an event forces upon her mind. The lit-
tle fancy or likin" (the acquaintance was too short
for more) that might naturally spring up between
two amiable young persons thrown toflether in
the country must be banished from our flioughtr-
Words, long since uttered, knelled in his car: i As a friend, I shall he always happy to hear of
“There shall be a death-bed yet in which you i your welfare; and should you over think Of a
shall see the specter of her, new so calm, risin \ profession in which I can serve you, you may
for retribution from the grave!” His blo leommand my utmost interest and exertions. I
froze—his hair stood erect—he cast a hurried, i know, my young friend, what you will feel at
shrinking glance round the twilight of the dark-1 first, and how apt you will be to call me merce-
ened room; and, with a feeble cry, covered his ‘ nary and selfish. Heaven knows if that be really
white face with his trembling hands! But on * my character! But at your age impressions are
Arthur’s lips there was a serene smile; he , easily etl'aced; and any experienced friend of the
turned his eyes from Philip to Camilla, and , world will assure you, that in the altered cir-
munnured, “She will repay on!” A pause, ' cumstanees of the ease I have no option. All
and the mother’s shriek rang t rough the room. , intercourse and correspondnnce. of course, cease
Robert Beaufort raised his face from his hands: with this letter, until, at least. we may all meet
his son was dead! with no sentiments but thsse of friendship and


NIGHT AND MORNING.
165
he believed that he was beloved; for it is the)
property of love, in a large and noble heart, to ‘ turned to II
ing ecstasy with which she heard (as they re-
, the eventful morning of her

reflect itself, and to see its own image in the deliverance, side by side, her hand clasped in
eyes on which it looks.
beauty and excellence to some ordinary child of
Eve, worshiping less the being that is, than the
being it imagines and conceives, so Love, which
makes us all poets for a while, throws its own
divine light over a heart perhaps really cold,
and becomes dazzled into the joy of a false belief,
b the very luster with which it surrounds its
0 ject.
The more, however, Camilla saw of Philip,
the more (gradually overcoming her former mys-
terious and superstitious awe of him) she grew
familiarized to his peculiar cast of character
and thought, so the more she began to distrust
her father’s assertion that he had insisted on her
hand as a price—a bargain—an equivalent for
the sacrifice of a dire revenge. And with this
thought came another. Was she worthy of this
man? Was she; not deceiving him? Ought
she not to say, at least, that she had known a
previous attachment, however determined she
might be to subdue it? Often the desire for
this just and honorable confession trembled on
her lips, and as often was it checked by some
chance circumstance or some maiden fear. De-
lpite their connection, there was not yet between
them that delicious intimacy which ought to ac-
company the atliance of two hearts and souls.
The gloom of the house—the restraint on the
very language of love which a death so recent
and so deplored imposed, accounted in much for
this reserve. And for the rest, Robert Beaufort
left them very few and very brief opportunities
to be alone.
In the mean time, Philip (now persuaded that
the Beauforts were ignorant of his brother‘s
fate) had set Mr. Barlow’s activity in s arch of
Sidney; and his painful anxiety to dis over one
so dear and so mysteriously lost was the only
cause of uneasiness which the brightening Fu-
ture appeared likely to bestow. While these
researches, hitherto fruitless, were being made,
it so happened, as London began now to refill
and gossip to revive, that a report got abroad,
no one knew how ( robably from the servants),
that Monsieur de
French officer, was shortly to lead the daughter
and sole heiress of Robert Beaufort, Esq., M.P.,
to the h meneal altar; and that report, very
quickly ound its way into the London papers;
from the London papers it spread to the Provin-
eial; it reached the eyes of Sidney in his now
loomy and despairing solitude.
c read it he disappeared.
I'Jll.
You have a noble and
[ever found hint so,
[fire him no less than I have done, and serve hllt,
And lleaven shall bless you—you shall bless my nlhes."
The Double Marriage.
WI have been too long absent from Fanny:
it is time to return to her. The delight she ex-
perienced when Philip made her understand all
the benefits, the blessings that her courage, nay,
her intellect had bestowed upon him—the blush-
rv
.-
__-.—-
CHAPTER XIX.
Goodlmly, love him!
an honest gentleman.
As the poet gives ideal 1
audemout, a distinguished
The day that a

his, and often pressed to his grateful lips) his
praises, his thanks, his fear for her safety, his
jo at regaining her—all this amounted to a
bliss which, till then, she could not have con-
ceived that life was capable of bestowing. And
when he left her at H to hurry to his law-
yer’s with the recovered document, it was but
for an hour. He returned, and left her not for
several days. And in that time he became sensi-
ble of her astonishing, and to him, it seemed
miraculous improvement in all that renders mind
the equal to mind: miraculous, for he guessed
not the influence that makes miracles its com-
monplace. And now he listened attentively to
her when she conversed; he read with her
(though reading was never much in his voca-
tion); his unfastidious ear was charmed with
her voice when it sang those simple songs;
and his manner (impressed alike by gratitude
for the signal service rendered to him, and by
the discovery that Fanny was no longer a child,
whether in mind or years), though not less
gentle than before, was less familiar, less supe-
rior, more respectful, and more earnest. It was
a change which raised her in her own self-cs-
teem. Ah, those were rosy days for Fanny!
A less sagacions judge of character than Lil-
burne wouldhave formed doubts, perhaps, of the
nature of Philip‘s interest in Fanny. But he
comprehended at once the fraternal interest
which a man like Philip might well take in a
creature like Fanny, if commended to his care
by a protector whose doom was so awful as that
which had engulfed the life of William Gawtrey.
Lilburne had some thoughts at first of claiming
her; but, as he had no power to compel her
residence with him, he did not wish, on consid-
eration, to come again in contact with Philip
on ground so full of humbling recollections as
that still overshadowed by the images of Gaw-
trey and Mary. He contented himself with
writin an artful letter to Simon, stating that
from I'ganny’s residence with Mr. Gawtrcy, and
from her likeness to her mother, whom he had
only seen as a child, he had conjectured the re-
lationship she bore to himself; and, having 011-.
taincd other evidence of that fact (he did not say
what or where), he had not sernpled to remove
her to his roof, meaning to explain all to Mr.
Gawtrcy the next day. This letter was accom-
panied by one from a lawyer, informing Simon
Gawtrcy that Lord Lilburne would pay £200 a
year, in quarterly payments, to his order; and
that he was requested to add, that when the
young lady he had so benevolently reared came
of age, or married, an adequate provision would
be made for her. Simon’s eyes blazed up at this
last intelligence, when read to him, though be
neither comprehended nor sought to know why
Lord Lilburne should be so generous, or what
that noble person's letter to himself was intended
to convey. For two days he seemed restored to
vigorous sense; but, when he had once clutched
the first payment made in advance, the touch of
the money seemed to numb him back his
lethargy; the excitement of desire died In the
feeling of possession. _ i I
And just at that time Fanny’s happiness came
to a close. ,Philip received Arthur Beaufort'l


[66
NIGHT AND MORNING.
it will be to me to engrave that name upon that
letter; and now ensued long and frequent ab-
sences; and on his return, for about an hour or
so at a time, he spoke of sorrow and death ; and
the books were closed and the songs silenced.
All fear for Fanny’s safety was of course over
simple stone. Hereafter, when you yourself are
a wife, a mother, you will comprehend the serv-
ice you have rendered to the living and tho
dead 1”
—all necessity for her work—their little estab- He stopped, struggling with the rush of emo-
lishment was incrcaued. She never stirred out , lions that orerflowcd his heart. Alas! ma
without Sarah; yet she Would rather that there DEAD! what service can we render to them?
had been some danger on her account for him What availed it now, either to the dust below
to guard against, or some trial that his smile , or to the immortality above, that the fools and
might; soothe. His prolonged absences began to l, knaves of this world should mention the Catha-
prey upon her—the books ceased to interest—no , rinc whose life was gone, whose ears were deaf.
study filled up the dreary gap—her step grew ' with more or less respect? There is inealumny
listless—her check pale—she was sensrblc, at
last, that his presence had become necessary to
her very life. One day he came to the house
earlier than usual, and with a much happier
and serener expression of countenance than he
had worn of late.
Simon was dozing in his chair, with his old
dog, now scarce vigorous enough to bark, curled
up at his feet. Neither man nor dog was more
as a witness to what was spoken than the leath-
orn chair or the hearth rug on which they sev-
erally reposcd. I
There was something which, in actual life
greatly contributed to the interest of Fanny’s
strange lot, but which, in narration, I feel I
can not make sufficiently clear to the reader.
And this was her connection and residence with
that old man. Her character forming, as his
was completely gone ; here the blank becoming
filled, there the age fading to a blank. It was
the utter, total tfeathlincss-in-life of Simon that,
while so impressive to see, renders it impossible
to bring him before the reader in his full force
of contrast to the young Psyche. Ho seldom
spoke—mften not from morning till night—he
now seldom stirred. It is in vain to describe
the indescribable: let the reader draw the pic-
ture for himself. And whenever (as I some-
times think hc will, after he has closed this
book) he con'urcs up the idea he attaches to the
name of its eroine, let him see before her, as
she glides through the humble room—as she
listens to the voice of him she loves—as she sits ,
musing by the window, with the church spire
just visible—as, day by day, the soul brightens
and expands within her—still let the reader see
within the same walls—gray-haired, blind, dull
to all feeling, frozen to all life -that stony image
of Time and Death ! Perhaps then he may un-
derstand why they who beheld the real and the
living Fanny blooming under that chill and mass
of shadow, felt that her grace, her simplicity,
hcr charming beauty were raised by the con-;
trust, till they grew associated with thoughts
and images, mysterious and profound, belonging
not more to the lovely than to the sublime.
So there sat the old man ; and Philip, though
aware of his presence, speaking as if he were
alone with Fanny, after touching on more casual =
topics, thus addressed her :
“My true and my dear friend, it is to you
that l*shall owe, not only my rights and fortune,
but the vindication of my mother’s memory.
You have not only placed flowers upon that
grave-stone, but it is from you, under Providence,
that it will be inscribed at last with the name
which refutes all culumny. Yourg and innocent
as you now are, my gentle and beloved benefac-
tress, you can not as yet know what a blessing
\ that poison that, even when the character thrown
loft" the slander, the heart remains diseased be-
lneath the effect. They say that truth comes
i sooner or later; but it seldom comes before the
soul, passing from agony to contempt, has grown
callous to men’s judgments. Calumniate a hu-
man being in youth, adulato that being in ago:
what has been the interval ‘:‘ Will the adulation
atone either for the torture, or the hardness
which the torture leaves at last? And if, as in
Catharine's case, (a case how common!), the
truth came too late—if the tomb is closed—if
the heart you have wrung can be wrung no
more—why, the truth is as vuluoless as the epi-
taph on a forgotten name! Some such convic-
tion of the hollowness of his own words, when
he spoke of service to the dead, smote upon
Philip‘s heart, and stopped the flow of his words.
Fanny, conscious only of his praise, his thanks,
and the tender afl'cction of his voice, stood still
silent, her eyes downcast, her breast heaving.
Philip resumed:
“ And now, Fanny, my honored sister, I would
thank you for more, were it possible, even than
this. I shall owe to you not only name and for-
tune, bnt happiness. It is from the rights to
which you have assisted me, and which will
shortly be made clear, that I am enabled to de-
mand a hand I have long coveted: the hand of
one as dear to me as you are. In a word, the
time has this day been fixed when I shall have
a home to offer to you and to this old man ; when
I can present to you a sister who will prize you
as I do; for I love you so dearly, I owe you so
much, that even that home would lose half its
smiles if you were not there. Do you under-
stand me, Fanny? The sister I speak of will
be my wife l"
The poor girl who heard this speech of most
cruel tenderness did not fall, or faint, or evince
any outward emotion except in a deadly pale-
ness. She seemed like one turned to stone.
Her very breath forsook her for some moments,
and then came back with a long, deep sigh.
Sho laid her hand lightly upon his arm, and said
calml Y, '
“ es, I understand. We once saw a wed-
ding. You are to be married: I shall see
yours I ”
“You shall; and later, perhaps, I ma see
your own. I have a brother—ah! if I con (1 but
find him—younger than I am, beautiful almost
' as you !”
1 “You will be happy," said Fanny, still calmly.
i “I have long placed my hopes of happiness in
‘ such a union! Stay! where are you going ?”
“To pray for you I” said Fanny, with a smile
in which there was something of the old va-
Icancy; and she walked gently from the room.


NIGHT AND MORNING,
167
Philip followed her with moistened eyes. Us
ily, one of the footmen who had attended Mrs.
had no suspicion of her secret. and her manner f Beaufort to the lalres recognized him; and, in
now might have deceived one more vain. He
soon after quittcd the house and returned to
town.
Three hours after, Sarah found Fanny stretched
on the floor of her own room, so still, so white,
that, for some moments, the old woman thought
life was gone. She recovered, however, by dc-
grces; and, after putting her hands to her eyes,
and muttering some moments, seemed much as
usual, except that she was more silent, and that
her lips remained colorless, and her hands cold
like stone.
__-§—
CHAPTER XX.
“ Vee- Ye see what follows.
Duke. Oh, gentle sir! this shape uain !"
Tlu Chances.
THAT evening Sidney Beaufort arrived in
London. it is the nature 'of solitude to make
the assions calm on the surface, agitated in
the diecps. Sidney had placed his whole exist-
ence in one object. When the letter arrived
that told him to hope no more, he was at first
rather sensible of the terrible and dismal blank
-—the “ void abyss"—to which all his future was
suddenly changed, than roused to vehement and
turbulent emotion. But Camilla’s letter had,
nswe have seen, raised his courage and animated
his heart. To the idea of her faith he still clung
with the instinct of hope in the midst of despair.
The tidings that she was absolutely betrothed to
another, and in so short a time since her rejection
of him, let loose from all restraint his darker
and more impetuous passions. In a state of
mind bordering on frenzy, he hurried to Lon-
don to seek her, to see her; with what intent,
what hope, if hope there were, he himself could
scarcely tell. But what man who has loved with
fervor and trust will be contented to receive the
sentence of eternal separation except from the
very lips of the one thus Worshiped and thus
forsworn?
The day had been intensely cold. Toward
evening, the snow fell fast and heavily. Sidney
had not, since a child, been before in London;
and the immense city, covered with a wintry
and icy mist, through which the hurrying pas.
eengers and the slow-moving vehicles passed,
specter-like, along the dismal and slippery streets,
opened to the stranger no hospitable arms. He
knew not a step of the way—he was pushed to
and fro—his scarce intelligible questions im-
' tiently answered—the snow covered him—the
East pierced to his veins. At length a man,
more kindly than the rest, and seeing that he
was a stranger to London, procured him a hack-
ney-coach, and directed the driver to the distant
quarter of Berkeley-quartz. The snow balled
under the hoofs of the horses; the groaning
vehicle proceeded at the pace of a hearse. At
length, and after acperiod of such suspense and
such emotion as Si ncy never in after-life could
recall without a shudder, the couch stopped, the
benumhcd driver heavily descended, the sound
of the knocker knelled loud through the mufiled
air, and the light from Mr. Beaufort’s hall glared
full upon the izzy eyes of the visilor. He pushed

answer to his breathless inquiry, said,
“ Why, indeed, Mr. Spencer, Miss Beaufort is
at home—up stairs in the drawing-room. with
'master and mistress, and Monsieur do Vaude¢
mont; but—”
Sidney waited no more. He bounded up the
stairs; he opened the first door that presented
itself to him, and burst, unannounced and un-
locked for, upon the eyes of the group seated
within. He saw not the terrified start of Mr'.
Robert Beaufort; he heeded not the faint, nerv-
ous exclamation of the mother; he caught not
the dark and wondering glance of the stranger
seated beside Camilla; .he saw but Camilla her-
self, and in a moment he was at her feet.
“Camilla, I am here! I, who love you so,
I, who have nothing in ,the world but you !—1
am here, to hear from you, and you alone, if I
am indeed abandoned—if you are indeed to be
anothér's!”
He had dashed his hat from his brow as ho
sprang forward; his lon , fair hair, damp with
the snows, fell disordere over his forehead; his
eyes were fixed, as for life and death, upon the
pale face and tremblin lips of Camilla. Rob-
ert Beaufort, in great a arm, and well aware of
the fierce temper of Philip, anticipative of some
rash and violent impulse, turned his glance upon
his destined son-in-law. But there was no an
pride in the countenance be them beheld. Philip
had risen, but his frame was bent, his knees
knocked together, his lips were parted, his eyes
were staring full upon the face of tho kneeling
man.
Suddenly Camilla, sharing her father’s fear,
herself half arose, and, With an unconscious
pathos, stretched one hand, as if to shelter, over
Sidney’s head, and looked to Philip. Sidncy’s
eyes followed hers. He sprang to his feet.
“What, then, it is true! And this is the man
for whom I am abandoned! But, unless you—_
you, with your own lips—tell me that you love
me no more—that you love another, I will not
yield you up but with life.”
He stalked sternly and impetuously up to
Philip, who reeoiled as his rival advanced. The
characters of the two men seemed suddenly
changed. The timid dreamer seemed diluted
into the fearless soldier. The soldier seemed
shrinking—quailing—into nameless terror. Sid-
ney grasped that strong arm, as Philip still re-
treated, with his slight and delicate fingers;
rasped it with violence and menace ; and,
'rowning into the face from which the swarthy
blood was scared away, said, in a hollow whisper,
“ Do you hear me ‘1 Do you comprehend me ‘1?
I say that she shall not be forced into a marrin e
at which, 1 yet believe, her heart rebels. fiy
claim is holier than ours. Renounce her, or
win her but with my blood.”
Philip did not apparently hear the words thus
addressed to him. His whole senses seemed ab-
sorbed in the one sense of sight. He continued
to gaze upon the speaker, till his eye dropped on
the hand that yet griped his arm. And as he
thus looked he uttered an inartionlate cry. Ho '
caught the hand in his own, and pointed to a ring
on the finger, but remained speechless. Mr.
Beaufort approached, and began some stammer-
aside the porter, and sprung into the hall. Luck- ed words of soothing to Sidney; but Philip mo.


168
NIGHT AND MORNING.
tioned him to be silent; and at last, as if by a.
mother whom I obeyed. Perhaps hint-after,
violent effort, said, not to Sidney, but to Beaufort, Sidney, when we talk over that period of my
“ His name ? his name ?"
learlier life when I worked for you—when the
“It is Mr. Spencer—Mr. Charles Spencer,” ; degradation you speak of (there was no crime
cried Beaufort.
all; I—l—”
“Hush! hush!" cried Philip; and, turning to
“Listen to me; I will explain
in it!) was borne cheerfully for your salts, and
l yours the holiday, though mine the tasl; -per.
'haps hereafter you will do me more Justice.
Sidney, he put his hand on his shoulder, and, F You left me, or were reft me, andI gave all the
looking him full in the face, said,
you not—yes, it is so—it is—it is! Follow me
-—-follow!”
And still retaining his grasp, and leading Sid-
ney, who was now subdued, awed, and a prey to
new and wild suspicions, he moved on gcntly,
stride by stride, his e es fixed on that fair face,
his lips muttering, tillythe closing door shut both
forms from the eyes of the three there left—in
what state of presentirnent, or conjecture, or fear,
the reader can imagine better than I describe.
It was the adjoinin room into which _Philip
led his rival. It was fit. but b ' a small reading-
lamp, and the bright, steady laze of the fire;
and by this light they both continued to gaze on
each other, as if spell-bound, in complete silence.
At last Philip, by an irresistible impulse, fell
upon Sidney‘s bosom, and, clasping him with
convulsive energy, gasped out,
“Sidney! Sidney! my mother’s son!"
“ What !” exclaimed Sidney, struggling from
the embrace, and at last freeing himself; “it is
an, then! you—my own brother! You, who
ve been hitherto the thorn in my path, the
cloud in my fate! You, who are now come to
make me a wretch for life! I love that wom-
an, and you tear her from me! You, who sub-
jected my infancy to hardship, and, but for Prov-
tdeuce, might have degraded my youth, by your
example, into shame and guilt !"
“Forbear! Forbear!" cried Philip, with a
voice so shrill in its agony that it smote the
hearts of those in the adjoinin chamber like the
shriek of some despairing sou . They looked at
each other, but not one had the courage to break
upnn the interview.
Sidney himself was appalled by the sound.
He threw himself on a seat, and, overcome by
ssions so new to him, by excitement so strange,
'd. his face, and sobbed as a child.
Philip walked rapidly to and fro the room for
some moments ; at length he paused opposite to
Sidney, and said, with the deep calmness of a
wronged and gonded spirit,
“ Sidncy Beaufort, hear me ! When my moth-
er died, she confided you to my care, my love,
and my protection. In the lust lines that her
hand traced, she bade me think less of myself
than of you, be to you as a father as well as
brother. The hour that I read that letter, I fell
on my knees and vowed that I would fulfill that
injunction—that I would sacrifice my very self,
if I could give fortune or happiness to you.
And this not for your sake alone, Sidney; no!
but as my mother—our wronged, our belied, our
broken-hearted mother—oh, Sldney, Sidney! have
you no tears for her too?" He passed his hand
over his own eyes for a moment, and resumed:
“But us our mother, in that last letter, said- to
me, ‘Lct my love pass into your breast for him,’
so, Sidney, so, in all that I could do for you, ll
fancied that my mother’s smile locked down
upon me, and that, in serving you, it was my

I little fortune that my mother had bequeathed us
“Have not you known another name? Are.
to get some tidings from you. I receivtd your
letter—that bitter letter—and I cared not then
that I was a beggar, since I was alone. You
talk of what I have cost you—you talk !—a.nd
you now ask me to—to—merciful Heart-n! let
me understand you. Do you love Camilla?
Does she love you? Speak—speak—caplain;
what new agony awaits me ?"
It was then that Sidney, affected and humbled,
amid all his more selfish sorrows, by his broth-
er’s language and manner, related, as succinctly
as he could, the history of his affection for Ca-
milla, the circumstances of their engagt-mentI
and ended by placing before him the letter he
had received from Mr. Beaufort.
In spite of all his efforts for self-control, Phil-
ip’s anguish was so great, so visible, that Sidney,
after looking at his working features, his trem-
bling hands for a moment, felt all the earthlier
parts of his nature melt in a flow of gcncrnus
svm thy and remorse. He flung himself on
the reast from which he had shrunk before,
and cried, -
“ Brother, brother! forgive me. I see how I
have wronged you. If she has forgotten me—
if she love you, take her and be happy !”
Philip returned his embrace, but without
warmth, and then moved away; and again, in
great disorder, paced the room. His brother
only heard disjointed exclamations that scemed
to esca e him unawares: “They said shv loved
me! eaven give me strength! Mother, moth-
er! !et me fulfill my vow! Oh, that I hid died
ere this!” He stopped at last, and the largo
dews rolled down his forehead.
“Sidney!” said he, “there is mystery here
that 1 comprehend not. But my mind now is
very confused. If she loves yon—if! Is it
possible for a woman to love two? W oil, well,
I o to solve the riddle: wait here !”
c vanished into the next room, and for near-
ly half an hour Sidney was alone. He heard
through the partition, murmured Voices; he
caught more clearly the sound of Cmuilla’s
sobs. The particulars of that interview be.
tween Philip and Camilla, alone at first (after-
ward Mr. Robert Beaufort was reudnntted ,
Philip pever dis-cluscd, nor could Sidney hunscff
ever obtain a clear account from Camilla, who
could not recall it, even years after, without
great emotion. But at last the door was open-
ed, and Philip entered, loading Camilla by the
hand. His face was calm, and there was a
smile on his lips; a greater dignity th.m even
that habitual to him was diffused over hi< whole
person. Camilla was holding her handkerchief
to her eyes, and weeping passionately. Mr.
Beaufort followed them with a mortnicd and
slinking air.
“Sidney,” said Philip, “it is past.
arranged. I yield to our earlier, and. there-
fore, better claim. . Beaufort cons-tits to
your union. He will tell you, at some finer
Allis


NIGHT AND MORNING.
169
time, that our birthright is at last made clear,
and that there is no blot on the name we shall
hereafter hear. Sidney, embrace your bride!”
Amazed, delighted, and still half incredulous,
Sidney seized and kissed the hand of Camilla;
and as he then drew her to his breast, she said,
as she pointed to Philip,
“Oh! if you do love me as you say, 500 in
him the generous, the noble—3’ Fresh sobs
broke off her speech; but, as Sidney sought
again to take her hand, she whispered, with a
touching and a womanly sentiment, “Ah! re-
spect him: see i” and Sidney, looking then at his
brother, saw that, though he still attempted to
smile, his lip writhed, and his features were
drawn together, as one whose frame is wrung
by torture, but who struggles not to groan.
He flew to Philip, who, grasping his hand,
held him back and said,
“ I have fulfilled my vow! I have given you
up the only blessing my life has known. Enough!
you are happy, and I shall be so too, when God
pleases to soften this blow. And now you must
not wonder or blame me if, though so latel
found, I leave on for a while. Do me one kind):
noes—you, Sithtcv—you, Mr. Beaufort. Let the
marriage take pace at H , in the village
church by which my mother sleeps; let it be
delayed till the suit is terminated; by that time
I shall hope to meet you all—~10 meet you,
Camilla, as I ought to meet my brother‘s wife;
till then, my presence will not sadden your hap-
iness. Do not seek to see me, do not expect to
car from me. Hist! be silent, all of you; my
heart is yet bruised and sore. Oh Time,” and
here, deepening in his voice, he raised his arms,
“ Thou, who has preserved my youth from such
snares and such peril—who hast guided my steps
from the abyss to which the wandered, and
beneath whose hand I now ow, grateful if
chastencd—receive this offering and bless that
union ! Fare ye well.”

_-—.__
CHAPTER XXI.
" Heaven's nlrs amid the hnrpstrings dwell ;
And we wish they ne‘er may fade;
They cease; and the soul is a silent cell,
Where music never played.
Dream follows dream through the long night-hours."
Wilson: The Put, a Poem.
THE self-command which Philip had obtained
for a while deserted him when he was without
the house. His mind felt broken up into chaos;
he hurried _0n, mechanicall ', on foot; he passed
street upon street, now solitary and deserted. as
the lamps gleamed u the thick snow. The
city was left behind im. He paused not, till,
breathless, and exhausted in spirit if not in frame,
he reached the church-yard where Catharine’s
dust re ed. The snow had ceased to fall, but
it lay 322p over the graves. The yew-trees,
clad in their white shrouds, gleamcd ghostlike
Philip bent over the tomb, within and without
all was Ice and Nicn'r!
How long he remained on that spot, what
were his emotions or his prayers, he himself
never afterward could recall. Long past mid-
night Fanny heard his step on the stairs, and the
door of his chamber close with unwontcd vio-
lence. She heard, too, for some hours, his heavy
tread on the floor, till suddenly all was silent.
The next morning, when. at the usual hour,
Sarah entered to unclose the shutters and light
the fire, she was startled by wild cxclamations
and wilder laughter. The fever had mounted to
the brain: he was delirious.
For several weeks Philip Beaufort was in im-
minent danger; for a considerable part of that
time he was unconscious; and, when the peril
was past, his recovery was slow and gradual.
It was the only illness to which his vigorous
frame had ever been subjected; and the fever
had perhaps exhausted him more than it might
have done one in whose constitution the disease
had encountered less resistance. His brother,
imagining ho had gone abroad, was unacquainted
with his danger. None tended his sick-bed save
the hircling nurse, the feed physician, and the
unpurchasuhle heart of the only being to whom
the wealth and rank of the heir of Beaufort Court
were as nothing. Here was reserved for him
Fate’s crowning lesson, in the vanity of these
human wishes which anchor in old and power.
For how many years had the extle and the out-
cast pincd indi nantly for his birth-right! Lo!
it was won, an with it came the crushed heart
and the smitten frame. As he slowly recovered
sense and reasoning, these thoughts struck him
forcibly. He felt as if he were rightly punished
in having disdained, during his earlier youth. the
onjoyments within his reach. Was there nothing
in the glorious health—the uncon uerable hope
the heart, if wrung, and chafed, an sorely tried,
free at least from the direst anguish of the pas-
sions, disappointed and ‘ealous love? Though
certain, if spared to the uture, to be rich, power-
ful, righted in name and honor, might he not,
from that, sickbed, cnvy his earlier post? even
when with his brother-orphan he wandered
through the solitary fields, and felt with what
energies we are gifted when we have something
to protect; or when, loving and beloved, he saw
life smile out to him in the eyes of Eugenie; or
when, after that melancholy loss, he wrestled
: boldly, and breast to breast, with Fortune. in a
far land, for honor and independence? There
is something in severe illness, especially if it be
in violent contrast to the usual strength of the
body, which has often the most salutary effect
, upon the mind—which often, by the affliction of
‘ the frame, roughly wins us from the too morbid
i pains of the heart—which makes us feel that, in
I more LIFE, enjoyed as the robust enjoy it, God’s
Z great principle of good breathes and moves.
We rise, thus, from the sick-bed softened and
humbled, and more disposed to look around us


through the dimncss. Upon the rail that fenced for such blessinos as we may yet command.
the tomb yct hung a wreath that Fanny’s hand i The return oi Philip, his danger, the necessity
had placed there; but the flowers were hid: it of exertion, of tending him, had roused Fanny
was a wreath of snow! Through the intervals , from a state which might otherwise have been
of the huge and still clouds there gleamed a few ,‘ permanently dangerous to the intellect so lately
melancholy stars. The very calm of the holyl ripened within her. With what patience, wit
spot seemed unutterably sad. The death of the what fortitude, with what unutterablc thought
year overhung the death of man. And, as and devotion she fulfilled that best and holiest


170
NIGHT AND MORNING.
woman's duty, let the man whose struggle with
life and death has been blessed with tho vigil
that wakes and saves imagine to himself. And
in all her anxiety and terror she had glimpses
of a happiness which it seemed to her almost
criminal to acknowledge. For, even in his dc-
lirium, her voice seemed to have some soothing
influence over him, and he was calmer when she
was by. And when at last he was conscious,
her face was the first he saw, and her name the
first which his lips uttered. As then he grew
gradually stronger, and the bed was deserted for
the sofa, he took more than the old pleasure in
hearing her read to him, which she did with a
fer-ling that lecturers can not teach. And once,
in a pause from this occupation, he spoke to her
frankly; he sketched his past history—his last
sacrifice. And Fanny, as she wept, learned
that he was no more another’s!
It has been said that this man, natural] of an
active and impatient temperament, ha been
little accustomed to seek those resources which
- are found in books. But somehow, in that sick
chamber, it was F anny’s voice—the voice of her
over whose mind he had once so hauohtily la-
mented—that taught him how much of aid and
solace the herd of men derive from the everlasting
genius of the few.
Gradually, and interval by interval, moment
by moment, thus drawn together, all thought
beyond shut out (for, however crushing for the
time the blow that had stricken Philip from
health and reason, he was not that slave to a
guilty fancy that he could voluntarily indulge-
that he would not earnestly seek to shun all
sentiments that yet turned with unholy yearning
toward the betrothed of his brother)-—gradually,
I say, and slowly, came those progressive and
delicious epochs which mark a revolution in the
aflections: unspeakable gratitude, brotherly ten-
derness, the united strength of compassion and
respect that he had felt for Fanny, seemed, as he
gained health, to mellow into feelings yet more
exquisite and deep. He could no longer delude
himself with a vain and imperious belief that it
was a defective mind that his heart protected;
he began again to be sensibie to the rare beauty
of that tender face: more lovely, perhaps, for_
the paleness that had replaced its bloom. The
fancy that he had so imperiously checked before
—before he saw Camilla, returned to him, and
neither pride nor honor had now the right to
chase the soft wings away. One evening, fan-
cying himself alone, he fell into a profound
reverie; he awoke with a start, and the excla-
mation, “Was it true love that I ever felt for
Camilla, or a passion—a frenzy—a delusion?”
His exclamation was answered by a sound
that seemed both of joy and grief. He looked
up and saw Fanny before him; the light of the
moon, just risen, fell full on her form, but her
hands were claspcd‘before her face; he heard
her sob.
“Fanny, dear Fanny,” he cried, and sought to
throw himself from the sofa to her feet. But she
drew herself away, and fled from the chamber as
a dream.
Philip rose, and for the first time since his ill-
ness, walked, but with feeble steps, to and fro
the room.
those in which last, in frame and intolerable
agony, he had paced that narrow boundary! Be-
With what dillercnt emotions from-

turning health creeped through his veins; a se-
rene, a kindly, a celestial joy circumfused his
heart. Had the time yet come when the old
Florimel had melted into snow; when the new
and the true one, with its warm life, its tender
beauty, its maiden wealth of love, had risen be-
fore his hopes? He paused before the window;
the spot within seemed so confined, the night
without so calm and lovely, that he forgot his
still-clinging malady, and uncloscd the easement:
the air came soft and fresh upon his temples, and
the church tower and spire, for the first time,
did not seem to him to rise in gloom against the
heavens. Even the grave-stone of Catharine,
half in moonlight, half in shadow, appeared to
him to wear a smile. His mother’s memory was
become linked with the living Fanny.
“ Thou art vindicated—th Sidney is happy,"
he murmured: “to her the t anks !”
Fair hopes and soft thoughts busy within him,
he remained at the easement till the increasing
chill warned him of the dan er he incurred.
The next day, when the p iysician visited him,
he found the fever had returned. For many
days Philip was again in danger—dull, uncon-
scious even of the step and voice of Fanny.
He woke at last as from a long and profound
sleep; woke so refreshed, so revived, that he felt
at once that some great crisis had been ssed,
and that, at len th, he had struggled bacirmto the
sunny shores of ife. '
By his bedside sat Liancourt, who, long alarm-
ed at his disappearance, had at last contrived,
with the help of Mr. Barlow, to trace him to
Gawtrey’s house, and had for several days taken
share in the vigils of poor Fanny,
While he was yet explaining all this to Philip,
and congratulating him on his evident recovery,
the physician entered to confirm the congratula-
tion. In a few days the invalid was able to quit
his room, and nothing but change of air seemed
necessary for his convalescence. It was then that
Liancourt, who had for two days seemed impa-
tient to unburden himself of some communica-
tion, thus addressed him:
“My dear friend, I have learned, now, your
sto from Barlow, who called several time:
during your relapse, and who is the more anxioul
about you, as the time for the decision of your
case now draws near. The sooner you quit
this house the better.”
“Quit this house! and why ? Is there not one
inr this house to whom I owe my fortune and my
li e? ’
“Yes: and for that reason I say, Go hence;
it is the only return you can make her."
“ Pshaw! speak intelligibly.”
“I will,” said Liancnurt gravely. “I have
been a watcher with her by your sick-bed, and I
know what you must: feel already; nay, I must
confess that even the old servant has ventured to
speak to me. You have inspired that poor girl
with feelings dangerous to her peace.”
“I-Ia l” cried Philip, with such joy that Lian-
court frowned and said, “Hitherto I have be-
lieved you too honorable to—"’
“So you think she loves me ‘2” interrupted
Philip.
“ch; what then? You, the heir of Beau-
fort Court—ofarental of £20,000 a year—of an
historical name—you can not marry this poor
girl i" .


NIGHT AND MORNING.
171
“Well! I will consider what you say; and,
at all events, I will leave the house to attend
the result of the trial. Let us talk no moro on
the subject now.”
Philip had the penetration to ereeive that
Liancourt, who was greatly movedJ by the bean-
ty, the innocence, and the unprotected position
of Fanny, had not confined caution to himself;
that, with his characteristic, well-meaning blunt-
uess, and with the license of a man somewhat
advanced in years, he had spoken to Fanny her-
self: for Fanny now seemed to shun him; her
eym were heavy, her manner was embarrassed.
He saw the change, but it did not grieve him;
he hailed the omens which he drew from it.
And at last he and Liancourt went. He was
absent three weeks, during which time the for-
mality of the friendly lawsuit was decided, and
the public were in ecstasies at the noble and
sublime conduct of Mr. Robert Beaufort; who,
the moment he had discovered a document which
he might so easily have buried forever in obliv-
ion, voluntaril agreed to dispossess himself of
estates he ha so long enjoyed, preferring con-
science to lucre. Some rsons observed that
it was reported that Mr. Philip Beaufort had
also been generous; that he had agreed to give
up the estates for his uncle’s life, and was only,
in the mean while, to receive a fourth of the
revenues. But the universal comment was,
“He could not have done less!” Mr. Robert
Beaufort was, as Lord Lilburne had once ob-
served, a man who w born, made, and reared
to be spoken well of by the world; and it was a
comfort to him now, poor maul to feel that his
character was so highly estimated. If Philip
should live to the age of one hundred, he will
never become so respectable and popular a man
with the crowd as his worthy uncle. But does
it much matter ‘P
Philip returned to H the eve before the
day fixed for the marriage of his brother and
Camilla.

+
CHAPTER XXII.
‘ viroy—Awfip re Kai 'Haépa éEtys'vovro."—Hls.
“ From Night, Sunshine and Day arose 2"
Tan sun of early May shone cheerfully over
the quiet suburb of H In the thorough-
fares life was astir. It was the hour of noon:
the hour at which commerce is busy and streets
are full. The old, retired trader, cying wist-
fully the rolling coach or the oft-pausing omni-
bus, was breathing the fresh and scented air in
the broadest and most crowded road, from which,
afar in the distance, rose the spires of the me-
tropolis. The boy let loose from the day-school
was hurrying home to dinner, his satchel on his
back; the ballad-singer was sending her cracked
whine through the obscurcr alleys, where the
baker’s ho ', with puddings on his tray, and the
Imart mai -servant,dispatchcd for porter, paused
to listen. And round the shops where cheap
shawls and cottons tempted the female eye, many
a loitering girl detained her impatient mother,
and eyed the tickets and calculated her hard-
gaincd savings for the Sunday gear. And in
the corners of the streets steamed the itinerant
kitchens of the piemen, and rose the sharp cry,


“All hot! all hot!” in the ear of infant and
ragged Hunger. And amid them all rolled on
some lazy coach of ancient merchant or withered
maiden, unconscious of any life but that creep-
ino through their own dull-riveted veins. And
before the house in which Catharine died there
loitercd many stragglcrs, gossips of the hamlet,
subscribers to the news-room hard by, to guess,
and speculate, and wonder why, from the church
behind, there rose the merry pool of the mar-
riage bell ! _
At length, along the broad road leading from
the great city, there were seen rapidly advancing
three carriages of a different fashion from those
familiar to the suburb. On'they came ; swiftly.
they whirled round the angle that conducted to
the church, the hoofs of the gay steeds rin ing
cheerin on the ground, the white favors 0 the
servants gleaming in the sun. Happy is the
bride the sun shines on! And when the ear-
riages had thus vanished, the scattered grou s
melted into one crowd, and took their way to t 9
church. They stood idling without in the burial-
ground, many of them round the fence that
guarded from their footsteps Catharine’s lonely
grave. All in nature was lad, exhilarating,
and yet serene; a genial rcshness breathed
through the soft air; not a cloud was to be seen
in the smiling azure; even the old dark yews
seemed happy in their everlasting verdure. The
bell cease , and then even the crowd grew si-
lent; and not a sound was heard in that solemn
spot to whose demesncs are consecrated alike
the Birth, the Marriage, and the Death.
At length there came forth from the church-
door the goodly form of a rosy beadie. Ap-
proaching the groups, he whispered the bet-
ter-dressed, and commanded the ragged: re-
rnonstratcd with the old, and lifted his cone to
the young; and the result of all was, that the
church-yard, not without many a murmur and
expostulution, was cleared, and the crowd fell
back in the space behind the gates of the prin-
cipal entrance, where they swayed, and gaped,
and chattered round the carriages which were
to bear away the bridal party.
Within the church, as the ceremony was now
concluded, Philip Beaufort conducted, hand-in-
hand, silently along the aisle, his brother's wife.
Leaning on his stick, his cold sneer upon his
thin lip, Lord Lilburne limped, step by step, with
the pair, though a little apart from them, glanc-
ing from moment to moment at the face of Philip
Beaufort, where he had hoped to read a grief
that he could not detect. Lord Lilburne had
carefully refrained from an interview with Philip
till that day, and he now only came to the wed-
ding, as a surgeon goes to on hospital to examine
a wound which he had been told would be great
and sore: he was disappointed. Close behind
followed Sidney, radiant with jn , and bloom,
and beauty; and his kind guar ion, the tears
rollino down his eyes, murmured blessings as he
look upon him. Mrs. Beaufort had declined
attending the ceremony: her nerves were too
weak; but behind, at a long interval, came
Robert Beaufort, sober, staid, collected as over
to outward seeming; but a close observer might
have seen that his eye had lost its habitual com-
placent cunning, that his step was more heavy,
his stoop more _|o_vless. About his air them was
something crest-fallen. The consciousness of


172 \
NIGHT AND MORNING.
acres had passed away from his portly presence;
he was no longer a possessor, but a pensioner.
The rich man, who had decided as he pleased
on the happiness of others, was a cipher : he had
ceased to have any interest in any thing. \Vhat
to him the marriage of his daughter now? Her
children would not be the heirs of Beaufort. As
Camilla. kindl turned round, and, through happy
tears, waite for his approach, to clasp his
hand, he forced a smile, but it was sickly and
piteous. Ho longed to creep away and be
alone.
“ My father I” said Camilla, in her sweet, low
voice; and she extricated herself from Philip,
and threw herself on his breast.
“ She is a good child,” said Robert Beaufort,
vacantly; and, turning his dry eyes to the group,
he caught instinctively at his customary com-
monplaccs; “and a good child, Mr. Sidney,
makes a good wife!”
The clergyman bowed as if the compliment
were addressed to himself; he was the only man
there whom Robert Beaufort could now deceive.
“My sister,” said Philip Beaufort, as, once
more leaning on his arm, they paused before
the church-door, “may Sidney love and prize
ygu—as I would have done; and believe me,
th of you, I have no regret, no memory that
wounds me now.”
He dropped her hand, and motioned to her
father to lead her to the carriage. Then wind-
ing his arm into Sidncy’s, he said,
“ Wait till they are gone: I have one word
yet with you. Go on, gentlemen.”
The clergyman bowed, and walked through
the church-yard. But Lilburne, pausing and
surveying Philip Beaufort, said to him whisper-
ingly,
“And so much for feeling—the fully! So
much for generosity—the delusion! Happy
man!”
“ I am thoroughly happy, Lord Lilburne.”
“ Are you? Then it was neither feeling nor
generosity—and we were taken in! Good day.”
ith that he limped slowly to the gate.
Philip answered not the sarcasm even by a
look, for at that moment a loud shout was set up
by the mob without: they had caught a glimpse
of the bride.
“ Come, Sidney, this way,” said he; “ I must
not detain you long.”
Arm-in-arm they passed out of the church,
and turned to the spot hard by where the flowers
smiled up to them from the stone on their moth-
er’s grave.
The old inscription had been efl‘aced, and the
name of CATllARlNE Baauroa'r was placed upon
the stone. .
“Brother,” said Philip, “do not forget this
grave: years hence, when children play around
your own hearth. Observe, the name of Cath-
arine Beaufort is fresher on the stone than the
dates of birth and death; the name was only in-
scribed there today—your wedding-day! Broth-
er, by this grave we are now indeed united.”
“Uh, Philip!” cried Sidney, in deep emotion,
elasping the hand stretched out to him, “I feel,
I feel how noble, how great you are; that you
have sacrificed more than I dreamed of—”
“ Hush !” said Philip, with a smile; “ no talk
of this. I am happier than you deem me. Go
in; she waits you."

“ And you! Leave you? alone!"
“ Not alone," said Philip, pointing to the grave.
Scarce had he spoken when from the gate
came the shrill, clear voice of Lord Lilburne.
“ We wait for Mr. Sidney Beaufort.”
Sidney passed his hand over his eyes, wrung
his brother’s hand once more, and in a moment
was by Camilla’s side.
Another shout—the whirl of the wheels—the
tramping of feet—the distant ham and murmur
—and all was still.
The clerk returned to lock up the church—
he did not observe where Philip stood in the
shadow of the wall—and went home to talk of
the gay wedding, and inquire at what hour the
funeral of a young woman, his next-door neigh~
her, would take place the next day.
It might be a quarter of an hour after Philip
was thus left—nor had he moved from the s I
—when he felt his sleeve pulled gently. II;
turned round and saw before him the wistful
face of Fanny l
“ So you would not come to the wedding ?"
said be.
“No. But I fancied you might be here alone
—and sad."
“ And you will not even wear the dress I gave
you ‘2'”
“Another time.
happg ?”
“ nhappy, Fanny! No; look around. The
very burial-ground has a.smile. See the labur-
nums clustering over the wall ; listen to the birds
on the dark yews above; and yonder, see, even
the butterfly has settled upon a grave! 1 am
not unhappy.” As he thus spoke he loolmd at
her earnestly, and, takin both her hands in his,
drew her gently tow-art? him, and continued:
“Fanny, do you remember that, leaning over
that gate, I once spoke to you of the happiness
of marriage where two hearts are united. Nay,
Fanny, nay, I must go on. It was here in this
spot—it was here that I first saw you on my re-
turn to England. I came to seek the dead, and
I have thought since it was my mother’s guard-
ian spirit that drew me hither to find you—the
living! And often afterward, Fanny, on would
come with me here, when, blinded an dull as I
was, I came to brood and to repine, insensible
of the treasures even then, perhaps, within rn
reach. But best as it was; the ordeal throuw
which I have passed has made me more grate ul
for the prize I now dare to hope for. On this
grave your hand daily renewed the flowers. By
this grave, the link between the Time and the
Eternity, whose lessons we have read together,
will you consent to record our vows? Fanny—-
dearest, fairest, tenderost, best—I love you, and
at last as alone you should be lovedl I woo you
as my wife! Mine, not for a season, but for-
ever: forover, even when these graves are
opened, and the World shrivels like a scroll. Do
you understand me? Do you heed rue? Or
have I dreamed that that—"’
He stopped short : a disinayseizetl him at her
silence! Had he been mistaken in his divine
belief? The fear was momentary: for Fanny,
who had recoiled as he spoke, now placing her
hands to her temples, gazing on him, breathless,
and with lips apart, as if, indeed, with great
elfort and struggle, her modest spirit conceived
the possibility of the happiness that broke npol
Tell me, are you on-


NIGHT AND MORNING.
173
it, advanced timidly, her face suffused in blushes;
and looking into his 0 'cs as if she would read
into his very soul, said, with an accent, the in-
tensencss of which showed that her whole fate
hang on his answer,
“But this is pity! They have told you that l
—in short you are generous—you—you—Oh,
deceive me not! Do you love her still? Can
you—do you love the humble, foolish F anuy ?"
“ As God shall judge me, sweet one, 1 am sin-
eere! I have survived a passion, never so
lweet, so tender. so entire as that I now feel for
on ! And oh, Fanny, hear this true confessionl
t was you—you to whom my heart turned before
I saw Camilla! Against that impulse l strug-
gled in the blindness ofa haughty error!H
Fanny uttered a low and suppressed cry of
delight and rapture. Philip passionately con-
tinned:
“ Fanny, make blessed the life you have saved.
Fate destined us for each other. Fate for me
has ripened your sweet mind: Fate for you has
softened this rug ed heart. We may have yet
much to hear an much to learn. We will con-
sole and teach each other!”
He drew her to his breast as he spoke; drew
her trembling. blushing, confused, but no more
reluctant; and there, by the Guava that had
been so memorable a scene in their common
history, were murmuredthose vows in which all
this world knows of human happiness is treas-
ured and recorded: love that takes the sting
from grief, and faith that gives eternity to love.
All silent, yet all serene around them! Above,
the heaven; at their feet, the grave. For the
love, the gravel for the faith, the heaven!
_.—_
CHAPTER THE LAST.
“ A labore reclinnt ntlum."—Hoarr.
I 11an that there is some justice in the affec-
tiOn the general reader entertains for the old-
lhshinned, and now somewhat obsolete custom,
of giving to him, at the close of a work, the
latest news of those who sought his acquaintance
through its progress.
The wcak but well-meaning Smith, no more
oppressed by the evil influence of his brother,
has continued to pass his days in comfort and
respectability on the income settled on him by
Philip Beaufort. Mr. and Mrs. Roger Morton
still live, and have just resigned their business
to their eldest son, retiring themselves toa small
villa adjoining the town in which they had made
their fortune. Mrs. Morton is very a t. when
she goes out to tea, to talk of her dear ecensed
aister-in-law, the late Mrs. Beaufort, and of her
own remarkable kindness to her nephew when a
little boy. She observes that, in fact, the young
men owe every thing to Mr. Roger and herself;
and, indeed, though Sidney was never a grateful
disposition, and has not been near her since, yet
the elder brother, the Mr. Beaufort, always
evinces his respect to them by the yearly pres-
ent of a fat back. She then comments on the
u and downs of life; and observes that it is a
pity her son Tom preferred the medical profes-
linn to the Church: their cousin, Mr. Beaufort,
has two livings. To all this Mr. Roger says
nothing, except an occasional “Thank Heaven,

I am as'well to do as
But that's neither hero nor
I want no man’s help!
my neighbors.
there."
There are some readers—the who do not
thoroughly consider the truths a this life—who
willdyct ask, “But how is Lord Lilburne pun-
ishe ‘3” Punished: ay and indeed, how? The
world, and not the poet, must answer that ues-
tion. Crime is punished from without. lf ice
is punished, it must be within. The Lilburnel
of this hollow world are not to be pelted with
the soft roses of poetical justice. They who ask
why he is not punished may be the first to doff
the hat to the equipngc in which he lolls through
the streets! The only offense he habitually com-
mitted of a nature to bring the penalties of de-
tection, he renounced the moment he perceived
there was danger of discovery: he gambled no
more after Philip's hint. He was one of those,
some years after, most bitter upon a certain
nobleman charged with unfair play; one of those
who took the accusation as proved, and whose
authority settled all disputes thereon.
But, if no thunderbolt falls on Lord Lilburne’l
head—if he is fated still to eat, and drink, and
die on his bed, he may yet taste the ashes of the
Dead Sea fruit which his hands have gathered.
He is rown old. His infirmities increase upon
him. is sole resources of pleasure—the senses
--arc dried up. For him there is no longer
savor in the viands or sparkle in the wine: man
delights him not, nor woman either. He is
alone with Old Age, and in sight of Death.
With the exception of Simon who died in his
chair not many days after Sidncy’s marriage,
Robert Beaufort is the only one among the more
important agents left at the last scene of this
history who has passed front our mortal stage.
After the marriage of his daughter he moped
and drooped. He was wont to say—for what
he said was always amiable—that he missed his
dear child, especially now he had no son. But
what he did miss was the heritage of Beaufort
Court. The last straw to which he had clung
-—the hope that Camilla would marry the elder
brother, and thus that his grandchildren would
reign in his stead—once swept away, he sank
deeper and deeper into the dcspondent sense of
his own nothingncss. What though he still pos-
sessed the mansion and the main property for
his life, he was there but a guest on sntl'crance.
Where was that respectable, comforting, com-
placent feeling of rights in se—of possession—
of roperty? He walked joylessly round the
par , and rode listlesst round the farms, and
sat silently in the halls: he was but the tenant
of another. Thus gradually and insensiny he
pined away from want—moral want, in the midst
of actual wealth, luxury, and plenty! There
was no visible disease which the doctors could
cope with. They could not put the acres into
pills that he might swallow, not melt the woods
into dccoctions that he might drink and be well.
Camilla, hearing that he was ill and that her
presence might restore him, flew to his side.
But it was evident then that she was nothing in
his thoughts; and even when her first son was
born and crowed in his arms, he looked at it
vacantly, " My grandchildl Yes, and his uncle
has provided for him, and for you too, hapdsome-
ly: I don’t deny it, but my grandchild wrll_never
be member for the county!” Still he till! 00!


174
NIGHT AND MORNING.
complain, and still he caught at sentiments that
did him honor: “He never desired any thing
but what was just; he might have resisted the
lawsuit, but he never thought of such a thing.
Mr. Philip was a very fine young man, and, he
was happy to say, appreciated his motives. He
had never cared overmuch for money. Thank
Heaven! covetousness was not his fault." And
eo—hc died! '
Mrs. Beaufort, after his death, established her-
self in London, and could never be persuaded to
visit Beaufort Court. She took a companion,
who more than replaced, in her eyes, the absence
of Camilla.
And Camilla—Spencer—Sidney. They live
still by the gentle lake, happy in their own serene
joys and graceful leisure; shunning alike ambi-
tion and its trials, action and its sharp vicissi-
tudes; envying no one, eovetous of nothing;
making around them, in the working world,
something of the old pastoral and golden holi-
day. If Camilla had at one time wavered in her
allegiance to Sidney, her good and simple heart
has long since been entirely regained by his de-
votion; and, as might be expected from her dis-
position, she loved him better after marriage
than before.
Philip had gone through severer trials than
Sidney. But, had their earlier fates been re-
versed, and that spirit, in youth so haughty and
self-willed, been lapped in case and luxury,
would Philip now be a better or a happier man ?
Perhaps, too, for a less tranquil existence than
his brother, Philip yet may be reserved; but in
proportion to the uses of our destiny do we re-
se or toil. He who never knows pain knows
ut the half of pleasure. The lot of whatever
is most noble on the earth below falls not amid
the rosy gardens of the Epicurean. We may
envy the man who enjoys and rests, but the smile
of Heaven settles rather on the front of him who
labors and aspires!
And did Philip ever regret the circumstances
that had given him Fanny as the partner of his
life ‘3 To some, who take their notions of the
ideal from the conventional rules of romance
rather than from their own perceptions of what
is fine, this narrative would have been more
pleasing had Philip never loved but Fanny; but
all that had led to that love at last had only
served to render it more enduring and concenter-
ed. Man’s strongest and worthlest alfection is
his lest—is the one that unites and embodies all
THE

his past dreams of what is excellent-Abe one
from which Hope springs out, the brighter from
former disappointments—the one in which the
MEMORIES are the most tender and abundant—
the one which, replacing all others, nothing here-
after can replace.
And now, ere the scene closes, and the audi-
ence, whom, perhaps, the actors may have inter-
ested for a while, disperse, to forget, amid the
pursuits of actual life, the shadows that have
amused an hour or beguiled a care, let the cur-
tain fall on one happy picture :
It is some few years after the marriage of
Philip and Fanny: years spent chiefly abroad.
It is a summer’s morning. In a small, old-fash-
ioned room at Beaufort Court, with its easements
open to the gardens, stood Philip, having just
entered; and near the window sat Fanny, his
boy by her side. She was at the mother’s hard-
est task, the first lessons to the firstborn child;
and, as the boy looked up at her sweet, earnest
face with a smile of intelligence on his own, on
might have seen at a glance how well on er-
stood were the teacher and the pupil. Yes;
whatever might have been wanting in the virgin
to the full development of mind, the cares of the
mother had supplied. When a being was born
to lean on her alone—dependent on her provi-
dence for life—then, hour after hour, stop after
Step in the progress of infant destinies, had the
reason of the mother grown in the child’s growth,
adapting itself to each want that it must foresee,-
and taking its perfcetness and completion from
the breath of the New Level
The child caught sight of Philip, and rushed
to embrace him.
“See I" whispered Fanny, as she also hung
upon him, and strange recollections of her own
mysterious childhood crowded upon her, " see,"
whispered she, with a blush half of shame and
half of pride, “the poor idiot girl is the teacher
of your child l”
“ And,“ answered Philip. “whether for child
or mother, what teacher is like Love ‘3'”
Thus saying, he took the boy into his arms;
and, as he bent over those rosy cheeks, Fanny
saw, from the movement of his li s and the
moisture in his eyes, that he blesse God. He
looked up on the mother’s face, he glanced round
on the flowers and foliage of the luxurious sum-
mer, and again be blessed God; and, without
and within, it was Light and Moautzwl
END.


VALU‘ABLE STANDARD WORKS
non ninnanins,
Recently Published by Harper 8. Brothers, New York'.
m'.»

TICKNOR'S HISTORY OF SPANISH LITERA-
TERI. With Criticisms on the particular Works and Bi-
ographical Notices of prominent Writers. 3 Vols. Bro,
Muslin, ’6 00; Sheep extra, 86 75; hall'Calfextru, $7 50.
HILDR ETH'S HISTORY OF TH E UNITED
Sn'rns. From the Discovery of the Continent to the
Organization of Government under the Federal Constitu-
llou. 3 vols. Bvu, Muslin, gilt tops, ’3 00; Sheep, fi 75;
half Calf, $7 50.
RIPLEY'S WAR WITH MEXICO.
he. 2 vols. Bvo, Muslin, $4 00.
With Maps,
CHA LMERS’S POSTH UMOUS WORKS. Edit-
ed by the Rev. WILLIAM Il'mru, LL.D. Complete in
Nine Volumes, comprising “Daily Scripture Readings,"
3 vols. I‘Zmo, Muslin, 33 00, Sheep. S3 50; "Sabbath
Scripture Readings," 2 vols. limo, Muslin, 3‘2 00, Sheep,
Q 25; “ Sermons," Iflmn, Muslin, SI 00, Sheep, SI 25;
“ Institutes of Theology," 2 vols. I2mo, Muslin, $2 00,
Sheep, '2 25; “ Prelections en Butler’s Analogy, Paley‘s
Evidence: of Christianily, 610.," limo, Muslin, $100,
Sheep, ‘1 25.
STRICKLAND'S HISTORY OF THE AMERI-
can Ilium: Socrnrir. From its Organization in 1816 to
the present Time. With an Introduction, by Rev. N. L-
Ricx, and a Portrait of Hon. Emns Bounmor, LL.D.,
first President of the Society. Bro, Cloth, $1 50; Sheep,
SI 75.
SOUTHEY'S COMMON-PLACE BOOK. Edit-
ed by his Son-in-an,Joniv Wooo \Vsn'rzn, B.D. Svo,
Paper, 81 00 per Volume; Muslin, SI 25 per Volume.

SOUTHEY‘S LIFE AND CORRESPONDENCE.
Boiled by his Son, the Rev. Cnsnaes Cu'rnnzn'r Sou-ru-
iv, LIA. -In Six Parts. Bvo, Paper, 9.5 cents each.

GIESELER'S ECCLESIASTICAL HISTORY.
Translated from the German, by SAMUEL DAVIDIOI,
LLD. Vols. I. and Il., Svo, Muslin, $3 00.

DANTE'S DIVINE COMEDY : THE INFER NO.
A Literal Prose Translation, with the Text of the Orig-
inal, collated from the best Editions, and Explanatory
Notes, by .I. A. CARLYLE, M.D. limo, Muslin, 01 00.

LIFE OF BENJ. FRANKLIN, ILLUSTRATED:
His Autubingraphy, and a Narrative of his Public Life
and Services. By Itev. II. II. \VnLn. With numerous
etquisite Designs. 8m, Muslin, .2 50; Sheep, ‘9 75;
MfCalf, $3 00.
IEMOIRS OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF
Tnosus Crunmens, D.D., LL.D. By his Son-in-Law,
Rev. \VXLIJAM Ilium, LL.D. 3 vols. Iflmo, Muslin.


vaw

HUMBOLDT'S COSMOS. A Sketch ofaI’hysiflI
Description of the Universe. Translated from the G"-
man, by E. C. OTTE. lfimo, Muslin.

JAMES'S DARK SCENES OF HISTORY. 12ml).
Paper, 75 cents; Muslin, $1 I30.

THE CONQU EST OF CANADA. By the Author
of “ Ilochelaga.” 2 vols. 12h“), Muslin.
BEATTIE'S LIFE AND LETTERS OF THOM-
as CAMPBELL. With an Introductory Letter,by Wasn-
INGTON lnvnro. 2 vols. 12mo, Muslin.
PALEY'S MORAL AND POLITICAL PHILOS-
ornv. 12mu, Muslin, 60 cents.

WH EELER'S HISTORY OF CONGRESS; Bio-
graphical nnd Political: comprising a History of Internal
Improvements from the Foundation of the Government to
the present Time, with Memoirs of the Members, For
trnils, Autographs, &c. Vols. I. and II., Bro, Mallin,
$3 00 per Volume.

FOWLER'S INTRODUCTION TO THE STUDY
or run Enousn LANOI'AGB. 8m. Muslin.

LYELL'S SECOND VISIT TO THE UNITED
SrA'rls. 2 vols. 121m, Paper, $1 9.0; Muslln, SI 50.

THORNTON'S OREGON AND CALIFORNIA
In 1818. With an Appendix, containing recent and au'
thentie Information on the Subject ofilie Gold Mines at
California, dre. With Illustratiuns and a Map. 2 rule.
12mo, Muslin, .I 75.
SMITH'S TR EATISE ON MECHANICS, err-
bracing the Theory of Statics and Dynamics, and its Ap-
plication to Solids and Fluids. five, Muslin, '1 I50;
Sheep, SI 75.
WARREN’S MORAL, SOCIAL, AND PROFES'
SIGNAL Dorms or Arroauvs mo Soucrrons. 18m»,
Muslin, 75 cents. I

CARLYLE'S HISTORICALWORKS. Comprising
“History ofthe French Revolution," 2 VDII. 12ml), Muev
lin, '2 00; “ Cromwell’s Letters and Speeches," 2 vols
limo, Muslin, $2 00; “ Past and Present, Chartism, and
Sartor Resurtus " l2mo, Muslin, SI 00.

ARABIAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAIN MENTS. A
new Translation, arranged for Family Reading, by E. “F.
LAUI, Esq. Illustrated with 600 exquisite Engraving;
2 vols. lflmu, Muslin, $3 50; Muslin, gilt edges, 33 75 -
Turkey Morocco, gilt edges, '6 00.
|,


WWW $23.22”? W";
21.5
PwfiRprPrg
fiuwwOJw_M—~—-uduiun
i$uRQ~c¢m§5¢30l§uw~o
27.
28.
2‘5.
30.
31.
20
J~e
33.
34.
35. . . . .
. ROSE D'ALBRET. By G. P. R. JAMES
225:
45.
46.
47.
48.
49.
50.
51.
52.
53.
54.
55.
56.
57.
58.
50.
60.
5|.
62.
63.
64.
55.
65.


PUBLISHED IN THE CHEAP POPULAR FORM,
Y HARPER £21,
PELHAM. By BULWER. .
THE DISOWNED. By BULWER
DEVEREUX. By BULWER .
PAUL CLIFFORD. By BULW'ER
EUGENE ARAM. ByBUL‘IVER.
LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.
THE CZARINA. By Mrs. IIOFLAND
RIENZI. By BUL\VER . .
S ELF- D EVOTION. By Miss CAMPBELL
.THE NABOB AT HOME . .
. ERNEST MALTRAVERS. By BULWER
. ALICE. . .
. LAST OF THE BARONS. By BULWER
. FOREST DAYS. By G. P. R. JAMES
. ADAM BROWN. ByIIORACE SMITH
.PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. BULWER
. THE HOME.
. THE LOST SHIP. By Capt. NEALE .
.THE FALSE HEIR.
.THE NEIGHBORS. ByMiss BREMER
. NINA.
. PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTERS.
. THE BANKER‘S WIFE. ByMrs. GORE
. THE BIRTHRIGHT. ByMrs.GORE.
. NEW SKETCHES: flDIARY. By BREMER
211.
ByBULWER . . .
By Mm 111112112111 .
By G. P. R. JAMES
B,- 11115. BREMER
Cents.
. 25
. 25
. 25
25
. 25
By BULWER
25
25
25
25
25
25
25
25
. 125
. 121
121
. 121
. 25
. 121
BREMER
12g
121
121
O
. 121
ARAB ELLA STUART. ByG.P.R. JAMES
THE GRUMBLER. ByMissPICKERING
THE UNLOVED ONE. MrB.HOFLAND
JACK OF THE MILL. By W'.HOWITT
THE HER ETIC. By LAJETCHNIKOFF
THE JEW. BySPINDI.ER . . .
ARTHUR. By EUGENE SUE . .
CHATSWORTH. ByW'ARD. . .
THE PRAIRIE BIRD. By MURRAY.
AMY HERBERT .
TRIUMPHS OF TIME. By Mrs. MARSH
THE H——- FAMILY. By Miss BREMER
ARRAH NEIL. By G. P. R. JAMES .
THE JILT . . . . . .
TALES FROM THE GERMAN .
ARTHUR ARUNDEL. HORACE SMITH
AGINCOURT. By G. P. R. JAMES
121
12;
121
121
. 121
121
125
.25
1%
25
. 125
. 121
25
. 121
121
12.3,
. 121
. 121
. THE GRANDFATHER. Miss PICKERING
40.
4|.
42.
43.
44.
THE REGENT’S DAUGHTER. DUMAS
THE MAID OF HONOR . . .
SAFIA. DyDE BEAUVOIR . . .
LOOK TO THE END. By Mn. ELLIS
THE IMPROVISATORE.
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
VERONICA. ByZSCIIOKKE
ZOE. By Miss JEWSBURY . . .
WYOMING. . . . . . .
DE ROHAN. ByEUGENE SUE .
By ANDERSEN
By Mrs. GRAY
SELF . . . . . . . . .
THE SMUGGLER. ByG.P.R.JAMES
BREACH OF PROMISE . . . .
PARSONAGE OF MORA. Miss BREMER
A CHANCE MEDLEY. By GRATTAN
THE WHITE SLAVE . . . .
THE BOSOM FRIEND. ByMra.GRAY
AMAURY. By'DUMAS . . .
AUTHOR'S DAUGHTER. anowrrr
ONLY A FIDDLER. IJyANDERSEN
THE WHITEBOY. By Mrs. S. C. HALL
THE FOSTER-BROTHER. ByHL'NT
b9
.SSgSES
U
91 I0 m 1..
M7
25
25
(D
53
02
UI
. 25

IR®THEIR§D NEW Y©IRK.
-—- “WWW-
N0. cm“
57. LOVE AND MESMERISM. By 112511111 25
‘68. ASCANIO. DyDUMAS. . . . .25
69. THE LADY OF MILAN . . . .25
70. THE CITIZEN OF PRAGUE .25
7 . THE ROYAL FAVORITE. By MmGORE 25
72. THE QUEEN OF DENMARK . 25
7:1. THE ELVES, ETC. By CARI.YI.E,otv-. .25
7 ,75. THE STEP-MOTHER. By JAMES .511
76.JESSIE’S FLIRTATIONS . . .25
77. CHEVALIER D'HARMENTAL. DUMAS 25
7e. PEERS AND PARVENUS. ByMrs.GORE 25
72. COMMANDER OF MALTA. By SUE .25
90. THE FEMALE MINISTER. . . .121
81. EMILIA WYNDHAM. By Mrs. MARSH .25
82. THE BUSH RANGER. By ROWCROF'I‘. 25
ea. CLOVERNOOK. ByDOUGI.AS JERROLD 121
94. CON FESSIONS OF A PRETTY WOMAN 25
95. LIVONIAN TALES . . . . .125
86. CAPTAIN O'SULLIVAN. By MAXWELL 25
s7. FATHER DARCY. By M15.MARSII . .25
as. LEONTINE. By 1111.. MABERLY. 25
99. HEIDELBERG. By G. P. 11. JAMES .25
9o. LUCRETIA. By SirE.BULWER LYTTON 25
91. BEAUCHAMP. ByG.P.R.JAMES . .25
92. FORTESCUE. ByJ.S.KNOWl.ES. 115.11.25
9:1. DANIELDENNISON. ByMra.IIOFLA1\'D 25
91. FORTESCU E. ByJ.S.KNOWLES. Pm". 25
95. ClNQ-MARS. By DE VIGNY . . .25
96. WOMAN'S TRIALS. ByMra.S. 0.11.211. 25
27. CASTLE OF EHRENSTEIN. By JAMES 25
98. MARRIAGE. By 11115.. S. FERRIER .25
99,100. INHERITANCE. By 11118. S.FERRIER 50
101. RUSSELL. By G. P. R. JAMES . .25
102. A SIMPLE STORY. By Mrs. INCHBALD 25
10:1. NORMAN'S BRIDGE. By M111. MARSH . 25
104. ALAMANCE . . . . . . .25
105. MARGARET GRAHAM. ByJAMES . 51
105. THE WAYSIDE CROSS. By 1111.11.15; .121
107. THE CONVICT. 11,- G. P. R. JAMES .25
108. MIDSUMMER EVE. By Mrs.IIALL. .25
109. JANE EYRE. 12.111511 hyCURRER BELL .25
110. LAST OF THE FAIRIES. By JAMES .121
111. SIR THEODORE BROUGHTON .25
112. SELF-CONTROL. ByMARY BRUNTON 25
113,114. HAROLD. By ELBULWER LYTTON 50
115. BROTHERS AND SISTERS. BREMER 25
115. GOWRIE. By G. P. R. JAMES .25
117. A WHIM AND ITS CONSEQUENCES 25
11s. THREE SISTERS. . . . . . 25
112. DISCIPLINE OF LIFE . . . .25
120. THIRTY YEARS' SINCE. ByJAME .25
121. MARY BARTON . . . . .25
122. THE GREAT HOGGARTY DIAMOND.
Dy W.M.TIIACKERAY . . . . 25
123. THE FORGERY. By G.P. R. JAMES .25
124. THE MIDNIGHT SUN. By MissBREMER 121
125,125. THE CAXTONS. By BULWER . 571
127. MORDAUNT HALL. By Mrs. MARSH .25
129. MY UNCLE THE CURATE . .25
129. THE WOODMAN. By G. P. R. JAMES .25
1:10. RETRIBUTION. By Hmsouq‘nwon'rn 25
151. SIDONIA. By 111311211011). . . .59
1:12. SHIRLEY. 11,-01111111511 BELL . J?!
133. THE OGILVIES . . . . - w
134. CONSTANCE LYNDSAY . . .25
155. SIR EDWARD GRAHAM. 021190141111.
‘_ —_ w' A—
H


ZANONI.
BY
SIR E. BULWER LYTTON,
AUTHOR- OF “NIGHT AND MORNING," “THE CAXTONS," "HAROLD," “LUCRETIA,” “DEVEREUX.”
“THE DIBOWNED," “LAST DAYS OF POMPEII," “ LAST OF THE BARONS,"
M. 6143-, k0.
“ In short, I could make neither head not tail on’t."
L3 Conn m: GABALIS.
NEW YORK:
HARPER 8: BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
82 CLIFF STREET.
MDCCCL.





INTRODUCTION.
It is possible that, among my readers, there
may be a few not unacquainted with an old
bookshop existing, some years since, in the neigh-
borhood of Covent Garden: I say a few—for
certainly there was little enough to attract the
many, in those precious volumes which the labor
of a life had accumulated on the dusty shelves
of my old friend D There, were to be
found no p0 ular treatises, no entertaining ro-
mances, no histories, no travels, no “ Library for
the People,” no “Amusement for the Million.”
But there, rhaps, throughout all Europe, the
curious migit discover the most notable collec-
tion ever amassed by an enthusiast, of the works
of Alchymist, Cabalist, and Astrologer. The
owner had lavished a fortune in the purchase of
unsaleable treasures. But old D--— did not
desire to sell. It absolutely went to his heart
when a customer entered his shop; he watched
the movements of the presumptuous intruder
with a vindictive glare; he fluttered around him
with uneasy vigilance; he frowned, he groaned
when profane hands dislodged his idols from their
niches. If it were one of the favorite sultanas
of his wizard harem that attracted you, and the
price named were not sufficiently enormous, he
would not unfre ueutl double the sum. Demur,
and in brisk ddi' ht Ire snatched the venerable
charmer from your hands; accede, and he became
the icture of despair: nor unfrequently, at the
dead) of night, would he knock at your door, and
entrent you to sell him bmk, at your own terms,
what you had so egregioust bought at his. A
believer himself in his Averroes and Paracelsus,
he was as loath as the philosophers he studied
to communicate to the profane the learning he
had collected.
It so chanced, that some years ago, in my
younger days, whether of authorship or life, I
felt a desire to make m self acquainted with the
true origin and tenets of the singular sect known
by the name of Rosicrucians. Dissatisfied with
the scanty and su erficial accounts to be found
in the works usua y referred to on the subject,
it struck me as possible that Mr. D ‘s collec-
tion (which was rich, not only in black letter, but
fin manuscripts,) might contain some more accu-
rate and authentic records of that famous brother-
hood—written, who knowsi by one of their own
order, and confirming, by authority and detail,
the pretensions to wisdom and to virtue which
Bringaret hnd arrogated to the successors of the
Chaldzean and Gymncsophist. Accordingl , I re-
paired to what, doubtless, I ought to be a med
to confess, was once one of my favorite haunts.
But are there no errors and no fallacies in the
Chronicles of our own day, as absurd as those of


the alchymists of old? Our very nespapers.conversation in Mr. D—-'s bookshop.
mav seem to our posterity as full of delusions as
the' books of the alchymists do to us; not but

1
what the Press is the air we breathe—and uncom-
monly foggy the air is too !
On entering the sho , I was struck by the
venerable appearance 0 a customer whom I had
never seen there before. I was struck yet more
by the respect with which he was treated by the
disdainful collector. “Sir,” cried the last, em-
phatically, as 1 was turning over the leaves of
the catalogue, “sir, you are the only man I have
met, in five-and-fort years that I have spent in
these researches, w 10 is worthy to be my cus-
tomer. How, where, inthis frivolous age, could
you have acquired a knowledge so profound?
And this august fraternity, whose doctrines, hintr
ed at by the earliest hiloso hers, are still a
mystery to the latest: to 1 me there really exist
u n the earth any book, any manuscript, in
w ich their discoveries, their tenets, are to be
learned l”
At the words “august fraternity," I need
scarcely say that my attention had been at once
aroused, and I listened eagerly for the stranger’s
reply.
“ do not think," said the old gentleman,
“that the masters of the school have ever con-
signed, except by obscure hint and mystical pa-
rable, their real doctrines to the world. And I
do not blame them for their discretion.”
Here he paused, and seemed about to retire,
when I said, somewhat abruptly, to the collector,
“I see nothing, Mr. D , in this catalogue,
which relates to the Rosicrucians l”
“ The Rosicrucians!" repeated the old gentle-
man, and in his turn be surveyed me with de-
liberate surprise. “ Who but a Rosicrueian could
explain the Rosicrucian mysteries? And can
you im ' e that any members of that sect—the
most jea one of all secret societies—would them-
selves lift the veil that hides the Isis of their
wisdom from the world i”
“ Aha !" thought I, “this, then, is ‘the august
fraternity’ of which you spoke. Heaven be
praised! I certainl' y have stumbled on one of the
rotherhood !"
“ But,” I said, aloud, “ if not in books, sir,
where else am I to obtain information i Nowa-
days one can hazard nothing in print without
authority, and one may scarcely quote Shak-
speare without citing chapter and verse. This is
the age of facts—the age of facts, sir."
“ Well,” said the old gentleman, with a pleas-
ant smile, “ if we meet again, perhaps, at least,
I may direct your researches to the proper source
of intelligence." And with that he buttoned his
great coat, whistled to his dog, and departed.
It so happened that I did meet again with the
old gentleman, exactly four days after our-Ibrief
was
riding leisurely towards Highgate, when, at the
foot of its classic hill, I recognised the stranger:


4
INTRODUCTION.
he was mounted on a black pony, and before
him trotted his dog, which was black also.
If you meet the man whom you wish to know,
on horseback, at the commencement of a long hill,
where, unless he has borrowed a friend‘s favorite
hack, he cannot, in decent humanity to the brute
creation, ride away from you, I apprehend that
it is your own fault if you have not gone far in
your object before you have gained the top. In
short, so well did I succeed, that on reaching
Highgate, the old gentleman invited me to rest
at his house, which was a little apart from the
village; and an excellent house it was—small,
but commodious, with a large garden, and com-
manding from the windows such a prospect as
Lucretius would recommend to philosophers:
tho spires and domes of London, on a clear day,
distinctly visible; here the Retreat of the Hermit,
and there the Mare Magnum of the world.
The walls of the principal rooms were embel-
lished with pictures of extraordinary merit, and
in that high school of art which is so little under-
stood out of Italy. I was surprised to learn that
they were all from the hand of the owner. My
evident admiration pleased my new friend, and
led to talk upon his part which showed him no
less elevated in his theories of art than an adept
in the practice. Without fatiguing the reader with
irrelevant criticism, it is necessary, perhaps, as
elucidating much of the design and character of
the work which these rct'atory pages introduce,
that I should briefly o serve, that he insisted as
much upon the Connexion of the Arts, as a dis~
tinguished author has n n that of the Sciences;
that he held, that in :11 works of imagination,
whether expressed by words or by colors, the
artist of the higher schools must make the broad-
est distinction between the Real and the True;
in other words. between the imitation of actual
life, and the exaltation of Nature into the Ideal.
" The one," said he, “is the Dutch School, the
other is the Greek."
“ Sir," said I, “ the Dutch is most in fashion."
“Yes, in painting, perhaps," answered my host,
but in literature "
" It was of literature I spoke. Our growing
poets are all for simplicit and Betty Foy; and
our critics hold it the big est praise of a. work
‘of imagination, to say that its characters are exact
to common life. Even in sculpture—"
“ In sculpture! No, no! there the high ideal
must at least be essential l”
“ Pardon me; I fear you have not seen Souter
Johnny and Tam O'Shanter.”
“ Ah 1" said the old gentleman, shaking his
head, “ I live very much out of the world, I see.
I suppose Shakspeare has ceased to be admired t”
“On the contrary, people make the adoration
of Shakspeare the excuse for attacking everybody
'else. But then our critics have discovered that
Shakspeare is so real 1”
“Real! The poet who has never once drawn
‘a character to be met with in actual life—who
has never once descended to a passion that is
false, or n. ersonage who is real l”
I was a at to reply ver severely on this
paradox, when I perceived t at my companion
was growing a little out of temper. And he
who wishes to catch a Rosicrucian, must take
care not to disturb the waters. I thought it bet-
ter, therefore, to turn the conversation.
“ Reunion: (.2 no: moutom," said I; “ you prom-


ised to enlighten my ignorance as to the Rosi-
crucians."
“ Well 1" quoth he, rather sternly—“ but for
what purposel Perhaps you desire only to en-
ter the temple in order to ridicule the rites l”
“ What do you take me for? Surely, were I
so inclined, the fate of the Abbé de Villars is a
sufficient warning to all men not to treat idly of
the realms of the Salamander and the Sylph.
Everybody knows how mysteriously that inge-
nious personage was deprived of his life, in re-
venge for the witty mockeries of his Comte do
Gabalic."
“ Salamander and Sylph l I see that you fall
into the vulgar error, and translate literally the
allegorical language of the mystics.”
With that, the old gentleman condescended to
enter into a very interesting, and, as it seemed
to me, a very erudite, relation of the tenets of
the Rosicrucians, some of whom, he asserted, still
existed, and still prosecuted, in august secrecy,
their profound researches into natural science
and occult hilosophy.
“ But this fraternity,” said he, “however re-
spectable and virtuous—virtuous, I say, for no
monastic order is more severe in the practice of
moral precepts, or more ardent in Christian faith—-
this fraternity is but a branch of others yet more
transcendent in the powers they have obtained,
and yet more illustrious in their origin. Are you
acquainted with the Platonists i”
“ I have occasionally lost my way in their
labyrinth," said I. “ Faith, they are rather diffi-
cult gentlemen to understand."
“ Yet their knottiest problems have never yet
been published. Their sublimest works are in
manuscript, and constitute the initiatory learning,
not only of the Itosicrucians, but of the nobler
brotherhoods l have referred to. More solemn
and sublime still is the knowledge to be gleaned
from the elder Pythagoreans, and the immortal
masterpieces of Apollonius." ‘
" Apollonius, the impostor of Tyanea l—are his
writings extant i"
“ Impostor !” cried my host. “ Appollonius an
im tor !"
“I beg your pardon; I did not know he was
a. friend of ours; and if you vouch for his char-
acter, I wilf'believe him to have been a very re-
spectable man, who only spoke the truth when
he boasted of his power to be in two places at the
same time.”
“ Is that so difliculti” said the old gentleman ;
“if so, you have never dreamed !"
Here ended our conversation; but from that
time an acquaintance was formed between us,
which lasted till m ' venerable friend departed
this life. Peace to is ashes l He was a. person
of singular habits and eccentric opinions, but the
chief part of his time was occupied in acts of
quiet and unostentatious goodness He was an
enthusiast in the duties of the Samaritan; and,
as his virtues were softened by the gentlest char-
ity, so his hopes were based upon the devoutest
belief. He never conversed upon his own origin
and history, nor have I ever been able to pene-
trate the darkness in which they were concealed.
He seemed to have seen much of the world, and
to have been an eyewitness of the first French
Revolution, a subject upon which he was equally
eloquent and instructive. At the same time, he
did not regard the crimes of that stormy period


mmonuo'non. 5
with the philosophical leniency with which en-
“ Yet, not till you rightly understand this pas-
]ightened writers (their heads safe upon their sage, .can you understand the higher theories of
shoulders) are, in the present day, inclined to treat
the massacres of the past: he spoke not as a stu—
dent who had read and reasoned, but as a man
who had seen and suffered. The old gentleman
seemed alone in the world; nor did I know that
he had one relation, till his executor, a distant
cousin, residing hbroad, informed me of the very
handsome legacy which my poor friend had be-
queathed me. This consisted, first, of a sum
about which I think it best to be guarded, fore-
seeing the possibility of a new tax upon real and
funded property; and, secondly, of certain pre-
cious manuscripts, to which the following volumes
owe their existence
I imagine I trace this latter bequest to a visit
I paid the sage, if so I may be permitted to call
him, a few weeks before his death.
Although he read little of our modern litera-
ture, my friend, with the affable good nature
which belonged to him, graciously permitted me
to consult him upon various literary undertakings
meditated by the desultory ambition of a young
and inexperienced student; and at that time I
so rrht his advice upon a work of Imagination, in-
tehed to depict the effects of enthusiasm upon
different modifications of character. He listened
to my conception, which was suficiently trite and
prosaic, with his usual patience: and then thought-
fully turning to his book-shelves, took down an
old Volume, and read to me, first in Greek, and
secondly in English, some extracts to the follow-
ing effect : '
“ Plato here expresses four kinds of mania, by
which I desire to understand enthusiasm and the
inspiration of the gods. First, the musical; sec-
ondly, the telestic or mystic; thirdl , the pro—
pietic; and, fourthly, that which longs to
ve."
The author he quoted, after contending that
there is something in the soul above intellect, and
stating that there are in our nature distinct ener-
gies, by the one of which We discover and seize,
as it were, on sciences and theorems with nlnlost
intuitive rapidity; by another, through which
high art is accomplished, like the statues of Phid-
ias, proceeded to state that “ enthusiasm, in the
true aoceptntion of the word, is, when that part
of the soul which is above intellect is-excited to
the gods, and thence derives its inspiration."
The author then, pursuing his comment upon
Plato, olxerves, that " one of these manins may
sufice (especially that which belongs to Love) to
lead back the soul to its first divinity and happi-
ness, but that there is an intimate union with them
all; and that the ordinary progress through
which the soul ascends is, primarily, through the
musical; next, through the telestic or mlystic;
thirdly, through the prophetic; and, astly,
through the enthusiasm of Love."
While, with a bewildered understanding and a
reluctant attention, I listened to these intricate
sublimities, my adviser closed the volume, and
said, with complacency, “ There is the motto for
your book, the thesis for your theme."
“ Dauus sum non (Elipun,” said I, shaking in
head, dicontentedly. “ All this may be excce -
ingly fine, but, Heaven forgive me, I don’t under-
stand a word of it. .The mysteries of your Rosi-
erucians and your fmtemitics are mere child's
play to the jargon of the Platonists."

the Rosierucians, or of the still nobler fraternities
you speak of with so much levity."
“ Oh, if that be the case, I give u in despair.
Why not, since you are so wellverset in the mat-
ter, take the motto for a book of your own i”
“But if I have already composed a book with
that thesis for its theme, will you prepare it for
the public i" '
“ With the greatest pleasure," said I ; alas, too
rashly l
“I shall hold you to your promise," returned
the old gentleman ; “ and when I am no more,
you will receive the manuscripts. From what .
you say of the prevailing taste in literature, I
cannot flatter ou with the hope that you will
gain much by the undertaking ; and I tell you be-
forehand, that you will find it not a little labo~
rious.”
“ Is your work a romance i"
“It IS a romance, and it is not a romance. It
is a truth for those who can comprehend it, and
an extravagance for those who cannot.”
At last, there arrived the manuscripts, with a
brief note from my deceased friend, reminding me
of m imprudent promise.
ith mournful interest, and yet with eager
impatience, I opened the packet and trimmed my
lamp. Conceive my dismay, when I found the
whole written in an unintelligible cipher. I pre-
sent the reader with a specimen:
_E-H7v~t~
“silo/J
and so on for 940 mortal pages in foolsca l I
could scarcely believe my eyes; in fact, I
to think the lamp burned singularly blue; and
sundrymisgivings as to the unlmllowed nature of
the characters I had so unwittingly opened it n,
coupled with the strange hints and mysticalmn-
guage of the old gentleman, crept through my
disorder imagination. Certain] , to say no
worse of it, the whole thing look uncanny I I
was about, precipitately, to hurry the papers into
my desk, with a pious determination to have
nothing more to do with them, when my eye fell
upon a book, neatly bound in blue morocco, and
which, in my eagerness, I had hitherto overlooked.
I opened this volume with great precaution, not
knowing what might jump out, and—guess my
delight—found that it contained a key or diction-
ary to the hicroglyphics. Not to weary the reader
With an account of my labors, I am contented
with saying, that at last I imagined myself capa-
ble of construing the characters, and set. to work
in good earnest. Still it was no easy task, and
two years elapsed before I had made much pro-
gross. I then. by way of experiment on the pub
lic, obtained the insertion of a few desultory
chapters in a periodical with which, for a few
months, I had the honor to be connected. They
appeared to excite more curiosity than I had pre-
sumed to antiei ate; and Irenewed, with better
heart, my laborious undertaking. But now a new
misfortune befel me: I found, as I proceeded,
that the author had made two copies of his
work, one much more elaborate and detailed than


INTRODUCTION.
the other; I had stumbled upon the earlier copy,
and had my whole task to re-model, and the
chapters I had written to re-translate. I may say
then, that, exclusive of intervals devoted to more
ing occupations, my unlucky promise cost
me the toll of several years before could bring
it to adequate fulfilment. The task was the more
difficult, since the style in the original is written
in a kind of rythmical prose, as if the author de-
sired that in some degree his work should be re-
garded as one of poetical conce tion and design.
To this it was not possible to 0 justice, and in
the attempt I have doubtless very often need of
the reader’s indulgent consideration. My natu-
rdl respect for the old gentleman's vagaries with
a. muse of equivocal character must be my only
excuse, whenever the language, without luxuria-
ting into verse, borrows flowers scarcely natural
to rose. Truth compels me also to confess that,
wi all my pains, I am by no means sure that I

have invariably given the true meaning of tho
cipher; nay, that here and there either a gap in
the narrative, or the sudden assumption of a. new
cipher, to which no key was afforded, has obliged
me to resort to interpolations of my own, no
doubt easily discernible, but which, I flatter my-
self, are not inharmonious to the general design.
This confession leads me to the sentence with
which I shall conclude: If, reader, in this book
there be anything that pleases you, it is certainly
mine; but whenever you come to something you
dislike, lay the blame upon the old gentleman.
Lormos, Jun. 1842.
[N. B. The notes appended to the text are
sometimes by the author—sometimes by the edi-
tor: I have occasionally (but not always) marked
the distinction: where, however, this is omitted,
the ingenuity of the reader will he rarely at fault.


..A __..__<_
ZANONI.
BOOK 1.
THE MUSICIAN.



CHAPTER 1.
“Vs an era
D’ ta belts, ma sun belts non cure:
I Q D O I O
O O O O I O
T D1 nature, d’amor. do 'clcll amlcl
,-i
.b
m‘ In negligenze sue sons nrtlflcl."
:8. 1
Ar Naples, in the latter half of the last cen-
tury, a worthy artist, named Gaetano Pisani,
lived and flourished. He was a musician of great
nius, but not of popular reputation; there was
In all his com itions something capricious and
fantastic, whic did not please the taste of the
dilettanti of Na les. He was fond of unfamiliar
subjects, into w ich he introduced airs and sym-
nies that excited a. kind of terror in those who
edf The names of his pieces will probably
eat their nature. I find, for instance, among
his MSS. these titles: “ The Feast of the Har-
pies," “ The Witches at Benevento," “ The De-
scent of Orpheus into Hades," “ The Evil Eye,”
“The Eumenides," and many others that evince
a powerful imagination, delighting in the fearful
and an matural1 but often relieved, by an airy
and de 'eate fancy, with passages of exquisite
grace and beauty. It is true that, in the selec-
tion of his subjects from ancient fable, Gaetano
Pisani was much more faithful than his contem-
poraries to the remote origin and the 'early ge-
nius of Italian Opera. That descendant, however
effeminate, of the ancient union between Song and
Drama, when, after long obscurity and dethrone-
ment, it regained a punier sceptre, through a
gaudier p 10, by the banks of the Etrurian
Arno, or amid the lagunes of Venice, had chosen
all its primary inspirations from the unfamiliar
and classic sources of heathen legend; and Pisa-
ni’s “ Descent of Orpheus" was but a holder,
darker, and more scientific repetition of the “ Eu-
ridice" which Jacopi Peri set to music at the
a at nuptials of Henry of Navarre and Mary
of edicisfi“ Still, as I have said, the style of
the Neapolitan musician was not, on the whole,
plowing to ears grown nice and euphuistic the
GIIUIAL Ll|.. canto 11., xiv.-xvlll.
j ' Orpheus was the favorite hero of early Italian opera
N l'rleal drama. The Orfeo of Angelo PoliLiuno was
mood in 1475. The Orfeo of Monteverdo was per-
d at Venice In 1667.
a

more dulcet melodies of the day; and faults and
extravagances easily discernible, and often to ap-
pearance wilful, served the critics as an excuse
for their distaste. Fortunately, or the mu-
sician might have starved, he was not y a com-
poser, but also an excellent practical performer,
especially on the violin, and by that instrument
he earned a decent subsistence as one of the
orchestra at the Grand Theatre of San Carlo.
Here formal and appointed tasks necessarily kept
his eccentric fancies in tolerable check, though it
is recorded that no less than five times he had
been deposed from his desk for ha ' shocked
the conoscénti, and thrown the whole d into
confusion, by impromptu variations of so frantic
and startling a nature, that one might well have
imagined that the harpies or witches who inspired
his com itions had clawed hold of his instru-
ment e impossibility, however, to find any
one of equal excellence as a erformer (that is to
say, in his more lucid and or erly moments.) had
forced his reinstallment, and he had now, for the
most part, reconciled himself to the narrow sphere
of his appointed adagios or allcgros. The audi-
ence, too, aware of his propensity, were quick to
perceive the least deviation from the text; and
if he wandered for a moment, which might also
be detected by the eye as well as the ear, in
some strange contortion of visage, and some omi-
nous fiouriah of his how, a gentle and admonitory
murmur recalled the musician from his Elysium
or his Tartarus to the sober regions of his desk.
Then he would start as if from a dream, cast a
hurried, frightened, apologetic lance around,
and, with a crestfallen, humbled air, draw his re~
bellious instrument back to the beaten track of
the glib monotony. But at home he would make
himself amends for this reluctant drudgery. And
there, grasping the unhupp violin with ferocious
fingers, he would pour fort , often till the morn
ing rose, strange, wild measures, that would star-
tle the early fisherman on the shore below with
a superstitious awe, and make him cross himself
as if mermaid or sprite had wailed no earthly
music in his ear.
This man's appearance was in keeping with
the characteristics of his art. The features were
noble and regular, but worn and haggard, with
black, careless locks, tangled into a maze of curls,
and a fixed, speculative, dreamy stars in his large
and hollow eyes. All his movements were pecu-
liar, sudden, and abrupt, as the impulse seized
him; and, in gliding through the streets or along
the beach, he was heard laughing and talki to
himself. Withal, he was a hannless, ' ens,
gentle creatln'e, and would share his mite with
any idle lamoni, whom he often paused to con-


8
ZANONI. '
template as they lay lazily basking in the sun.
Yet was he thoroughly unsocial. He formed no
friends, flattered no patrons, resorted to none of
the me makings so dear to the children of mu-
sic and e South. He and his art seemed alone
suited to each other: both quaint, primitive, un-
worldly, irregular. You could not separate the
man from his music; it was himself. Vithont it
he was nothing, a mere machine. IVith it, he
was king over worlds of his own. Poor man, he
had little enough in this! At a [manufacturing
town in England there is a grave-stone, on which
the epitaph records “ one Claudius Phillips, whose
absolute contempt for riches, and inimitable per-
formance on the violin, made him the admiration
of all that knew himl" Logical conjunction of
opposite eulogies! In proportion, O Genius, to
thy contempt for riches will be thy performance
on thy violin!
Gaetano Pisani‘s talents as a composer had
been chiefly exhibited in music appropriate to
this his favorite instrument, of all unquestionably
the most various and royal in its resources and
power over the passions. As Shakspeare among
poets, is the Cremona among instruments. Ne-
vertheless, he had composed other pieces, of
larger ambition and wider accomplishment, and,
chief of these, his precious, his un urchascd, his
impublished, his unpublishable an imperishablc
opera of the “ Siren." This great work had been
the dream of his boyhood, the mistress of his
manhood; in advancing age “ it stood beside him
like his youth." Vaiuly had he struggled to
place it before the world. Even bland, unjealous
aisiello, Maestro di Capella, shook his gentle
head when the musician favored him with a spe-
cimen of one of his most thrilling scenas. And
ypt, Paisicllo, though that music differs from all
urante taught thee to emulate, there may—but
patience, Gaetano Pisanil bide thy time, and
keep thy violin in tunel
Strange as it may appear to the fairer reader,
this grotesque personage had yet formed those.
ties which ordinary mortals are apt to consider
their especial monopoly: he was married, and
had one child. What is more strange yet, his
wife was a daughter of quiet, sober, unfautastic
England; she was much younger than himself ;
she was fair and gentle, with a sweet English
face ; she had married him from choice, and (will
you believe it ?) she yet loved him. How she
came to marry him, or how this shy, unsocial,
wayward creature cver ventured to propose, I
am only explain by asking you to look round and
explain first to me how half the husbands and
half the wives you meet ever found a mate!
Yet, on reflection, this union was not so extraor-
dinary after all. The girl was a natural child of
parents too noble ever to own and claim her.
She was brought into Italy to learn the art by
which she was to live, for she had taste and
voice; she was a dependant, and harshl treated,
and poor Pisani was her master, and is voice
the only one she had heard from her cradle that
seemed without one tone that could scorn or
chide. And 50—well, is the rest natural! Na-
tural or not, they were married. This young
wife loved her husband ; and, oung and gentle
as she was, she might almost said to be the
protector of the two. From how many disgraces
with the despots of San Carlo and the Conserva-
torio had her unknown oflicious mediation saved
' the best of it.

him I In how many ailments—for his frame was
weak—had she nursed and tended him i Often
in the dark nights, she would wait at the theatre
with her lantern to guide him, and her steady
arm to lean on; otherwise, in his abstract reve
ries, who knows but the musician would have
walked after his “ Siren” into the seal And then
she would so patiently, rhaps (for in true love
there is not always the fiiiest tostc) so delighted-
ly listen to those storms of eccentric and fitful
melody, and steal him—whispering praises all
the way—from the unwholesome night-watch to
rest and slee l I said his music was a part of
the man, and, this gentle creature seemed a part
of the music; it was, in fact, when she sat be-
side him, that whatever was tender or fairy-like
in his motley fantasia crept into the harmony as
by stealth. Deubtless her presence acted on the
music, and shaped and softened it; but he, who
never examined how or what his inspiration,
knew it not. All that. he knew was that he lov-
ed and blessed her. He fancied he told her to
twenty times a day; but he never did, for he
was not of man words, even to his wife. His
language was is music, as hers—her cares !
He was more communicative to his barbiton, as
the learned Mersennus teaches us to call all the
varieties of the great viol family. Certainly bar
biton sounds better than fiddle; and barbiton let
it be. He would talk to that by the hull toge-
ther; praise it—scold it—coax it—nay, (for such
is man, even the most gnileless,) he had been
known to swear at it; but for that excess he
was always penitentially remorsefnl. And the
barbiton had a tongue of his own, could take his
own part, and, when he also scolded, had much
He was a noble fellow, this Vio-
lin; a Tyrolese, the handiwork of the illustrious
Steiner. There was something mysterious in his
great ago. How many hands, now dust, had
awakened his strings ere he became the Robin
Goodfellow and familiar of Gaetano Pisnni ! His
very case was venerable; beautifully painted, it
was said, by Caracci. An English Collector had
offered more for the case than Pisani had ever
made by the violin. But Pisani, who- cared not
if he had inhabited a cabin himself, was proud of
a palace for the barbiton : his barbiton, it was his
elder child ! He had another child, and now we
must turn in her.
How shall I describe thee, Viola? Certain]
the music had something to answer for in the it ~
vent of' that young stranger; for both in her
form and her character you might have traced a
family likeness to that singular and spirit-like
life of sound which night after night threw itself
in airy and goblin sport over the starry seas" . . .
Beautiful she was, butof a very uncommon beau-
ty: a combination, a harmony of op site attri-
butes. Her hair of a gold richer an purer than
that which is seen even in the North; but the
eyes, of all the dark, tender, subduing light of
more than Italian—almost of Oriental—splendor.
The complexion exquisitely fair, but never the
same ; vivid in one moment, pale the next. And
with the complexion, the ex ression also varied;
nothing new so sad, and no ing now so joyous.
I.grieve to say that what we rightly entitle
education was much neglected for their daughter
by this singular pair. To be sure, neither of them
had much knowledge to bestow, and knowledge
was not then the fashion, as it is now. But acci-


ZANONI.
dent or nature favored young Viola. She learn-
ed, as of course, her mother’s language with her
father's. And she contrived soon to road and to
write; and her mother, who, by-the-way, was Ca-
tholic, taught her betimes to pray. But then to
counteract all these acquisitions, the strange ha-
bits of Pisani, and the incessant watch and care
which he required from his wife, often left the child
alone with an old nurse, who, to be sure, loved her
dearly, but who was in no way calculated to in-
Sh'uct her. Dame Gionottu was every inch Italian
and Neapolitan. Her youth had been all love. and
her age was all superstition. She was gurrulous,
find—a gossip. Now she would prattle to the girl
of cavaliers and princes at her feet, and now she
would freeze her blood with tales and legends—
that rightly conceives Art is but a minor, which
gives back what is cast on its surface faithfully
only—while unsullied. She seized on nature
and truth intuitively. Her recitations became
full of unconscious power; her voice moved the
heart to tears, or warmed it into generous rage.
But this arose from that sympathy which genius
ever has, even in its earliest innocence, with what-
ever feels, or aspires, or suffers. It was no pre-
mature woman, comprehending the love or the
jealousy that the words expressed; her art was
one of those strange secrets which the psycholo-
gists may unriddle to us if they please, and tell
us why children of the simplest minds and the
purest hearts are often so acute to distinguish, in
,the tales you tell them, or the songs you sing,


perhaps as old as Greek or Etruriau fable-ofithe difference between the True Art and the
demon and vampyre, of the dances round the!
great wahiut-tree at Benevento, and the haunting
spell of the Evil Eye. All this helped silently
to weave charmed webs over Viola's imagination,
that afterthought and later years might labor
vainly to dispel. And all this especially fitted
her to hang, with a fearful joy, upon her father’s
music. Those visionary strains, cver struggling to
translate into wild and broken sounds the language
of unearthly bein were round her from her birth.
Thus you might rave said that her whole mind
was full of music; associations, memories, sensa-
ions of pleasure or pain, all were mixed up iu-
explicabl with those sounds that now delighted,
now terrified—that greeted her when her eyes
opened to the sun, and woke her trembling on
her lonely couch in the darkness of the night.
The legends and tales of Gionetta only served to
make the child better understand the signification
of those mysterious toncs; they furnished her
with words to the music. It was natural that the
daughter of such a parent should soon evince
some taste in his art. But this developed itself
chiefly in the ear and the voice. She was yet a
child when she sang divinely. A great cardinal
—great alike in the state and the conservatorio
—heard of her gifts, and sent for her. From
that moment her fate was decided ; she was to
be the future glor of Naples, the prima donna
of San Carlo. he cardinal insisted upon the
accom lishmcnt of his own predictions, and pro-
vided or with the most renowned masters. To
inspire her with emulation, his eminence took her
one evening to his own box: it would be some-
thing to see the performance, something more to
hear the :pplauscs lavished upon the glittering
signoras e was hereafter to excel. Oh how
gloriously that Life of the Stage—that fairy
World of Music and Song—dawned upon her!
It was the only world that seemed to correspond
with her strange childish thoughts. It appeared
to her as if, cast hitherto on a foreign shore, she
was brought at last to see the forms and hear the
age of her native land. Beautiful and true
en usiasm, rich with the promise of genius !
Boy or man, thou wilt never be a ct if thou
hast not felt the ideal, the romance, t e Calypso's
isle that opened to thee, when for the first time
the magic curtain was drawn aside, and let in the
World of Poetry on the World of Prose!
And now the initiation wasbegun. She was to
read, to study, to do ict by agesture, alook, the
passions she was to elineatc on the boards; les-
sons dangerous, in truth, to some, but not to the
pure enthusiasm that comes from Art: for the mind
False—Passion and J argon—Homer and Racine
—echoing back, from hearts that have not yet
felt what they repeat, the melodious accents of
the natural pathos. Apart from her studies, Viola
was a simple, affectionate, but somewhat way-
ward child; wayward, not in temper, for that
was sweet and docile, but in her moods, which,
as I before hinted, changed from sad to gay and
gay to and without an apparent cause. If cause
there were, it must be traced to the early and
mysterious influences I have referred to, when
seeking to explain the effect produced on her im-
agination by those restless streams of sound that
constantly played around it: for it is noticeable,
that to those who are much alive to the effects
of music, airs and tunes often come back, in the
commonest pursuits of life, to vex, as it were, and
haunt them. The music, once admitted to the
soul, becomes also a sort of spirit, and never dies.
It wanders erturbedly through the halls and
galleries of the memory, and is often heard again,
distinct and living as when it first displaced the
wavelets of the air. Now at times, then, these
phantoms of sound floated back upon her fancy;
if gay, to call a smile from every dimple; if
mournful, to throw a shade upon her brow, to
make her cease from her childish mirth, and sit
apart and muse.
Rightly, then, in atypical sense, might this fair
creature, so airy in her shape, so harmonious
in her beauty, so unfamiliar in her ways and
thoughts—rightly might she be called a daugh-
ter, less of the Musician than the Music: a being
for whom on could imagine that some fate was
reserved, ess of actual life than the romance
which, to eyes that can see and hearts that can
feel, glides ever along with the actual life, stream
by stream, to the Dark Ocean.
And, therefore, it seemed not strange that Vi-
ola herself, even in childhood, and yet more as
she bloomed into the sweet seriousness of virgin
youth, should fancy her life ordained for a lot,
whether of bliss or wo, that should accord with
the romance and weary which made the atmos-
phere she breathed. Frequently she would
climb through the thickets that clothed the
neighboring grotto of Posilypo, the mighty work
of the old Gimmerians, and seated by the haunted
tomb of Virgil, indulge those visions, the subtle
vagueness of which no poetry can render palpa-
ble and defined; for the poet that surpasses all
who ever sung is the heart of dreaming outh!
Frequently there, too, beside the thresho d over
which the vine leaves clung, and facing that dark-

blue, wavelem sea, she would sit in the autumn


10
ZANONI.
noon or summer twilight, and build her castles sunny hair. At that very moment the door
in the air. Who doth not do the same; not in opened: a message from the cardinal. Viola
outh alone, but with the dimmed hopes of ngel
t is a man’s prerogative to dream, the common
royalty of asant and of king. But those day-
dreams of ers were more habitual, distinct, and
solemn than the greater part of us indulge.—
They seemed, like the Orama of the Greeks,
prophets while phantasma.
CHAPTER IL
“Fa stuporn'u vsghmu. fu dlletto." '
GB‘US‘L Lia, cant. li.I xxi.
Now at last the education is accomplished!
Viola is nearly sixteen. The cardinal declares
that the time is come when the new name must
be inscribed in the Libro d‘Oro—the Golden Book
set apart to the children of Art and Song. Yes,
but in what character? to whose genius is she to
give imbodiment and form? Ah, there is the se-
crct ! Rumors go abroad that the inexhaustible
Paisiello, charmed with her performance of his
“Nel cor piu non me sento,’ and his “10 son
Lindoro,” will produce some new master-pieceto
introduce the debutante. Others insist upon it
that her forte is the comic, and that Cimarosa is
hard at work at another “ Matrimonio Segreto.”
But in the mean while there is a check in the di~
plomacy somewhere. The cardinal is observed
to be out of humor. He has said publicly—and
the words are portentous—“ The silly girl is as
mad as her father: what she asks is preposter-
ous l" Conference follows conference; the cardi-
nal talks to the poor child very solemnly in his
closet—all in vam. Naples is distracted with
curiosity and conjecture. The lecture ends in a
quarrel, and Viola comes home sullen and pout-
ing: she will not act: she has renounced the eu-
gagement.
Pisani, too inexperienced to be aware of all the
dangers of the stage, had been pleased at the no-
tion that one, at east, of his name would add
celebrity to his art. The girl‘s perverseness dis-
pleased him. However, he said nothing ; he
never scolded in words, but he took up the faith-
ful barbiton. Oh, faithful barbitou, how horribly
thou didst scold i It screeched, it gabbled, it
moaned, it growled. And Viola's eyes filled
with tears, for she understood that lan uage.—-
She stole to her mother and whispered in her
ear', and when Pisani turned from his employ-
ment, lol both mother and daughter were weep-
ing. He looked at them with a wondering stare;
and then, as if he felt he had been harsh, he flew
again to his familiar. And now you thought
on heard the lullaby a fair might sing to some
retful chaugeling it had a opted and sought to
sooth. Liquid, low, silvery streamed the tones
beneath the enchanted bow. The most stubborn
grief would have paused to hear ; and withal. at
times, out came a wild, merry, ringing note, like
a laugh, but not mortal laughter. It was one of
his most successful airs from his beloved opera—
the Siren in the act of charming the waves and
the winds to sleep. Heaven knows what next
would have come, but his arm was arrested.—
Viola had thrown herself on his breast and kissed
him, with happy eyes that smiled through her

must go to his eminence at once. Her mother
went with her. All was reconciled and settled;
Viola had her way, and selected her own opera.
0 ye dull nations of the North, with your broils
and debates, your bustling lives of the Pnyx and
the Agora i you cannot guess what a stir through-
out musical Naples was occasioned by the rumor
of a new opera and a new singer. But whose the
opera? No cabinet intrigue ever was so secret.
Pisani came back one night from the theatre,
evidently disturbed and irate. W0 to thine ears
hadst thou heard the barbiton that night! They
had suspended him from his oflice; they feared
that the new opera, and the first debut of his
daughter as prima donna would be too much for
his nerves. And his variations, his diablerie of
sirens and barpics, on such a night, made a hazard
not to be contemplated without awe. To be set
aside, and on the very night that his child, whose
melody was but an emanation of his own, was to
perform—set aside for some new rival—it was
too much for a musician‘s flesh and blood. For
the first time he s lie in words upon the subject,
and vely aske —for that question the barbi-
ton, e oquent as it was, could not express distinct-
ly—what was to be the opera, and what the part.
And Viola as gravely answered, that she was
pledged to the cardinal not to reveal. Pisani
said nothing, but disappeared with the violin, and
presently they heard the familiar from the house-
top (whither, when thoroughly out of humor, the
musician sometimes fled), whining and sighing as
if its heart were broken.
The affections of Pisani were little visible on
the surface. He was not one of those fond, ca-
ressing fathers, whose children are ever playing
round their knees; his mind and soul were so
thoroughly in his art, that domestic life glided by
him seemingly as if that were a dream, and the
art the substantial form and body of existence.
Persons much cultivating an abstract study are
often thus; mathematicians proverbially so.—
Wheu his servant ran to the celebrated French
philosopher, shrieking, " The house is on fire, sir i"
“ G0 and tell my wife, then, fool 1" said the wise
man, settling back to his problems; " do I ever
meddle with domestic affairs i” But what are
mathematics to music—music, that not only com-
oses o ras, but plays on the barbiton ‘3 Do you
now w at the illustrious Giardini said when the
tyro asked how long it would take to learn to
play on the violin? Hear and despair ye who
would bend the bow to which that of Ulysses
was a plaything: “ Twelve hours a day, for
twenty years together i” Can a man, then, who
plays the barbiton, be always playing also with
his little ones i No. Pisani, often,with the keen
susceptibility of childhood, poor Viola had stolen
from the room to weep at the thought that thou
didst not love her. And yet, underneath this
outward abstraction of the artist, the natural
fondness flowed all the same; and as she grew
up, the dreamer hadunderstood the dreamer.—
And now, shut out from all fame himself, to be
forbidden to hail even his daughter‘s fame l and
that daughter herself to be in the conspiraitz'y
against him! Sharper than the serpent’s too
was the ingratitude, and sharper than the ser-
pent's tooth was the wail of the pitying barbitonl
The eventful hour is come. Viola has gone to


ZANONL
l 1
the theatre—her mother with her. The indig-
nant musician remains at home. Gionetta bursts
into the room : “My lord cardinal’s carriage is at
the door; the padrone is sent for. He must lay
aside his violin; he must ut on his brocade coat
and his lace ruflles. ere they are—quick,
quick l” And quick rolls the gilded coach, and
majestic sits the driver, and statelin prance the
steeds. Poor Pisani is lost in a mist of uncom-
fortable amaze. He arrives at the theatre; he
descends at the great door; he turns round and
round, and looks about him and about; he misses
something: where is the violin? Alas! his soul,
his voice, his self of self, is left behind i It is but
an automaton that the lackeys conduct up the
shire, through the tier, into the cardinal's box.
But then, what bursts upon him 1 Does he
dreami The first act is over (they did not send
for him till success seemed no longer doubtful),
the first act has decided all. He feels that by
the electric sympathy which ever the one heart
has at once with a vast audience. He feels it by
the breathless stillness of that multitude ; he feels
it even by the lifted finger of the cardinal. He
sees his Viola on the stage, radiant in her robes
and Eaems -, he hears her voice thrilling through the
sing heart of the thousands! But the scene——
the part—the mnsicl It is his other child—his
immortal child—the spirit-infant of his soul—his
darling of many years of patient obscurity and
piping genius—his masterpiece—his opera of the
' n l
This, then, was the mystery that had so galled
him; this the cause of the quarrel with the car-
dinal; this the secret not to be proclaimed till
the success was won, and the daughter had united
her father's triumph with her own i
And there she stands, as all souls bow before
her, fairer than the very Siren he had called from
the deeps of melody. Ohl long and sweet re-
compense of toill Where is on earth the rapture
like that which is known to genius when at last
it bursts from its hidden cavern into light and
fame!
He did not speak, he did not move; he stood
transfixed, breathless, the tears rolling down his
cheeks: onl from time to time his hands still
wandered a out; mechanically they sought for
the faithful instruments—why was it not there to
share his triumphi
At last the curtain fell, but on such a storm
and diapason of applause l Uprose the audi-
ence as one man; as with one voice that dear
name was shouted. She came on, trembling,
m, and in the whole crowd saw but her father's
The audience followed those moistened
eyes; they recognised with a thrill the daugh-
ter’s impulse and her meaning. The good old
cardinal drew him gently forward: “Wild mu-
sician! thy daughter has given thee back more
than the life thou gavest 1"
“My poor violin i” said he, wiping his eyes,
“they will never hiss thee again now 1"



CHAPTER III.
“ Frasi contrnrlc tempre ln ghlacoio e In fOCO,
In rise 0 in planln, 0 fm peurn e spsne
L‘lngnnnatrice Donna—"
Graven. LIL, cant. iv, xclv.
Now, notwithstanding the triumph both of the
singer and the 'opera, there had been one mo-
ment in the first act, and, consequently, before
the arrival of Pisani, when the scale seemed
mere than doubtful. It was in a chorus replete
with all the peculiarities of the composer. And
when this Maelstrom of Capricci whirled and
foamed, and tore ear and sense through every
variety of sound, the audience simultaneously
recognised the hand of Pisani. A title had been
given to the opera which had hitherto prevented
all suspicion of its parentage; and the overture
and opening, in which the music had been regu-
lar and sweet, had led the audience to fancy they
detected the genius of their favorite Paisiello.
Long accustomed to ridicule, and almost to deer
pise the pretensions of Pisani as a composer,
the now felt as if they had been unduly cheat-
ed into the applause with which they had hailed
the overture and the oommencin scenas. An
ominous buzz circulated round e house ; the
singers, the orchestra—electrically sensitive to
the impression of the audience—grew themselves
agitated and dismayed, and failed in the energy
and precision which could alone carry off the
grotesqneness of the music.
There are always, in every theatre, many ri-
vals to a new author and a new performer; a
party impotent while all goes well, but a dan—
gerous ambush the instant some accident throws
into confusion the march to success. A hiss
arose; it was partial, it is true, but the signifi-
cant silence of all applause seemed to forbode
the coming moment when the displeasure would
grow contagious. It was the breath thxit stirred
the impending avalanche. At that critical mo-
ment, Viola, the Siren queen, emerged for the
first time from her ocean cave. As she came
forward to the lamps, the novelty of her situa-
tion, the chilling apathy of the audience, which
even the sight of so singular a beauty did not at
the first arouse,_the whispers of the malignant
singers on the stage, the g are of the lights, and
more, far more than the rest, that recent hiss,
which had reached her in her concealment, all
froze up her faculties and suspended her voice.
And, instead of the grand invocation into which
she ought rapidly to have burst, the regal Siren,
retransformed into the trembling girl, stood pale
and mute before the stern, cold array of those
countless eyes.
At that instant, and when consciousness itself
seemed about to fail her, as she turned a timid,
beseeching glance around the still multitude, she
perceived, in a box near the stage, a countenance,
which at once, and like magic, produced on her
mind an effect never to be analyzed or forgotten.
It was one that awakened an indistinct haunting
reminiscence, as if she had seen it in those day-
dreams she had been so went from infancy to in-
dulge. She could not withdraw her gaze from
that face; and as she gazed, the awe and cold-
ness that had before seized her, vanished like a
mist from before the sun. -
In the dark splendor of the eyes that met her
own, there was indeed so much of gentle encou-


12
ZANONI.
ragement, of benign and compassionate admira-
tion—so much that warmed, and animated, and
nerved—that any one, actor or orator, who has
ever observed the effect that a single, earnest,
and kindly look in the crowd that is to be ad-
dressed and won will produce upon his mind,
may readily account for the sudden and inspiriting
influence the eye and smile of the stranger ex~
ercised on the debutante. ’
And while yet she gated, and the glow,re-
turned to her heart, the stranger half rose, as if
to recall the audience to a sense of the courtesy
due to one so fair and young; and the instant
his voice gave the signal, the audience followed
it by a burst of generous applause. For this stran-
ger himself was a marked personage, and his re-
cent arrival at Naples had divided with the new
opera the gossip of the city. And then, as the
applause ceased—clear, full, and freed from every
fetter, like a spirit from the clay—the Siren‘s
voice poured forth its entrancing music. From
that time Viola forgot the crowd, the hazard. the
whole world, except the fairy one over which
she presided. It seemed that the stranger‘s pre-
sence only served still more to heighten that de-
lusion, in which the artist sees no creation with-
out the circle of his art; she felt as if that se-
rene brow and those brilliant eyes inspired her
with owers never known before ; and, as if
searchlng for a language to express the strange
sensations occasioned by his presence, that pre-
sence itself whispered to her the melody and the
song.
Only when all was over, and she saw her fa~
ther and felt his joy, did this wild spell vanish
before the sweeter one of the household and filial
love. Yet again, as she turned from the stage,
she looked back involuntarily, and the stranger's
calm and half-melancholy smile sunk into her
heart, to live there, to be recalled with confused
memories, half of pleasure and half of pain.
Pass over the congratulations of the good car-
dinal-virtuoso, astonished at finding himself and
all Naples had been hitherto in the wrong on a
subject of taste—still more astonished at finding
himself and all Naples combining to confess it;
pass over the whispered ecstasies of admiration
which buzzed in the singer's.ear, as once more,
in her modest veil and quiet dress, she escaped
from the crowd of gallants that choked up every
avenue behind the scenes; pass over the sweet
embrace of father and child, returning through
the starlit streets, and along the deserted Chiaja
in the cardinal's carriage; ncver pause now to
note the tears and ejaculations of the good, sim-
ple-hearted mother . . . see them returned; see
the Well-known room, van-{mus ad larem nosti'um ,-
see old Gionetta bustling at the supper; and
hear Pisani, ashe rouses the barbiton from its
case, communicating all that has happened to
the intelligent familiar ; hark to the mother’s
merry low English laugh: “ Why, Viola, strange
child, sittest thou apart, thy face leaning on thy
fair hands, thine eyes fixed on space i Up, rouse
thee l Every dimple on the cheek of home must
smile tonight,” *
And a happy reunion it was round that hum-
ble table; is east Lucnllus might have envied in
his Hall of Apollo, in the dried grapes and the

’ " Eldete qnldquld est doml cachlnnorum."
Caron“, ad Strm. I‘caln.
daint sardines, and the luxurious polenta, and
the o d lacrima, a present from the good cardi-
nal. The barbiton, placed on av chair—a tall,
high-backed chair—beside the musician, seemed
to take a part in the festive meal. Its honest
varnished face glowed in the light of the lamp;
and there was an impish, sly demureness in its
very silence, as its master, between every month-
ful, turned to talk to it of something he had for-
gotten to relate before. The good wife looked
affectionately on, and could not eat for ‘oy ', but
suddenly she rose, and placed on the artist’s teln-
ples a anrel wreath, which she had woven be-
forehand in fond anticipation ; and Viola, on the
other side her brother, the barbiton, rearranged
the chaplet, and smoothing back her father’s
hair, whispered, “Caro Padre, you will not let
him scold me again l”
Then poor Pisani, rather distracted between
the two, and excited both by the lacrima and his
triumph, turned to the younger child with so
naive and grotesque a pride, " I don‘t know
which to thank the most. You give me so much
joy, child—I am so proud of thee and myself:
But he and I, poor fellow, have been so often no-
happy together l”
Viola’s sleep was broken; that was natural.
The intoxication of vanity and triumph, the hap-
piness in the hap iness she had caused, all this
was better than s eep. But still, from all this,
again and again her thoughts flew to those haunt-
ing eyes—to that smile, with which forever the
memory of the triumph, of the happiness, was
to be united. Her feelings, like her own charac-
ter, were strange and peculiar. They were not
those of a girl whose heart, for the first time,
reached through the eye, sighs its natural and
native language of first love. It was not so
much admiration—though the face that reflected
itself on every wave of her restless fancies was
of the rarest order of majesty and beauty—nor
a pleased and enamored recollection that the
sight of this stranger had bequeathed ; it was a
human sentiment of gratitude and delight, mix-
ed with something more mysterious, of fear and
awe. Certainly she had seen before those fea-
tures; but when and how i only when her
thoughts had sought to shape out her future, and
when, in spite of all the attempts to vision forth
a fate of flowers and sunshine, :1 dark and chill
foreboding made her recoil back into her deepest
self. It was a something found that had long
been sought for by a thousand restless yearnings
and vague desires, less of the heart than mind;
not as when youth discovers the one to be be-
loved, but rather as when the student, long wan-
dering after the clew to some truth in science,
sees it glimmer deeply before him, to beckon, to
recede, to allure, and to wane again. She fell
at last into unquiet slumber, vexed by deformed,
fleeting, shapeless phantoms; and waking as the
sun, through a veil of hazy cloud, glintcd with a
sickly ray across the easement, she heard her
father settled back betimes to his one pursuit,
and calling forth from his familiar a low, mourn-
ful strain, like a dirge over the dead.
“ And why," she asked, when she descended
to the room below, “ why, my father, was your
inspiration so sad after the joy of last night 7"
“I know not, child. I meant to be merr ,
and compose an air in honor of thee; but he is
an obstinate fellow, this—and he would have it so.”


ZANONI.
13
CHAPTER. IV.
“E cosi i pigri c timid] deslri
Sprons."
GIRUIAL. Lis., cant. lv., lxnvili.
It was the custom of Pisani, exce t when the
duties of his profession made specia demand on
his time, to devote a certain portion of the mid-
day to sleep; a habit not so much a luxury as a
necessity to a man who slept very little during
the night. In fact, whetherto compose or to prac-
tice, the hours of noon were precisely those in
which Pisani could not have been active if he
would. His genius resembled those fountains
full at dawn and evening, overflowing at night,
and perfectly dr at the meridian. During this
time, consecrate by her husband to repose, the
signers generally stole out to make the purchases
necessary for the little household, or to enjoy,
as what woman does not, a little relaxation in
gossip with some of her own sex. And the day
allowing this brilliant triumph, how many con-
gratulations would she have to receive.
At these times it was Viola’s habit to seat her-
self without the door of the house, under an awn-
ing which sheltered from the sun without ob-
structing the view; and there now, with the
prompt-book on her knee, on which her eye
roves listlessly from time to time, you may be-
hold her, the vine leaves clustering from their
arching trellice over the door behind, and the
lazy white-sailed boats skimming along the sea
that stretched beforev
As she thus sat, rather in rcvery than thought,
a man, coming from the direction of Posilypo,
with a slow step and downcast eyes, assed
close by the house, and Viola, looking up a rupt-
l , started in a kind of terror as she recognised
the stranger. She uttered an involuntary excla-
tziation, and the cavalier, turning, saw and pans-
Ha stood a moment or two between her and
the sunlit ocean, contemplating, in a silence too
serious and gentle for the boldness of gallantry,
the blushing face and the young slight form be-
fore him : at length he spoke.
“ Are you happy, my child,” he said, in almost
a paternal tone, “ at the career that lies before
out From sixteen to thirty, the music in the
reath of applause is sweeter than all the music
your voice can utter l"
“ I know not," replied Viola, falteringly, but
encouraged by the liquid softness of the accents
that addressed her; “I know not whether I am
happy now, but I was last night. And I feel,
too, excellency, that I have you to thank, though
perhaps you scarce know why l‘
“ You deceive yourself," said the cavalier, with
a smile. “I am aware that I assisted to your
merited success, and it is you who scarce know
how. The why I will tell you: because I saw
in your heart a nobler ambition than that of the
woman's vanity: it was the daughter that inter-
ested me. Perhaps you would rather I should
have admired the singer l”
“ No ; oh, no i"
“Well, I believe you. And new, since 'we
have that met, I will pause to counsel you.—
When next you go to the theatre, you will have
at your feet all the young gallantry of Naples.
Poor infant l the flame that dazzles the eye can
scorch the wing. Remember that the only hom-

age that does not sully must be that which these
gallant: will not give thee. And, whatever thy
dreams of the future—and I see, while I speak
to thee, how wandering they are, and wild—may
only those be fulfilled which centre round the
hearth of home."
He paused as Viola’s breast heaved beneath
its robe. And with a burst of natural and inno-
cent emotions, scarcely comprehending, though .
an Italian, the grave nature of his advice,she ex-
claimed, .
“ Ah, excellency, you cannot know how dear
to me that home is already. And my father-—
there would be no home, signor, without him i”
A deep and melancholy shade settled over the
face of the cavalier. He looked up at the quiet
house buried amid the vine leaves, and turned
again to the vivid, animated face of the young
actress.
“It is well," said he. “ A simple heart may
be its own best guide, and so, go on and prosper.
Adieu, fair singer.”
“Adieu, excellency ; but—” and something
she could not resist—an anxious, sickening feel-
ing of fear and hope—impelled her to the ques-
tion, “ I shall see you again, shall I not, at San-
Carlo l"
" Not at least for some time. I leave Naples
to-day.”
“ lndecd;" and Viola’s heart sunk within her:
the poetry of the stage was gone.
“ And,” said the cavalier, turning back, and
gently laying his hand on hers, “ and perhaps be-
fore we meet, you may have suffered; known
the first sharp griefs of human life; known how
little what fame can gain repays what the heart
can loss; but be brave and yield not—not even
to what may seem the piety of sorrow. Observe
yon tree in your neighbor‘s garden. Look how
it grows up, crooked and distorted. Some wind
scattered the germ from which it sprung in the
clefts of the rock; choked up and walled round
by crage and buildings, by nature and by man, its
life has been one struggle for the light; light,
which makes to that life the necessity and the
principle: you see how it has writhed and
twisted; how, meeting the barrier at one s t,
he has labored and worked, stem and branc ea,
towards the clear skies at last. What has pre-
served it through each disfavor of birth and cir-
cumstances i why are its leaves as green and fair
as the vine behind you, which, with all its arms,
can embrace the open sunshinel My child, be—
cause of the very instinct that impelled the strug-
gle; because the labor for the light won to the
light at length. So with a gallant heart, through
every adverse accident of sorrow and of fate to
turn to the sun, to strive for the heaven; that it
is that gives knowledge to the strong and happi-
ness to the weak. Ere we meet again, you will
turn and and heavy eyes to those quiet boughs;
and when you hear the birds sing from them,
and see the sunshine come sslant from crag and
housetop to be the playfellow of their leaves,
learn the lesson that Nature teaches you, and
strive through darkness to the light I” _
As he spoke he moved on slowly and left Vio-
la wondering, silent; saddened with his dim pro-
phecy of coming evil, and yet, through sadness,
charmed. Involuntaril her eyes followed him_;
involuntarily she stret ed forth her arms, as if
by a gesture to call him back: she Would have


14
ZANONI.
given worlds to have seen him turn—to have
heard once more his low, calm, silvery voice—to
have felt again the light touch of his hand on
hers. As moonlight that softens into beauty
every angle on which it falls, seemed his pres-
ence; as moonlight vanishes, and things assume
their common as ct of the rugged and the mean,
he receded from er eyes, and the outward scene
was commonplace once more.
The stranger passed on, through that long and
lovely road which reaches at last the palaces that
face the public gardens, and conducts to the more
populous quarter of the city.
A group of young dissipated courtiers, loitering
by the gateway of a house which was open for
the favorite pastime of the day—the resort of
the wealthier and more high-born gamesters—
made way for him, as with a courteous inclina-
tion he passed by them.
“ Per fade," said one, “ is not that the rich
Zanoni, of whom the town talks l"
“A ; they say his wealth is incalculable l"
“ They say—Who are they? what is the au-
thority 3 He has,not been so many days at Na-
ples, and I cannot yet find any one who knows
aught of his birthplace, his parentage, or, what
is more important, his estates 1”
“ That is true; but he arrived in a goodly ves-
sel, which they say is his own. See—no, you
cannot see it here; but it rides yonder in the
bay. The banker he deals with speaks with awe
of the sums placed in his hands.”
“ Whence came he i"
“From some seaport in the East. My valet
learned from some of the sailors on the Mole, that
he had resided many years in the interior of In-
“ Ah, I am told men pick up gold there like
pebbles, and there are valleys where the birds
uild their nests with emeralds to attract the
moths. Here comes our prince of gamesters,
Cetoxa; be sure that he already must have made
acquaintance with so Wealthy n. cavalier; he has
that attraction to gold which the magnet has to
steel. Well, Cetoxa, what fresh news of the du-
cats of Signor Zanoni t” I
“ Oh,” said Cetoxa, carelessly, “ my friend—”
“ Ilal ha! hear him! his friend i"
“ Yts ; my friend Zanoni is going to Rome for
a short time; when he returns he has promised
me to fix a day to sup with me, and I will then
introduce him to you, and to the best society of
Na les. Diavolo l but he is a most agreeable
and, witty gentleman l"
“ Pray tell us how you came so suddenly to be
his friend.”
“ My dear Belgioso, nothing more natural. He
desireda box at San Carlo; but I need not tell
you that the expectation of a new opera (ah, how
superb it is—that poor devil, Pisani l—who would
have thought itl), and a new singer (what a face
—what a voice l—ah l), had engaged every corner
of the house. I heard of Zanoni’s desire to honor
the talent of Naples, and, with my usual courtesy
to distinguished strangers, I sent to place my box
athis disposal. He accepts it; I wait on him
between the acts; he is most charming; he in-
vites me to supper. Cospetto, what a retinuei
We sit late; I tell him all the news of Naples;
we grow bosom friends; he presses on me this
diamond before we art; it is a trifle, he tells
me; the jewellers ue it at 5000 pistolesl The

merriest evening I have passed these ten years l"
The cavaliere crowded round to admire the
diamond.
“ Signor Count Cetoxa,” said one grave-look-
ing, sombre man, who had crossed himself two or
three times during the Neapolitan’s narrative,
“ are you not aware of the strange reports about
this personl and are you not afraid to receive
from him a gift, which may carry with it the
most fatal consequences? Do you not know that
he is said to be a sorcerer—to possess the mal-
occhio—t0—"
_ “ Prithee spare us your antiquated super-
stitions," interrupted Cetoxa, contemptuously.
“ They are out of fashion ; nothing now goes
down but skepticism and philosophy. And what,
after all, do these rumours, when sifted, amount
to! They have no origin but this: a silly old
man of eighty-six, grits in his dotage, solemnly
avers that he saw ' same Zanoni seventy years
ago (he himself, the narrator, then a mere boy,)
at Milan. When this very Zanoni, as you all see,
is at least as y as you or I, Belgioso." ,
“But that,”os:il'lg the grave entleman, “ that
is the mystery. Old Avelli d res that Zanoni
does not seem a day older than when they met
at Milan. He says that even then, at Milan—
marlt this—where, though under another name,
this Zanoni appeared in the same splendor, he
was attended also by the same mystery; and
that an old man there remembered to have seen
him sixty years before in Sweden."
“ Tush," returned Cetoxa; “the same
has been said of the quack Cagliostro—mere fa-
bles. Iwill believe them when I see this dia-
mond turn to a wisp of hay. For the rest," he
added, gravely, “ I consider this illustrious gen-
tleman my friend; and a whisper against his ho-
nor and repute will in future be equivalent to an
affront to myself"
Cetoxa was a redoubted swordsman, and ex-
celled in a peculiarly awkward manoeuvre, which
he himself had added to the variations of the
stoccata. The grave gentleman, however anxi-
ous for the spiritual weal of the count, had an
equal regard for his own corporeal safety. He
contented himself with a look of compassion, and
turning through the gateway, ascended the stairs
to the gaming-tables. {0
“Ha, ha l” said Ce xa, lau ' “ our good
Loredano is envious of my dgiiihligiid. Gentle-
men, you sup with me tonight._ I assure you I
never met a more delightful, sociable, entertain-
ingpcrson than my dear friend, the Signor Za-
nom."

CHAPTER V.
" Quello lppog fo, lrande a statue angelic
L0 pom via."
OIL. Fun, 1:. vi., xvlll.
Axn now, accompanying this mysterious Za-
noni, am I compelled to bid a short farewell to
Naples. Mount behind rue—mount on my hip-
pggrifi‘, reader; settle yourself at your ease. I
ught the pillion the other day of a poet who
loves his comfort; it has been newly stuffed for
our special accommodation. So, so, we ascendl
k as we ride aloft—lookl Never fear, hip-
pogrifl's never stumble; and every hippogritf in


a-_-
ZANONI. 15
v-r
[hi is warrantod to carry elderly gentlemen!
look down on the gliding landscapes. There,
near the ruins of the Oscan’s old Atella, rises
Aversa, once the stronghold of the Norman;
there gleam the columns of Capua, above the
Vulturninu stream, no more reflecting upon gory
waves the steel-clad warriors of Carthage and
Home. Hail to ye, cornfields, and vineyards fa-
mous for the old Falernian! Hail to ye, golden
orange-groves of Mola di Gaetal Hail to ye,
sweet shrubs and wild flowers, omni: copia na-
n'um, that clothe the mountain skirts of the
silent Lautuloo! Shall we rest at the Volscian
Anxur—the modern Terraciha—where the lofty
rock stands like the giant that guards the last
borders of the southern land of love! Away,
away! and hold your breath as we flit above the
Pontine Marshes. Dreary and desolate, their
miasma is to the gardens we have passed what
the rank common~ lace of life is to the heart
when it has left ove behind. Mournful Cam-
pagna, thou openest on us in majestic sadness.
Rome, aevenhillcd Rome 1 receive us as Memory
receives the wayworn; receive us in silence,
amid ruinsl Where is the traveller we pursue l
Turn the hippogrifi‘ loose to graze; he loves the
acanthus that wreathes round. you broken col-
umns. Yes, that is the Arch of Titus, the
conqueror of Jerusalem—that the Colosseum!
Through one passed the triumph of the deified
invader; in one fell the butchered gladiators.
Monuments of murder, how poor the thoughts,
how mean the memories e awaken, compared
with those that speak to e heart of man on the
heights of Phyle, or by thy lone mound. grey
Marathon! We stand amid weeds, and brambles,
and long, waving herbage. Where we stand
reigned Nero; here were his tessclatcd floors;
here, “ mighty in the heaven, a second heaven,"
hung the vault of his ivory roofs ; here, arch upon
arch, pillar on pillar, glittcred to the world the
golden palace of its master—tho Golden House
of Nero. How the lizard watches us with his
bright, timorous a el W'e disturb his reign.
Gather that wild owor: the Golden House is
vanished; but the wild flower may have kin to
those which the stranger‘s hand scattered over
the tyrant's grave; see, over this soil, the grave
of Rome, Nature strews the wild flowers still i
In the midst of this desolation is an old build-
ingiof the Middle Ages. Here dwells a singular
rec use. In the season of the malaria, the native
nt flies the rank vegetation round; but he,
a stranger and a foreigner, breathes in safety the
pestilentiai air. He has no friends, no associates,
no companions, except books and instruments of
science. He is often seen wandering over the
grown hills, or sauntcring through the
streets of the new city, not with the absent brow
and incurious air of students, but with observant,
piercing eyes, that seem to dive into the hearts
of the passers-by. An old man, but not infirm:
erect and stately, as if in his rimc. None know
whether he be rich or poor. e asks no charity,
and he gives none; he does no evil, and seems
to confer no good. He is a man who appears to
have no world beyond himself; but appearances
are deceitful; and Science, as well as Benevo-
lence, lives in the universe. ThitI abode, for the
first time since thus occupied,a visitor enters. It
is Zanoni.
You observe them seated together, conversing

earnestly. Years long and many have flown
away since they met last; at least bodily, and
face to face. But if they are sages, thought can
meet thought and spirit spirit, though oceans di-
vide the forms. Death itself divides not the wise.
Thou meetest Pluto when thine eyes moisten
over the Phaedo. May Homer live with all men
forever! They converse—they confess to each
other—they conjure u the past and repeople it;
but note how ditl’ercn y do such remembrances
affect the two. On Zimoni's face, despite its ha-
bitual calm, the emotions change and go. He has
acted in the Past he surveys; but not a trace of
the humanity that participates‘in joy and sorrow
can be detected on the passionless visage of his
companion: the Post to him, as is now the Pre-
sent, has been but as nature to the sage, the
volume to the student—n calm and spiritual life,
a study, a contemplation. '
From the Past they turn to the Future. Ahl
at the close of the last century, the Future seem-
ed a thing tangible; it was woven up in all men’s
fears and hopes of the Present.
" An dos Jnhr hunderts Nelle,
Der rcifato Sohn der Zeil."
At the verge of that hundred years, Man, the
ripest-born of Time, stood as at the deathbed of
the Old World, and beheld the New Orb, blood-
red amid cloud and vapor, uncertain if a comet
or a sun. Behold the my and profound disdain
on the brow of the old man; the lofty yet touch-
ing sadness that darkens the glorious counte
nance of Zanoni. Is it that one views with con-
tempt the struggle and its issue, and the other
with awe or pityl Wisdom contemplating man-
kind leads but to the two results—com ion
or disdain. He who believes in other wor ds can
accustom himself to look on this as the naturalist
on the revolutions of an anthill or of a leaf. What
is the Earth to Infinity; what its duration tothe
Eternal! Oh, how much greater is the soul of
one man than the vicissitudes of the whole lobel
Child of Heaven and heir of immortalit how
from some star hereafter wilt thou look ack on
the anthill and its commotions, from Clovis to
Robcspicrre, from Noah to the Final Fire. The
spirit that can contemplate, that lives only in the
intellect, can ascend to its star, even from the
midst of the Burial-ground called Earth, and
while the Sarco hagus called Life immures in
its clay the Ever ting!
But thou, Zanoni, thou hast refused to live only
in the intellect; thou hast not mortified the heart ;
thy pulse still beats with the sweet music of
mortal passion; thy kind is to thee still some-
thing warmer than an abstraction; thou woulth
look upon this revolution in its cradle, which the
storms rock; thou wouldst see the world while
its elements yet wrestle through the chaos l

CHAPTER VI.
“ Préwpteurs ignorant de ce faible llnivcrs,"
Von-rains.
“.Nnns etlons a table chez un de nos confreres a l‘Arad-
onus, Grand Seigneur e! hoinme d‘esprit."—Lk lhnn.
ONE evening, at Paris, several months after
the date of our last chapter, there was a reunion


16
ZANONI.
of some of the most eminent wits of the time at
the house of a ersonage distinguished alike by
noble birth and liberal accomplishments. Nearly
all resent were of the views that were then the
m e. For as came afterward a time when noth-
ing was so unpopular as the people, so that was
the time when nothing was so vulgar as aristo-
cracy. The airiest fine gentleman and the haugh-
tiest noble prated of equality and lisped enlight-
eument.
Among the more remarkable guests were Con-
dorcet, then in the firm of his reputation, the
cones ondent of the ing of Prussia, the intimate
of V0 taire, the member of half the academies of
Europe; noble by birth, polished in manners, re-
publican in opinions. There, too, was the vener-
able Malesherbes, “l‘amour et les delices de la
nation.“ There Jean Silvain Bailly, the accom-
plished scholar, the aspiring politician. It was
one of those petite soupcrs for which the capital
of all social pleasures was so renowned. The
conversation, as might be expected, was literary
and intellectual, enlivened by graceful leasantry.
Many of the ladies of that ancient an proud no-
blesse—for the noblesse yet existed, t ough its
hours were already numbered—added to the
charm of the society; and theirs were the bold-
est criticisms, and often the most liberal senti-
meats.
Vain labor for me, vain labor almost for the
grave English language, to do justice to the
sparkling paradoxes that flew from lip to lip.—
The favorite theme was the superiorit of the
modernsto the ancients. Condorcet on t is head
was eloquent, and to some, at least, of his audi-
ence most convincing. 'l‘bat Voltaire wasgreater
than Homer, few there were disposed to deny.
Keen was the ridicule lavished on the dull ped-
antry which finds everything ancient necessarily
sublime.
“ But," said the graceful Marquis de , as
the champagne danced to his glass, “ more ridic-
ulous yet is the superstition that finds everything
incomprehensible holy l But intelligence circu-
lates, Gondorcet; like water, it fihds its level.—
My hairdresser said to me this morning, ‘ though
I am but a poor fellow, monseigneur, I believe as
little as the finest gentleman l’ "
“ Unquestionably, the great Revolution draws
near to its final completion—d pas du géant, as
Montesquieu said of his own immortal work".
Then there rushed from all—wit and noble,
courtier and republican—a confused chorus, har-
monious only in its anticipation of the brilliant
things to which " the great Revolution " was to
give birth. Here Cordorcet is more eloquent
than before.


“Il faut abeolument que la superstition et le
fanatisme fassent place il. la philosophic. Kings ,
persecute persons, priests opinion. Without
lugs, men must be safe; and without priests,
minds must be free." '
“Ah,” said the Marquis, “ and as cc CM Di-
derot has so well sung,
‘ Et des boy'aux dn dernier preu'e
Bencz lo cou du dernier roi.’ "
“ And then,” resumed Condorcet, “then com-
mences the age of Reason i_ Equality in in-
struction—equality in institutions—equality in

’ 50 called by his historian Gailiard.
wealth! The great bar to knowledge is, first»
the want of a common language; and, next, the
short duration of existence. But as to the first,
when all men are brothers, why not a universal
languagei As to the second, the organic per-
fectibility of the vegetable world is undisputed.
Is Nature less powerful in the nobler existence
of thinking mani The ve destruction of the
two most active causes of p] ysical deterioration
-—-here, luxurious wealth; t ere, abject penury—
must necessarily prolong the general term of
lifel The art of medicine will then be honored
in the lace of war, _which is the art of murder;
the no lest study of the acutest minds will be
devoted to the discovery and arrest of the causes
of disease. Life, I grant, cannot be made eter~
nal ; but it may be. prolonged almost indefinitely.
And as the meaner animal bequentlis its vigor to
its offspring, so man shall transmit his improved
organization, mental and physical, to his sons.
Oh yes, to such a consummation does our age ap-
proach l"
The venerable Malesherbes sighed. Perhaps
he feared the consummation might not come in
time for him. The handsome Marquis de —,
and the ladies et handsomer than he, looked
conviction and elight.
But two men there were, seated next to each
other, who joined not in the general talk; the
one, a stranger newly arrived in Paris, where his
wealth, his person, and his accomplishments had
already made him remarked and courted; the
other, an old man, somewhere about seventy—the
witty and virtuous, brave and still light-hearted
Cazotte, the author of L0 Diable Amormx.
These two conversed familiarly and apart from
the rest, and only by an occasional smile testified
their attention to the general conversation.
" Yes,” said the stranger, “ yes, we have met
before."
“ I thought I could not forget your countenance;
yet I task in vain my recollections of the past."
“I shall assist you. Recall the time when,
led by curiosity, or erhaps the nobler desire of
knowledge, you song t initiation into the myste-
rious order of Martines dc Pasqualis.”*
“ Ah 1 is it possiblel You are one of that the-
urgic brotherhood i”
" Nay, I attended their ceremonies but to see
how vainly they sought to revive the ancient
marvels of the cabala.”
“Such studies please youi I have shaken off
the influence they once had on my own
tion."
' It is so recorded of Camttc. Of Martina! de Pasqnap
lis little is known: even the country in which he he-
lnnged is matter of conjecture. Equallyso the rites, cere-
monies, and nature of the cabalistlc order he established.
Saint Martin wasadiscipie of the school, and that, at
least, is in its favor; for, in spite of his mysticism. no
man more beneficent. generous, pure, and virtuous than
&int Martin adorned the last century. Above all, no
man more distinguished himself from the herd of skeptical
philosophers by the gallantry and fervor with which he
rumbatcd materialism, and vindicated the necessity of
faith amid a chaos of nnbeliei‘. It may also be observed,
that Gazette, whatever else he learned of the brotherhood
of Marlines, learned nothing that diminished the excel-
lence of his life and the sincerity of his religion. At
once gentle and brave, he never ceased to almost! the s:-
cesses of the Revolution. To the last. unlike the Libe-
rals of his time. he was a devout and sincere Christian.
Before his execution, he demanded a pen and paper»
write these words: “liia femme, mes cnfana, no me
please: pas, no m'nuhliez pea. mail souveaez~voua [up
tout do no jameia ofl'onser Dieu."


ZAN ON I.
17
@— “ You have not shaken it oil," returned the
stranger, gravely; “it is on you still—on you at
this hour; it beats in your heart; it kindles in
~your reason; it will speak in your tongue i"
w, And then, with a yet lower voice, the stranger
continued to address him, to remind him of cer-
tain ceremonies and doctrines, to explain and en-
fome them by references to the actual experience
and history of his listener, which Cazotte thrilled
to find so familiar to a stranger. ,
‘ -Gradually the old man’s pleasing and benevo~
lmt countenance grew overcast, and he cast, from
time to time, searching, curious, uneasy glances
at his companion.
- The charming Duchess de G
out to the lively guests the abstracted air and
clouded brow of the poet; and Condorcet, who
liked no one else to be remarked when he him-

self was present, said to Cazotte, “Well, and“
what do nu predict of the Revolution—how, at
least, wit it affect us?"
At that question anotte started; his cheeks
grew pale; large drops stood on his forehead;
his lips writhed. His gay companions gazed
on him with surprise.
“Speak i" whispered the stranger, laying his‘
hand gently upon the arm of the old wit.
At that word Canotte‘s face grew locked and
' id, his eyes dwelt vacantly on s ace, and in
I. ow, hollow voice, he thus answere ;*
“ You as]: how it will affect yourselves—you,
its most learned and its least selfish agents. I
will answer; you, Marquis de Condorcet, will die
in prison, but not by the hand of the executioner.
In the peaceful ha piness of that day, the philoso-
er will carry a at with him, not the elixir,
t the poison."
“My poor Cazntte," said Condorcct, with his
gentle smile, “ what have prisons, executioners,
and poison to do with an age of liberty and bro-
therhood l"
.x“It is in the names of Liberty and Brother-
hood that the prisons will reek and the headsmau
,be glutted."
“You are thinking of priestcraft not philoso~
phy, Gazette," said Champfortf " And what of
me i"
a “ You will open your own veins to escape the
fraternity of Cain. Be comforted; the last dro s
will not follow the razor. For you, venerab e
Malesherbes—for you, Aims: Nicolai—for you,
learned Bailly, I see them dress the scaffold!
And all the while, 0 great philosophers, your
murderers will have no word but philosophy
in their lips i”
The hush was complete and universal when the
of Voltaire—the prince of the academic
' The following pmphccy, with some slight variations.
and at greater length, in the text of the authority 1 am
about to cite. is in be found in La liurpe's posthumous
‘vvorks. The MS. is said to exist still in Ln Hnrpo's hand—
writing, and the story is given on M. Petiint's authority,
vol. l., p. 62. It is not for mo to inquire ifthere be dnuhu
of its foundation on fact. The dale, according to the
pavor record. is 17$; but acconllni: lo the progress of
events in this nnrntive (lprecise intervals between which
are not, however. very c
referred to the ensuing year.
- tchnmpfort, one of those men of letters who, though
misled by the fair show of the Revolution. refused to fol-
low the baser men of action into its horrible excesses,
lived to express the murderous philanthropy of its agents
by the best bon mot of the time. Seeing written on the
walls " Fmierniic on in Mort," he observed that the senil-
rneni should be translated thus: " Sois m In", as j:
u 1”"
B
archly pointed ,
early chronicled), it appears here I
skeptics, hot La Harps—cried, with a sarcastic
laugh, “ Do not flatter me, O prophet, by exemp-
tion from the fate of m companions. Shall I
have no part to play in this drama of your phan
tasies l"
At this question Cazotte‘s countenance lost its
unnatural expression of awe and steruness; the
sardonic humor most common to it came back
and played in his brightening eyes.
“ Yes, La Harpe, the most wonderful part of
all 1 You will become—a Christian i"
This was too much for the audience, that a
moment before seemed grave and thoughtful ; and
they burst into an immoderate fit of laughter,
while Cazotte, as if exhausted by his predictions,
sulnk back in his chair and breathed hard and hem
Vi y.
“ Nay,” said Madame de G , “ you, who
have predicted such grave things concerning us,
must prophes something also about ourself."
A convulsive tremor shook the involuntary
prophet; it passed and left his countenance ele-
vated by an expression of resignation and calm.
“ Madame,” said he, after a long pause, “ during
the siege of Jerusalem, we are told by its historian
that a man for seven successive days, went round
the ramparts, exclaiming, ' We to thee, Jerusa-
lem, we to myself l‘ "
. “ Well, Cazotte, well i"
“ And on the seventh day while he thus spoke,
a stone from the machines of the Romans dashed
him into atoms l"
With these words Cazotte rose ; and the guests
awed in spite of themselves, shortly after broke
upnnd retired. '

CHAPTER VII.
“ Qui done t'a done in mission d'annoncer an peuplo
que la divinite n'exisie pas—quol nvnn e trouves-tu :-
persuuder a i'homma qu’nne force oven; 0 preside in ass
iiexilnee: ei frappo nu hasard lo crime et la veriu 1"—
ltonasi-isnnl, Discours, Mai 7, i794.
IT was some time before midnight when the
stranger returned home. His apartments were
situated in one of those vast abodes which may
be called an epitome of Paris itself. The cellars
rented by mechanics, scarce removed a step from
paupers—oi'ten by outcasts and fugitives from the
law—often by some darin writer, who, after
scattering among the poop e doctrines the most
subversive of order, or the most libellous on the
character of priest, minister, and king, retired
among the rats to escape the persecution that
attends the virtuous; t e gr0und-floor occupied
I by sho s; the entresol by artists; the principal
storiesgiy nobles, and the garrets by joumeymen
or grisettes.
As the stranger passed up the stairs, a young
man of a form and countenance singularly unpre-
‘I possessing, emerging from a door in the mtresol,

brushed beside him. His glance was furtive, sinis-
ter, savage, and yet fearful: the man’s face was
of an ashen paleness, and the features worked
Econvulsivel . The stronger paused and follow-
ed him wit thoughtful looks as he hurried down
~ the stairs. While he thus stood, he heard a
l groan from the room which the young man had
'just quitted; the latter had pulled the door wrth
_hasty violence, but some fragment, probably of


18
ZAN ON I.
fuel, had evented its closing, and it now stood
slightly aJar: the stranger pushed it open and
entered. He passed a small ante-room, measly
furnished, and stood in a bedchamber of meager
and sordid discomfort Stretched on the bed,
and writhing in pain, lay an old man: a single
candle lit the room, and threw its sickly ra over
the furrowed and deathlike face of the sic per-
son. No attendant was by; he seemed left
alone to breathe his last. “ Water," he moaned,
feebly, “water; I perch—I bum !" The intra-
der approached the bed, bent over him, and took
his hand; “ Oh, bless thee, Jean, bless thee!"
said the sufferer; “ hast thou brought back the
physician already? Sir, I am oor, but I can
pay you well. I would not die yet, for that
oung man‘s sake.” And he sat upright in his
ed, and fixed his dim eyes anxiously on his visi-
ter.
" What are your symptoms—your disease i"
“Fire—fire—fire in the heart, the entrails—I
burn l”
“ How long is it since you have taken food i"
“Food! only this broth. There is the basin,
all I have taken these six hours. I had scarce
drank it ere these pains began."
The stranger looked at the basin: some por-
tion of the contents were yet left there.
“ Who administered this to yoil i"
“ Whoi Jean I Who else should! I have
no servant—none! I am poor, very poor, sir.
But, no! You physicians do not care for the
r. [em rich I can you cure me 't”
“ Yes, if Heaven permit. Wait but a few mo-
ments.”
The old man was fast sinking under the effects
of the poison. The stranger repaired to his own
apartments, and returned in a few moments with
some preparation that had the instant result of
an antidote. The pain ceased ; the blue and
livid colour receded from the lips; the old man
fell into a profound sleep. The stranger drew
the curtains round him, took up the light and in-
spected the apartment. The walls of both rooms
were hung With drawings of masterly excellence.
A rtfolio was filled with sketches of equal
ski l; but these last were most] of subjects that
appalled the eye and revolte the taste: they
dis layed the human figure in every variety of suf-
fering: the rack, the wheel, the jibbet, all that
cruelty has invented to sharpen the pangs of
death, seemed yet more dreadful from the pas'
sionate gusto and earnest force of the designer.
And some of the countenances of those thus do-
lineated were sufficiently removed from the ideal,
to show that they were portraits. In a large,
bold, irregular hand, was written beneath these
drawings, “ The Future of the Aristocrats.” In
a corner of the mom, and close by an old bureau,
was a small bundle, over which, as if to hide it, a
cloak was thrown carelessly. Several shelves
were filled with books; these were almost entire-
ly the works of the philosophers of the time—the
philosophers of the material school, especially
the encyclopédistes, whom Robespierre after~
ward so singularly attacked, when the coward
deemed it unsafe to leave his reign without a
God)‘ A volume lay on a table; it was one

of Voltaire, and the page was 0 at his argu-
mentative assertion of the exrstence of a Su-
preme Being. The margin was covered with
pencilled notes, in the stiff but tremulous hand of
old age; all in attempt to refute or to ridicule
the logic of the sage of Ferney. Voltaire did not
go far enough for the annotntor i The clock
struck two, when the sound of steps was heard
without. The stranger silentl seated himself
on the farther side of the be , and its drapery
screened him, as he sat, from the eyes of a man
who now entered on tiptoe; it was the same r-
son who had passed him on the stairs. a
man took up the candle and approached the
bed. The old man‘s face was turned to the pil-
low; but he lay so still, and his breathing was
so inaudible, that his else might well, by that
hasty, shrinking, guilty g ance, be mistaken for
the repose of death. The new comer drew back,
and a grim smile passed over his face; he re-
placed the candle on the table, opened the bureau
with a key which he took from his pocket, and
loaded himself with several rouleaus of gold that
he found in the drawers. At this time the old
man began to wake. He stirred—he looked up;
he turned his eyes towards the light now waning
in its socket ; he saw the robber at his work ; he
sat erect for an instant, as if transfixed, more
even by astonishment than terror. At last he
sprang from his bed:
“ Just Heavenl do I dreaml Thou—thon—
thou for whom I toiled and starved! Thou I"
The robber started; the gold fell from his
hand and rolled on the floor.
“ What i" he said, “ art thou not dead yet?
Has the poison failed i"
“Poison, boy! Ah l” shrieked the old man,
and covering his face with his hands ; then, with
sudden energy, he exclaimed, “ Jean l Jean ! re-
call that word. Rob—- lunder me, if thou wilt,
but do not say thou cou dst murder one who on-
ly lived for thee! There, there, take the gold;
I hoarded it but for thee. Go—goi" and the
old man, who in his passion had quitted the bed,
fell at the feet of the foiled assassin, and writhed
on the ground, the mental agony more intolera-
ble than that of the body which he had so lately
undergone. The robber looked at him with a
hard disdain.
“ What have I ever done to thee, wretchl"
cried the old man; “ what but loved and cher-
ished thee? Thou wert an orphan—an outcast
I nurtured, nursed, adopted thee as my son. If
men call me a miser, it was but that none might
despise thee, m heir, because nature has stunted
and deformed thee, when I was no more. Thou
wouldst have had all when I was dead. Couldst
thou not spare me a few months or days—no-
thing to thy youth, all that is left to my age?
What have I done to thee i"
“ Thou hast continued to live, and thou wonldst
make no will.”
“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieui"
“ Ton Dim ! Thy Godl Fool ! hast thou not
told me from my childhood that there is no God 1
Heat thou not fed me on philosophy i Hast
thou not said, ‘ Be virtuous, be good, be just, for
' “ Cetlo sccte (lea encvclnpt'distes) propsgcs avec
beaucoup de zi‘lo l‘upiulon du materialisme, qni prcvalut
pmnl les grands ct pal-mi is: benuX esprits. on lui doit on
partie eel-Le espeee do philosophic pratiquc qui, reduisant
l‘cgoisme on systems, regard la socicté humane comma
nn guerrc do ruse, le nieces comma la regle dn juste old:
l‘injnstc, la pmhlte commo une afl‘uirc do guilt, on do
bienscancc. Io monde comma Ie pntrimonie dos fripoaa
adroits."—Di'uwnc dc Robespicl'n, May 7, 1794.


ZAN ON I.
" 19
the sake of mankind, but there is no life after
this life !’ Mankindl Why should I love man-
kind? Hideous and deformed, mankind jeer at
me as I pass the streets. What hast thou done
to me! Thou hast taken away from me, who
am the scofl' of this world, the hopes of another!
In there no other life? Well, then, I want thy
aid, that at least I may hasten to make the
t of this I”
“Monsyte'rl Curses light on thy ingratitude,

I
“ And who hears thy curses l Thou knowest I
bility which its dupes so often mistake for be-
nevolence He had no children; he resolved to
adopt an enfant du peuplc. He resolved to edu-
cate this boy according to “ Reason." He se-
lected an orphan of the lowest extraction, whose
defects of person and constitution only yet the
lmore moved his pity, and finally engrossed his
'afi'ection. In this outcast he not only loveda
.son, he loved a theory! He brought him up
most philosophically. Helvetius had proved to
him that education can do all; and before he
was eight years old, the little Jean's favorite 0:-
The

there is no God! Mark me! [have prepared l pression were “La lumiére et la vertu."
all to fly. See, I have my passport; my horses ; boy showed talents, especially in art. The pro-
wait without; relays are ordered. I have thy tector sought for a master who was as free from
gold." (And the wretch, ashe spoke, continuedr“superstition" as himself, and selected the
coldly to load his person with the rouleeus.) ' painter David. That person, hideous as his pu-
" And now, if I spare thy life, how shall I be i pi], and whose dispositions were as vicious as his
sure that thou wilt not inform against mine 1"
He advanced with a gloomy scowl and a mena-
cing gesture as he spoke.
The old man‘s anger changed to fear. He
(towered before the savage. “ Let me livel let
me live l that—that —”
“ That—what i”
“ I may pardon theel Yes, thou hast nothing
to fear from me. I swear it i”
" Swear! But by whom and what, old man i
_I cannot believe thee, if thou believest not in
any God! Ha, hal behold the result of thy
lessons.”
FR} Another moment, and those murderous fingers
would have strangled their prey. But between
the assassin and his victim rose a form that
seemed almost to both a visiter from the world
that both denied—stately, with majestic strength,
glorious with awful beauty.
The murderer recoiled, looked, trembled, and
then turned and fled from the chamber. The
old man fell again to the ground insensible.
dense
"fit
“To know how a lIlltl men will act when ln power, rc-
vnrae all the doctrines he preaches when ohscure."—S.
Mom-sou.
CHAPTER VIII.
“Antlpathles also form a part of magic (falsely) so
culled. Man naturally has the same instinct as the ani-
mals, which warns them inVolunturily against the our
time that are hostile or fatal to their existence. But he
no often neglects II that lt becomes dormant. Not so the
true cultivator of the great science," tam—Tnisnnois-rus
Tn: l‘ona'rn (A Roslcruclan).
Wm he again saw the old man the next da ,
the stranger found him calm, and surprising y
recovered from the scene and sufferings of the
night. He expressed his gratitude to his pre-
server with tearful fervor, and stated that he had
already sent for a relation, who would make ar-
rangements for his future safety and mode of
life: “ For I have money yet left," said the old
man, “and henceforth have no motive to he a
miser." He proceeded then briefly to relate the
origin and circumstances of his connexion with
his intended murderer
It seems that in earlier life he had quarrelled
with his relations, from a difference in opinions
of belief. Re'ecting all religion as a fa le, be
yet cultivate feelings that inclined him—for,
though his intellect was weak, his dispositions
were good—to that false and exaggerated sensi-
! professional abilities were undeniable, was cer-
tainly as free from “superstition " as the pro
tector could desire. It was reserved for Robe-
} spierre hereafter to make the sanguinary painter
I believe in the Eire Supréme. The boy was early
sensible of his ugliness, which was almost pre'
ternaturaL His benefactor found it in vain to
' reconcile him to the malice of nature by his phi~
llosophical aphorisms; but when he pointed out
I to him that in this world money, like charity,
[covers a multitude of defects, the boy listened
eagerly, and was consoled. To save money for
his protege—for the only thing in the world he
loved—this became the patron's passion. Verily,
, he had met with his reward.
“ But I am thankful he has escaped,” said the
gold man, wiping his eyes. “ Had he left me a
[ beggar, I could never have accused him."
-‘ “ N o, for you are the author of his crimes."
; " How I I, who never ceased to inculcate the
i beauty of virtue l Explain yourself."
“ Alas! if th pupil did not make this clear to
thee last night tlom his own lips, an angel might
come from heaven to preach to thee in vain."
The old man moved uneasily, and was about
to reply, when the relative he had sent for, and
who, a native of Nancy, happened to be at Paris
at the time, entered the room. He was a man
somewhat past thirty, and of a dry, saturnine
countenance, restless eyes, and compressed lips.
He listened, with many ejaculations of horror,
to his relation's recital, and sought earnestly, but
in vain, to induce him to give information against
his protege.
“ 'I‘ush, tush, Réné Dumas i” said the old man,
“ you are a lawyer. You are bred to regard hu-
man life with contempt. Let any man break a
law, and you shout—‘ Execute him l’ ”
“ I I” cried Dumas, lifting up his hands and
eyes; “ venerable sage, how you misjudge me.
I lament more than any one the severity of our
code. I think the state never should take away
life—no, not even the life of a murderer. I ee
with that young statesman, Maximilian Ro -
pierre, that the executioner is the invention of the
tyrant. My very attachment to our advancing
revolution is, that it must sweep away this legal
butchery.”
The lawyer paused, out of breath. The strain-
ger regarded him fixedly, and tumed'pale.
“ You change countenance, sir," said Dumas;
“ you do not agree with me.” _
“ Pardon me, I was at that moment repressmg
;a vague fear that seemed prophetic—”


20
ZANONI.
“ And that-—”
“ Was that we should meet again, when your
opinions on Death and Revolution might be dif-
ferent.”
“ Never l”
“ You enchant me, cousin Rene," said the old
man, who had listened to his relation with de-
light. “ Ah, I see you have proper sentiments
of justice and philanthropy. Why did I. not
seek to know you before ! You admire the Re
volutioni you, equally with me, detest the bar-
harity of kings and the fraud of priests I"
“ Detest 1 How could I loVe mankind if I did
not i”
“ And," said the old man, hesitatingly, “ you do
not think, with this noble gentleman, that I erred
in the precepts I instilled into that wretched
man i”
“ Erred I Was Socrates to blame if Alcibiades
was an adulterer and a traitor l"
“ You hear him—you hear him l But Socrates
had also a l’lato ; henceforth you shall be n. Plato
to me. You hear him s" exclaimed the old man,
turning to the stranger.
But the latter was at the threshold. Who
shall argue with the mast stubborn of all bigo-
tries, the fanaticism of unbeliefl
“Are you going i" exclaimed Dumas; “ and
before I have thanked you—blessed you—for
the life of this dear and venerable man I Oh, if
ever I can repay you—if ever you want the
heart‘s blood of Réué Dumas l" Thus volubly
delivering himself, he followed the strangerto the
threshold of the second chamber, and there gent-
l detaining him, and after looking over his shoul-
der to be sure that he was not heard by the
owner, he whispered, “I oughttoreturn to N anc .
One would not lose one‘s time; you don’t thin ,
sir, that that scoundrcl took away all the old
fool‘s mono 7"
“Was it thus Plato spoke of Socrates, Mon-
' sieur Dumas l"
“ Ha, ha! you are caustic. Well, you have a
right~ Sir, we shall meet again.”
“ Arms 1" muttered the stranger; and his
brow darkened. He hastened to his chamber;
he assed the day and the night alone, and in
stu ies, no matter of what nature—they served
to increase his gloom.
What could ever connect his fate with Réné
Dumas, or the fugitive assassin ? Why did the
buoyant air of Paris seem to him heavy with the
steams of blood ; why did an instinct urge him to
fly from those sparkling circles, from that focus
of the world's awakened hopes, waniing him from
return? he, whose lofty existence defied—but
away these dreams and omensl He leaves
France behind. Back, 0 Italy, to thy majestic
wrecks! On the Alps his soul breathes the free
air once more. Free airl Alasl let the world-
healcrs exhaust their chymistry. Man never
shall be as free in the market-place as on the
mountain. But we, reader, we too escape
these scenes of false wisdom clothing godless
crime. Away once more
“ In den heltem Regioncn
Wo die relnen furinen wohnen."
Away to the loftier realm where the pure dwel-
lers are. Un lluted by the Actual, the Ideal
lives onl wit] Art and Beauty. Sweet Viola,
by the
from .
tomb and the Cimmerian cavern, we return to
thee once more.
CHAPTER 1X.
" Come sl presm e l‘ippoa'rifo a term,
Che non vunl cho ‘l del destrle pin vada in alto;
Poi lo lean ncl margins mnrlno
A an vorde mirto in mezzo on lanro e ‘IUI pine."
ORL: Fern, cant. vl., xxill.
O musremwl art thou happy now? Thou art
reinstalled at thy stately desk; thy faithful bar-
biton has its share in the triumph. It is thy
master iece which fills thy car, it is thy daughter
who file the scene; the music, the actress so
united, that applause to one is applause to both.
They make way for thee at the orchestra; they
no longer jeer and wink, when, with a fierce
fondness, thou dost caress thy familiar, that plains
and waila, and chides and growls, under thy re-
morseless hand. They understand now how ir-
regular is ever the symmetry of real genius. ' It
is the inequalities in its surface that makes the
moon luminous to man. Giovanni Paisiello, Macs—
tro di Capella, if thy gentle soul could know envy,
thou must sieken to see thy Elfrida and thy Pirro
laid aside, and all Naples turned fanatic to the
Siren, at whose measures shook querulously thy
gentle headl But thou, I’aisiellu, calm in the
long prosperity of fame, knowest that the new will
have its day, and comfortest thyself that the
Elfrida and the Pirro will live forever. Perhaps
a mistake, but it is by such mistakes that true
genius conquers envy. “ To be immortal,” says
Schiller, “ hve in the whole.” To be superior to
the hour, live in thy selfesteem. The audience
now would give their ears for those variatiom
and flights they were once wont to hiss. N0!
Pisnni has been two-thirds of a life at silent work
on his masterpiece: there is nothing he can add
to that, however he might have sought to improve
on the masterpieces of others. Is not this com-
mon i The least little critic, in reviewing some
work of art, will say, “Pity this, and pity that;
this should have been altered, that omitted.”
Yea, with his wiry fiddlestring will he creak out
his aceursed variations. But let him sit down
and com se himsele He sees no improvement
in variations than! Every man can control his
fiddle when it is his own work with which its
1 vagaries would play the devil l
‘ And Viola is the idol, the theme of Naples.
.She is the spoiled sultana of the boards. To
l spoil her acting may be easy enough: shall they
spoil her nature! No, I think not. There, at
home, she is still good and simple; and there,
under the awning by the doorway, there she sits,
divinely musing. How often, crook-trunked tree,
she looks to thy green boughs; how often, like
thee, in her dreams and fancies, does she struggle
for the light—not the light of the stagelamps.
Pooh, childl be contented with the lamps, even
with the rushlight. A farthing candle is more
convenient for household purposes than the stars.
Weeks passed, and the stranger did not re-
appear; months had passed, and his prophecy
of sorrow was not et fulfilled. One evening,
'Pisani was taken ill: His success had brought
on the long-neglected composer pressing applia-

ores of the blue Parthsnope, by Virgil's, cations for concerti and sonata, adapted to


ZANONI.
in
more peculiar science on the violin. He had been i have taken benign effect; the patient’s eyes were
employed for some weeks, day and night, on a
piece in which he hoped to excel himself He
$00k, as usual, one of those seemingly impracti‘ l
cable subjects which it was his pride to subject
to the expressive powers of his art—the terrible
legend connected with the transformation of Phi-
lomel. The pantomime of sound opened with
the gay merriment of a feast. The monarch of
Thrace is at his banquet : a sudden discord bmys
through the joyous notes; the strings seem to
screech with horror. The king learns the murder
of his son by the hands of the avenging sisters:
swift rage the chords through the passions of
fear, of horror, of fury, and dismay. The father
ues the sisters. Hark! what changes the
dread—the discord—into that long, silvery, mourn-
l'ul music! The transformation is completed;
and Philomel—now the nightingale— ours from
the myrtle bough the full, liquid, Sllbt uiug notes
that are to tell evermore to the world the history
of her woes and wrongs. Now it was in the
midst of this complicated and difficult attempt
M the health of the over-tasked musician. ex-
a'ted alike by past triumph and new ambition,
suddenly gave way. He was taken ill at night.
The next morning, the doctor rononnccd that
his disease was :1. malignant an infectious fever.
His wife and Viola shared in their tender watch;
but soon that task was left to the lust alone.
The Signora. Pisani caught the infection, and in
a few hours was even in a state more alarmingr
than that of her husband. The Neapolitans, in
common with the inhabitants of all warm cli-
matesare aptto become selfish and brutal in
their dread of infectious disorders. Gionetta her-
self pretended to be ill, to avoid the sick chain-
her. The whole labor of love and sorrow fell on
Viola It was a terrible trial: 1am willing to
hurry over the details. The wife died first!
‘One day, a little before sunset, Pisani awoke,
partially recovered from the delirium which had
preyed upon him, with few intervals, since the
second day of the disease; and, casting about him
If! dim and feeble eyes, he recognised Viola,
and smded. He faltered her name as he arose
and stretched his arms. She fell upon his breast,
and strove to suppress her tears.
“Thy mother l’" he said. “ Does she sleep l“
' J“She sleeps—ah, yes l” and the tears gushed
forth.
" I thought—eh l I know not what I have
thought; but do not weep; I shall be well now—
quite well. She will come to me when she
wakes—will she l"
Viola could not speak; but she busicd herself
is pouring forth an anodyne, which she had been
directed to give the sufi'erer as soon as the de-
lirium should cease. The doctor had told her,
too. to send for him the instant so important a
change should occur.
9- Shc went to the door, and called to the woman
who, during Gionetta's pretended illness, had
been induced to supply her place ; but the hire-
ling answered not. She flow through the cham-
bers to search for her in vein; the hireling had \
taught Gionetta’s fears, and vanished. What
was to be done? The case was urgent; the doc-
tor had declared not a moment should be lost
in obtaining his attendance; she must leave her
father—she must go herself! She crept back
'mto the room; the anodyne seemed already to
I closed, and he breathed regularly, as in sleep.
i She stole away, threw her Veil over her face, and
hurried to the house.
Now the anodyne had not produced the effect
! which it appeared to have done; instead of
healthful sleep, it had brought on a kind of light-
!headed somnolcnco, in which the mind, preter-
nnturally restless, wandered about its accustom-
ed haunts, wakin up its old familiar instincts
and inclinations. twns not sleep, it was not
delirium; it was that dream~wakefulness which
opium sometimes induces, when every nerve
grows tremulously alive, and creates 9. correspond-
ent activity in the frame, to which it gives a false
and hectic vigor. Pisani missed something—
what, he scarcely knew; it was a combination
of the two wants most essential to his mental
life—the voice of his wife, the touch of his fa-
miliar. He arose; he left his bed; he leisurely
put on his old dressing-robe, in which he had
een wont to compose. He smiled complacently
as the associations connected with the garment
came over his memory: he walked tremulously
across the room, and entered the small cabinet
next to his chamber, in which his wife had been
accustomed more often to watch than slec , when
illness separated her from his side. T e room
was desolate and void. He looked round wist-
fully, and muttered to himself, and then proceed-
ed regularly, nnd with a noiseless ste , through
the chambers of the silent house, one y one.
He came at last to that in which old Gionettw—
faithful to her safety, if nothing else—n
herself, in the remotest corner of the house, from
the danger of infection. As he glided in—wan,
emaciated, with an uneasy. anxious, searching
look in his haggard eyes—the old Woman shriek-
ed aloud, and fell at his feet. He bent over her,
passed his thin hands along her averted face,
shook his head, and said, in a hollow voice—
“ I cannot find them: where are they l”
“Who, dear inasterl Oh, have compassion
on yourself: they are not here. Blessed saints!
this is terrible! He has touched mel—I am
dead i"
“ Dead l—who is deadl Is any one dead l"
“Ah, don’t talk so; you must know it well:
my poor mistress—she caught the fever from
you : it is infectious enough to kill a whole city!
San Gennaro, protect me! My poor mistress,
she is dead—buried, too; and I, your faithful
Gionetta, we is me! Go, go—to—to bed again,
dearest master—go !"
The poor musician stood for one moment mute
and unmoving, then a slight shiver ran through
his frame; he turned and glided back, silent and
spectre~like, as he had entered. He came into
the room where he had been accustomed to com—
pose—where his wife, in her sweet patience, had
so often sat by his side, and praised and flattered,
when the world had but jeered and scorned. In
one corner he found the laurel-wreath she had
placed on his brows that happy night of fame
. and triumph; and near it, half hid by her mum
tilla, lay in its case the neglected instrument.
Viola was not long one; she had found the
ph sician; she returne with him; and as they
gamed the threshold, they heard a strain of mu-
sic from within, a strain of piercing, heart-rend-
ing anguish: it was not like some senseless in-

strument. mechanical in its obedience to a human


ZANONI.
hand; it was as some spirit calling in wail and
agon from the forlorn shades, to the angels it
belie d afar beyond the Eternal Gulf. The ex-
changed glances of dismay. They hurrie into
the house—they hastened into the room. Pisani
turned, and his look, full of ghastly intelligence
and stem command, awed them back. The black
mantilla, the faded laurel-leaf, lay there before
him. Viola‘s heart guessed all at a single glance;
she sprung to his knees, she 'clasped them: “ F a-
ther, father, I am left thee still i"
The wail ceased. the note changed; with a con-
fused association, half of the man, half of the
artist, the anguish, still a melody, was connected
with sweeter sounds and thoughts. The nightin-
gale had esca ed the pursuit; soft, airy, bird-like
thrilled the elicious notes a moment, and then
died away. The instrument fell to the floor, and
its cords snapped. You heard that sound through
the silence. The artist looked on his kneeling
child, and then on the broken chords ..... “ Bury
me by her side," he said, in a very calm, low
vvoice; “ and that, by mine.” And with these
words his whole frame became rigid, as if turned
to stone. The last change passed over his face.
He fell to the ground, sudden slid heavy. The
chords there, too—the chords of the human instru-
ment, were snap ed asunder. As he fell, his
robe brushed the aurcl wreath, and that fell also
pear;1 but not in reach of the dead man's nerveless
ian .
Broken instrument—broken heart—withered
laurel-wreath l the setting sun through the vine-
clud lattice streamed on all! So smiles the eter-
nal Nature on the wrecks of all that makes life
glorious! And not a sun that sets not some-
where on the broken music—on the faded laurel!

CHAPTER X.
" ensue e ilsno albeigo. .
Che (lifesa mlglior eh’ Isbergo e sendo
E In sanla innocenza ul petto lgnudo!"
Gun. 14s., cent. with. xll.
AND they buried the musician and his barbiton
together, in the same coffin. That famous Stei—
ner—primeval Titan of the great Tyrolese racc—
often hast thou sought to scale the heavens, and
therefore must thou, like the nlcaner children of
men, descend to the dismal Hades! Harder fate
palace, even for a cabin. And yet, sad to say,
when you obey the impulse, when you fly from
the walls, when in the strange place in which you
seek your refuge nothing speaks to you of the
lost, have ye not felt again a yearning for that
very food to memory which was just before but
bitterness and galll Is it not almost impious and
profane to abandon that dear hearth to strangers?
And the desertion of the home where your pa—
rents dwelt, and blessed you, upbraids your con-
science as if you had sold their tombs. Beautiful
was the Etruscan su erstition, that the ancestors
became the househol gods. Deaf is the heart to
which the Lares call from the desolate floors in
‘vain. At first, Viola had, in her intolerable an-
,guish, gratefully welcomed the refuge which the
1 house and family of a kindly neighbor, much at»
f tached to her father, and who was one of the or-
.chestra that Pisani shall pe lex no more, had
! proffered to the orphan. But e com of the
"unfamiliar in our grief, the consolation of the
! stranger, how it irritates the wound l And then,
to hear elsewhere the name of father, mother,
child, as if death came alone to you; to see else-
where the calm regularity of those lives united in
love and order, keeping account of happy hours,
the unbroken time-piece of home, as if nowhere
else the wheels were arrested, the chain shatter-
ed, the hands motionless, the chime still! No,
the grave itself does not remind us of our loss
like the com ny of those who have no loss to
mourn. Go ck to thy solitude, young orphan,
go back to thy home; the sorrow that meets thee
on the threshold can greet thee even in its sad-
ness, like the smile upon the face of the dead.
And there, from thy casement—and there, from
without thy door, thou seest still the tree, soli
as thyself, and springing from the clefts of the
rock, but forcing its way to light; as, through all
sorrow, while the seasons yet can renew the ver-
dure and bloom of youth, strives the instinct of the
human heart! Only when the sap is dried up,
only when age comes on, does the sun shine in
vain for man and for the tree.
Weeks and months—months sad and many—-
again passed, and Naples will not longer suffer its
idol to occlude itself from homage. The world
even plucks us back from ourselves with a thou-
, sand arms. And again Vinla's voice is heard
l upon the stage, which, mystically faithful to life,
is in naught more faithfu than this, that it is the
iappearances that fill the scene; and we pause
!

for thee than thy mortal master. For thy soul ! not to ask of what realities they are the proxiest
sleeps with thee in the cofiin. And the music When the actor of Athens moved all hearts as he
that belongs to his, s'epurate from the instrument, clasped the burial um and burst into broken sobs,
ascends on high, to be heard often by a daugh- ! how few there knew that it held the ashes of his
ter's pious ears, when the heaven is serene and soul Gold as well as fame was showered u
the earth sad For there is a sense of hearing the young actress; but she still kept to her sim-
that the vulgar know not; and the voices of the , ple mode of life, to her lowly home, to the one
dead breathe soft and frequent to those who can servant, whose faults, selfish as they were, Viola
unite the memory with the faith. \ was too inexperienced to perceive. And it was
And now Viola is alone in the world. Alone in . Giorietta who had placed her when first born in
the home where loneliness had seemed from the lher father's arms. She was surrounded by every
cradle a thing that was not of nature. And at snare, wooed by every solicitation that could beset
first the solitude and the stillness were insup- her unguarded beauty and her dangerous calling.
portable. Have you, ye mourners, to whom these But her modest virtue passed unsuilied through
sybil leaves, weird with manya. dark enigma, shall \ them all. It is true that she had been taught by
be borne, have you not felt that when the death lips now mute the maiden duties enjoined by
of some best-loved one has made the hearth and , honor and religion. And all love that spoke not
the heart desolate—have you not felt as if the ,of the altar only shocked and repelled her. But
gloom of the altered home was too heavy for‘besidos that, as grief and solitude ripened her
thought to heart You would leave it, though a heart, and made her tremble at times to think


ZANONI.
23
how the ly it could feel, her vague and early
visions shaped themselves into an ideal of love.
And till the ideal is found, how the shadow that
it throws before it chills us to the actual ! With
that ideal, ever and ever, unconsciously, and with
a certain awe and shrinking, came the shape and
the voice of the warning stranger. Near y two
years had arsed since he had appeared at No-
les. Not ing had been heard of him, save that
is vessel had been directed, some months after
his departure, to sail for Leghom. By the gos-
sips of Naples, his existence, supposed so extraor-
(hnry, was well nigh forgotten; but the heart of
Viola was more faithful. Often he glided through
her dreams; and when the wind sighed through
that fantastic tree, associated with his remem-
llmce, she started with a tremor and a blush, as
ilshe had heard him speak.
5 But among the train of her suitors was one to
whom she listened more gently than be the rest;
partly because, perhaps, he spoke in her mother's
native tongue; partly because, in his dit'lidenoe,
there was little to alarm and displease; partly
because his rank, nearer to her own than that of
lordlier wooers prevented his admilrationlf’frtim
nppean' insult; artl because he iimse e o~
Dent mung a. dreamgr, ogien uttered thoughts that
were kindred to those buried deepest in her
livened that gay and favorite resort of an indo-
lent po ulation. One of this little part was a
young 'nglishrnan, who had been the li e of the
whole group, but who for the last few moments
had sunk into a gloomy and abstracted revery.
_ One of his countrymen observed this sudden
‘; gloom, and, tapping him on the back, said, “ What
i ails you, Glyndon? Are you illf You have
‘ grown uite pale—you tremble. Is it a sudden
ichilll 'ou ad better go home: these Italian
1 nights are often dangerous to our English consti-
tutions."
“No, I am well now: it was a passing shud-
der. 1 cannot account for it myself."
A man, apparently of about thirty years of
,age, and of a mien and countenance strikingly
isuperior to thme around him, turned abruptly,
and looked steadfastly at Glyndon;
, “ I think I understand what you mean," said
“ he ; “ and perhaps," he added, with a grave smile,
I‘ “ I could explain it better than yourself." Here,
. turning to the others, he added, “ You must often
i have felt, gentlemen, each and all of you, espe-
cially when sitting alone at night, a strange and
unaccountable sensation of coldness and awe
creep over you; your blood curdles, and the
heart stands still; the limbs shiver, the hair bris-
tles; you are afraid to look up, to turn your eyes.

i


mind. She began to like—perhaps to love him, to the darker corners of the room; you have a
but as asisterloves;asort of privileged familiar- hon-ible farmy that something unearthly is at
ity sprung up between them. If in the English- ‘ hand ; presently the whole spell, if I may so call
man‘s breast arose wild and unworthy hopes, he ‘ it, passes away, and you are ready to laugh at
had not. yet expressed them, Is there danger toi your own weakness. Have you not often felt
thee here, lone Violal or is the danger greater in i what I have thus imperfectly described? if so,
thy unfounded ideal ?
And now, as the overture to some strange and
wizard spectacle, closes this opening prelude.
Wilt thou hear morel Come with thy faith pre-
pared. I ask not the blinded e es, but the awak-
ened sense. As the euchante isle, remote from
the homes of men,


ova steun tegno
Rado, 0 non mal va dalle noslre smndo,
Fuor tutti i nostrl lidl—""
is the space in the weary ocean of actual life to
which the muse or sibyl (donna giovin di viso,
antics d'anni) offers thee no unhallowed sail:
" Quincl oils in clmn a an montagne nseende
Disuhiuua, e d' ombrc oscuru e hmna;
E par lncanm a let nevose rende
Le spnlle e l fianchi ; 0 menu neVe alcuna
Gli lascln ll capo verdegginnle e v ;
E vi fonda un pulugio uppresso an ago."
BOOK 1i.

$9"
Q_Q.':
.s-ys
ART, LOVE, AND WONDER.

33+
we ex-
wh? '
'2'? CHAPTER I.
in“
#25 “ Conuuri, e Stingl, s pallide Gorgoni.“
Gra. Lin, cant. iv.. v.
On: moonlit night, in the gardens at Na les,
tome four or five gentlemen were seated un er a
tree, drinking their sherbet, and listening, in the
intervals of conversation, to the music which en~I
mane " Lib, cant. xiv, aha-ti.
iyou can understand what our young friend has
‘ just experienced, even amid the delights of this
inngica scene, and amid the balmy whispers of a.
July night.”
“Sir,” replied GI 'ndon, evidently much sur-
prised, “ you have efined eyactly the nature of
that shudder which came over me. But how
could my manner he so faithful an index to my
impressions I" '
“ I know the signs of the visitation," returned
the stranger, gravely; “ they are not to be mis-
taken b one of my experience.”
All gentlemen present then declared that
they could comprehend and had felt what the
stranger had described.
“ According to one of our national supersti-
tions," said Mervale, the Englishman who had
first addressed Glyndon, “ the moment you so
feel your blood creep and your hair stand on end
some one is walking over the spot which shall
be your grave.” ,
“ There are in all lands different superstitions ‘
to account for so common an occurrence,” replied
the stra er: “ one sect among the Arabians hold
that at t at instant God is dccidin the hour
either of your death or of some one ear to you.
The African savage, whose imagination is dark-
ened by the hideous rites of his gloomy idolatry,
believes that the Evil Spirit is pulling you to-
wards him by the hair: so do the Grotesque and
the Terrible mingle with each other."
“ It is evidently a mere physical accident—a
derangement of the stomach —a chill of the
‘ blood," said a young Neapolitan, with whom
‘ Glyndon had formed a slight acquaintance.
“ Then why is it always coupled, in all nations,
, with some superstitious prescntimcnt or terror-
lsome connexion between the material frame and


24
ZANONI.
the supposed world without us! For my part, I which everybody desires for himself, but damn:
I think—"
“ Ay, what do you think, sir!" asked Glyndon,
curiously. '
“ I think," continued the stranger, “ that it is
the repugnance and horror with which our more
human elements recoil from something, indeed
invisible, but antipathetic to our own nature;
and from a knowledge of which we are happily
secured by the imperfection of our senses.”
“ You are a believer in spirits, then I" said
Mervale, with an incredulous smile.
“Nay, it was not precisely of spirits that I
spoke; but there mav be forms of matter as in-
visible and im alpable to us as the animalculm
in the air we breathe—in the water that plays
in ouder basin. Such beings may have ions
an cpowers like our own—as the anima culte to
whi i I hnt'e compared them. The monster that.
lives and dies in a drop of water—carnivorous,
insatiable, subsisting on the creatures minuter
than himself—is not less deadly in his wrath, less
ferocious in _his nature, than the tiger of the de-
sert. There may be things around us that would
be dangerous and hostile to men, if Providence
had not placed a wall between them and us,
merely by different modifications of matter."
“And think you that wall never can be re-
moved?" asked oung Glyndon, abruptly. “ Are
the traditions o sorcerer and wizard, universal
and immemorial as the are, merely fables i“
“ Perhaps yes, tper aps no," answered the
stranger, indifl'ercn y. “ But who, in an age in
which the reason has chosen its proper bounds,
would be mad enough to break the partition that
divides him from the boa and the lion—to repine
at, and rebel against, the law which confines the
shark to the great deepl Enough of these idle
speculations."
Here the stranger rose, summoned the attend-
ant, paid for his sherbet, and, bowing slightly to
the company, spon disappeared among the trees, l
“ Who is that gentleman!" asked Glyndon,
7erl '.
The rest looked at each other, without reply-
ing, for some moments.
“ I never saw him before," said Mcrvale, at
last.
“ Nor I.”
“ Nor I."
“ I know him well,” said the Neapolitan, who
was, indeed, the Count Cctoxa. “ If you remem-
ber, it was as my companion that he joined you.
He visited Naples about two years ago, and has
recently returned; he is very rich—indeed, enor-
mously so. A most agreeable person. I am
sorry to hear him talk so strangely tonight; it
serves to encourage the various fooliin reports
that are circulated concerning him."
“ And surely," said another Neapolitan. “the
circumstance that occurred but the other day, so
wall known to yourself, Cetoxa, justifies the re-
portidyou pretend to deprecate."
“ yselt and my countryman," said Glyndon.
“ mix so little in Neapolitan society, that we lose
much that' appears Well worthy of lively interest.
May I inquire what are the reports, and what is
the circumstance you refer to i"
“As to the reports, gentlemen," said Cctoxa,
courteoust addressing himself to the two Eng-
lishmen, “it may suffice to observe, that they
attribute to the Signor Zanoni certain qualities

any one else for possessing. The incident Signor
Belgioso alludes to illustrates these qualities,
and is, 1 must own, somewhat startling. You pro-
bably play, gentlemen 3" (Here Cctoxa paused;
and, as both the. Englishmen had probably staked
a few scndi at the public gaming-tables, they
bowed assent to the conjecture.) Cetoxa con-
tinued: “ Well, then, not many days since, and
on the web day that Zanoni retunied to Naples
it so happened that I had been playing pretty
high, and had lost considerably. rose from the
table, resolved no longer to tempt fortune, when
I suddenly perceived Zanoni, whose acquaintance
'1 had before made (and who, I may say, was un-
der some slight obligation to me,) standing by, a
spectator. Ere I could express my gratification
at this unexpected recognition, he laid his hand
on my arm. ‘Yuu have lost much,’ said he;
‘ more than you can afford. For my part, 1 dis-
like play; yet I wish to have some interest in
what is going on. Will you play this sum for
me? the risk is mine, the half profits yours.’ I
was startled, as you may suppose, at such an ad-
dress; but Zanoni had an air and tone with him
it was impossible to resist; besides, I was burn-
ing to recover my losses, and should not have
risen had I had any money left about me. I told
him I would accept his oti‘er, provided we shared
the risk as well as rofits. ‘As you will,’ said
he, smiling: ‘ we nee have no scruple, for you
will be sure to win.’ I sat down; Zanoni stood
behind me; my luck rose; 1 invariably won. In
fact, I rose from the table a rich man."
“ There can be no foul play at the public
tables, especially when foul play would make
against the bank!” This question was put by
Glyndon.
“ Certainly not," replied the count. “ But our
good fortune wau indeed marvellous—so'extra-
ordinary, that a Sicilian (the Sicilians are all ill-
bred, badtempered fellows) grew angry and in~
solent. ‘Sir,’ said be, turning to my new friend,
‘you have no business to stand so near to the
table. I do not understand this; you have not
acted fairly.’ Zanoni replied, with great compo-
sure, that he had done nothing against the rules;
that he was very sorry that one man could not
win without another man losing ; and that he
could not not unfairly, even if disposed to do so.
The Sicilian took the stranger‘s mildness for ap-
rehcnsion, and blustered more loudly. In fact,
lie rose from the table, and Confronted Zanoni in
a manner that, to say the least of it, was provok-
ing to any gentleman who has some quickness of
temper, or some skill with the small sword."
" And," interrupted Belgioso, “ the most singu-
lar part of the whole to me was, that this Zanoni,
who stood opposite to where I sat, and whose
face 1 distinctly saw, made no remark, showed
no resentment. He fixed his eye steadfastly on
the' Sicilian: never shall I forget that look l it is
impossible to describe it; it from the blood in
my veins. The Sicilian staggered back as if
struck. I saw him tremble; he sank on the
bench. And then—"
“ Yes, then,” said Cetoxa, “ to my infinite sur-
prise, our gentleman, thus disarmed by a look
from Zanoni, turned his whole anger upon me—
the—but perhaps you do not know, gentlemen,
that I have some repute with my wea n i"
“ The best swordsman in Italy,” sai Belgioso.


ZANONI.
25
“ Before I could guess why or wherefore," re-
lumed Ceton, “ I found myself in the garden
behind the hQuse, with Ughelli (that was the
Oicilian's name) facing me, and five or six gentle-
men, the witnesses of the duel about to take
place, around. Zanoni beckoned me aside.—
‘This man will fall,’ said he. ‘ When he is on
the ground, go to him, and ask whether he will
be buried by the side of his father, in the Church
of San Gennaro l’ ‘ Do you then know his fam-
ily l’ I asked, with great surprise. Zanoni made
me no answer, and the next moment I was engaged
with the Sicilian. To do him justice, his imbro-
gliato was magnificent, and a swifter lounger
never crossed a sword; nevertheless,” added Oe-
tnxa, with a pleasing modesty, “he was run
through the body. I went up to him: he could
scarcely eak. ‘ Have you any request to make
-sny a airs to settle l’ He shook his head.
' Where do you wish to be interred i’ He pointed
towards the Sicilian coast. ‘Whati’ said I, in‘
miprise, ‘not by the side of your father, in the ;
Oliurch Of San Gennaro i‘ As I spoke, his face |
altered terribly; he uttered a piercing shriek,l
the bl00d gushed from his mouth, and he fell
dead. The most strange part of the story is to
come. We buried him _in the Church of San
Gennaro. In doing so, we took up his father's!
coffin; the lid came off in moving it, and thei
skeleton was visible. In the hollow of the skull ,
we found a very slender wire of sharp steel: this
mused surprise and inquiry. The father, who
was rich and a miser, had died suddenly, andl
been buried in haste, owmg, it was said, to the 1
heat of the weather. Suspicion once awakened,
the examination became minute. The old man’s
servant was questioned, and at last confessed
that the son had murdered the sire; the contri-
vanes was ingenious; the wire was so slender
that it ierced to the brain, and drew but one!
drop of blood, which the grey hairs concealed.—
The accomplice will be executed."
"And Zanoni—did he give evidencei did he
account for—"
> “No,” interrupted the count; “he declared
that he had by accident visited the church that
morning; that he had observed the tombstone of
the Count Ughelli ; that his guide had told him
the count’s son was in Naples—a spendthrift and
a gambler. While we were at play, he had
heard the count mentioned by name at the table;
and when the challenge was given and sees ted,
it had Occurred to him to name the place 0 bu-
rial, by an instinct which be either could not or
would not account for."
" A very lame stray,” said Mervale.
“ Yesl but we I ians are so erstitinus; the
alleged instinct was regarded by many as the
whisper of Providence. The next day the stranv
ger became an object of universal interest and
curiosity. His wealth, his manner of living, his '
extraordinary personal beauty, have assisted also
to make him the rage; besides, I have had
pleasure in introducing so eminent a person to
our gayest cavaliers and our fairest ladies."
“ A most interestin narrative," said Mcrvale, .
rising. “Come, Gl n on, shall we seek our ho-
tel! It is almost aylight. Adieu, Signor i”
“What think you of this story i" said Glyn-
don, as the oung men walked homewsrd.
“ Why, it s very clear this Zanoni is some im-
postor—somc clever rogue; and the Neapolitan


shares boot , and pnfl's him ofi' with all the hack-
neyed char atanism of the marvellous. An un-
known adventurer gets into society by being
made an object of awe and curiosity; he is more
than ordinarily handsome ; and the womcn are
quite content to receive him without any other
recommendation than his own face and Cetoxa's
fables.
“ I cannot agree with you. Oetoxa, though a
gambler and a rake, is a nobleman of birth, and
in high repute for courage and honour. Besides,
this stranger, with his noble resence and lofty
air—so calm, so 'unobtrusivc— ias nothing in com-
mon with the forward garrulity of an impostor."
“My dear Glyndon, ardon me—but you have
not yet acquired any 'nowledgc of the world:
the stranger makes the best of a fine person, and
his grand air is but a trick of the trade. But,
to change the subject, how advances the love
affair 2”
“Oh, Viola could not see me to—day."
“ You must not marry her. What would they
all say at home i”
“ Let us enjoy the present,” said Glyndon, with
vivacity; “we are young, rich, good'looking: let
us not think of to-morrow.”
“ Bravo, Glyndon! Here we are at the hotel.
Sleep sound, and don’t dream of Signor Zanoni."
CHAPTER II.
“ Prende, glovlne nndiice e imp'iziente,
L'oocusiona ofl‘erta avidiunente."
Gniws. Lin.. canto \'i.. xxix.
CLARENCE Gerunox was a young man of for-
tune, not large, but ens and independent His
parents were (lead, an his nearest relation was
an only sister, left in England under the care of
her aunt, and man years 'ounger than himself.
Early in life he ha evinc considerable promise
in the art of painting, and, rather from enthusiasm
than any pecuniary necessity for a profession, he
determined to devote himself to a career in which
the English artist generally commences with rap-
ture and historical composition, to conclude with
avaricions calculation and portraits of Alderman
Simpkins. Glyndon was supposed by his friends
to possess no inconsiderablg renius, but it was of
a rash and presumptuous or or. He was averse
from continuous and steady labour, and his am-
bition rather sought to gather the fruit than to
plant the tree. In common with many artists
in their youth, he was fond of pleasure and ex-
citement, yielding with little forethought to what-
ever im rcssed his fancy or appealed to his pas-
sions. fie had travelled through the more cele~
brated cities of Euro with the avowed purpose
and sincere resolution of studying the divine
masterpieces of his art. But in each, pleasure
had too often allured him from ambition, and
living beauty distracted his worship from the
senseless canvass. Brave, adventurous, vain,
restless, inquisitive, he was ever involved in wild
projects and pleasant dangers—the creature of
the impulse and the slave of imagination. _
It was then the period when a feverish spirit
of change was working its way to that hideous
mockery of human aspirations, the Revolution
of France. And from the chaos into which were
already jarring the sanctitics of the World's Ven-


28
ZANONI.
erable Belief, arose many shapeless and unformed
chimeras. Need I remind the reader, that while
that was the day for polished ske ticism and affect-
ed wisdom, it was the day also or the most egre-
gious credulity and the most mystical supersti-
tions; the dayin which magnetism and magic
found converts among the disciples of Diderot;
when rophecics were current in every month;
when tlie salon of a philosophical deist was con-
verted into an Heraclea, in which necromancy
professed to conjure u the shadows of the dead;
when the Crosier an the Book Were ridiculed,-
and Mesmer and Cagliostro were believed. In
that Heliacal Rising which heralded the new sun
before which all vapours were to vanish, stalked
from their graves in the feudal ages all the phan-
toms'that had fiitted before the eyes of Paracel-
stis and Agrip a. Dazzled by the dawn of the
Revolution, G yndon was yet more attracted by
its strange accompaniments; and natural it was
with him, as with others, that the fancy which
ran riot amid the hopes of a social Utopia, should
grasp with avidity all that promised, out of the
dusty tracks of the beaten science, the bold dis-
coveries of some marvellous El vsium.
In his travels he had listener with vivid inter-
est at least, if not with implicit belief, to the
wonders told of each more renowned Glm‘ster-
seller, and his mind was therefore pre ared for
the impression which the mysterious anoni at
first sight had produced upon it.
There mirrht be another cause for this dispo~
sition to credulity. A remote ancestor of Glyn-
don's, on the mother's side, had achieved no
inconsiderable reputation as a. philosopher and
alchymist. Strange stories were afloat concem-
ing this wise progenitor. He was said to have
lived to an age far exceeding the allotted boun-
daries of mortal existence, and to have preserved
to the last the a pearance of middle life. He
had died at lengt , it was supposed, of grief, for
the sudden death of a great-grandchild, the only
creature he had ever appeared to love. The
works of this hilosopher, though rare, were ex-
tant, and foumi in the librsr of Glyndon’s home.
Their Platonic mysticism, eir bold assertions,
the high promises that might be detected through
their figurative and typical phraseolog , had
early made a deep impression on the young
imagination of Clarence Glyndon. His parents,
not alive to the consequences of encouraging fan-
cies which the very enlightenment of the age
appeared to them sufficient to prevent or dispel,
were fond, in the long winter nights, of convers-
ing on the traditional history of this distinguished
progenitor. And Clarence thrilled with a fearful
pleasure when his mother layfully detected a
striking likeness between t e features of the
young heir and the faded portrait of the alchy-
mist that overhung their mantelpiece, and was
the boast of their household and the admiration
of their friends. The child is, indeed, more Often
than we think for, “ the father of the man."
I have said that Glyndon was fond of plea-
sure. Facile, as genius ever must be, to cheerful

impression, his careless Artist Life, ere Artist
Life settles down to labour, had wandered from a
flower to flower. He had enjoyed, almost to the l
reaction of sstie , the gay revelries of Naples]
when he fell in ovo with the face and voice of
van Pam. But his love, like his ambitioml
was vague and desaltory. It did not satisfy hisl
whole heart and fill up his whole nature i not for
want of strong and noble passions, but because
his mind was not yet matured and settled enough
for their development. As there 'is one season
for the blossom, another for the fruit, so it is not
till the bloom of fancy begins to fade, that the
heart ripens to the assion that the bloom pre-
codes and foretells. goyous alike at his lonely
easel or amid his boon companions, he had not
yet known enough of sorrow to love deeply. For
man must be disappointed with the lesser things
of life before he can comprehend the full value
of the greatest. It is the shallow sensualists of
France who call, in their salon-language, love
“a folly." Love, better understood, is wisdom.
Besides, the world was too much with Clarence
Glyndon. His ambition of art was associated with
the a plause and estimation of that miserable
Minority of the Surface that we call the Public.
Like those who deceive, he was ever fearful
of being himself the dupe. He distrusted the
sweet innocence of Viola. He could not venture
the hazard of seriously proposing marriage to an
Italian actress; but the modest dignity of the
girl, and something good and generous in his
own nature, had hitherto made him shrink from
any more worldl ' but less honourable designs.
Thus the familiarity between them seemed rather
that of kindness and regard than passion. He
attended the theatre; he stole behind the scenes
with her; he filled his portfolio with countless
sketches of a beauty that charmed him as an
artist as well as lover. And day after day he
floated on through a changing sea of doubt and
irresolution, of affection and distrust. The last,
indeed, constantly sustained against his better
reason, by the sober admonitions of Mervale, a
matter-of-fact man i
The day following that eve on which this sec-
tion of my story 0 ns, Glyndon was riding alone
by the shores of e Neapolitan sea, on the other
side of the Cavern of Posily . It was past
noon; the sun had lost its earl); fervour, and a
cool breeze sprung voluptuously from the spark-
ling sea. Bending over a fragment of stone near
the road side, be perceived the form of a man ;
and when he a proached, be recognised Zanoni.
The Englis iman saluted him courteously.
“ Have you discovered some antique i" said he,
with a smile; “ they are common as pebbles on
this .l'Oflt ."
“ No," replied Zanoni; “ it was but one of these
antiques that have their date, indeed, from the
beginning of the world, but which Nature eter-
nally withers and renews." So saying, he show-
ed Gl ndon a small herb, with a pale blue flower,
and t en placed it carefully in his bosom.
" You are a herbalist i”
u I am"
“ It is, I am told, a study full of interest”
“ To those who understand it, doubtless."
“ Is the knowledge, then, so rare i"
“ Rare l The desper lmowledge is perhaps
rather, among the arts, lost to the modern philoso-
phy of commonplace and surface! Do you ima-
gine there was no foundation for those traditions
which come dimly down from remoter ages as
shells now found on the mountain-tops inform us
where the seas have beeni What was the old
Colchian magic but the minute study of Nature in
her lowliest works? What the fa le of Medea
but a proof of the powers that may be extracted


ZANONI. 27 '
from the germ and leaf 3 The most gifted of alll He felt, while this wrapped in delicious revery
the Prieatcrafts, the mysterious sisterth of' a slight touch upon his shoulder; he turned an
Oath, concerning whose incantatious Learningibeheld Zanoni. “You are in danger," the
vainly bewildei's itself amid the maze of legends, “ latter. “ Do not walk home to-night; or if you
wright in the meanest herbs what, perhaps, thel do, gonot alone." _
Babylonian sages explored in vain amid the lofti~| Before Glyndon recovered from his s rise,
est stars. Tradition yet tells you that there ex- ; Zanoni disappeared; and when the Enin an
isted a. race“ who could slny their enemies from“ saw him again, he was in the box of one of the
afar. without iea‘dpon, without movement. The I N ea litan nobles, where Glyndon could not fol-
herb that ye tr on may have deadlier pOWcrs \ low im.
than your engineers can git'e to their mightiest in- | Viola now left the stage, and GI don accosted
stzuments of War. Can ou guess that to these Ita‘ i her with an unaccustomed warm of gallantry.
lim shores, to the old bircznrm Promontory, came “ But Viola, contrary to her entle habit, turned
the Wise from the farthest East, to seardi for plaqu with an evident impatience om the address of
and aim 1% which your Pharmacists of the Coun- .‘ her lover. Taking aside Gionetta, who was her
ta would fling from them as weeds? The first ‘ constant attendant at the theatre, she said, in an
Herbdists—-the master Chyinists of the world—
was the tribe that the ancient reverence called by
the name of Tetanaf I remember once, by the
Hebrua in the reign of—But this talk,” said Za-
noni, checking himself abruptly, and with a cold
smile, “serves onl to waste vour time and my
own." He paused, on 'cd steadily at Glyndon, and
continual: “ Young man, think you that vague
curiosity will supply the place of earnest labour
I read your heart.
not this humble herb: but pass on; your desire
cannot be satisfied.”
“ You have not the politeness of your country-
men,” said Glyndon, mmewhat discomposed—
“Suppose I was desirous to cultivate ybur ac-
quaintance, why should you reject my advances l"
“ I reject no man‘s advances,” answered Zanoni ;
“ I must know them if they so desire; but meg.
in return, they can never comprehend. If on ask
my acquaintance, it is yours; but I wo d warn
you to shun me.”
“ And why are you, then, so dangerous ?”
l‘On this earth, men are often, without. their
an agency, fited to be dangerous to others. If
I were to predict your fortune by the vain calcu-
lations of the astro oger, I should tell you, in their
despicable that my planet sat darkly in
your house of life. Cross me not if you can
“old it. I warn you now for the first time and
" You despise the matrologers, yet an utter a
jargon as mysterious as theirs. I nei er gamble
nor quarrel; why, then, should I fear you I"
“ As you will ; I have done.”
"' Let me speak frankly ; your conversation last
' ht interested and per lexcd me.”
mg“ I know it; minds liiie yours are attracted by
mystery."
Glyndon was iqued at these words, though in
the tone in whic they were spoken there was no
contempt.
“ I see you do not consider me worthy of your
friendship. Be it so. Good—day l” Zanoni coldly
re lied to the salutation, and, as the Englishman
roSe on, returned to his botanical employment.
The same night Glyndon went, as usual, to the
theatre. He Was standing behind the scenes
Watching Viola, who was on the stage in one of
her most brilliant parts. The house rcsounded
with applause. Glyndon was transported with a
young man’s passion and a young man’s pride:
“This glorious creature,” thought he, “may yet
be mine."
Ji’l‘ha natives of'I‘hebu.—Plnt. fimpq l. 5, c. 7.
t Bynwllns, p. 14y-" Chyinistry the Invention of the
Gian."
?
You wish to know me, undi
l boxes, cons icuous among all else by the simpli-

‘ earnest whisper,
“ Oh, Gionctta, he is here again! the stranger
of whom I spoke to thee! and again, he alone,
of the whole theatre, withholds from me his ap-
plause."
I “ Which is he, my darling i" said the old wo-
man. with fondness in her voice. “ He must in-

l deed be dull—not worth a thought.”
The actress drew Gionetta nearer to the stage,
and pointed out to her a man in one of the nearer
city of his ress and the extraordinary beauty of
his features.
“ Not worth a thought, Gionetta!" repeated
Viola; “ not worth a thought! Alas, not to think
' of him seems the absence of thought itself!"
The prornpter summoned the Signorn Pisani.
“ Find out his name, Gionetta,” said she, moving
slowly to the stage, and ssing by Glyndon,
who gazed at her with a ook of sorrowful re—
preach.
The scene on which the actress now entered
was that of the final catastrophe, wherein all her
remarkable powers of voice and art were pre
eminently called forth. The house hung on every
word with breathless worship; but the eyes of
Viola sought only those of one calm and un-
moved spectator: she exerted herself as if in-
spired. Lanoni listened, and observed her with
an attentive gaze, but no approval escaped his
lips; no emotion changed t e ex ession of his
cold and half-disdainful aspect. iola, who was
in the character of one who loved, but without
return, never felt so acutely the part she played. _
Her tears were truthful; her passion that of na-
ture : it was almost too terrible to behold. She
was borne from the stage exhausted and insen-
sible, amid such a tempest of admiring rapture
as continental audiences alone can raise. The
crowd stood up; handkerchiefs waved; garlands
and flowers were thrown on the stage; men
wiped their eyes, and women sobbed aloud.
“By heavens!" said a Neapolitan of great
rank, “ she has fired me beyond endurance. To-
night, this ver night, she shall be mine! You
have arrange all, Mascarii"
“All, signor. And if this young Englishman
should attend her home ‘3”
“ The presuming barbarian! At all events,
let him h eed for his folly. I will have he rival.”
“But an Englishman! There is always a
search after the bodies of the English."
“ Fool! is not the sea deep enough, or the earth
secret enough, to hide one dead maul Our ruf-
fians are silent as the grave itself: and Il who

would dare to suspect, to arraign the Prince dl


28
ZANONI.
See to it: let him be watched, and the
fitting occasion taken. I trust him to you: rob-
bers murder him—you understand; the country
swarms with them; plunder and strip him, the
better to favor such report. Take three men;
the rest shall be my escort.”
Mascari shrugged his shoulders, and bowed
submissively.
The streets of Naples were not then so safe as
now, and carriages were both less expensive and
more necessary. The vehicle which was regular-
1 engaged by the young actress was not to be
fgund. Gionetta, too aware of the beauty of her
mistress and the number of her admirers to con-
template without alarm the idea of their return
on foot, communicated her distress to Glyndon,
and he besought Viola, who recovered but slow-
ly, to accept his own carriage. Perhaps before
t int night she would not have rejected so slight
:- service. Now, for some reason or other, she
refused. Glyndon, offended, was retiring sullcnly,
when Gionetta stopped him. " Stay, signor,"
said she, coaxingly; “ the dear signora is not
well; do not be angry with her; I will make her
wee t your offer."
Glyndon stayed, and after a few moments
spent in expostulation on the part of Gionetta,
and resistance on that of Viola, the offer was ac-
cepted. Gionetta and her charge entered the
carriage, and Glyndon was left at the door of the
theatre to return home on foot. The mysterious
warning of Zanoni then suddenly occurred to
him; he had forgotten it in the interest of his
lover‘s quarrel with Viola. He thought it now
advisable to guard against danger foretold by
lips so mysterious: he looked round for some
one he knew: the theatre was disgorging its
crowds; they hustled, and jostled, and pressed
upon him; but be recognised no familiar counte-
nance. While pausing irresolute, he heard Mer-
vale’s voice calling on him, and, to his great relief,
discovered his friend making his way through
the throng.
“ I have secured you,” said he, “ a place in the
Count Oetoxa's carriage. Come along, he is wait-
ing for us.” ,
l‘How kind in you! How did you find me
out i"
“ I met Zanoni in the p fl'e. ‘ Your friend
is at the door of the theatre,’ said he; ‘ do not
let him go home on foot to-night; the streets of
Naples are not always safe.’ I immediately re-
membered that some of the Calabrian braves had
been busy within the city the last few weeks,
and, suddenly meeting Cetoxa—but here he is.”
Farther explanation was forbidden, for they
now joined the count. As Glyndon entered the
carriage and drew up the glass, he saw four men
standing apart by the pavement, who seemed to
eye him with attention.
“ Cospetto l" cried one, “ that is the Euglislr
man 1" Glyndon imperfectly heard the exclama-
tion as the carriage drove on. He reached home
in safety.
The familiar and endearing intimacy which
alwa s exists in Italy between the nurse and
the child-she has reared, and which the “,‘Romeo
and Juliet" of Shekspcare in no way exaggerates,
could not but be drawn yet closer than usual, in
a situation so friendless as that of the orphan-
actress. In all that concerned the weaknesses
of the heart, Gionetta had large experience; and

when, three nights before, Viola, on returning
from the theatre, had wept bitterly, the nurse
had succeeded in extracting from her a confes-
sion that she had seen one—not seen for two
weary and eventful years, but never forgotten,
and who, nlas. had not evinced the slightest
recognition of herself. Gionetta could not com-
prehend all the vague and innocent emotions that
swelled this sorrow; but she resolved them all,
with her plain blunt understanding, to the one
sentiment of love. And here she was well fitted
to sympathize and console. Confidente to Vio—
la’s entire and deep heart she never could be,
for that heart never could have words for all its
secrets. But such confidence as she could obtain
she was ready to repay _by the most unreproving
pity and the most ready service.
“ Have you discovered who he is l” asked
Viola, as she was now alone in the carriage with
Gionetta. ‘
“ Yes: he is the celebrated Signor Zanoni,
about whom all the great ladies have gone mad.
They say he is so rich l—oh, so much richer than
any of the Inglesi—not but what the Signor
Glyudon—"
“ Cease,” interrupted the young actress. “ Za-
nonil Speak of the Englishman no more."
The carriage was now entering that more
lonely and remote part of the city in which
Viola’s house was situated, when it suddenly
stopped.
(lionctta, in alarm, thrust her head out of the
Window, and perceived by the pale light of the
moon that the driver, tom from his seat, was
already pinioncd in the arms of two men: the
next moment the door was opened violently, and
a tall figure, masked and mantled, appeared.
“ Fear not, fairest l‘isani," said he. gently, “ no
ill shall befall you.” As he spoke he wound his
arms round the form of the fair actress, and en-
deavored to lift her from the carriage. But Gion-
etta was no ordinary ally; she thrust back the
assailant with a force that astonished him, and
followed the shock by a volley of the most ener-
getic reprobation.
The mask drew back, and composed his disor-
dered mantle.
“ By the body of Bacchus!” said he, half laugh—
ing, “ she is well protected. Here, Luigi—Gio-
vanni l seize the hag—quick ; why loiter ye i”
The mask retired from the door, and another
and yet taller form presented itself. “ Be calm,
Viola Pisani,” said he, in a low voice; “ with me
you are indeed safe l" He lifted his mask as he
spoke, and showed the noble features of Zanoni.
“ Be calm, be hushed—I can save you.” He van-
ished, leaving Viola lost in surprise, itation,
and delight. There were, in all, nine miigcs: two
were engaged with the driver; one stood at the
head of the carriage horses; a fourth guarded
the welltrained steeds of the party ; three others
(besides Zanoni and the one who had first accost-
ed Viola) stood apart by a carriage drawn to the
side of the road. To these three Zunoni motion-
ed: they advanced; he pointed towards the first
mask, who was, in fact, the Prince di —-, and,
to his unspeakable astonishment, the prince was
suddenly seized from behind.
“ Treason l" he cried. " Treason among my own
men! What means this i"
“Place him in his carriage! If he resist, his
blood be on his own head l" said Zanoni, calmly.


ZANONI.
29
He approached the men who had detained the
coachman.
“You are outnumbered and outwitted,” said
he: “join your lord; you are three men—we six,
armed to the teeth. Thank our mercy that we
spare your lives. Go 1"
The men gave way, dismayed. The driver re
mounted.
k " Cut the traces of their carriage and the bri-
dlos of their horses,” said Zanoni, as he entered
the vehicle containing Viola, which now drove
in rapidly, leaving the discomfited ravisher in a
state of rage and stupor impossible to describe.
" Allow me to explain this mystery to you,"
lid Dinoni. “ I discovered the plot against you
-—no matter how ; I frustrated it thus: The head
of this design is a nobleman who has long perse-
cuted you in vain. He and two of his creatures
watched you from the entrance of the theatre,
having directed six others to await him on the
spot where you were attacked; myself and five
of my servants supplied their place, and were
mistaken for his own followers. I had previous-
ly ridden alone to the spot where the men were
waiting, and informed them that ntheir master
would not require their services that night. They
believed me, and accordingly dispersed. I then
joined my own band, whom had left in the rear;
you know alL We are at your door.”

\i“ -
31*; - CHAPTER III.
$1 .
-‘ - . it “ In quale sounla,
8,? Dn- qnal mnstro s‘apprcndre
- H) La tuu si lunga n dnbhia arlc d'umsne."
' Amara, At. 51.
Zanou'! followed the young Neapolitan into
her house; Gionetta vanished: they were left
alone.
Alone, in that room so often filled, in the old
happy days, with the wild melodies of Pisani;
and now, as she saw this mysterious, haunting,
yet beautiful and stately stranger standing on
the very spot where she had sat at her father's
feet, thrilled and spellbound, she almost thought,
in her fantastic way of personifying her own airy
notions, that that s iritual music had taken sha e
and life, and st before her glorious in e
' it assumed. She was unconscious all the
while of her own loveliness. She had thrown
aside her hood and veil ; her hair, somewhat dis~
ordered, fell over the ivory neck which the dress
partially dis layed', and, as her dark eyes swam
with gratefu tears, and her cheek flushed with
its late excitement, the god of light and music
himself never, amid his Arcadian valleys, wooed,
in his mortal guise, maiden or nymph more fair.
Zanoni gazed at her with a look in which ad-
miration seemed not unmingled with compassion.
He muttered a few words to himself, and then
addressed her aloud.
“ Viola, I have saved you from a great peril;
not from dishonour only, but perhaps from death.
The Prince di , under a weak despot and a
venal administration, is a man above the law.
He is capable of every crime; but among his
passions he has such prudence as belongs to am-

ition; if you were not to reconcile yourself to,

repentance, but he has a. hand that can murder,
I have served you, Viola Perhaps you would
ask me wherefore l" Zanoni paused, and smiled
mournfully as he added, “ You will not wrong
me by the thought that he who has preserved is
not less selfish than he who would have injured.
Orphan, I do not speak to you in the language of
your wooers ; enough that I know pity, and am
not ungrateful for affection. Why blush, why
tremble at the word! I read your heart while
I speak, and I see not one thought that should
give you shame. I say not that you love me
yet; happily, the fancy ma be roused. long be-
fore the heart is touched. ut it has been my
fate to fascinate your eye, to influence 'our ima-
gination. It is to warn you against w at could
bring yen but sorrow, as I warned you once to
prepare for sorrow itself, that I am now your
guest. The Englishman, Glyndon, loves thee
well—better, perhaps, than I can ever love: if
not worthy of thee yet, he has but to know thee
more to deserve thee better. He ma wed thee,
he may bear thee to his own free and happy land,
the land of thy mother’s kin. Forget me ; teach
thvself to return and to deserve his love ; and I
tell thee that thou wilt be honoured and be
ha y l”
iola listened with silent, inexpressible emo-
tion and burning blushes to this strange address,
and when he had concluded she covered her face
with her hands and we t. And yet, much as
such words were calc ted to humble or irri-
tate, to produce indignation or excite shame,
those were not the feelings with which her eyes
streamed and her heart swelled. The woman at
that moment was lost in the child; and as a child,
with all its exacting, craving, yet innocent desire
to be loved, weeps in unrebuking sadness when
its affection is thrown austerer back upon itself,
so, without anger and without. shame, wept
Viola.
Zanoni contemplated her thus, as her graceful
head, shadowed by its redundant tresses, bent be-
fore him; and after a moment's pause he drew
near to her, and said, in a voice of the most sooth-
ilng sweetness, and with a half smile upon his
p“ Do on remember, when I told you to strug-
gle for the light, that I pointed for example to tho
resolute and earnest tree: I did not tell you, fair
child, to take example by the moth, that would
soar to the star, but falls scorched beside the
lamp. Come, I will talk to thee. This English-
man—"
Viola drew herself away, and wept yet more
passionatelliy.
“This nglishman is of thine own years, not
far above thine own rank. 'I'hou mayst share his
thoughts in life ; thou mayst sleep beside him in
the same grave in deathl And I—but that view
of the future should concern us not. Look into
thy heart, and thou wilt see that till again my
shadow crossed thy path, there had grown up for
this, thins equal, a pure and calm affection that
would have ripened into love. Host then never
pictured to thyself a home in which the partner
was thy young woocr l”
“ Never I" said Viola, with sudden energy,
“ never but to feel that such was not the fate or-
dained me. And oh !” she continued, rising sud-
yourshame,you w0uld never enter the world again l denlyke’and putting aside the tresses that veiled
to tell your tale. The ravrsher has no heart for l her
she filed her eyes upon the questioner;


88
ZANONI.
" and oh ! whoever thou art that thou wouldst
read my soul and shape my future, do not mis-
take the sentiment that—that-J' (she taltered an
instant, and went on with downcast eyes) “ that
has fascinated my thoughts to thee. Do not think
I could nourish a love ht and unreturned.
It is not love that I feel for thee, stranger. Why
should I 't Thou hast never spoken to me but to
admonish—and now, to wound !" Again she i
paused, again her voice faltered ; the tears trem-
led on her eyelids; she brushed them awn , and
resumed “ No, not love, if that be love w 'ch I
have heard and read of, and sought to simulate
on the stage; but a more solemn, fearful, and, it
seems to me, almost preternatural attraction,
which makes me associate thee, waking or dream-
ing, with images that at once charm and awe.
Thinkest thou, if it were love, that I could s ak
to thee thus 7 that" (she raised her looks sud only
to his) “ mine eyes could thus search and confront
thine own ? Stranger, I ask but at times to see,
to hear thee l Stranger, talk not to me of others.
Forewnrn, rebuke, bruise my heart, reject the not
unworthy gratitude it offers thee, if thou wilt, but
come not always to me as an omen of grief and
trouble. Sometimes have I seen thee in my
dreams, surrounded by sha s of glory and light -,
thy looks radiant with a co estial joy which they
wear not now. Stranger, thou hast saved me,
and I thank and bless thee l Is that also an ‘
homage thou wouldst reject ?" With these words
she crossed her arms meekly on her bosom, and in-
clined lowlily before him. Nor did her humility
seem unwomanly or abject, nor that of mistress
to lover, of slave to master, but rather of a child
to its guardian, of a neophyte of the old religion
to her priest. Zanoni‘s brow was melancholy and
thoughtful. He looked at her with a strange ex-
pression of kindness, of sorrow, yet of tender af-
fection in his eyes, but his lips were stern and his
voice cold as he replied,
“ Do you know what you ask, Viola? Do you
guess the danger to yourself—perhaps to both of
- us—which you court? Do ou know that my
life, separated from the turbo ent herd of men, is -
one worship of the Beautiful, from which I seek
to banish what the Beautiful inspires in most?
As a calamity, I shun what to man seems the
fairest fate—the love of the daughters of earth.
At present I can warn and save thee from many
evils -, if I saw more of thee, would the power
still be mine? You understand me not. What
I am about to add it will be easier to compre-
hend. I bid thee banish from thy heart all the ht
of me, but as one whom the Future cries alou to
thee to avoid. Glyndon, if thou acceptest his
homage, will love thee till the tomb closes upon
both. I, too," he added, with emotion, “ I too
might love thee !”

“ You I” cried Viola, with the vehemwce of a
sudden impulse of delight, of rapture, which she[
could not suppress; but the instant after she!
would have g1ven worlds to recall the exclama-i
tion.
“Yes, Viola, I mi ht love thee; but in that;
love what sorrow am what change ! The flower:
gives perfume to the rock on whose heart it grows]
A httewhile, and the flower is dead, but the;
rock still endures. The snow at its breast, the
sunshine on its summit. Pause; think well.—
Danger besets thee tyet. For some days thou
shalt be safe than v remorseless persecutor;
but thehonrsoon eomeswhenthe onlysecurity
will be inflight. If the Englishman loves thee
worthily, thy honour will be dear to him as his
own; if not, there are yet other lands where love
will be truer, and virtue less in danger from fraud
and force. Farewell; my own destiny I cannot
foresee except through cloud and shadow. I know,
at least, that we shall meet again; but learn ere
then, sweet flower, that there are more genial
resting places than the rock."
He turned as he spoke, and gained the outer
door, where Gionetta discreetly stood. Zanoni
lightly laid his hand on her arm. With the gay
accent_ of a jesting cavalier, he said,
“ The Signor Glyndon woos your mistress : he
may wed her. I know your love for her. Dis-
abuse her of any-comics for me. I am a bird
ever on the wing."
He dro pod a purse into Gionetta’s_hand as he
spoke, and was gone.
CHAPTER IV.
14: Intelligence: Celestes se font volr at so communi-
quent [\lus volonliers dans le silence el. [Inns In tranquil-
me do In solitude. 0n aura done one petite chambro on
on cabinet secret,"8u:.—Les Clnviwlzr dc Rabbi Salu-
mon, chap. ili.; trndm'tsa ezulevnenl du mu Huh-espr-
JII. Pitrrt Mnrriuaneau. Professor" den Lupin Orian-
lalea rt Saturn"- de la Philolopbl'c dc: Squ Caboli'stu.
(Mnmucripl Translation.)
Tun palace retained by Zanoni was in one of
the less frequented quarters of the city. It still
stands, now ruined and dismantled, a monument
of the splendour of a chivnlr long since vanish-
ed from Naples, with the ordly races of the
Norman and the Spaniard.
As he entered the rooms reserved for his pri-
vate hours, two Indians, in the dress of their
country, received him at the threshold with the
grave salutations of the East. They had awom-
panied him from the far lands in which, accord-
ing to rumour, he had for many years fixed his
home. But they could communicate nothing to
gratify curiosity or justify suspicion. They spoke
no language but their own. With the exception
of these two, his rincely retinue was com
of the native hire ings of the city ; and these his
lavish but imperious generosity made the im li-
eit creatures of his will. In his house and inglis
habits, so far as they were seen, there was no-
thing to account for the rumours which were cir-
culated abroad. He was not as we are told of
Albertus Magnus or the great Leonardo da Vin-
ci, served by airy forms; and no brazen image,
the invention of magic mechanism, communicated
to him the influence of'the stars. None of the
apparatus of the alchymist—the crucible and the
metals—gave solemmty to his chambers, or ac-
counted for his' wealth ; nor did he even seem to
interest himself in those serene studies which
might be supposed to colour his peculiar conver-
sation with abstract notions, and often with re-
condite learning. No books spoke of him in his
solitude; and if ever he had drawn from them
his knowledge, it seemed now that the only page
he read was the wide one of Nature, and that a
capacious and startling memory so plied the rest.
Yet was there one exception to w lat in all else
seemed customary and commonplace, and which,
according to the authority we have prefixed to


ZANONI.
31
l-.
thischapter, might indicate the follower of the
occult sciences. Whether at Home or Naples, or,
in fact, wherever his abode, he select'ed one room
remote from the rest of the house, which was
fastened by a lock scarcely larger than the seal
of a ring. yet which sufficed to bafiie the most
clmning instruments of the locksmith-at least,
one of his servants, prompted by irresistible cu-
riosity, had made the attempt in vain; and though
he had fancied it was tried in the most favoura-
ble time for secrecy—not a soul near—in the dead
of night—Zanoni himself absent from home, yet
his superstition or his conscience told him the
reason wh the next day the major-dome quietly
dismissed im. He compensated himself for this
misfortune by spreading his own story, with a
thousand amusinge xaggerations. He declared
that, as he approached the door, invisible hands
seemed to pluck him away; and that, when he
touched the lock, he was struck as by a palsy to
the ground.- One surgeon, who heard the tale,
observed, to the distaste of the wonder-mougers,
that posiny Zanoni made a dexterous use of
electricity. Howbcit, this room, once so secured,
was nev r entered save by Zanoni himself.
The so emu voice of Time, from the neighbouring
church, at last aroused the lord of the palace from
the deep and motionless revery, rather resembling
a trance than thought, in which his mind was ab- ,
curbed.
“It is one more sand out of the mighty Hour-
glsm,” said he, murmuringly, “ and yet time nei-
ther adds to, nor steals from, an atom in the In-
finite! Soul of mine, the luminous, the Augoe-
ides,* why dmcendest thou from thy sphere -,
why from the eternal, starlike, and passiouless
Serene, shrinkcst thou back to the mists of the
dark sarcophagus i How long, too austerer
taught that com 'onship with the things that
die brings with itgidltl sorrow in its sweetness, hast
thou dwelt contented with thy ma'cstic solitude i"
As he thus murmured, one of t e earliest birds
that salute the dawn, broke into sudden song from
mid the o e-trees in the garden below his
casement. 2:5 as suddenly song answered song;
the mate, awakened at the note, gave back its
happy answer to the bird. He listened ; and not
the soul he had uestioned, but the heart, replied.
He rose, and wi restless strides ced the nar-
row floor. “Away from this world}:1 he exclaimed
at length, with an impatient tone. “ Can no time
loosen its fatal ties i As the attraction that holds
the earth in space, is the attraction that fixes the
soul to earth. Away from the dnrkgrny planet.
Break, ye fetter-s; arise, ye wings l”
He need through the silent galleries, and up
the logistairs, and entered the secret chamber.
at ~1- s s s- .* s-
r- so a s s !- :-
I‘Auyaanr—n word favoured by the mystical Pin>
Wallis, r¢alp4 +0901: aw'you‘nt, on" ,un'rl unru-
"'er am Fn, ,mm “'0 a'uwrpaxn your cougar»,
nu. our: aqurrau, arr" smears! spa. 'rsr war'rm ‘
In 'ru: 11 dll'flr.—l\lanc. Arr, lib. ii. The sense of
‘7th beautiful sentence of the old philosophy, which,
I! Boyle well observes. in his article on Cornelius Agrlpe
In. the modern Quiellsts have (however impotently)
Ioufht to imitate. is to the ofl‘ect that the sphere of the
In is luminous. when nothing external has contact Willi
the lonl itself; but when lit by its own light, it sees the
"nth of all things, and the truth centred in itself.
‘ CHAPTER V.
“ Oh quanri sono incantntrici ; oh quanti
Incununor iru uoi, cho non sl ssnno."
OIL. FUL, cant. viii.. i.
Tun next day, lendon bent his steps towards
Zanoni‘s palace. The young man's imagination,
t naturally inflammable, was singularly excited by
the little he had seen and heard of this strange
being: a spell he could neither master nor ac-
count for attracted him towards the stranger. Za—
noni’s power seemed mysterious and great, his
motives kindly and benevolent, yet his manners
chilling and repellent Why at one moment re~
'ect Giyndon's acquaintance, at another save him
rom danger 7 How had Zanoni thus acquired
the knowledge of enemies unknown to Glyndon
himself? His interest was deep] roused, his
gratitude appealed to; he resolve tomnke ano-
ther effort to conciliatc tho ungracious herbalist.
The signor was at home, and Glyndon was ad-
mitted into a lofty saloon, where in a few mo-
ments Zanoni joined him.
“ I am come to thank you for your warning last
night,” said he, “ and to entrcnt you to complete
my obligation, by informing me of the quarter to
which I may look for cnmit and peril.”
“ You are a gallant,” sai Zanoni, with a smile,
and in the English language, “ and do you know
so little of the South as not to be aware that gal—-
lants have always-rivals i"
“ Are you serious i" said Glyndon, colouring. _
“ Most serious. You love Viola Pisani ; you
have for rival one of the most powerful and re-
lentless of the Neapolitan princes. Your danger
is indeed great.”
“ But, pardon me i how come it known to
on i”
y “ I give no account of myself to mortal man,"
replied Zanoni, haughtiiy; “ and to me it matters
nothing whether you regard or scorn my warning."
“ Well, if I may not question you, be it so;
but at least advise me what to do.”
“ Would you follow my advice i"
“ 'Why not i”
“ Because you are constitutionally brave; you
are fond of excitement and myste ; you like to
be the hero of a romance. Were lIy’to advise you
to leave Naples, would you do so while Naples
contains a. foe to confront or a. mistress t0 pur-
sue i"
“ You are right," said the young Englishman,
with energy. “ Noi and you cannot reproach me
for such a resolution.” ‘
“But there is another ooune lcfttoyon: do
you love Viola Pisnni trulv and fervently i if so,
her, and take a bride w your native land."
" N ny,” answered Glyndon, embarrassed ; “ Vio-
la is not. of - my rank. Her profession, too, is—in
short, I am enslaved by her beauty, but I cannot
wed her.”
Zanoni frowned.
“ Your love, then, is but selfish lust, and I ad-
vise you to your own happiness no more. Young
men, Destiny is less inexorable than it up ears.
The resources of the great Ruler of the Umverse
are not so scanty and so stern us to deny to men
the divine privilege of Free Will; all of us can
carve out our own way, and God can make our
very contradictions harmonize with his solemn
ends. You have before you an option Honoura-
ble and generous love may even now work out


32
ZANONI.
your happiness, and cficct your escape; a frantic
and interested passion will but lead you to misery
and doom.” -
“ Do you pretend, then, to read the Future l"
“ I have said all that it pleases me to utter.”
“ While you assmne the moralist to me, Signor
Zanoni,” said Glyndon, with a smile, “are you
yourself so indifferent to youth and beautyas to
act the stoic to its allurements ?”
“ If it were necessary that practice square with
precept,” said Zunoni, with a bitter smile, “ our
monitors would be but few. The jests or conduct
of the individual can effect but a srnall circle be—
yond himself ; the uncut good or evil that he
works to others hes rather in the sentiments he
can difi'use. His acts are limited and momen ;
his sentiments may ervsde the universe, and m-
spiro generations ' the day of doom. All our
virtues, all our laws, are drawn from books and
maxims, which are sentiments, not from deeds.
In conduct, Julian had the virtues of a Christian,
and Constantine the vices of a Pagan. The son-
timents of Julian reconverted thousands to Pa-
ganism, those of Constantine helped, under Hea-
ven’s will, to bow to Christianity the nations of
the earth. In conduct, the humblest fisherman on
yonder son, who believes in the miracles of San
Gonnaro, may be a better man than Luther. To
the sentiments of Luther, the mind of modern
Euro is indebted for the noblest revolution it
has own. Our 0 inions, young Englishman,
are the angel part 0 us; our acts, the earthly.”
' “ You have reflected deeply for an Italian," said
Glyndon.
“ Who told you I was an Italian 1"
“Are you not? And yet, when' I hear you
it my own kmguage as a native, I "
“Tush l" interrupted Znnoni, impatiently turn-
ing away. Then, after u pause, he resumed in a.
mild Voice, “ Glyndon, do you renounce Viola Pi-
unil Will you take some days to consider of

what I have said '1"
“ Renouncc her—never l”
“ Then will you marry her i”
“ Impossible !"
" Be it so; she will then renounce you. I tell
you that you have rivals.”
“ Yes—the Prince di —; but I do not fear him."
“ You have another whom you will fear more.”
" And who is he i"
“ Myself."
Glyndon turned pale. and started from his seat.
“ You, Simior Zunonil you! and you dare to
tell me so P
“ Dare! Alasl there are times when I wish
that I could fear.”
These arrogant words were not uttered arro-
gantly, but. in a tone of the most moumt'ul de-
jection. Glyndon was enraged, confounded, and
yet. awed. However. he had a brave English
cart within his breast, and he recovered himself
quickly.
“ Signor,” said he, calmly, “ I am not to be
duped by these solemn phrases and these mvsti-

“ I mean, then,” continued Glyndon resolutely
though somewhat disconcerted, “I mean you to
understand that, though I am not to be compelled
or persuaded by a stranger to marry Viola Pisa—
ni, I am not the less determined never tamely to
yield her to another."
Zauoni looked gravely at the young man, whose
sparkling eyes and heightened colour testified the
spirit to supporthis words, and :plicd, “ So bold!
well", it becomes you. But '0 my advice:
wait yet nine days, and tell me then it' you will
many the fairest. and the purest creature that
ever crossed your path.”
“ But if you love her, why—why—"
" Why am I anxious that she should wed ano-
ther: to save her from myselfl Listen to me.
That girl, humble and uneducated though she
be, has in her the seeds of the must lofty ualities
and virtues She can be all to the man s is loves
-all that man can desire in wife or mistress
Her soul, develo by afl'ection, will elevate
your own: it ' influence yourl'ortunes, exalt
your destiny: you will become a great and a
prosperous man. If, on the contrary, she fall to
me, I know not what ma be her lot; but I
know that there is an ordeaivwhich few 'can pass,
and which hitherto no woman has survived"
As Zanoni spoke, his face became colourless, and
there was something in his voice that froze the
warm blood of the listener.
“ What is this mystery that surrounds you i"
exclaimed Glyndon, unable to repress his emo-
tion. “ Are you, in truth, different from other
menl Have you passed the boundary of lawful
knowledgel Are you, as some declare, a sorcerer,
or only a—"
“ Hush l” interrupted Zanoni, gently, and with
a smile of singular, but melancholy sweetnes:
“ have you earned the right to ask me these ques-
tions ? Though Italy still boast an Inquisition, it:
power is rivelled as a leaf which the first wind
shall smtter. The days of torture and persecution
are over; and a man may live as he pleases, and
talk as it suits him, without fear of the stake and
the rack. Since I can defy persecution, pardon
me if I do not yield to curiosity."
.Gl ndon blushed and rose. In spite of his love
for iola, and his natural terror of such a rival, he
felt himself irresistibly dran towards the very
man he had most cause to suspect and dread. He
held out his hand to Zanoni, saying, “ “'ell, then,
if we are to be rivals, our swords must settle our
rights : till then I would fain he trienda"
“ Friendsl You know not what you ask.”
“ Enigmas l”
“Enigmasl” cried Zanoni, ssionatsly, “ayl
can you dare to solve them i ot till then could
I give you my right hand and call you friend"
“ I could dare everything and all things for the
attainment of superhuman wisdom,” said Glyn~
don; and his countenance was lighted up with
wild and intense enthusiasm
Zanoni observed him in thoughtful silence.
" The seeds of the ancestor live in the son,” he
cal assumptions You may have powers which I I muttered; “ he may—yetrJ' He broke 05 ab-
caunot comprehend or emulate, or you may be I ruptly -, then, speaking aloud, “ Go, Glyndon," said
but a keen inuiostor.”
“ Well, proceed l”
he; “ we shall meet again, but I will not Mk your
answer till the hour presses for decision."


ZANONI.
88
CHAPTER V]-
M?
T “‘Tls certain that this man has an estate offifly thon- l
land livres, and seems to be a person of very [Uth ne-
complishments. But, then. if he‘s a wizard. are wiz~
In“ so devoudy given as this man seems to be? ln1_
[already with them, as with the idler chlsses, an
; object of curiosity‘and speculation.
lhortJ could make neither head nor tale on‘t."—( The
Coun- nl tunnels. Translnlirnr aflizcd tn the Scrand
“tion. of lic,“ Rape of the {malt-3') _
. l
@“Or all the weaknesses which little men rail1
against, there is none that they are more apt toi with a command of the
qunintanccs as he had made at Naples—chiefl
artistslikc himself, men of letters, and the ri
commercialism, who were already v ing with the
splendour, though debarrcd from the privileges,
of the noblea Here he heard much of Zanoni,
He had noticed, as n. thing remarkable, that
Zanoni had conversed with him in English, and
e so complete that
fidicule limit the tendency to beliflva And Of an i he might have passed for a native. On the othm'
the signs of a corrupt heart and a feeble head, the l
tendenc ' of incredulity is the surest.
“Re philosophy seeks rather to solve than
hand, in Italian, Zanoni was equally at ease.—
Glyndon found that it was the same in languages
less usually learned by foreigners. A pointer
to deny. While we hear every day the small] from Sweden, who had wnversed with him was
pretenders to science talk of the absurdities of Al-l
chymy, and the dream of the Philosopher‘s Stone,
1 more erudite knowle is aware that by Al-
diymists the greatest discoveries in mienco have
been made, an
were compelle to adopt, might open the way in
yet more noble acquisitions The Philosopher’s
Stone itself has Seemed no visionary chimem to
some of the soundest chymists that even the
present century has pmdncod.* Man cannot con-
tradict the Laws of Nature. But are all the
Laws of Nature yet discovered l
*I "' ‘ Give ‘mc a proof of your art,’ says the rational
' uircr. ‘ When I have seen the effect, I will
eavonr, with you, to ascertain the canscs.”'—
Somewhat to the above effect, were the first
thoughts of Clarence Glyndon on quitting Zanoni.
But Clarence Glyndon was no “ rational inquirer."
The more vague and mysterious the language of
Znnoni, the more it imposed upon him. A proof
would have been something tangible, with which
he would have sought to grapple. And it would
have only disappointed his curiosity to find the
supernatural reduced to Nature. He endeavoumd
in vain, at some moments rousing himself from
mdulity to tho skc ticis‘m he deprecated, to re-
concile what- he he heard with the probable m0
fives and designs of an impostor. Unlike Mesmcr
and Cegliostro, Znnoni, whatever his pretensions,
did not make them asounce of profit; nor was
.Glyndon’s .ition or rank in life sufficient to ren-
any whim obtained over his mind subser-
Vicnt to ecbemes, whether of avarice or ambition.
Yet, ever and anon, with the suspicion of worldly
knowledge, he strove to persuade himself that
Znnoni had at least 801118 sinister object in indu-
cing- him to what his English pride and manner
of thought considered a derogatory marriage with
the poor actress Might not Viola and the Mystic
be in league with each other i Might not all this
gargon of rophccy and menace be but artifices to
upe him He felt an unjust resentment towards
Violent her having secured such an ally. But
With that resentment was mingled a natural joul-
ousy. Zanoni threatened him with rivalry. Za-
noni, who, whatever his character or his arts, pos-
sessed at least all the external attributes that
dazzle and command. Impatient of his own
doubts, he plunged into the society of such sc-
:‘QVYLW‘H-r
" Mr. D'Isrseli. in his "Curiosities of Literature" (Ar-
dcio Alehein), nfier quoting the sanguine judgments of
Imdern Chymisls its to the transmutntlon of metals, ob-
serves, of one yet greener and more recent than those to
which Giyndon’s thoughts could have referred. " Sir
Humphrey Davy told me (hut he did not consider this


mive that he was a Swede; and a merchant
Constantinople, who had sold some of his
oods to Zanoni, professed his conviction that none
I _ ) ut u. Turk, or, at least, a native of the East, could
much which still seems ubitruse» ‘ have so thoroughly mastered the soft Oriental in-
hed we the kc to the mystic phraseohwgy they
tonations. Yet, in all these long es, when they
came to compare their several reucrillcctions, there
was a slight, scarce perceptible distinction, not in
pronunciation nor even accent, but in the key and
chime, as it were, of the voice, between himself
and a native. This faculty was one which, Glyn-
don called to mind, that sect, whose tenets and
powers have never been more than most partial]
explored, the Rmicrucians, especially arrugnted:
He remembered to have heard in Germany of the
work of John Bringerct,* asserting that all the
languages of earth were known to the genuine
brotherhood of the Rosy Cross. Did Zanoni be-
lon?l to this mysterious fraternity, who, in an
ear 'er age, boasted of secrets of which the Phi-
loso 11er Stone was but the least; who consid-
er themselves the heirs of all that the Chnldze-
ans, the Magi, the Gymnosophists, and the Plain-
nists had mught; and who difl'ered from all the
darker Sons of Magic in the virtue of their lives,
the purity of their doctrines, and their insisting,
as the foundation of all wisdom, on the snbjug‘i-
tion of the senses, and the intensity of Religions
Faith? A glorious sect, if they lied not! And
in truth, if Zunoni had powers beyond the race of
wordly sages, they seemed not unworthily exer-
cised. The little known of his life was in his
fnvonr. Some acts, not of indiscriminate, but of
judicious generosity and beneficence, were re-
corded; in repeating which, still, however, the
narrators shook their bowls. and cxpressed sur-
prise how a stronger should have ’poesossed so
minute a. knowledge of the quiet and obscure dia-
trcsses he had relieved. Two or three sick r-
sons, when abandoned by their physicians, heliid
visited and conferred with alone. They had re-
covered; thc ascribed to him their recovery;
et they coud not tell by what medicines they
been healed. They could only depose that
he came, conversod with them, mid they were
cured; it usually, however, happeded that a deep
sleep had preceded the rccovcr'y.
Another circumstance was also beginning to
be remarked. and s kc yet more in his commen-
dation. Those wit whom he principally asso-
ciated—the ga , the dissipated, the thoughtless,
the sinners an pnblicans of the more polished
world—all appeared rapidly, yet insensibly to
themselves, to awaken to nrer thoughts and
more regulated lives. Even etoxa, the prince of
undiscovered art as impossible; but, should it ever be
discovered, would certainly be useless.“
C
' Printed in 1615.


34
ZANONI.
gallauts, duellists, and gamesters, was no longer
the same man since the night the singular events
of which he had related to Glyndon. The first
trace of his reform was in his retirement from
the gaming-houses-I the next was his reconcilia- >
tion with an hereditary enemy of his house, whom
it had been his constant object for the last six

GHAPTER VII.
"Learn to be poor in spirit, my son, if you would pene-
trate that sacred night which environs truth. Lerun of
the Sages to allow to the Devils no power in nature, since
the faint stone has shut 'em up in the depth of the abyss.
Leurn of the Philosophers a ways to look for natural
causes in all extraordinary events; and when such untu-
mi muses are wanting, recur to Gulf—Tn: Conn- '17!
cars to entangle in such a quarrel as might call ,‘ (hung
orth his inimitable manteuvre of the stoccéta.
Nor when Cetoxa and his young companions were ‘
heard to speak of Zanoni, did it seem that thisy
change had been brought about by an sober y
lectures or admonitions. They all described Zn- ,
noni as a man keenl alive to_enjoyment; of
manners the reverse 0 formal; not precisely gay,
but equable, serene, and cheerful ; ever ready to
listen to the talk of others, however idle, or to
charm all ears with an inexhaustible fund of bril- ,
liant anecdote and worldly experience. All man- i
ners, all nations, all grades of men, seemed fami-l
liar to him. He was reserved only if allusion 1
were ever ventured to his birth or history. The ‘
more general opinion of his origin certainly seem- ,
ed the more plausible. His riches, his familiarity ‘_
with the languages of the East, his residence in ‘
India, a certain gravity which never deserted ‘
his most cheerful and familiar hours, the lustrous}
darkness of‘ his eyes and hair, and even the pe- ‘,
culiarities of his shape, in the delicate smallness j
ofthe hands, and the Arab-like turn of the stately
head, appeared to fix him as belonging to one,
at least, of the Oriental races. And a dabbler in -
l
the eastern tongues even sought to reduce the;
aim le name of Zanoni, which a century before‘I
ha been borne by an inoffensive naturalist of t
Bologna,* to the radicals of the extinct language. 1
Zan was unquestionably the Chaldaean appella,
tion for the sun. Even the Greeks, who muti-1
lated every Oriental name, had retained the right 1
one in this case, as the Cretan inscription on the i
tomb of Zeusi' significantly showed. As to the .
rest, the Zan or Zaun was, with the Sidoniatts, no
uncommon prefix to On. Adonis was but nno-i
i thcr name for Znnonas, whose worship in Sidon i
Hesychius records. To this profound and unan-1
swerable derivation, Mervale listened with great.
attention, and observed that he now Ventured toi
announce an erudite discovery he himself hadi
long since made, viz, that the numerous family‘
of Smiths in England were undoubtedly the au-
cient priests of the Phrygian Apollo. “ For,”
said he, “ was not Apollo's surname, in Phrygia,
Smintheusl How clear all the ensuing corrup-
tions of the august name: Sminthcus—Smitheus
qsmithF-Smithl And even now, I may re-
mark, that the more ancient branches of ' that
illustrious family, unconsciously anxious to ap-
proximate, at least by a letter, nearer to the true
title, take a pious pleasure in writing their name
Bmithc i" ’. ,
The Philologist was much struck with this dis-
covery, and begged Mcrvale's permission to note
it dovm as an illustration suitable to a work he
was about to publish on the origin of languages,
to be called “Babel,” and published in three
quartos by subscription.
l
' The author of two works on botany and rare plants.
1' fill (“you sorrel Zen—Cyril contra Julian.
‘ them.

i Au. these additions to his knowledge of Zano-
ni—picked up in the various lounging places and
resorts that he frequented—were unsatisfactory
in Glyndon. That night, Viola did not perform
at the theatre; and the next day, still disturbed
by bewildering fancies, and averse from the sober
and sarcastic com anionship of Mervale, Glyndon
sauntered musing y into the public gardens, and
paused under the very tree under which he had
first heard the voice that had exercised upon his
mind so singular an influence. The gardens were
deserted. He threw himself on one of the seats
placed beneath the shade; and again, in the
midst of his revcry, the some cold shudder came
over him which Zanoni had so distinctly defined.
and to which he had ascribed so extraordinary
a cause.
He roused himself with a sudden effort, and
started to see, seated next him, a figure hideous
enough to have personated one of the malignant
beings of whom Zunoni.had spoken. It was a
small man, dressed in a fashion stiikingly at
variance with the elaborate costume of the day:
an affectation of homeliness and poverty approach-
ing to squalor, in the loose trowsers, coarse as a
ship‘s soils; in the rough jacket, which appeared
wilfully rent into holes; and the black, ragged.
tangled locks, that streamed from their confine~
ment under a woollen cap, accorded but ill with
other details which spoke of comparative wealth.
The shirt, open at the throat, was fastened by a
broach of gaudy stones; and two pendant mas-
sive gold chains announced the fuppery of two
watches.
"the man's figure, if not absolutely deformed,
was yet marvellously ill-favoured; his shoulders
high and square; his chest flattened, as if crushed
in ; his glovelcss hands were knotted at the joints,_
and, large, bony, and muscular, dangled from
hum, emaciated wrists, as if not belonging to
His features had the painful distortion
sometimes seen in the countenance of a cripple;
large, exaggerated, with the nose nearly touching
the chin; the eyes small, but glowing with a cun-
ning fire as they dwelt on Glyndon ; and the
mouth was twisted into a grin that displayed
rows of jagged, black, broken teeth. Yet over
this frightful face there still played a kind of
disagreeable intelligence, an expressiOn at once
astute and bold ; and as Glyndon, recovering
from the first impression, looked again at his
neighbour, he blushed at his own dismay, and
recognised a French artist with whom he had
formed an ac uaintance. and who was possessed
of no inconsit arable talents in his calling. In-
deed; it was to be remarked, that this creature,
whose externals were so deserted by the Grnca,
particularly delighted in designs aspiring to ma-
jest and grandeur. Though his colouring was
har and shallow, as was that generally of the
French school at the time, his drawings were
admirable for symmetry, simple elegance, and
classic vigour; at the same time, they unques-


ZANON I. /
35
tionably wanted ideal grace. He was fond of
i saws -1” s_’-..si»_-v-.W—_
sentiment; Philanthropy was to be its successes
selecting subjects from Roman History rather No love that did not embrace all mankind, as
than from the copious world of Grecian beauty, warm for Indus end the Pole as for the hearth
orthose still more sublime stores of Scriptural of home, was worthy the breast of a generous
record from which Rati'aéle and Michael Arigclo man. Opinion was to be free as air; and in or-
borrowcd their inspirations. His grandeur was der to make it so, it was necessary to exterminate
that, not of gods and saints, but mortals.
delineation of beantv was that which the eve‘Mons. Jean Nicot’s.
His all those whose opinions ware not the same as
Much of this amused, much
monot blame and the soul does not acknowledge. [revolted Glyndon; but when the Painter turned
In a word, as it was said of Dionysius, he was
an Anthropo grahos, or Painter of Men. It was
also a notab e contradiction in this person, who
was addicted to the most extravagant excesses
in every passion, whether of hate or love, impla-
cable in revenge, and insatiable in debauch, that
he was in the habit of uttering the most beautiful
mtiments of exalted purity and genial philan-
thropy. The world was not good enough for
him: he was, to use the expressive German
phrase, a world~bettcrerl Nevertheless, his sar-
castic lip often seemed to mock the sentiments
he uttered, as if it sought to insinuate that he
was above- even the world he would construct.
Finally this painter was in close correspond-
ence with the Republicans of Paris, and was
held to be one of those missionaries whom, from
the earliest period of the Revolution, the regene-
rators of mankind were pleased to despot/ch to
the various states yet enslaved, whether by actual
tyranny or wholesome laws. Certainly, as the
historian of Italy“ has observed, there was no
city in Italy where these new doctrines would be
received wrth greater favour than Naples, partly
from the lively temper of the people, principally
because the most hateful feudal privileges, how-
ever partially curtailed some years before by the
great minister Tanuccini, still presented so runny
daily and practical evils as to make change wear
a more substantial charm than the mere and
meretricious bloom on the check of the harlot-—
Novelty. This man, whom I will call Jean N i-
cot, was therefore an oracle among the youn‘rer
and bolder spirits of Naples; and before Glyn on
had met Zanoni, the former had not been among
the least dazzled by the eloquent aspirations of
the hideous Philanthropist.
" It is so long since we have met, cher confrC-ro,”
said Nicot, drawing his seat nearer to Glyndon's,
“that you cannot be surprised that I see you with
delight, and even take the liberty to intrude on
your meditations."
‘“They were of no agreeable nature,” said
Glyndon; “and never was intrusion more wel-
come.”
“You will be charmed to hear," said Nicot,
drawing séveral letters from his bosom, “ that the
work proceeds with marvellous ra idity.
imbeau, indeed, is no more: but, mart iab/c/
the French peo in are now a Mirabeau them-
selves.” With ' remark, Monsieur Nicot pr0~
ceeded to read and to comment upon several ani-
mated and interesting passages in his col-res )ond-
ace, in which the word Virtue was introduced
twenty—seven times, and God not once. And
then, warmed by the cheering prospects thus
ed to him, he began to indulge in those an-
tmipations of the Future, the outline of which we
have already seen in the eloquent extravagance
f, of Condomet. All the Old Virtues were dethroned
a new Pantheon: Patriotism was a narrow
' Betta.

to dwell upon a science that all should compre-
hend, and the results of which all should enjo —-
a science that, springing from the soil of eq in-
stitutions and equal mental cultivation, should
give to all the races of men wealth without la-
bour, and a. life, longer than the Palriarchs’, with-
out care—then Glyndon listened with interest and
admiration, not unmixed with awe. "Observe,"
said Nicot, “ how much that we now cherish as a
virtue will then be rejected as meanness. Our
oppressors, for instance, preach to us of the excel-
lence of gratitude. Gratitude, the confession of
inferiority! What so hateful to a noble spirit as
the humiliating sense of obligation? But where
there is equality, there can be no means for power -
thus to enslave merit. The benefactor and the
client will alike cease, and "
“And in the mean time,” said a low voice at
hand, “ in the mean time, Jenn Nicot i”
The two artists started, and Glyndon recognised
Zanoui
He gazed with a brow of unusual sternness on
N icot, who, lumped together as he sat, looked u
at him askcw, and with an expression of fear ans
dismay upon his distorted countenance.
Ho, ho Messire Jean Nicot, thou who fear'est
neither God nor Devil, why fearest thou the eye
of a Mani
“ It is not the first time I have been a witness
to your opinions on the infirmity of gratitude,”
snir Zanoni.
Nicot suppressed an exclamation, and, after
gloomily surveying Zanoni with an eye villanous
and sinister, but- fnll of hate impotent and un-
utterable, said. “I know you not: what would
you of me i”
“ Your absence. LenVe us i”
N icot sprung forward a ste , with hands
clinched, and showing his teeth rom ear to ear,
like a wild beast incensed. Zanoni stood motion-
less, and smiled at him in scorn. Nicot halted
abruptly, as if fixed and fascinated by the look,
shivered from head to foot, and sullenly, and with
a visible effort, as if impelled by a power not his
own, turned awa .
Glyndon's eyes followed hiru in surprise.
“ And what know you of this man i" said
Zanoni.
“I know him as one like myself—a follower
of art.”
“ 0f ART! Do not so profane that glorious
word. What Nature is to God, Art should be to
Man: a sublime, beno'ficent, genial, and warm
creation That wreteh may be a painter, not an
artist."
“ And rdon me if I ask what you know of
one on 1118 disparage l"
“ know thus much, that you are beneath _my
care if it be necessary to warn you against turn;
this own li show the hideousness of his heart,
Why shoulil3 I tell you of the crimes he has com-
mitted i He speaks crime 1"


“ You do not'eeern, Signor Zanoni, to be one


36
ZANONI.
of the admirers of the dawning Revolution Per-
haps on are prejudiced against the man because
you 'slike the opinions i"
“ What opinions ‘5"
Glyndou paused, somewhat puzzled to define;
but at length he said “ Nay, I must wrong you;
for you, of all men, I suppose, cannot discredit
the doctrine that preaches the indefinite improve-
ment of the human species.” '
“ You are right; the few in every age improve
the many; the inany now ma be as wise as the
few were; but improvement is at a stand-still if
you tell me that the nuuly now are as wise as the ,
few are.”
“I comprehend you; you will not allow the
law of universal equality 1”
“Law! If the whole World conspired to en-
force the falsehood, the could not make it law.
Level all conditions t ay, and you only smooth
away all obstacles to tyranny to-morrow. A na-
tion that aspires to equality is inifit for freedom.
Throughout all creation, from the archangel to
the Worm, from Olym us to the pebble, from the
radiant and complete planet to the nebula that
hardens through ages of mist and slime into the
habitable world, the first law of nature is in-
equality."
“ Harsh doctrine, if applied to states. Are the
cruel disparities of life never to be removed i”
“Disparities of the physical life! Oh, let us
hope so. But disparities of the intrllcctual and
the moral, never! Universal equality of intelli-
gence, of mind, of genius, of virtue! no teacher
left to the world, no men wiser, better than others?
were it not an impossible condition, what a hope:
less respect or humanity! No; while the
worl lasts, e sun will gild the mountain top
before it shines upon the plain. Diffuse all the
knowledge the earth contains over all mankind
to-day, and some men will be wiser than the rest
to-mcrrow. And this is not a harsh, but a loving
law—the real law of Improvement; the wiser
the few in one generation, the wiser will be the
multitude the next l" -
As Zanoni thus spoke, they moved on through
the smiling gardens, and the beautiful bay lay
sparkling in the noontido. A gentle breeze just
cooled the sunbeam and stirred the ocean; and in
the inexpressiblc clearness of the atmosphere,
there was something that rejoiced the senses.
The very soul seemed to grow lighter and purer
in that lucid air.
“ And these men, to commence their era of im-
grovement and equality, are jealous even of the
reator. They would deny an Intelligence—a
God l" said Zanoni, as if involuntarily. “ Are you
an Artist, and, looking on the world, can you lis-
ten to such a dogma? Between God and genius
there is a. necessary link—there is almost a cor-
respondent language. Well said the Pythago-
rean,* ‘ A good intellect is the chorus of divinity.’ ”
Struck and touched with these sentiments,
which be little expected to fall from one to whom
he ascribed those powers which the superstitions
of childhood ascribe to the darker Glyn-
don said, “ And yet you have mnfessed that your
life, separated from that of others, is one that
man should dread to share. Is there, then, a con-
nexion between magic and religion I"
“Magic; And what. is magicl When the
' Soxtul the Pythagorean.
l

I
traveller beholds in Persia the ruins of palaces
and temples, the ignorant inhabitants inform him
they were the work of magiciansl What is be-
yond their own power, the vulgar cannot com re-
lend to be lawfully in the power of others. ut
if by magic you mean a perpetual research amon
all that is more latent and obscure in nature,
answer, I profess that magic, and that he who
does so comes but nearer to the fountain of all
belief. Knowcst thou not thzfl. magic was taught
in the schools of oldi But how and by whom?
as the last and most solemn lessons, by the Priests
who ministered to the Temple. * And on1 who
would be a painter, is not there a magic also in
the art you would advance ? Must you not, after
long study of the Beautiful that has been, seize
upon new and airy combinations of a Beauty that
is to be? See you not that The Grander Art,
whether of poet or of painter, ever seeking for
the men, abhors the REAL; that you must seize
Nature as her master, not lackey her as her slave!
You demand mastery over the past, a conception
of the future. Has not the Art that is truly no-
ble for its domain, the Future and the Past 'i You
would conjure the invisible beings to your charm;
and what 18 painting but the into substance
the Invisible? Are you discontented with this
world i This world was never meant for genius l
To exist, it must create another. What magician
can do more ; nay, what science can do as much!
There are two avenues from the little passions
and the dear calamities of earth; both lead to the
heaven and away from hell—Art and Science.
But art is more godlike than science; science dis-
covers, art creates. You have faculties that may
command art; be contented with your lot. The
astronomer who catalogues the stars, cannot add
one atom to the universe; the poet can call a uni-
verse from the atom; the chymist may heel with
his drugs the of the human form; the
'nter or the sculptor fixes into everlasting youth
orms divine, which no disease can ravage and no
years im ' Renounce those wandering fancies
that le you now to myself, and now to you ora-
tor of the human race; to us two who are the
antipodes of each other. Your Bencil is your
wand ; your canvass may raise topins fairer
than Condorcet dreams of I press not yet for
your decision; but what man of genius ever ask-
ed more to cheer his path to the grave than love
and glory l”
“But,’ said Glyndon, fixing his eyes earnestly
on Zzuioni, “ if there be a power to baffle the
grave itself—"
Zanoni’s brow darkened “ And were this so,"
he said, after a pause, “would it be so sweet a lot
to outlive all on loved, and to recoil from every
human tie? erha s the fairest immortality on
earth is that of a no le name."
“ You do not answer inc—you equiVocate. I
have read of the long lives, far beyond the date
common experience assigns to man," persisted
Glyndon, " which some of the nlchymists enjoyed
Is the olden elixir but a fable l”
“ If not, and these men discovered it, they died
because they refused to'livel There may be a
monrnful warning'in our conjecture. Turn once
more to the easel an the canvass.”
So saying. Zanoni waved his hand, and with
downcast eyes and a slow step beat his way back
into the city.
" Psellus do Dlmon (“5.)


ZANONI.
87
CHAPTER VIII.
THE GODDES WISDOM.
“ To some lhe la the goddess real;
To some the mllch cow 0 the field ,
Their wisdom ls lo calculate
	hl butler she will yield."
From ScanuR.
Tma last conversation with Zanoni left upon
the mind of GlyndOn a tran uillizing and salutaryr
effect. From the, confuse mists of his fancy
glittered forth again those hap y, golden schemes,
which part from the young am ition of art to play
in the air, to illumine the space, like rays that.
kindle from the sun. And with those projects
mingled also the vision of a love purer and
serener than his life yet had known. His mind
went back into that fair childhood of genius, when
the forbidden fruit is not yet tasted, and it knows
of no land be 0nd the Eden which is gladdeued
by an Eve. nseusibly before him there rose the
scenes of a home, with his art sufiicing for all
excitement, and Viola‘s love circling occu tion
with happiness and content; and in the mi t of
these phantasies of a future that might be at his
command, he was recalled to the present by the
clear, strong voice of Mervale, the man of common
sense.
Whoever has studied the lives of persons in
whom the imagination is stronger than the will,
who suspect their own knowledge of actual life,
and are aware of their facility to im reasious, will
have observed the influence whici a homely,


has not been lamentany taken in. I would save
you from a fall of itionso irretrievable. Think
how many morti cations you will be subjected
to; how many young men will visit at your
house, and how many young wives will as care-
fully avoid it.”
“ I can choose my own career, to which common-
place society is not essential. I can owe the
respect of the world to my art, and not to the
accidents of birth and fortune."
“ That is, you still persist in your second folly—
the absurd ambition of daubing canvass. Heaven
forbid I should say anything against the laudable
industry of one who follows such a profession for
the sake of subsistence; but with means and con-
nexions that will raise you in life, why voluntarily
sink into a mere artist‘i As an accomplishment
in leisure moments, it is all very well in its way;
but as the occupation of existence, it is a phrensy."
“ Artists have been the friends of princes."
“Very rarely so, I fancy, in sober England.
There, in the great centre of political aristocracy,
what men respect is the practical, not the ideal
Just suffer me to draw two ictures of my own .
Clarence Glyndon returns to England ; he marries
a lady of fortune equal to his own, of friends and
parentage that advance rational ambition Clar-
ence Glyndon, thus a wealthy and res ble
Inan, of good talents, of biastling energies then
concentred, enters into practical life. He heal
house at which he can receive those whose ac-
quaintance is both advantage and honour; he has
leisure which he can devote to useful studies; his
vigorous, worldly \uiderstnnding obtains over such reputation, built on a solid base, grows in men’s
natures. It was thus with Glyndon. His friend months. He attaches himself to a party; he
had often extricated him from danger, and saved l enters political life; his new connexions serve to
him from the consequences 'of imprudence; and lpromote his objects. At the age of five-and-forty,
there was something in Mervnle's voice alone that what,‘in all probability, may Clarence Glyndon
damped his enthusiasm, and often made him yet ‘ be? Since you are ambitious, I leave that ques-
more ashamed of noble impulse than weak con- ' tion for you to decide] Now turn to the other
duct. For Mervale. though a downright honest lpicture. Clarence Glyndon returns to England
man, could not sympathiZe with the extravagance l with a wife who can bring him no money unless
of generosity any more than with that of presump
lion and credulity. He walked the strait line of I
.life, and felt an equal contempt for the man who ‘
wandered up the hill sides, no matter whether to
chase a butterfly or to catch a prospect of the
ocean.
“ I will tell you your thoi hts, Clarence," said
Mervale, laughing, “ though If am no Zauoni. I
know them by the moisture of your eyes and the
half smile on your lips. You are musing upon
that fair rdition—the little singer of San Carlo.”
The little singer of San Carlo! Glyndon
coloured as he answered,
“ Would you speak thus of her if she were my
wife 3"
“No! for then any contempt I might venture
to feel would be for yourself". One may dislike
the duper, but it is'the dupe that one despises"
“ Are you so sure that I should be the dupe in ,
such a unionl \Vhere can I find one so lovely
and so innocent—where one whose virtue has
been tried by such temptation? Does even a
single breath of slander sully the name of Viola
Pisani l” '
“I know not all the gossip of Naples, and
therefore cannot answer; but I know this, that in
England no one Would believe that a young Eng-
lishman, of good fortune and respectable birth,
who marries a singer from the Theatre of Naples,


he lets her out on the stage; so handsome that
every one asks who she is, and every one hears
—-the celebrated singer Pisani. Clarence Glyn-
don shuts himself up to grind colours and paint
pictures in the grand historical school, which
nobody. buys There is even a rejudice against
him, as not having studied in tie Academy—as
being an amateur. Who is Mr. Clarence Glyn-
dou‘l Oh! the celebrated Pisani’s husbandl
What else? Oh! he exhibits those large pic-
tures. Poor mun l they have merit in their way ;
but Teniers and Watteau are more convenient,
and almost as cheap. Clarence Glyndon, with an
casv fortune while single, has a large family,
which his fortune, unaided by marriage, can just
rear up to callings more plebeian than his own.
He retires into the country, to save and to paint;
he grows slovenly and discontented; ‘the world
does not up reciate him,’ he says, and he runs
away from t 1e world. At the age of forty-five.
what will be Clarence Glyndonl Your ambition
shall decide that question also I"
“If all men were as worldly as you," said
Glyndon, rising, “ there would never have been an
artist or a poet 1”
“Perhaps we should do just as well without
them,” answered Mervale. “Is it not time to
think of dinnerl The mullet here are remark-
ably fine i"


38
ZAN ON I.
CHAPTER IX.
'Wollt lhr hoch aufih‘ren Flugeln schweben,
Werfl dle Angst des lrdlschen Von euch!
Fliehet aus dem cngen dumpl‘en Leben
In den Ideals: Reich !"
DA: lnzai. vim DA! LIBIN.
As some injudicious master lowers and vitiates
the taste 0f the student by fixing his attention
to what he falsely calls the Natural, but which,
in reality, is the Commonplace, and understands
not that beauty in art is created by what Raf-
faéle so well describes, VlL, the idea of beauty in
the painter's own mind ; and that in every art,
whether its plastic expression be found in words
or marble, colours or sounds, the servile imita-
tion of nature is the work of joumeymen and
tyros; so in conduct, the man of the world vitiates
and loWers the bold enthusiasm of loftier natures,
by the perpetual reduction of whatever is gene-
rous and trusti'ul to all that is trite and coarse.
A great German poet has well defined the dis-
tinction between discretion and the larger wis-
dom. In the last there is a certain rashness
which the first disdains:
“ The purblind see but tho receding shore,
Not that m which the bold wave waits them o‘er."
Yet in this logic of the prudent and the world-
ly there is often a reasoning uiianswcrable of its
kind.
You must have a feeling—a faith in whatever
is self-sacrificing and divine—whether in religion
or in art, in glory or in love, or Common-sense
will reason you out of the sacrifice, and a syllo-
gism will dcbase the divine to an article in the
market.
Every true critic in art, from Aristotle to Pliny
—from Winkelnian and Vasari, to Reynolds and
Fuseli, has sought to instruct the painter that
Nature is not to be copied. but exalted; that the
loftiest order of art, selecting only the loftiest
combinations, is the perpetual struggle of Huma-
But to come to my comparison. Still less is
the kindred principle comprehended in conduct.
And the advice of worldly Prudence would as
often deter from the risks of Virtue as from the
punishments of Vice; yet in conduct as in art,
there is an idea of the great and beautiful by
‘ which men should exalt the hackneycd and the
itrite of life. Now Glyndon felt the sober pru-
j ence of Mervale’s reasonings; he recoiled from
1 the probable picture placed before him in his de-
| votion to the one master talent he possessed, and
, the one master passion that, rightly directed,
imight purify his whole being as a strong 'wind
i purifies the air. '
But, though he could not bring himself to de-
, cide in the teeth of so rational a judgment, nei-
‘ ther could he resolve at once to abandon the ur-
‘ suit of Viola. Fearful of being influence by
Zanoui's counsels and his own heart, he had for
the last two days shunned an interview with the
young actress. But after a night following his
last conversation with Zanoni, and that we have
just recorded with Mervale—a night coloured
by dreams so distinct as to seem prophetic—
dreams that appeared so to shape his future ac-
cording to the hints of Zanoni,that he could have
fancied Zanoni himself had sent them from the
I house of sleep to haunt his pillow—he resolved
once more to seek Viola; and though without a
definite or distinct object, he yielded himself up
to the impulse of his heart.


' CHAPTER x.
" 0 sollccllo dnliblo o frcddn 
ZANONI. ' so
that came ever and anon from the sea, to die iyour beauty, in darling, and then nobody will
upon the bust half disclosed; and the tiny slip- ,care for you. obody cares for us when we grow
per, that Cinderella might have worn, seemed a ugly—I know that; and then you must, like old
world too wide for the tinyfoot which it scarcely Gionetta, get some Viola of your own to
covered. It might be the heat of the do that I’ll go and see to the polenta."
deepened the soft bloom of the cheeks, an gave “ Since I have known this man," said the girl,
an unwanted languor to the large dark eyes. In {halfaloui “ since his dark eyes have haunted me,
all the pomp of her stage attire—in all the flush , I am no longer the same. I long to escape from
of excitement before the intoxicating lamps— myself; to glide with the sunbeam over the hill
never had Viola looked so lovely. tops; to become something that is not of earth.
By the side of the actress, and filling up the Phantoms float before me at night; andafluttering
threshold, stood Gionetta, with her arms thrust like the wing of a bird, within my heart, seems as
to the elbow in two huge pockets on either side if the spirit were terrified, and would break its
her gown. .”
“But I assure you," said the nurse, in that m1qrhile murmuring these incoherent rhapsodiea,
sharp, quick, car-splitting tone in which the old , a step that she did not hear approached the
women of the South are more than a match for ‘ actress, and a light hand touched her arm.
those of the North, “ but I assure on, my darl-I “Viola! bellissima/ Viola !"
ing, that. there is not a finer cava ier in all Na~ She turned and saw Glyndon. The sight of his
plea, nor a more beautiful, than this Inglcse; fair young face calmed her at once. Hispresence
and I am told that all the Inglesi are much richer i gave her pleasure.
than they seem. Though they have no trees in i “ Viola," said the Englishman, taking her hand,
their country. poor people! and instead of tiven- and drawing her again to the bench from which
ty-four they have only twelve hours to the day, she had risen, as be seated himself beside her,
yet I hear that they s me their horses with scudi; “ on shall hear me speak! You must know
and since they cannot (the poor heretics!) turn ready that I love thee! It has not been pity
grapes into wine, for they have no grapes, they or admiration alone that has led me ever and
turn gold into physio, and take a lass or two of ever to thy dear side; reasons there may have
pistol“ whenever they are tron led with the ‘ been whyI have not s ken, save by my eyes,
colic. But you don't hearine—little pupil of my l before; but, this day— know not how it is—I
eyes, you don’t hear me i" feel a more sustained and settled courage to ad-
“ And these things are whispered of Zanonil” dress thee, and learn the happiest or the worst
said Viola, half to herself, and unheeding Gion- I have rivals, I know—rivals who are more pow-
etta's eulogies on (ilyndon and the English. erful than the poor artist; are they also more
“ Blessed Maria! do not talk of this terrible favoured i”
Zauoni. You may be sure that his beautiful face, Viola blushed faintly, but her countenance was
like his yet more beautiful pistolcs, is onlv witch- grave and depressed. Looking down, and marl:-
ci'aft. I look at the money he gave me the other ing some hieroeg hical figures in the dust with
night every quarter of an hour, to see whether it 1 the point of her s ipper, she said, with some hesi-



has not turned into pebbles." tation, and a vain attempt to be gay, “Signor,
“ Do you then really believe," said Viola, with whoever wastes his thoughts on an actress must
timid earnestness, “that sorcery still exists 3" submit to have rivals. It is our unhappy destiny
“Believe! Do I believe in the blessed San not to he sacred even to ourselves."
Geunaroi How do on think he cured old Filip- “But you do not love this destiny, glittering
, the fisherman. w ien the doctor gave him upi though it seem; your heart is not in the vocation
Elm do you think he has managed himself to which your gifts adorn."
live at least these three hundred years! How “Ah, no!" said the actress, her eyes filling
do you think he fascinates every one to his bid- with tears. “ Once I loved to be the priestess of
ding with a look, as the vampires do 3" song and music; now I feel only that it is a mis-
“ Ah, is this only witchcraftl It is like it—it erable lot to be slave to a multitude."
must be!" murmured Viola. turning very pale. “Fly, then, with me," said the artist, passion-
Gionetta herself was scarcely more superstitious ately. “ Quit forever the calling that divides that
than the daughter of the musician. And her heart I would have all m' own. Share my fate
very innocence, chilled at the strangeness of virv now and forBVer—my pri e, my delight, my ideal!
'gin passion, might well ascribe to magic what Thou shalt inspire my canvass and my song; th
hearts more experienced would have resolved to beauty shall he made at once holy and renown .
love. In the galleries of princes, crowds shall gather
“And, then. Why has this {treat Prime di _ round the efiigy of a Venus or a Saint, and a
been so terrified by him? Why has he ceased to whisper shall break forth, ‘It is Viola Pisani l'
persecute us? Why has he been so quiet and Ah! Viola, I adore thee: tell me that I do not
stilll Is there no sorcery in all that i" worship in vain." '
“ Think you, then," said Viola, with sweet in- “Thou art good and fair,” said Viola, gazing on
consistency, “ that I owe that happiness and safety her lover as he pressed nearer to her,'n.nd clns d
to his protection? Oh, let me so believe! Be 1 her hand in his “But what should I give ea
silent, Gionetta! Why have I only thee and my in return i”
own terrors to consult? 0 beautiful sun 1" andi “ Love—lovc—-only love i”
the girl pressed her hand to her heart with wild “ A sister's love i"
energy, “ thou lightest every spot but this. Go, “ Ah! speak not with such cruel coldness !”
Gionetta! leave me alone—leave me !” “ It is all I have for thee. Listen to me, signer:
“ And indeed it is time I should leave you; for when I look on your face, when I hear your VOiBE,
the polenta will be spoiled, and you have eat a certain serene and tranquil calm creeps over
nothing all day. I: you don’t eat you will lose I and ma thoughts—oh! how feverish, how wild!


4-0
ZANONI.
When thou art gone. the day seems a shade more
dark; but the shadow soon flies. I miss thee |
not; I think not of thee; no, I love thee not; and
I will give myself only where I love."
“ But Iwould teach thee to love me: fear it not.
Nay, such love as thou now describest, in our tran-
quil climates is the love of innocence and youth."
“Of innocence!” said Viola. “Is it sol Per-‘
haps-J’ she paused, and added with an effort, " For- 1
eignerl and Wouldst thou wed the or haul Ah! 1
thou at least art generous. It is not 1 e innocence
thou ouldst destroy l"
lendon drew back, conscience-stricken
“No, it may not be l” she said, rising. but not_
conscious of the thoughts, half of shame. half sus-|
piciou, that passed through the mind of her lover. ‘
“ Leave me, and forget me. You do not under-
stand, you could not comprehend, the nature of
her whom you think to love. From my childhood
upward I have felt as if I were marked out for
some strange and pretematural doom—as if I
were singled from my kind. This feeling (and
oh! at times it is one of delirious and vague de-
light, at others of the darkest gloom) deepens
within me day by dry). It is like the shadow of
twilight, spread' wly and solemnly amund.
My hour approfiies: a little while. and it will
be night i"
As she spoke, Glyndon listened with visible
emotion and perturbation. “ Viola !" he exclaim-
ed, as she ceased. “your words more than ever
enchain me to you. As you feel, I feel. Itoo
have been ever haunted with a chill and uneartlil
foreboding. Amid the crowds of men I have fe t
alone. In all my pleasures, mv toils, my pursuits,
a warning voice has murmure in my ear, ‘ Time
has a dark mystery in store for thy amnhood.’
When you spoke, it was as the voice of my own
soul !"
Viola gazed upon him in wonder and fear.
Her countenance was as white as marble; and
those features, so divine in their rare symmetry,
might have served the Greek witha study for the
Pythoness, when from the mystic cavern and the
bubbling spring she first hears the voice of the
inspiring god. Gradually the rigour and tension
of that wonderful face relaxed, the colour retum-
ed, the pulse beat, the heart animated the frame.
“ Tell me," she said, stunting partially aside,
" tell me, have you seen—do you know—a stranger
in this city—one of whom wild stories are afloat i"
“ You speak of Zanonil I have seen him—I
know hiln—-aud you? Ahl he too would be my
rival! he too would bear thee from me i"
" You err," said Viola, hastily, and with a deep
sigh; “ he pleads for you: he informed me of your
love; he besought me not—not to reject it."
“ Strange beingl incomprehensible enigmal
Whagid you name him 7"
“ y? ah! I would have asked whether,
when you first saw him, the foreboding, the in-
stinct of which you s he, came on you more‘
fearfully, more intelligibly than before; whetherj
you felt at once repelled from him, yet attracted;
towards him; whether on felt" (and the actress
spoke with hurried animation) “that with mu 1
was connected the secret of your life i”
“ All this I felt," answered Glyndon. in a ‘
trembling voice, “ the first time I was in his pres-
ence. Though all around me was gay—music.
amid lamp~lit trees, light converse near, and hes-l
ven without a cloud above—my knees knocked:

together, my hair bristled, and my blood curdled
like ice. Since then he has divided my thoughts
with thee."
“No more, no more I" said Viola, in a stifled
tone; “there must be the hand of fate in this. I
can speak to you no more now. Farewell!”
She sprung past him into the house, and closed
the door. Glyndon did not follow her, nor,
strange as it may seem, was he so inclined. The
thought and recollection of that moonlit hour in
the gardens, of the strange address of Zanoni,
froze up all human pamion. Viola herself, if not
'forgott/en, shrunk back like a shadow into the
recesses of his breast He shivercd as he stepped
into the sunlight, and musingly retraced his steps
into the more populous parts of that liveliest of
Italian cities.

BOOK III.
THEURGIA.

CHAPTER I.
“ But that which especially dl<tlngulshos the bmrher-
hood. is their marvellous knowledge of all the resource.
of lll"lllt“ll nrt. They work not by chnnm. but by sim-
ple~."—JI.\‘. nrflount of the origin and attributes of tie
true Rnxicrurilms, by J. Van I) —.
A'r this time it chanced that Viola had the op-
portunity to return the kindness shown to her by
the friendly musician, whose house had received
and sheltered her when first left an orphan on the
world. Old Bernardi had brought up three sons
to the some profession as himself, and they had
lately left Naples to seek their fortunes in the
wealthier citie; of northern Europe, where the
mruical market was less overstocked. There was
only left to glad the household of his aged wife
and himself, a lively, prattliug, dark-eyed girl, of
some eight years old, the child of his second son,
whose mother had died in giving her birth. It. so
happened that, abbut a month previous to the
date on which our story has now entered a par~
alytic affection had disabled llemnrdi from the
duties of his (ailing. He had been always a so-
cial, harmless, improvident, generous fellow, living
on his gains from day to day, as if the day of
sickness and old age never was to arrive. Though
he received a small allowance for his st servi~_
ces, it ill sufliced for his wants; neitm was he
free from debt, Poverty stood at his hearth,
when Violn’s grateful smile and open hand came
to chase the grim fiend away. But it is not
enough to a heart truly kind to send and give; .
more charitable is it to visit and console. “ For-
get not thy father’s friend” So almost daily went
the bright idol of Naples to the house of Bemardi.
Suddenly a heavier afiiction than even poverty
or the alsy befell the old musician. His grand-
child— no little Beatrice fell ill, suddenly and
dangerously ill, of one of those rapid fevers com-
mon to the South ; and Viola was summoned
from her strange and fearful reveries of love or
time to the sick-bed of the young sufferer.
T e child was exceedingly fond of Viola, and
the old people thought that her mere presence
would bring_hea.ling; but when Viola arrived


ZANONI. 41
Beatrice wns insensible. Fortunately, there was 
42
ZAN ON I.
not deny to me that presence. I am fatherless,
and ignorant, and alone !"
Zanoni averted his time, and after a moment’s
silence, replied, calmly,
“Be it so. Sister, will visit thee again I”

CHAPTER II. »
“ Oh, so scmpre tranquille
Fosser le luci Vaghel
I Q m I
Onde l fiorettl c l'erhe
Bl fun vaghe e superbe;
E par la tens dl diamante nspersa."
Tasso, Canmne xv.
Wno so happy as Viola now! A dark load
was lifted from'her heart; her step seemed to
tread on air; she would have sung for very de-
light as she wcnt gany home. ‘It is such ha pi-
ness to the pure to love—but oh, such more t tan
happiness to believe in the worth of the One be-
loved. Between them there might be human
obstacles—wealth, rank, man's little world. But
there was no longer that dark gulf which the
imagination) recoils to dwell on, and which so .1-
rates forever soul from soul. He did not love lier
in return. Love her l But did she ask for love i
Did she herself lorel No; or she would never
have been at once so humble and so bold. How
merrily the ocean murmured in her ear; how
radiant an aspect the commonest passer-by seem-
ed to wear! She gained her home; she looked
upon the tree, glancing, with fantastic branches,
in the sun. “ Yes, brother mine i” she said,
laughing in her joy, “like thee, I have struggled
to the light l"
She had never hitherto, like the more instruct<
ed daughters of the North, accustomed herself to
that delicious Confessional, the transfusion of
thought to writing. Now, suddenly, her heart
felt an impulse—n new-born instinct, that bade it
commune with itself; bade it disentangle its web
of golden fancies; made her wish to look upon
her inmost self as in a glass. Up sprung from
the embrance of Love and Soul—the Eros and
the Psyche—their beautiful offspring, Genius!
She blushed, she sighed, she trembled as she
wrote. And from the fresh World that she had
built for herself, she was awakened to prepare
for the glittering stage. How dull became the
music, how dim the scene, so ex uisite and so
bright of old. Stage, thou art the airy Land to
the vision of the worldly. Fancy, Whose music
is not heard by men, whose scenes shift not by
mortal hand, as the Stage to the present world
art thou to the Future and the Past! .

CHAPTER III.
“ A to lo luel mle
Volgo, o llelln, che serrl ed aprl ‘I die." I
' 'l'assu, Canzonc xv.
Tm: next (In , at noon, Zanoni visited Viola;
and the next my, and the next, and again the
next; days that to her seemed like a special time
set apart from the rest of life. And yet he ne-
ver spoke to her in the language of flattery, and
alm0st of adoration, to which she had been ac-
customed Perhaps his very coldness, so gentle
“as it was, assisted to this mysterious charm. He
ltalked to her much of her past life, and she was
‘ scarcely surprised (she now never thought of
terror) to perceive how much of that past seem-
ed known to him.
He made her speak to him of her father; he
made her recall some of the airs of Pisani's wild
music, and those airs seemed to charm and lull
him into revery.
“ As music to him,” said he, “ may science be
to the wise. Your father looked abroad in the
world. All was discord to the fine sympathies
that he felt with the harmonies that daily and
nightly float to the throne of Heaven. Life, with
its noisy ambition and its mean passions, is so
poor and base! Out of his soul he created the
\life and the world for which his soul was fitted.
Viola, thou art the daughter of that life, and will
be the denizen of that world.”
In his earlier visits he did not speak of Glyn-
don. The day soon came on which he renewed
the subject. And so great, trustful, obedient,
|and entire was the allegiance that Viola now
lowned to his dominion, that, unwelcome as that
subject was, she restrained her heart, and listened
to him in silence l
At last he said, “Thou hast promised thou
wilt obey my counsels; and if, Viola, I should
ask thee—nay, adjure, to accept this stranger's
hand and share his fate, should he offer to thee
such a lot, wouldst thou refuse i”
And then she pressed back the tears that gush~
ed to her eyes; and with a strange pleasure in
the midst of pain—the pleasure of one who sa—
l crifi'ces heart itself to the one who commands that
heart, she answered, fidtcringly, “If thou cans:
ordain it, why ———”
“ Speak on.”
“ Dispose of me as thou wilt l”
Zanoni stood in silence for some moments; he
,saw the struggle the girl thought she concealed
lso well; he made an involuntary movement to-
:wards her, and pressed her hand to his lips; it
vwas the first time he had ever departed even so
’ far from a certain austerity, which perhaps made
lher fear him and her own thoughts the loss.
“ Viola," said he, and his voice trembled, “ the
danger that I can avert no more, if thou linger
still in Naples, comes hourly near and near to
theel On the third day from this thy fate must
be decided I accept thy promise. BCfOl'e the
last hour of that day, come what may, I shall see
thee again, Me, at thine own house. Till then,
fareWell l"

CHAPTER IV.
“ Between two worlds life hovers like a star,
"l‘wixt night and mom.”
Bvaorc.
Wnsx Glyndon left. Viola, as recorded in the
concluding chapter of the second division of this
work, he was absorbed again in those mystical
desires and conjectures which the haunting recol-
lection of Zanoni always served to create. And
as he wandered through the streets, he was mne-
ly conscious of his own movements till, in the
mechanism of custom, he found himself in the
midst of one of the noble collections of pictures,

which form the boast of those Italian cities who”
- \(r‘ <


ZANONI.
48
Miain thepcst Hither he had been wont,
almost daily, to repair, for the gallery contained
some of the finest specimens of a master espe—
cially the object of his enthusiasm and study.
Here, before the works of Salvator, he had often
paused in deep and earnest reverence. The strik-
ing characteristic of that artist is the Vigour of
Will ; void of the elevated idea of abstract beuu< i
ty, which furnishes a model and archetype to the
genius of more illustrious order, the singular en-
of the man hews out of the rock a dignity
of iis own. His images have the majesty, not
of the god, but. the savage; utterly free, like the
sublimer schools, from the commonplace of imi-
tation—apart, with them, from the conventional
littleness of the Real—he grasps the imagination,
Ind compels it to follow him, not to the heaven,
but through all that is most wild and fantastic
upon earth; a sorcery, not of the starry magian,
but of the gloomy wizard—a man of romance,
whose heart beat strongly, gri ping art with a hand
of iron, and forcing it to idenhze the scenes of his
actual life. Before this powerful Will, lendon
drew back, more awed and admiring than fore
the calmer beauty which rose from the soul of
Bati'aéle, like Venus from the deep. And now,
as, awaking from his revery, he stood opposite to
that wild and magnificent gloom of Nature which
fiowned on him from the canvass, the ver leaves
on those gnomelike, distorted trees seeme to rus‘
tle sibylline secrets in his ear. Those rugged and
sombre Apenniues, the cataract that dashed be-
tween, suited, more than the actual scenes would
have done, the mood and temper of his mind.
The stern, uncouth fomis at rest on'the crngs be-
low, and dwarfed by the giant sine of the Matter
that reigned around them, im ressed him with
the might of Nature and the ittleness of Man.
As in the genius of the more spiritual cast, the
,living man, and the soul that hves in him, are
studioust made the prominent inmge, and the
more accessories of scene kept down, and cast
back, as if to show that the exile from ’se
is yet the monarch of the outward word, so in
the landscapes of Salvator, the tree, the mountain,
the wa‘erfall become the principal. and man him-
self dwindles to the accessory. The Matter seems
toreign supreme, and its true lord to creep be~
neath its stupendous shadow. Matter giving in-
terest to the human figure, not the figure to the
matter. A ten-ibie philosophy in art!
While something of these thoughts
through the mind of the painter, he felt his arm
touched, and saw Nicot b his side.
“A great master,” sni Nicut, “but I do not
love the school.”
“ I do not love, but I am awed by it We love
the beautiful and serene, but we have a feeling
as deep as love for the terrible and dar ”
“'Irue,” said Nicot, thoughtfully. “And yet
that feeling is only a superstition The nurserv,
with its tales of ghosts and goblins, is the cradle
of many of our impressions in the world. But
art should not seek to pander to our ignorance;
art should represent only truths. I confess that
Rafl'aéle hintself pleases me less because I have
no sympathy with his subjects. His saints and
virgins are to me only men and women."
L “And from what source should painting then
take its themes i”
“From History, without doubt,” returned Ni-
eagpmgmaucally; “those great Roman actions_
[which inspire men with sentiments of 1i and
,valour, with the virtues of a republic. wish
the cartoons of llatiiiaéle had illustrated the story
of the Horntii; but it remains for France and her
Republic to give to posterity the new and the
true sdiool, which could never have arisen in a
country of priestcrnft and delusion.” \
“ And the saints and virgins of Ratfaéle are to
you only men and women 't" repeated Glyndon,
' going back to N icot‘s candid confession in amaze,
,nnd scarcely hearing the deductions the French—
man drew from his proposition.
' “Assuredly. Ha, ha!“ and Nicot laughed hi-
. deously; " do you ask me to believe in the calgn-
dar, or what i"
“ But the ideal l"
“ The ideal i" interrupted N icot. “ Stuff ! The
Italian critics and your English Reynolds have
i turned your head. They are so fond of their
‘ gusto gmnde,’ and their ‘ideal beauty that speaks
to the souli’—eoull is there a soul? I under-
stand a man when he talks of com ing for a
I refined taste—for an educated an intelligent
reason—for a sense that com prehtmds truths. But
,as for the soul—bah! we are but modifications
4 of matter, and painting is modification of matter
? also.”
i Glyndon tumed his eyes from the icture be-
, fore him to Nicot, and from Nicot to e picture.
i The dogmatist gave a voice to the thoughts which
I the sight of the picture had awakened. He shook
his head without re fly.-
“Tell me." said lcot, abruptly, “that impos-
tor—Zanonii oh! I have now learned his name
and quackerics, forsooth—what did he say to the.
iof me i"
i “Of theel Nothing; but to warn me against
i thy doctrines."
i “Aha! was that all i" said Nicot. “He is a
notable inventor, and since, when we met last, I
iunmasked his delusions, I thought he might re-
‘ taliate by some tale of slander." >
“ Unmasked his delusions I How 1"
“ A dull and long story: he wished to teach an
old doting friend of mine his secrets of prolonged
life and philosophical alchymy. I advise thee to
renounce so discreditable an acquaintance." With
that N icot nodded significantl , and, not wishing
to be further questioned, went iis way.
Glyndon’s mind at that moment had to
his art, and the comments and presence of N ieot
,had been no welcome intemrption. He turned .
'from the landscape of Salvator, and his eye fall-
ing on a Nativity by Correggio, the contrast be-
tween the tWo ranks of genius struck him as a
discovery. That exquisite re'pose—thnt perfect
sense of beauty—that strong without effort—-
that breathing moral of high art, which speaks to
the mind through the eye, and raises the thoughts,
by the aid of tenderness and love, to the regions
of awe and wonder—ay l that was the true school.
He quitted the gallery with reluctant steps and
inspired ideas; he sought his own home. Here,
leased not to find the sober Mcrvale, he leaned
iiis face on his hands, and endeavoured to recall
the words of Zanoni in their last meeting. Yes,
he felt Nicot’s talk even on art was cr'une ; it de—
based the imagination itself-to mechanism. Could
he, who saw nothing in the soul but a oombma-
tion of matter, rate of schools that should excel
a. Rafi'aélel ea, art was magic; and as he own-
ed the truth of the aphorism, he could compre-


44
ZANONI.
head that in magic there may be religion, for re—
ligion is an essential to art. His old ambition,
1
great pyramidal form. Don't you think, too, that
you have lost the advantage of contrast in this
freeing itself from the frigid prudence with which ', figurel since the right leg is put forward, surely
Mervnle sought to desecrate all images less sub- 1 the right. arm should be put backl Pesto! but
_ stantial than the golden calf of the world, revived,
and stirred, and kindled. The subtle detection
of what be conceived to be an error in the school
he had hitherto adopted. made more manifest to
him by the grinning commentary of Nicot, seem-
ed to 0 on to him a new world of invention. He
seized e hap y moment; he laced before him
the colours on the canvass. est in his concep-
tions of a fresh ideal, his mind was lifted aloft
into the airy realms of beauty; dark thoughts,
unhallowed desires vanished. Zanoni was right;
‘the material world shrunk from his gaze; hc
viewed nature as from a mountain-top afar; and
as the waves of his unquiet heart became calm
and still, again the angel eyes of Viola beamed
on them as a holy star.
Locking himself in his chamber, he refused
even the visits of Mervale. Intoxicated with the
pure air of his fresh existence, he remained for
three days, and almost nights, absorbed in his
employment; but on the fouth morning came
that reaction to which all labour is exposed. He
woke listless and fatigued; and, as he cast his
eyes on the canvass, the glory seemed to have
gone from it. Humiliating recollections of the
great masters he aspired to rival forced them-
selves upon him; defects before unseen magni-
' fied themselves to det'iirniities in his languid and
discontented eyes. He touched and retouched,
but his hand failed him; he threw down his in-
struments in despair; he opened his casement;
the day without was bright and lovely; the
street was crowded with that life which is ever
so joyous and affluent in the animated popula-
tionof Naples. He saw the lover as he passed
conversing with his mistress, by those mute ges-
tures which have survived all changes of lan-
guaijgesu the same now as when the Etruscan
painted yon vases in the Museo Borhonico. Life
from without beckoned his youth to its mirth and
its pleasures; and the dull walls within, lately
large enough to comprise heaven and earth,
seemed now cabincd and confined as a felon's
risnn. He welcomed the step of Mervalc at
iis threshold, and unbarred the door.
“ And is that all you have done l" said Mer-
vale, glancing disdainfully at the canvass. “ Is
it for this that you have shut yourself out from
the sunny days and moonlit nights of Naples 1"
“While the fit. was on me, I baskcd in a
brighter sun, and imbibed the voluptuous luxury
of a softer moon.”
“ You own that the fit is over. Well, that is
some sign of returning sense. After all, it is bet-
ter to daub canvass for three days than make a
fool of yourself for life. This little siren i"
“ lie dumb! I hate to hear you name her."
Mervale drew his chair nearer to Glyndon’s,
thrust his hands dee in his breaches pockets,
stretched his legs, an was about to begin a se-
rious strain of expostnlation, when a knock was
heard at the door, and N icot, without waiting for
leave. thrust in his ugly head.
“Good-day, mon cher confrére. I wished to
speak to you. Heinl you have been at work, I
see. This is well—very well! A bold outline;
great freedom in that right hand. But holdl is
the composition goodl You have not got the

that little finger is very fine i"
Mervale detested N icot: for all speculators,
Utopians, alterers of the world, and wanderers
from the high road, were equally hateful to him ;
but he could have hugged the Frenchman at that
moment. He saw in Glyndon’s expressive coun-
tenance all thewenriness and disgust he endured.
After so rnpt a study, to be printed to about
pyramidal forms, and right arms, and right legs—
the accidence of the art—the whole conception to
be overlooked, and the criticism to end in ap-
proval of the little finger!
“ Oh," said Glyndon, peevishly throwing the
cloth over his design, “ enough of my poor per-
foi'nmnce, What is it you have to say to me i"
“ In 1he first place," said N icot, huddling him-
self together upon a stool, “ in the first place,
this Signor Znnoni—this second Cagliostro—who
disputes my doctrinesl (no doubt, a spy of the
man Cnpet). I am not vindictive; as Helvetius
says, ' our errors arise from our passions.’ I
keep mine in order; but it is virtuous to hate in
the cause of mankind: I would I had the de-
nouncing and the judging of Signor Zanoni at
Paris." And Nicot's small eyes shot fire, and he
gnashed his teeth.
“ Have you any new cause to hate him i"
“ Yes,” said N icot, fiercely. “ Yes; I hear he
is courting the girl I mean to marry."
“ You! Whom do you speak oft"
“ The celebrated Pisanil She is divinely hand-
some. She would make my fortune in a repub-
lic. And a republic we shall have before the
year is out i"
Mervale rubbed his hands, and chuckled. Glyn-
don coloured with rage and shame.
“ Do you know the Signora l’isanil
you ever spoken to her 1"
" Not yet. But when I make up my mind to
anything, it is soon done. I am about to return
to Paris. They write me word that a handsome _
wife advances the career of a patriot. The age
of prejudice is over. The sublimer virtues be~
gin to he understood. I shall take back the
handsomest wife in Europe."
“ Be quiet! What are you about?" said Mer-
vule, seizing Glyndon, as he saw him advance to-
wards the Frenchman, his eyes sparkling and his
hands clinched.
“ Sir l"'said Glyndon, between his teeth, “ you
know not of whom you thus speak. Do you af-
fect to suppose that Viola l’isuni would accept
you i"
“ Not if she could get a better offer," said Mer-
vale, looking up to the ceiling.
“ A better otfcr 3 You don‘t understand me,“
said Nicot. “I, Jean Nicot, propose to marry
the girl—marry herl Others may make her
more liberal otters, but no one, I apprehend,
would make one so honourable. I alone have pity
on her friendless situation Besides, according to
the dawning state of things, one will always, in
France, be able to get rid of a wife whenever
one wishes. We shall have new laws of divorce.
Do you imagine that an Italian girl—and in no
country in the world are maidens, it seems, more
chaste (though wives may console themselves
with virtues more phflosophimlkwould refuse
Have


ZAN ON I.
4k
the hand of an artist for the settlements of a
prince! No; I think better of the Pisani than
on do. I shall hasten to introduce myself to
or."
“ I wish you all success, Monsieur N icot," said
Mervale, rising and shaking him heartin by the
hand
Glyndon cast on them both a disdainful glance.
“ Perhaps, Monsieur Nicot," he said, at length,
coristrainin his li s into a bitter smile, “ erha s ‘
8 P P P
you may have rivals.”
“ So much the better,” replied Monsieur N ieot,
carelessly, kicking his heels together, and appear-
ing absorbed in admiration at the size of hisc
large feet.
“ I myself admire Viola. Pisani."
-,“ Every painter must i"
“ I may offer her marriage as well as yourself."
“ That would be folly in you, though wisdom
in me. You would not know how to draw profit
from the speculationl Cher confrere, you have
prejudices."
“ You do not dare to say you would make
profit from your own wife 3"
“The virtuous Cato lent his wife to afriend.
I love virtue, and cannot do better than imitate
Cato. But, to be serious, I do not fear you as a
rival. You are good looking, and I am ugly;
but you are irresolute, and I decisive. While
you are uttering fine phrases, I shall say, simply,
‘ I have a hen état: will you marry me i' So do
your worst, cher confrere. Au revoir, behind the
scenes 1"
So saying, Nicnt rose, stretched his long arms
and short lies, yawned till he showed all his rag-
ged teeth from ear to ear, pressed down his cap
on his shaggy head with an air of defiance, and
casting over his left shoulder a glance of triumph
and malice at the indignant Glyndon, sauntered
out of the room.
Mervale burst into a violent fit of laughter.
" See how your Viola is estimated by your friend.
A fine victory, to carry her off from the ugliest
dog between Lapland and the Calmucks.”
Glyndon was yet too indignant to answer,
when a new visiter arrived. It was Zanoni him-
self. Mervale, on whom the appearance and as-
pect of this personage imposed a kind of reluc-
tant deference, which he was unwilling to ac-
knowledge, and still more to betray, nodded to
Glyndon, and saying simply, “ More when I see
you again,” left the painter and his unexpected
visitor.
“ I see," said Zanoni, lifting the cloth from the
canvass, “that you have not slighted the advice
I gave you. Courage, young artist, this is an
acape from the schools; this is full of the bold
self-confidence of real genius. You had no Nicot,
no Mervale at your elbow when this image of
true beautv was conceived l”
Charmed back to his art b this unlocked-for
praise, Glyndon replied, modestly, “I thought
well of my design till this morning, and then I
was disenchanted of my happy persuasion."
“ Say, rather, that, unaccustoned to continued
labour, you were fatigued with your employ-
ment."
“ That is true. Shall I confess it? I began
to miss the world without. It seemed to me as
if, while I lavished my heart and my youth
visions of beauty, I was losing the beauti-

ful realities of actual life. And I envied the
merry fisherman, singing as he passed below in.
casement, and the lover conversing with his mis-
tress."
“ And," said Zanoni, with an encouraging
smile, " do you blame yourself for the natural
and necessary return to earth, in which even the
most habitual visiter of the Heavens of Invention
seeks his relaxation and repose. Men‘s genius is
a bird that cannot be alwa s on the wing; when
the craving for the act world is felt, it is a
hunger that must be appeased. They who com-
mand best the ideal, enjoy ever most the real.
See the true artist, when abroad in men's thor-
oughfares, ever observant, ever diving into the
heart, ever alive to the least as to the greatest
of the complicated truths of existence—descend-
ing to what pednnts would call the trivial and
the frivolous. From every mesh in the social
web he can disentangle a grace. And tor him
each airy gossamer floats in the gold of the sun-
light. Know you not, that around the animalcnle
that sports in the water, there shines a. halo, as
around the star* that revolves in bright pastime
through the space 3 True art finds beauty every-
where. In the street. in the market-place, in the
hovel, it gathers food for the hive of its thoughts
In the mire of politics, Dante and Milton selected
pearls for the wreath of song. Who ever told
you that Rafi'uéle did not enjoy the life without,
carrying everywhere with him the one inward
idea of beauty, which attracted and iinbedded in
its own amber every straw that the feet of the
dull man trampled into mud? 'As some lord of
the forest wanders abroad for its prey, and scents
and follows it over plain and hill, through brake
and jungle, but, seizrng it at last, bears the quarry
to its unwitnessed cave, so Genius searches
through Wood and waste, untiringly and eagerly,
every sense awake, every nerve strained to
speed and strength, for the scattered and flying
images of matter, that it seizes at last with its
mi hty talons, and bears away with it into soli-
t es no footstep can invade. Go, seek the
world without ; it is for art the inexhaustible pas-
ture ground and harvest to the world within 1"
“ You comfort me," said Glyndon, brightening.
“ I had imagined my weariness a proof of my de-
ficiency ! But not now would I speak to you of
these ubours. Pardon me if I pass from the toil
to the reward. You have uttered dim pro hecies
of my future if I wed one who, in the ju gment
of the sober world, would only darken its pros-
pects and obstruct its ambition. Do you speak
from the wisdom which is experience, or that
which as fires to prediction i” >
“ Are ey not allied 3 Is it not be best accus-
tomed to calculation who can solve at a glance
any new problem in the arithmetic of chances 3"
“You evade my question."
“ N 0; but I Will adapt my answer the better
to your comprehension, for it is upon this very
point that I sought you. Listen to me i” Zanoni
fixed his eyes earnestly on his listener, and con-
tinued. “ For the accomplishment of whatever is
great and lofty, the clear perception of truths is
the first requisite—truths adapted to the object
desired. The warrior thus reduces the chances
of battle to combinations almost of mathematics.
He can predict a result if he can but depend upon
' The monns mica, found in the purest pools. l1 encom-
passed with a halo. And this is frequent among many
other species of unlmalcnlx.


46
ZANONI.
loss he can cross that bridge ; in such a time he
can reduce that fort. Still more accurately, for
he depends less on material causes than ideas at
his command, can the commander of the purer
science or divincr art, if he once perceive the truths
that are in him and around, foretell what he um
achieve, and in what he is condemned to fail. But
this perception of truths is disturbed by many
causes; vanity, passion, fear. indolence in himself,
ignorance of the fitting means without to accom-
plish what. he designs. He may miscalculate his
own forces; he may haYe no chart of the country
he would invade. It is only in a peculiar state
of the mind that it is capable of perceiving truth,
and that state is profound serenity. Your mind
is fevered by a desire for truth; you would com-
pel it to your embraces; you would ask me to
impart to you, without ordeal or preparation,
the grandest secrets that exist in nature. But
truth can no more be seen b the mind unprepar-
ed for it, than the sun can awn upon the midst
of night. Such a. mind receives truth only to pol~
lute it; to use the similc of one who has wandered
near to the secret of the sublime Goetia (or the
magic that lies within nature, as electricity within
the cloud), ‘ He who pours water into the muddy
well, does but disturb the mud.’ ”"
“ What do you tend to l’"
“ This : that you have faculties that may attain
to surpassing power; that may mnk vou among
those enchantcrs who, greater than t magian,
leave behind them the enduring influence, Wor-
shipped wherever beauty is comprehended, wher- 1
ever the soul is sensible of a. higher world than?
that in which matter struggles for crude and
incomplete existence." ,
“ But to make available those faculties, need I 1
be a prophet to tell .you that you 'must learn to
concentre upon great ob'ects all your desires.
The heartmust rest, that the mind may be active.
At present, you wander from aim to aim. .As
the ballast to the ship, so to the spirit are Faith
and Love. With your whole heart, affections,
humanity, centred in one object, your mind and
aspirations will become equally sumth and in
earnest. Viola is a child as et; you do not per-
ceive the high nature the of life will develop.
Pardon me if I say that her soul, purer and loftier
than your own, will bear it u ward, as a sacred
hymn carries aloft the s irits o the World Your
nature wants the harmony, the music which, as
the Pythagoreans wisely taught, at once elevates
and sooths. I offer you that music in her love."
“ But am I sure that she does love me i"
“ Artist, no; she loves you not at present: her
affections are full of another. But if I could
transfer to you, as the loadstone transfers its at-
traction to the magnet, the love that she has now
for me; if I could cause her to see in you the,
ideal of her dreams—"
“ Is such a gift in the power of man i”
“ I otter it to you, if your love be lawful, if
faith in virtue and yourself be deep and
oyal; if not, think you I would discnclmnt her
with truth to make her adore a falsehood i”
“ But if," persisted Glyndon, “if she be all that
you tell me, and if she loVe you, how can you rob
yourself of so priceless a treasure l”
“Oh, shallow and mean heart of man l" ex—


' lamb.. de Vll. Pythag.
the materials he is forced to employ. At such a I
claimed Zanoni, with unaccustomed passion and
vehemence, “dost thou mueeive so httle of love
as not to know that it sacrifices all—love itself—-
for the happiness of the thing -it loves? Hear
me i" And Zanoni's face grew le “ Hear me!
I press this uprm you, because lulove her, and be
cause I fear that with me her fate will be less
fair than with yourself. VVhy—ask not, for I
will not tell you. Enough! Time presses now
for your answer; it cannot long be delayed Be-
fore the night of the third day from this, all choice
will be forbid you i"
“ But,” said Glyndon, still doubting and we
picious,"‘ but why this haste T”
“ Man. you are not worthy of her when on ask
me. All I can tell you here, you sho d have
known yourself. This ravisher, this man of will,
this son of the old Visconti, unlike you—stead-
fast, resolute, earnest even in his crimes—never
relinquishes an object. But one passion controls
his lust: it is his avarice. The“ day after his at-
tempt on Viola, his uncle, the Cardinal ~—, from
whom he has large expectations of land and gold,
sent for him, and forbade him, on pain of forfeitlfifi
all the possessions which his schemes already
parcelled out, to pursue with dishonourable de-
' one whom the cardinal had' heeded and
loved from childhood. This is the cause of his
present pause from his pin-suit. While we is k
the cause eXpires. Before the hand of the clock
reaches the hour of noon, the Cardinal will
be no more. At this very moment, thy friend,
Jean Nicot, is with the Prince di —---.”
“ Hel Wherefore i"
“ To ask what dower shall go with Viola Pisani
the morning that she leaves the palace of the
rince.” \
“ And how do you know all this i”
“ Fool! I tell thee again, because a lover is a
watcher by night and by day; because love never
sleeps when danger menaces the beloved one i"
“ And you it was that informed the Cardi-
nal — l” ' ,
“Yes; and what has been my task might as
easil have been thine. Speak“: thine answer i"
“ on shall hava it on the third day from this."
“Be it so. Put ofi', poor waver-er, thyohap '-
ness to the last hour. On the third day In
I will ask thee thy resolve.”
“ And where shall we meet l”
“ Before midnight, where you my least expect
me. You cannot shun me, though you may seek
to do so l"
“ Stay one moment! You condemn me as
doubtful, irresolute, suspicious. Have I no cause?
Can I yield without a struggle to the strange fis-
cination you exert upon my mind i What interest
can you have in me, a stranger, that you should
thus dictate to me the gravest action in the life
of man? Do you suppose that any one in his
senses would not pause, and deliberate, and ask
himself, -‘ Why should this stranger (are thus for
me !’ "
“ And yet," said Zanoni. “if I told thee that I
could initiate thee into the secrets of that magic
which the philosophy of the whole existing wm-ld
treats as a chimera or imposition; if I promised
to show thee how to command the beings of air
and ocean ; how to accumulate wealth more easily
than a child can gather pebbles on the shore; to
place in thy hands the essence of the herbs which
prolong life from age to age; the mystery of that


ZANONI.
47
attraction by which to awe all danger, and disarm“
all violence, and subdue mun as the serpent
dmrlns the bird: if I on thee that all these irl
was mine to possess and to communicate, thou!
wouldst listen to me then, and obey me without ul
doubt l"
“ It is true; and I can account for this ,only by
the imperfect associations of my childhood—by
traditions in our house of—” y I
“ Your forefntlrer, who, in the revival of science,
sought the secrets of A llonius and Paracelsus."
“ What l” said Glyn on, amazed, “are you so
well acquainted with the annals of an obscure
lineage t‘
“ To the man who aspires to know, no man who
has been the meanest student of knowledge should
be unknown. You ask me why I have shown
this interest in your fate? There is one reason
which I have not vet told you There is a Fra-
ternity to whose nws and whose mysteries the
most inquisitive schoolmen are in the dark. By
these laws. all are pledged to Warn, to aid, and to
guide even the remotest descendants of men who
have toiled, though vainly, like our ancestor, in
the mysteries of the Order. c are bound to
advise them to their Welfare; nay, more, if they
command us to it, we must accept them as our
pupils. I am a survivor of that most ancient and
immemorinl union. This it was that bound me
to thee at the first; this; perhaps, attracted thy-
self unconsciously. Son of our Brotherh to me.”
“ If this be so, I command thee, in the name of
the laws thou obcyest, receive me as thy pupil l"
“ What do ou ask 3’" said Zanoui, passionately.
“Learn first t e conditions. No Neophyte must
have, at his initiation, one affection or desire that
chains him to the world He must be pure from
the love of woman, freed from avarice and ambi-
tion, freed from the dreams even of art, or the
hope of earthly flame. The first sacrifice thou
must make is—Violu herself. And for what?
For an ordeal that the most daring courage only
(am encounter, the most ethereal natures alone
survive 1 Thou art unfit for the science that has
made me and others what we are or have been;
for thy whole nature is one fear l”
“ Fear,” cried Glyndon, colouring with resent-
ment, and rising to the full hei ht of his stature.
“ Fear, and the worst fear: ear of the world’s
opinion; fear of the Nicots and the Mervales;
fear of thine own impulses when most generous;
fear of thine own powers when thy genius is most
bold; fear that virtue is not eternal; fear that
God does not live in heaven to kee watch on
earth; fear, the fear of little men, an that fear is
never known to the great.”
With these words Zanoni abruptly left the
artist—humbled, bewildered, and not convinced.
He remained alone with his thoughts till he was
roused by the striking of the clock; he then sud—
denl remembered Znnoni‘s_ prediction of the
cardinals death; and, seized With an intense de-
sire to learn its truth, be hurried into the streets—-
he gained the cardinnl’s palace. Five minutes
before noon his eminence had expired, after an
illness of less than an hour. Zanoui’s visit had
occupied more time than the illness of the cardi-
nal. Awed and pe loxed, he turned from the
palace, and as he wa ked through the Chiaja he
saw Nicot emerge from the portals of the Prince
di —.

CHAPTER V.
“ Col tuo lumc ml giro."
'l‘Asso, Canzone xv.
me Brotherhood, so sacred and so little
known, from whose secret and precious archives
the materials for this history have been drawn;
ye who have retained, from century to century,,
all that time has spared of the august and venera—
ble science, thanks to you if now, for the first
time, some record of the thoughts and actions of
no false and self-styled luminary of your Order
are given, however imperfectly, to the .world.
Many have called themselves of your hand;
man spurious pretenders have been so called by
the earned ignorance which still, bnfiied and per-
plexed, is driven to confess that it knows nothing
of your origin your ceremonies or doctrines, nor
even if on still have loml habitation .ou the
earth. flianks to you if I, the only one of my
country, in this age, admitted, with a profane
footstep, into your mysterious Academe, have
been by you empowered and instructed to adapt
to the comprehension of the uninitiated some few
of the truths which shone on the great
Shemain of the Chaldean Lore. and gleamed
dimly through the darkened knowledge of later
disciples, labouring. like Psellus and Inmbichus,
to revive the embers of the fire which burned in
the Hamarz'm of the East. Though not to us of
an aged and hoary world is vouchsafcd the ruins
which, so say the earliest oracles of the earth,
“rushes into the infinite worldl, nan/urn: opaqu-
mwi”+ yet is it ours to trace the reviving truths.
through each new discovery of the philoso her and
chymist. The laws of Attraction, of Electricity, and
of the yet more mysterious agency of that Great
Princip e of Life, which, if drawn from the Uni'
verse, would leave the Universe a Grave, were
but the code in which the Theurgy of old sought
the guides that led it to a legislation and science
of its own. To rebuild on words the fragments
of this history, it seems to me as if, in a solemn
trance, I was led through the ruins of a city
whose only remains erc tombs. From the
sarcophagus and the um I awake the geniusi of
the extinguished Torch, and so closely does its
shape resemble Eros, that at moments I scarcely
linow which of ye dictate to me—-O Level 0
Death! 1
And it stirred in the virgin’s heart—this new, un-
fathomable, and divine emotion! Was it only
the ordinary affection of the pulse and the fancy,
of the eye to the Beautiful, of the ear to the Elo~
quent, or did it not justify the notion she herself
conceived of iv—that it was born not of the senses,
that it was less of earthly and human love than
the efi'ect of some wondrous, but not unholy
charm! I said that from that day in which, no
longer with awe and trembling, she surrendered
herself to the influence of Zanoni, she had sought
to put her thoughts into words. Let the thoughts
attest their own nature.
run ser-coxrnssromn v
“ Is it the Daylight that shines on me, or the
memory of thy resencel Wherever I look,
the world seems ull of thee; in every ray that
' The reader will have the goodness to remember that
this is said by the author of the original MSS-r not by the
editor.
in Orac. Chald. up Free].
1‘ Exoe
i The rock Genius ofDoalh.


48
ZANON I.
trembles on the water, that smiles upon the
leaves, I behold but a likeness to thine eyes.—
What is this change, that alters not only myself,
but the face of the whole universe? . . .
How instantaneously leaped into life the wer
with which thou swayest my heart in its oh and
flow. Thousands were around me, and I saw but
thee. That was the Night on which I first enter-
ed upon the world which crowds life into a Dra-
ms, and has no language but music. How strangely
and how suddenly with thee became that World
evermore connected! What the delusion of the
s we was to others, thy presence was to me. My
life, too, seemed to centre into those short hours,
and from thy lips I heard a music, mute to all
ears but mine. I sit in the room where my fa-
ther dwelt Here, on that hin night, forget-
ting why they were so happy, I . trunk into the
shadow, and sought to guess what thou wert to
me ; and my mother's low voice woke me, and I
crept to my father’s side close—close from fear
of my own thoughts.
“ Ah 1 sweet and sud was the morrow to that
night, when thy lips wanted me of the Future.
An 0 han now, what is there that lives for me
to thin of, to dream upon, to revere, but thee !
“ How tenderly thou hast rebuked me for the
grievous wrong that my thoughts did thee ! Why
should I have shuddered to feel thee glancing
upon my thoughts like the beam on the solitary
tree, to which thou didst once liken me so well 1
1t was-—it was that, like the tree, I struggled for
the light, and the light came. They tell me of
love, and my very life of the stage breathes the
language of love into my lips. N 0; again and
again, I know [hat is not the love I feel for thee l
it is not a passion, it is a thought! I ask not to
be loved again. I murmur not that thy words
are stern and thy looks are cold. I ask not if I
have rivals; I sigh not to be fair in thine eyes.
It is my {pin} that would blend itself with thine.
I would give worlds, though we were it
though oceans rolled between us, to know the our
in which thy gaze was lifted to the stars—4n
which thy heart. poured itself in prayer. They
tell me thou art more beautiful than the marble
images, that. are fairer than all the human forms ;
but I have never dared to gaze steadfastly on thy
face, that memory might compare thee with the
rest Only thine eyes, and thy soft, calm smile
haunt me. As when I look upon the moon, all
that passes into my heart is her silent light.
“ Often, when the air is calm, I have thought
that I hear the strains of In father’s music; of-
.ton, though long stilled in egrave, have they
waited me from the dreams of the solemn night.
Methinks, ere thou comest to me, that I hear them
herald thy approurh. Methinks I hear them wail
and moan when I sink back into myself on seeing
thee depart. Thou art of that music—its spirit,
its genius. My father must have guessed at thee
and thy native regions, when the winds hushed to
listen to his tones, and the world deemed him
mad I I hear, where I sit, the far murmur of the
sea. Murmur on, ye blessed waters! The waves
are the pulse of the shore. They beat with the
gladness of the morning wind : so beats my heart
' in the freshness and light that make up the
thoughts of thee l
“Ofien in my childhood have I mused and
asked for what I was born ; and my soul answer-
ed my heart, and said, ‘ 'l‘hou wert born to wor.
ship !‘ Yes; I know whv the ' real world has
ever seemed to me so false and cold. I know
, why the world of the stage charmed and dazzled
‘me. I know why it was so sweet to sit apart
and gaze my whole being into the distant heavens.
My nature is not formed for this life, happy
though it seem to others. It is its very want to
have ever before it some image loflicr than itself!
Stranger, in what-realm above, when the grave
is past, shall my soul hour after hour, worship at
the same source as thine ?
“ In the gardens of my neighbour there is a
small fountain. I stood by it this morning after
sunrise. How it sprung up, with its eager spray,
to the sunbeamsl And then I thought that I
should see thee again this day, and so sprung my
heart to the new morning which thou bringest
me from the skies.
I have seen, I have listened to thee again. How
hold I have become! I ran on with my child-
like thoughts and stories, my recollections of the
East, as if I had known thee from an infant. Sud-
enly the idea. of my presumption struck me. I
stopped, and timidly sought thine eyes
“ ‘ Well. and when you found that the nightin-
gale refused to sing l’
“‘Ahl' I said, ‘what to thee this history of the
heart of a child 1’
“ ‘ Viola,’ didst thou answer, with that voice, so
inexpressibly calm and earnestl ‘ Viola, the dark-
ness of a child‘s heart is often but the shadow of
a star. S k on! And thy nightingale, when
they on it and caged it, refused to sin 7’
“ ‘ An I placed the cage yonder, ami the vine
leaves, and took utg my lute, and spoke to it on
the "strings; for I ought that all music was its
native language, and it would understand that I
sought to comfort it.’
" ‘ Yes,’ saidst thou. ‘ And at last it answered
thee, but not with song—in a sharp, hrief cry ; so
moumful that thy hands let fall the lute, and the
tears gushed from thine eyes. So, softly didst
thou unbar the urge, and the nightingale flew into
yonder thicket; and thou heardest the foliage
rustle, and looking through .the moonlight, thine
eyes saw that. it had found its mate. It sang to
thee then from- the boughs u long, loud, joyous
jubilee. And, musing, thou didst feel that it was
not the vine-leaves or the moot ' ht that made
the bird give melody to night; that the so-
cret of its music was the presence of a thing be
IQVed.’
“How didst then know my thoughts in that
childlike time better than I knew myselfl How
is the humble life of my past years, with its mean
events, so mysteriously familiar to thee, bright
stranger! I wonder—but I do not again dare in
fear thee !
“ Once the thought of him oppressed and weigh-
ed me down. As an infant that longs for the
moon, my being was one vague desire for some-
thing never to be attained Now I feel rather as
if to think of thee sufficed to remove every fetter
i from my spirit. I float in the still seas of light,
and nothing seems too high for my wings, too
I glorious for my eyes. It was mine ignorance tint


ZANONI. 4'9
made me fear thee. A knowledge that is not in ] back—the life [know before I gave life itself away
books seems to breathe around thee as an atmos- 1 to thee. Give me back the careless dreams of m
ere. How little have I read 1 how little have 1 youth—my liberty of heart, that sung aloud cart
learned! Yet when thou art by TH side, itlwall-red the earth. Thou hast disenclumtcd me of
seems as if the veil were lifted from wisdom everything that is not of thyself. Where wasthe
and all nature. I startle even when Ilook at the ‘ sin, at least, to think of thee—to see thee? Thy
words I have written; they seem not to come i klt§ still glows upon my hand; isthat hand mine
from myself, but are the signs of another language
which thou hast taught my heart, and which my I
hand traces rapidly, as a: thy dictation Some ,
times, while 1 write or muse, I could fancy that I '
heard light wings hovering around me, and saw.
dim shapes of beauty floating round, and vanish,
ing as they smiled upon me. No unquict and
fearful dream ever comes to me now in sleep, yet»
sleep and waking are alike but as one dream. In
sleep, I wonder with thee, not through the paths
0f earth, but through impalpablc air—an air
wlich seems a music—upward and upward, as:
the soul mounts on the tones of a lyre l Till I;
knew thee, I was as a slave to the earth. Thou
hast given me the liberty of the universe! Be-
fm‘e, it was life; it seems to me now as if I had
commenced eternity!
“ Formerly, when I was to appear upon the
stage, my heart heat more loudly. Itrembled to
encounter the audience, whose breath gave shame
or fame; and now I have no fear of them. Isee
them. heed them, hear them not! I know that
there will be music in my voice, for it is a hymn!
that I pour to thee. Thou never comest to a the- i
atre, and that no longer grieves me. Thou art
become too sacred to a r a of the com-
mon world, and I feel glad that thou art not by
when crowds have a right to judge me. '~
" And he spoke to me of another—to another
In would consign me! No, it is not love that I
feel for thee, buoni, or why did I hear thee with-
out anger? wh did thy command seem to me not
a thing impossible! As the strings of the instru-
ment obey the hand of the master, thy look mo-
dulates the wildest chords of my heart tothy will.
If it please thee—yes—lct it be so. Thou art
lord of mv destinies; they cannot rebel against
thee! I almost think I could love him, whoever
it be, on whom thou wouldst shed the rays that
drcumfuse thyself. Whatever thou hast touched,
Ilove; whatever thou speakest of, I love. Thy
hand played with these vine-leaves: I wear them
in my bosom. Thou scemest to me the source of
all love: too high and too bright to be loved thy-
salt“, but dartng light into other objects, on which
thede can gaze less dazzled. No, no, it is not
love that I feel for thee, and therefore it is that I
do not blush to nourish and confess it. Shame on
me if I loved, knowing myself so worthless a
thingtothee!
" Another! my memory echoes back that word.
Another! Dost thou mean that I shall see thee
no more! It is not sadness—it is not despair that
seizes me. I cannot weep. It is an utter sense
of desolation. I run lunged hack into the com-
mon life, and I shudder coldl at the so' do,
But I will obey thee if thou wi L Shall Ino see

ject all doubt, all fear.
to bestowlI Thy kiss claimed and hallowed it to
thyself. Stranger, I will not obey thee.
“ Another day—one day of the fatal three is
gone I It is strange to me that since the sleep of
the last night, a eep calm has settled u n my
breast I feel so assured that my very is
become a part of thee, that I cannot believe that
my life can be separated from thine; and in this
conviction I repose, and smile even at thy words
and my own fears. Thou art fond of one maxim,
which thou re test in a. thousand forms: that
the beaut of e soul is faith; that as ideal love-
liness to e sculptor, faith is to the heart; that
faith, rightly understood, extends over all the
works of the Creator, whom we can know but
through belief; that it embraces a calm confidence
in ourselves, and a serene rcpo'se as to 0m future;
that it is the moonlight that sways the tides of the
human sea. That faith I comprehend now. Ire-
I know that Ihave inex-
tricably linked the whole that makes the inner life
to thee; and thou canst not tear me from thee. if
thou wouldstl And this change from struggle in-
to calm came to me with slee a sleep without
a dream; but when I woke, it was with n mys-
terious sense of hap iness—an indistinct. memory
of something blessedL-as if thou hadst cast from
afar off a smile u in my slumber. At night I
was so sad; not a lossom that had not closed it-
self up as if never more to open to the sun ; and
the night itself. in the heart as on the earth, has
ripened the blossoms into flowers. The world is
beautiful once more, but beautiful in repose; not
a breeze stirs thy tree, not a. doubt my soul !"
CHAPTER VI.
" Tu veggn 0 per vlolenzis 0 per inmnno
Pallre o dlsonuro 0 mortal dunno."
Oan. FIJI" cant. xlli., l.
IT was a small cabinet; the walls were covered
with icturcs, one. of which was worth more than
the w ole lineage of the owner of the
Oh, Yes i Zanoni was right. The painter is a
magician; the gold he at least wrings from his
crucible is no delusion. A Venetian noble might
be a fribblc or an assassin, 1i scoundrel or a dolt;
Worthless, or worse than worthless, yet he might
have eat to Titian, and his portrait may be inestj-
mable l A few inches of painted canvas :3. thou'
sand times more valuable than a man with his
veins and muscles, brain, will, heart, and intellect!
In this cabinet sat a man of about thmeand-
forty ; dark-eyed, sallow, with short, prominent
features, a massive conformation of jaw, and thick.
sensual, but resolute lips ; this man was the Prince
di -—. Ilia form above the middle height, and
then again beyond the gravel Oh, how sweet it | rather inclined to corpplence, was clad in a lease
mtodiel I
“ Why do I not struggle from the web in which
my will is thus entangledl Hast thou a right to,
Give me beck—give me!
dispose of me thusI;
dressing-robe of rich rocade. On a table before
him layan Oldfashioned sword and hat, a mask.
dice and dicebox, a portfolio, and an ink-stand of
silver curiously carved.


60 ZAN 0N1.
‘ Well, Msstm-i," said the prince, looking up] ad; but. as he touched it, a shin' came over him,
towards his parasite, who stoot b the embrasure and his heart stood still. Zanoni bent on him
of the deep-sot barricadocd win 0W, “ well i the ,his dark, smiling eyes, and then seated himself
cardinal slee )s with his fathers. I require com- ‘ with a familiar nir.
fort for the ties of so excellent a relation; and “Thus it is signed and sealed—I mean our
where a more dulcot voice than Viola Pisaiii's i" lfriendship, noble prince. And now I will tell you
“ Is your excellcncy serious? So soon after the l the object of my visit. I find, excellency, that—-
death of his eminence I" unconsciously, perhaps—we are rivals. Can we
“ It will be the less talked of, and I the less not accommodate our pretensions i"
suspected. Bast thou ascertained the name of the “ Ah," said the prince, carelessly, “ you then
insolent who baffled us that night, and advised the 'were the cavalier who robbed mo of the reward
cardinal the next day i” of my chase. All strntngems fair, in love as in
“ Not yet." iwar. Reconcile our pretensionsl Well, here is
“ Sapient Mascwi! I will inform thee. It was the dice-box; let us throw for her. He who casts
the strange Unknown." the lowest, shall resign his claim."
“ The Signor Zauonil Are you sure, my " Is this a decision by which you will promise
prince i" to be bound 3"
“ Mascari, yes. There is a tone in that man's “ Yes, on my fait .”
voice that I never can mistake; so clear and so “ And for him who breaks his word so plight.v
commanding, when I hear it I almost fancy there ,ed, what shall be the forfeit t"
is such a thing as conscience. However, we must | “The sword lies next to the dice-box, Signor
rid ourselves of an impertinent. Mascari, Signor Zanoni. Let him who stands not by his honour,
Zanoni hath not vet honoured our poor house with fall by the sword."
his presence. He is a distinguished stranger; we | “ And you invoke that sentence if either of us
7

must give a hanquetin his honour." 1fail his wordi Be it so. Let Signor Mascari
“ Ah ! and the cypress wine l The cypress is least for us.”
a proper emblem of the grave." ’ “ Well said i Mascari, the dice !"
y Butthis anon. I am superstitious: there are ‘ The prince threw himself back in his cha'u",
strange stories of his power and foresight; re- ‘and, world-hardened as he was, could not. sup
member the death of Ughelli. N o matter ! though [press the glow of triumph and satisfaction that
the fiend Were his ally, he should not rob me of spread itself over his features. Mascari took up
my rize--no, nor my revenge." the three dice, and rattled them noisily in the
“ Tour excellency is infituated', the actresshas I box. Zanoni, leaning his check on his hand, and
bewitched you." bending over the table, fixed his eyes steadfastly
“ Muscari," said the prince, with a haughty ion the parasite: Mascari in vain struggled to
smile, “ through these veins rolls the blood of the extricate himself from that searching gaze: be
old Viscoiiti—of those who boasted that no W0- grcw pale, and trembled; he put down the box.
man ever escaped their lust, and no manthoir re-i “I give the first throw to your excellency.
sentment. The crown of my fathers has sunk in- j Signor Mascari, be pleased to terminate our sue-
to a gewgaw and a toy ; their ambition and their pense."
spirit are uudccayed My honour is now enlisted Again Mzwcari took up the box; again his

in this pursuit: Viola must be mine!” lhimd shook, so that the dice rattled within. He
" Another ambuscadei” said Mascari, inqui- Lthrew: the numbers were sixteen.
ringly. 1 “It is a high throw," said Zanoni, calmly:
“ N n , why not enter the house itself ? the sitna- “ nevertheleiis, Signor Mascari, I do not despon
tion is lonely, and the door is not made of iron.” Mascuri gathered up the dice, shook the box,
“ But. what if, on her return home, she tell the and rolled the contents once more on the table:
tale of our violcpcet A house forced, a virgin the number was the highest that can be thrown—
stolenl Reflect: though the feudal privileges yeighteen.
are not destroyed, even a Visconti is not now The prince darted a glance of fire at his minion,
above the law." .wllo stood with gaping mouth, staring at the
“ Is he not, Mascflri i F001! in What age of idice, and trembling from head to foot.
the world, even if the Madmen of France succeed ‘ “ I have won, you see," said Zanoni; “may we
in their chimeras, will the iron of law not bend be friends still i"
itself, like an ozicr twig, to the strong band of “ Signor," said the prince, obviously struggling
power and gold? But look not so pole, Muscari', with anger and confusion, “the victory is already
I have foreplanned all things. The day that she y yours. But, pardon me, you have spoken lightly
leaves this palace, she will leave it for France of this young girl: will anything tempt you to
with Monsieur Jean N icot."‘ gyicld our claim l"
Before Mascari could reply, the gentleman of “ A , do not think so ill of my gallantry;
the chamber announced the Signor Zanoni. Iand," resumed Zanoni, with n stern meaning in
The prince involuntarily laid his hand on the ihis voice, "forget not the forfeit your own lips
sword placed on the .table; then, with a smile at E have named."
his own impulse, rose, and met his visiter at the i The prince knit his brow, but constrained the
threshold, with all the profuse and respectful ihaughty answer that was his first impulse.
courtesy of Italian simulation. I “Enough l" he'said, forcing a smile; “ I yield
" This is an honour highly prized," said the 1, La. me prove that I do not yield ungraciousl .
prince. “ I have long desired to clasp the hand f Will you favour me with your presence at a lit e
of one so distinguished." i feast I propose to give, in honour," he added, with
" And I give it in the spirit with which you a sardonic mocke , “of the elevation of my kins-
seck it,” replied Zanoni. .man, the late car inal, of pious memory, to the
The Neapolitan bowed over the hand he press— . true seat of St. Peter I”
i


ZANON I.
51~
1 ‘It is, indeed, a happiness to hear one com-
mand'of yours I can obey."
Zanoni then turned t e conversation, talked
Iightl and gaily, and soon afterwards departed.
“ illain I" then exclaimed the prince, grasping
Haecari by the collar, “ you betrayed me i"
“I assure your excellenc that the dice were
pro erly arranged: he s ould have thrown
twelve; but he is the devil, and that‘s the end
of it 1"
“There is no time to be lost,” said the prince,
quitting his hold of his parasite, who quietly re-
settled his cravat.
“My blood is up! I will win this girl, if I
die for it! What noise is that i”
“ It is but the sword of your illustrious ances-
tor that has fallen from the table.”
CHAPTER VII.
“ll ne faut appeller aucnn ordre si ce n‘est en terns
clair et serein."—.L¢.r Claoicuks do Rabbi Summon.
me FBOI ZANONI T0 IUNOUR.
HY art is already dim and troubled. I have
lost the tranquillity which is power. I cannot
influence the decisions of those whom I would
most guide to the shore; I see them wander far-
ther and deeper into the infinite ocean, where
our barks sail evermore to the horizon that flies
before us. Amazed and awed to find that I can
only warn where I would control, I have looked
into my own soul. It is true that the desires of
earth chain me to the Present, and shut from me
the solemn secrets which Intellect, purified from
all the dross of the clay, alone can examine and
survey. The stem condition on which we hold
our nobler and diviner gifts, darkens our vision
towards the future of those for whom we know
the human infirmities of 'ealousy, or hate, or love.
Mejnour, all around me is mist and haze; I have
gone back in our sublime existence; and from
the bosom of the imperishalfle youth that blooms
only in the spirit, springs up the dark poison-
flower of human love.
This man is not worthy of her: I know that
truth: yet in his nature are the seeds of good
and greatness, if the tares and weeds of worldly
vanity and fears would sufl'er them to grow. If
she were his, and I had thus transplanted to
another soil the passion that obscures my gaze
and disanns my power, unseen, unheard, unre-
cognised, I could watch over his fate, and secretly
prompt his deeds, and minister to her welfare
through his own. But time rushes on 1 Through
the shadows that encircle me, I see gathering
round her the darkest dangers. No choice but
flight, no escape save with him or me. With
me! the rapturous thought, the terrible convic-
fionl With mel Mejnour, canst thou wonder
that I would save her from myself i A moment
in the life of ages, a bubble on the shoreless seal
What else to me can be human love? And in
this ex uisite nature of hers—more pure, more
' ' even in its young affections than ever
8pm
’heretOfore the countless volumes of the heart,
race after race, have given to my gaze—there is
yet a deep-buried feeling that warns me of in-
evitable wo. Thou, austere and remorseless Hie-
lrophant—thou, who hast sought to convert to
our brotherhood every spirit that seemed to thee
most high and bold—even thou knowest, b hor-
rible experience, how vain the hope to ish
g ear from the heart of woman. My life would
to her one marvel. Even if, on the other
:hand, I sought to guide her path through the
realms of terror to the light, think of the Haunter
of the Threshold, and shudder with me at the
awful hazard ! I have sought to fill the English-
man’s ambition with the true glory of his art;
but the restless spirit of his ancestor still seems
to whisper in him, and to attract to the s heres
in which it lost its own wandering way. ere is
a mystery in man‘s inheritance from his fathers.
Peculiarities of the mind, as diseases of the body,
rest dormant for generations, to revive in some
distant descendant—to bafl‘le all treatment, and
elude all skill. Come to me from thy solitude
amid the wrecks of Rome! I nt for a living
confidant—for one who in the o d time has him-
self known jealousy and love. I have sought
commune with Adon~Ai; but his presence, that
once inspired such heavenly content with know-
ledge, aud so serene a confidence in destiny, now
only troubles and perplexes me. From the height
from which I strive to search into the shadows
of things to come, I see confused s ectres of me-
nace and wrath. Methinks to be old a ghastly
limit to the wondrous existence I have held:
methinks that, after ages of the Ideal Life, I see
my course merge into the most stormy whirlpool
of the Real. Where the stars opened to me
their gates, there looms a scaffold; thick streams
of blood rise as from a shambles. What is more
strange to me, a creature here—s very t pe of
the false ideal of common men, body an mind;
a hideous mockery of the art that shapes the
beautiful, and the desires that seek the perfect—
ever haunts my vision in these perturbed and
broken clouds of the fate to be. By that shadowy
scaffold it stands and gibbers at me, with lips
dropping slime and gore. Come, 0 friend of
the far~timel for me, at least, thy wisdom has
not purged away th human affections. Accord
ing to the hon s 0; our solemn order, reduced
now to thee and in self, lone survivors of so
many haughty and g orious aspirants, thou art
pledged, too, to warn the descendant of those
whom thy counsels sought to initiate into the
great secret in a former age. The last of that
bold Visconti, who was once thy pu il, is the
relentless ersecutor of this fair chi d. With
thoughts 0 lust and murder, he is digging his
own grave; thou mayst yet daunt him from his
doom. And I also, mysteriously, by the same
bond, am pledged to obey, if he so command, a
less guilty descendant of a baflled but nobler
student. If he reject my counsel and insist u
the pledge, Mejnour, thou wilt have another g
phyte. Beware of another victim! Come to
me! This will reach thee with all speed. An-
swer it b the pressure of one hand that I can
dare to c p!

Y
4"
“I! :M.


52
ZANONI.
CHAPTER VIII.
“ ll lupo
Forlto, credo, ml conobbo e 'ncontro
Mi venue con In boccu sangulnosa."
Auns'rs, At. lv., sc. 1.
Ar Naples, the tomb of Virgil, beetling over
the cave of Posil' , is reverenced, not with the
feelings that sho d hullow the memory of the
poet, but the awe that wraps the memory of the
ician. To his charms they ascribe the hol-
lowmg of that mountain passage; and tradition
yet guards his tomb by the spirits he had raised
to construct the cavcni. This s t, in the imme-
diate vicinity of Viola’s home, had often attracted
her solitary footste She had loved the dim
and solemn fancies t beset her as she looked
into the lengthened gloom of the grotto, or, as-
cending to the tomb, gazed from the rock on the
dwarfed figures of the busy crowd that seemed
to creep like insects along the windings of the yo
soil below; and now, at noon, she bent thither her
thoughtful way. She threaded the narrow path,
she ed the loomy vinede that clambers
up e rock, an gained the lofty top, green
with moss and luxuriant foliage, where the dust
of him who yet sooths and elevates the minds of
men is believed to rest From afar rose the huge
fortress of St. Elmo, frowning darkly amid spires
and domes that glittercd in the sun. _Lu.lled in
its azure splendor lay the Siren’s sea; and the
gray smoke of Vesuvius, in the clear distance,
soared like a moving illar into the lucid sk .
Motionlc-ss on the brin of the precipice, Vioh
looked upon the lovely and living world that
stretched below; and the sullen va ur of Ve-
suvius fascinated her eye yet more the scat-
tered gardens or the gleaming Caprea, smiling
amid the smiles of the sea. She heard not a step
that had followed her on her th, and started to
hear a voice at hand. So sn den was the appa-
rition of the form that stood by her side, emerg-
ing from the bushes that Glad the orags, and so
singularly did it harmonize in its uncouth liness
with the wild nature of the scene immxiately
around her, and the wizard traditions of the place,
that the colour left her cheek, and a faint cry
broke from her lips.
“Tush, pretty trembler! do not be frightened
at my face," said the man, with a bitter smile.
“ After three months' marriage there is no differ-
ence between ugliness and beauty. Custom is a
cat levellor. l was coming to your house when
saw you leave it; so, as I have matters of im-
portance to communicate, I ventured to follow
your footsteps. My name is Jean Nicot, a name
already favourably known as a French artist.
The art of painting and the art of music are nearly
connected, and the stage is an altar that unites
the two.“
There was something frank and unembiurassed
in the man's address that served to dispel the
fear his appearance had occasioned He seated
himself, as he spoke, on a cmg beside her, and,
looking up steadily into her face, continued:

“ You are very beautiful, Viola Pisnni, and I
am not surprised at the number of your admirers.
If I presume to place myself in the list, it is be- '
cause I am the only one who loves thee honestly, .
and woos thee fairly. Nay, look not so indig-
nant! Listen to me. Has the Prince di _—

ever spoken to thee of marriage! or the beautiful
im tor Zanoni! or the young .blue-eyed Eng-
' Clarence Glyndonll It is marriage, it is
a home, it is safety, it is re ntation that I offer to
thee. And these last w on the straight fon'n
grows crooked and the bright eyes dim. What
say on?" and he attempted to seize her hand.
iola shrunk from him, and silently turned to
depart. He rose abruptly, and placed himself on
her path.
“Actress, on must hear mol Do you know
what this ' of the stage is in the eyes of
prejudice—that is, of the common opinion of
mankind. It is to be a Princess before the lamps
and a Pariah before the day. No man believes
in your virtue, no man credits your vows; you
are the pu pet that they consent to trick out with
tinsel for eir amusement, not an idol for their
worship. Are you so enamoured of this mreer
that you scorn even to think of security and
honour? Perhaps you are different from what
u seem. Perhaps you laugh at the prejudice
that would degrade you, and would wiselv turn
it to advantage. Speak frankly to me; l have
no prejudice either. Sweet one, I am sure we
should agree. Now, this Prince di ,1 have
a message from him. Shall I- deliver it t"
Neverhad Viola felt as she felt then; never
had she so thoroughly seen all the perils of her
forlorn condition and her fearful renown. N icot
continued:
“Zanoni would but amuse himself with thy
vanity; Glyndon Would despise himself if he
offered thee his name, and thee if thou wouldst
acce tit; but the Prince di— is in earnest,
and lie is wealthy. Listen l” -
And Nicot ap reached his lips to her, and hissed
a sentence whicli she did not suffer him to com-
plete. She darted from him with one glance of
unutterable disdain. As he strove to regain his
hold of her arm, he lost his footing and fell down
the sides of the rock, till, bruised and lacerated,
a ine branch saved him from the yawning abyss
be ow. She heard his exclamation of rage and
pain as she bounded down the path, and. without
once turningtnlook behind, regainedherhome. By
the porch stood Glyndon, conversing with Ginn-
etta. She him abruptly, entered the
house, and, sinking on the floor, wept loud and
'onately.
Glyndon, who had followed her in sin-prise,
vainly sought to sooth and calm her. She would
not reply to his questions; she did not seem to
listen to his rotestntions of love, till suddenly,
as N icot's terrible picture of the world’s judgment
of that profession, which to her yo er the ts
had seemed the service of song and e beautiful.
forced itself 11 n her. her face from
her hands, an looking ste '7' upon the
lishman, said, “ False one, dost thou talk to filling-f
love i"
“ y my honour, words fail to tell thee how I
level
“Wilt then give me thy home—th unmet
Dost thou woo me as thy wife?” An at that
moment, had Glyn

don answered as his better nn-
gel would have counselled. perhaps, in that revo-
, lutiou of her whole mind which the Words of Ni-
oot hadteti'ected, which made her despise her very
self; sicken of her lofty dreams, despair of the
future, and distrust her whole idenl—perha I
say, in resto ' her selfesteem, he would ve
won her oonfi and ultimately secured her


ZANON I.
58
love. But against the promptings of his nobler
nature rose up at sudden question all those
doubts that, as Zanoni had so well implied, made
the true enemies of his soul. Was he thus sud-
denly to be entangled into a snare laid for his
credulity by deceivers? Was she not instructed
to seize the moment to force him into an nvowal
prudence must repent? Was not the great Act»
rose, rehearsing n premeditated art? He turned
round as these thoughts, the chi dren of the world,
across him, for he literally fzuicied that lie
card the sarcastic laugh of Mervale without~
Nor was he deceived. Mervale was passing by
the threshold, and Gionetta had told him his friend
was within Who does not know the effect of the
World’s laughi Mervale was the crsonation of
the world. The whole world seeme to shout deri-
sionin those ringing tones. He drew back—he
recoiled. Viola. followed him with her earnest,
impatient eyes. At last he faltered forth, “Do
all thy profession, beautiful Viola, exact marriage
as the sole condition of love i” Oh, bitter ques-
tion! oh, poisoned taunt! He re nted'it the
moment after. He was seized wi remorse of
reason, of feeling, and of conscience. He saw
her form shrink, as, it were, at his cruel Words.
He saw the colour come and go, to leave the
writhing lips like marble; and then, with a sad,
gentle look of self-pity rather than of reproach,
she pressed her hands tightly to her bosom, and
5m
“ He was right! Pardon me, Englishman; I
see now, indeed, that I am the Punch and the
outcast."
“Hear, then, me. I retract. Viola! Viola!
it is for ou to forgive !”
But iola aned him from 'her, and, smiling
mournfully as she passed him by, glided from
the chamber, and he did not dare to detain her.

CHAPTER IX.
" Dun:- Ma, chi lung' e d‘Amor.
'I‘msi. Chi temo a fume.
DAYNI. E che giova fugg'lr da lul ch‘ ha l‘ali?
Tum. Jlflwr nasreutc M aorta l'ali I“
AIIHTA, At. ll., ac, ii.
Wnsx Glyndon found himself without Viola’s
house, Mervnle, still loitering there, seized his
arm. Glyndon shook him off abruptly.
" Thou and thy counsels," sai lie, bitterly,
“ have made me a coward and a wretch. But I
will go home—I will write to’her. I will pour
out my whole soul; she will forgive me et."
Mervale, who was a man of impenetra )le tem-
per, arranged his rufies, which his friends angry
gesture had a little disoomposed, and not till
Glyndon bud exhausted himself a while by pas-
sionate exclamations and reproaches did the ex-
perienced angler begin to tighten the line. He
then drew from Glyndon the explanation of what,
had passed, and artfully sought not to irritate,
but sooth him. Mervale, indeed, was by no
means a bad man; he had stronger moral notions
than are common among the young. He sin-
cerer reproved his friend for harbouring dis~
honourable intentions with regard to the actress.
" Because I would not have her thy wife, I never
dreamed that thou shouldat degrade her to th
mistress. Better of the twa an imprudent match

than an illicit connexion. But pause yet; do not
act on the impulse of the moment."
“ But there is no time to lose. I have pro-
mised Zanoni to give him my answer by to-mor-
row night. Later than that time, all option
ceases.”
“ Ah 1" said Mervale, “ that seems suspicious.
Explain yourself 1"
And Gl ndon, in the enmestness of his assion,
told his friend what had passed between imself
and Zanoni, suppressing only, he scarce knew
why, the reference to his ancestor and the mys~
terious brotherhood.
This recital gave to Mervale all the advantage
he could desire. Heavens l with what sound,
shrewd common sense he talkedl How evi-
dently some charlamnic coalition between the
actress and perhaps—who knows i—her clandes-
tine protector, snted with possession ! How equi-
vocal the character of one, the position of the
other! What cunning in the uestion of the
actress! How profoundly had lyndon, at the
first suggestion of his sober reason, seen throu h
the snare! What! was he to be thus mysti y
cnjoled and hurried into a rash marriage, because
Znnoni, a mere stranger, told him with a grave
face that he must decide before the clock struck
a certain hour?
“ Do this, at least," said Mervnle, reasonably
enough; " wait till the time ex ircs; it is but an-
other day. Bafile Zanoni. e tells thee that
he will meet thee before midnight to-morrow,
and defies thee to avoid him. Pooh! let us quit
Naples for some neighbourin place, where, no-
less he be indeed the devil, e cannot possibl'
find on Show him that you will not be led
blindfold even into an act that you meditate
yourself. Defer to write to her, or to see her,
till after tomorrow. This is all I ask. Then
visit her, and decide for yourself.”
G1 'ndou was staggered. He could not com-
bnt t e rensonings of his friend: he was not con-
vinced, but he hesitated; and at that'moment
Nicol; passed him. He turned round, and stop-
ped as he saw Glyndon.
“ Well, and do you think still of the Pisani i“
“ Yes; and you—"
“ Have seen and com'crsed with her. She
shall be Madame Nicot before this day week! I
am going to the cafe, in the Toledo; and, bark
ye, when next you meet your friend, Signor Za-
noni, tell him that he has twice crossed my path.
Jean Nicot, though a ninter, is a plain, honest
man, and always pays 1is debts."
" It is a good doctrine in money matters," said
Mervale; “as to revenge, it is not so moral, and
certainly not so wise. But is it in your love that
Zanoni has crossed your path? How that, if
your suit prosper so Well i"
“ Ask l1 ioln. Pisani that question. Bnh! Clyn-
don, she is a grude only to thee. But I have no
prcjudices. nce more. farewell i"
“ Rouse thyself, man !” said Mervale, slappin
Glyndon on the shoulder. “ What think you 0%
your fair one new!"
“ This man must lie."
“ Will you write to her at once i"
“ No; if she be really pln 'ing a game, I could
renounce her without a sig . Iwill watch her
closely; and, at all events, Zanoni shall not be the
master of my fate. Let us, as you advise, leave
Naples at'daybreak tomorrow!


54
ZANONI.
CHAPTER. X.
"0 chlunqns tu sin, che fnor d'ognl use,
Pleghl Nature ad opre alterc e strane,
E. lplando l secreti. entro al plu chluso
Spazj a ma voglia dclln mentl umane,
Deh—Dimml !"
Guns. Lia. cant. x., xvill.
The wine, perhaps the excitement of his
thoughts, animated Glyndotf, whose unequal spi-
rits were at times high and brilliant as those of
a schoolboy released; and the laughter of the
northern tourists sounded oft and merrily along
the melancholy domains of buried cities.
Hesperus had lighted his lamp amid the rosy
Esau the next morning the young English- skies as they arrived at Resins. Here the quit-
men mounted their horses, and took the road to- {ted their horses, and took mules and a gui e. As
wards Baiaa. Glyudon left word at his hotel ‘ the sky grew darker and more dark, the Moun-
that, if Signor Zanoni sought him, it was in the ‘ tain Fire burned with an intense lustre. In va-
neighbourhood of that once celebrated watering- rious streaks and streamlets, the fountain of flame
place of the ancients that he should be found.
They passed by Viola's house, but Glyndon
resisted the temptation of pausing there; and,
after threading the grotto of Posilypo, they
wound, by a circuitous route, back into the sub-
urbs of the city, and took the opposite road,
which conducts to Portici and Pom 'ii. It was
late at noon when they arrived at t e former of
these places. Here they halted to dine: for
Mervale had heard much of the excellence of the
macaroni at Portici, and Mervale was a bon
vivanl.
They put up at an inn of very humble preten-
sions, and dined under an awning. Mervale was
more than usually gay; be pressed the Mcrima
upon his friend, and conversed gayly.
“ Well, my dear friend, we have foiled Signor
Zanoni in one of his predictions at least. You
will have no faith in him hereafter."
“ The ides are come, not gone."
“Tush! if he be the soothsayer, you are not
the Cmsar. It is our vanit that makes you
credulous. Thank leaven, I 0 not think myself
of so much importance that the o erations of na-
ture should be changed in or er to frighten
me."
“ But why should the operations of nature be
changed? There may be a deeper philosophy
than we dream of—a philosophy that discovers
the secrets of nature, but does not alter, by pene-
trating, its courses."
“ A i you relapse into your heretical credu-
lity; you serious] suppose Zanoni to be a pro-
phet, a reader of t e future; perhaps an associate
ofgenii and spirits i"
Here the landlord, is little, fat, oily fellow,
came u with a fresh bottle of LAcrima He
hoped t eir cxcellcncios were pleased. He was
most touched—touched to the heart, that they
liked the macaroni. Were their excellencies go-
ing to Vesuvius? There was a slight eruption;
they could not see it where they were, but it was
pretty, and Would be prettier still after sunset.
“ A capital idea i" cried Mervale. “ What say
you, Glyndon l"
“I have not yet seen an eruption; I should
like it much.“
“ But is there no danger i” asked the prudent
Mervale. -
“ Oh, not at all; the mountain is very civil at
present It only plays a little, just to amuse their
excellencies the ‘nglish."
“ Well, order the horses and bring the bill;
we will go before it is dark. Clarence, my friend
—Func est bibmdum ; but take care of the pede
libero, which will scarce do for walking on lava l"
The bottle was finished, the bill paid; the gen-
tlemen mounted, the landlord bowed, and they
bent their wa ', in the cool of the delightful even-
ing, towards sins.

rolled down the dark summit, and the English-
men began to feel increase upon them, as they
ascended, that sensation of solemnity and awe
which makes the very atmosphere that surroumb
the Giant of the Plains of the Antique Hades.
It was night, when, leaving the mules,
ascended on foot, accompanied by their gui e
and a peasant who bore a rude torch. The guide
was a conversable, garrulous fellow, like most of
his country and his calling; and Mervale, who
possessed a sociable temper, loved to amuse or
to instruct himself on every incidental occa-
sion.
“ Ah l exoellency," said the guide, “ your
countrymen have a strong passion for the volcano,
Long life to theml they bring us plenty of mo-
ney. If our fortunes depended on the Neapoli-
tans, we should starve."
“ True, they have no curiosity," said Mervale.
“ Do you remember, Glyndon, the contempt with
which that old count said to us, ‘ You will go to
Vesuvius, I supposcl I have never been ; why
should I go! you have cold, you have hunger,
you have fatigue, you have danger, and all for
nothing but to see fire, which looks just as well
in a brazior as on a mountain.’ Ha! ha! the
old fellow was right."
“ But, excellency,” said the guide, “ that is not
all ; some cavaliers think to ascend the mountain
without our help. I am sure they deserve to
tumble into the crater.”
“ They must be bold fellows to go alone; you
don’t often find such l"
‘ “ Sometimes among the French, signor. But
the other night-I never was so frightened—I
had been with an English party ; and alady had
left apocket-book on the mountain, where she
had been sketching. She offered me ahandsome
sum to return for it, and bring it toher at Naples.
So I went in the evening. I found it, sure
enough; and was about to return, when I saw a
figure that seemed to emerge from the crater it-
self The air there was so pestiferous that I
could not have conceived ahuman creature could
breathe it and live. I was so astonished that I
stood still as a stone, till the figure came over
the hot ashes and stood before me face to thee.
Santa Maria, what a head i"
“ What! hideous i"
“No; so beautiful, but so terrible. It had no
thing human in its aspect."
“ And what said the salamander l"
“ Nothing i It did not even seem to perceive
me, though I was near as I am to you; but its
eyes seemed prying into the air. It passed by
me uickly, and, walking across a stream of
burning lava, soon vanished on the other side of
the mountain. I was curious and fool-hardy, and
resolved to see if I could bear the atmosphere
which this visiter had left; but, though I did not


ZANONL
55
advance within thirty yards of the spot at which
he had first appeared, I was driven back by a
as:
and its struggling and perturbed reflection
shed a glow over the horrors of the path.
vapour that well nigh stifled me. Oospetto, I l don recovered himself, and sped onward. Below,
have spat blood ever since."
“ N ow will I lay a wager that you fancy this
fire-king must be Zanoui," whispered Mei-vale,
I1.‘%iheml§ttle party had now arrived nearly at the
summit of the mountain, and unspeakably grand
was the spectacle on which they gazed. From the
crater arose a vapour, intensely dark, that over-


lhe heard the voice of Mervale calling on him,
:though he no longer saw his form. The sound
served as a guide. Dizzy and breathless, he
bounded forward, when—hark! a sullen, slow,
rolling sound in his earl He halted, and turned
back to gaze. The fire had overflowed its course;
it had opened itself a channel amid the furrows
of the mountain. The stream pursued him fast,
greed the whole background of the heavens, in —fust; and the hot breath of the chasing and
e centre whereof rose a flame that assumed a.
firm sin nlarly beautiful. It might have been
imagined toncrestof gigantic feathers, the diadem
of e mountain, high-arched, and drooping down-
ward, with the hues delicately
the whole shifting and tremulous as the plumage
on a warrior’s helm. The glare of the flame
spread, luminous and crimson, over the dark and
rugged ground on which the stood, and drew an
innumerable variety of shndhws from crag and
hollow. An oppressive and sulphurous exhala-
tion served to increase the gloomy and sublime
terror of the place. But, on turning from the
mountain, and towards the distant and unseen
ocean the contrast was wonderfully great; the
heavens serene and blue, the stars still and calm
as the eyes of Divine love. It was as if the
realms of the opposing principles of Evil and of
Good were brought in one view before the gaze
of man l Glyndon, once more the enthusiast, the
artist, was enchained and entranced by emotions
vague and undefinable, half of delight and half
of pain. Leaning on the shoulder of his friend,
he gazed around him, and heard with deepening
awe the rumbling of the earth below, the wheels
and voices of the Ministry of Nature in her
darkest and most inscrutable recess. Suddenly,
as a bomb from a shell, a huge stone was flung
hundreds of yards up from the jaws of the era-
ter, and, falling with a mighty crash upon the
rock below, split into on thousand fragments,
which bounded down the sides of the mountain,
s kling and groaning as they went. One of
ese, the largest fragment, struck the narrow
space of soil between the Englishman and the
do, not three feet from the spot where the
ormer stood. Mervale uttered an exclamation
0f terror, and Glyndoa held his breath and shud-
dared.
~ “Diavolol” cried the guide. “ Descend, exoch
lencies, descend! we have not a moment to lose:
follow me close I” ‘
Bo saying, the guide and the peasant tied with
as much swiftness as they were able to bring to
bear. Mervale, ever more prompt and ready than
his friend, imitated their exam :10, and Glyndon,
more confused than alarmed, f0 Owed close. But
the had not gone many yards, before, with a
ma and sudden blast, came from the crater
an enormous volume of vapour. It pursued, it
overtook, it overspread them. It swept the light
from the heavens. All was abrupt and utter
darkness; and through the gloom was heard the
about of the guide, already distant, and lost in an
instant amid the sound of the rushing gust, and
the groans of the earth beneath. Glyndon paused.
He was separated from his friend—from the
' e. He was alone with the Darkness and the
The vapour rolled sullenly away; the

preternatural foe came closer and closer upon his
cheek] He turned aside; he climbed desperately,
with hands and feet, upon a crag, that, to the
right, broke the ‘scathed and blasted level of the
shaded off, and 1 soil. The stream rolled beside and beneath him,
and then, taking a sudden wind round the spotI
on which he stood, interposed its li uid fire, a
broad and imlxlssuble bamer, between iis resting-
lace and escape. There he stood, cut off £r0m
descent, and with no alternative but to retrace his
steps towards the crater, and thence seek, without
guide or clew, some other pathway.
For a moment his courage left him', he cried
in despair, and in that overstrained pitch of voice
which is never heard afar off, to the guide, to Mer-
vale, to return to aid him.
No answer came; and the Englishman, thus
abandoned solely to his own resources, felt his
spirit and energy rise against the danger. He
turned back and ventured as far towards the cra-
ter as the noxious exhalation would permit; then,
gazing below, carefully and deliberately, he
chalked out for himself a path, by which he
trusted to shun the direction the fire-stream had
taken, and trod firmly and quickly over the
crumbling and heated strata.
He had proceeded about fifty yards, when he
halted abruptly; an unspeakable and unaccount-
able horror, not hitherto felt amid all his peril,
came over him. He shook in every limb; his
muscles refused his will; he felt, as it were, pul-
sied and death—stricken. The horror, I say, was
unaccountable, for the 1th seemed clear and safe.
The fire, above and be 'nd, burned clear and far;
and beyond, the stars lent. him their cheering
guidance. No obstacle was visible; no danger
seemed at hand. As thus, spellbound and 'c-
stricken, he stood chained to the soil, his roast
heaving, large drops rolling down his brow, and
his eyes starting wildly from their sockets-he saw
before him, at some distance, gradually shaping
itself more and more distinctly to his gaze, a Go-
lossal Shadow—a shadow that seemed partially
borrowed from the human shape, but immeasltia
bly above the human stature ; vague, dark, almost
formless, and difi'eriug, he could not tell where or
why, not only from the proportions, but also from
the limbs and outline of man.
The glare of the volcano, that. seemed to shrink
and collapse from this gigantic and appalling up-
parition, nevertheless threw its light redl and
steadily upon another sha that stood 'de
quiet and motionless; an it was, perhaps, the
contrast of these two things—the Being and the
Shadow—that imprexscd the beholder with the
difference between them—the Man and the Sn-
perhuman. It was but for a moment, nay, for the
tenth art of a moment, that this sight was per-
mitted) to the wanderer. A second eddy of sul-
M of the plumed fire was again dimly visible,| phuroms vapours from the volcano, yet more rap-


56
ZANONI.
idly, yet more densely than its predecessor, rolled
over the mountain; and either the nature of the
exhalation or the excess of his own dread was
such, that Glyndon, after one wild gasp for breath,
fell senseless on the
CHAPTER XI.
“ iVns hub 'lch'
' Wenn leh nlcht Alles hobs 'l—sprach der Jiingllng."
DA! Vinsonnilnri: 13an zu SA".
Mannie and the Italians arrived insafety at.
the spot where they had left the mules, and not
till they had recovered their own alarm and breath
did they think of Glyudon. But then, as the min-
utes passed, and he appeared not, Mervsle, whose
heart was as good, at least, as human. hearts are
in general, grew seriously alarmed. He insistod
on retuming, to search for his friend; and, by
dint of prodigal promises, prevailed at last on the
guide to accompany him. The lower part of the
mountain lny calm and white in the starlight, and
the ide's practised eye could discern all objects
on tile surface at a considerable distance. They
had not however, gone very far before they percei-
ved two forms slowly approaching towards them.
As they came nmr, Mervale recognised the
form of his friend. “ 'I‘hnnk Heaven, he is safe,"
he cried, turning to the guide.
" Holy angels, befriend us !“ said the Italian,
trembling. “ Behold the very being that crossed
me last Friday night ! It. is he! but his face is
human now !"
“Signor lnglese,” said the voice of Zanoni, as
Glyndon, pale, wan, and silent, returned passively
the 'nyous greeting of Mervale, “ Signor Inglese,
I told your friend that we should meet tonight.
You see you have not foiled my prediction.”
“ But how? but where?" stemmered Mervale,
in great confusion and surprise.
“ I found your friend stretched on the ground,
overpowered by the mephitic exhalation of the
miter. I bore himto n purer atmosphere; and,
as I know the mountain well, I have conducted
him safely to you. This is all our history. You
see, sir, that were it not for that pro hecy which
you desired -to frustmte, your friend) would, ere
this time, have been a corpse: one minute more,
and the vapour had done its work. Adieu; good-
night, and pleasant drowns.” '
“But, my preserver, you will not leave us i”
said Glyndon, anxiously, and speaking for the
first time. “ Will you not return with us i”
Zanoni paused, and drew Glyndon aside.—
“Young man," said he, gravely, “it is
that we should again most to-night. It is ne-
cessary that you should, era the first hour of
morning, decide on your own fate. I know that
have insulted her whom you profess tolove.
t is not too late to re nt. Consult not your
friend; he is sensible unifivise, but not now is his
wisdom needed. There are times in life, when,
from the inmgination, and not the reason, should
wisdom come; this, for you, is one of them. I
llk not your umwer now. Collect your thoughts,
recover your {jaded and scattered spirits. It wants
two hours 0 midnight~ Before midnight I will
be with you."
“ Incomprehensible being i” replied the Eu-

glishman, “ I would leave the life you have pre-
servedinyznrownhands; butwlmt l haveseen
this night 5 swept even Viola from my thoughts.
A fiercer desire than that of love burns in my
veins; the desire not to resemble, but to surpass
my kind; the desire to netmte and to share the
secret of- your own extstcnce; the desire of n
preternatural knowledge and unearthly power. I
make my choice. In my nncestor’s name, I ad-
jure and remind thee of thy pledge. Instruct.
me, school me, make me thine; and I surrender
to thee at once, and without a murmur, the wo
man whom, till I saw thee, I would have defied
a world to obtain.”
“ I bid thee consider well: on the one hand,
Viola, a tranquil home, a happy and serene life.
On the other hand, all is darlmess—qlarkness, that
even these eyes cannot penetrate.”
“ But thou hast told me that, if I wed V iola, I
must be contean with the common existence; if
I refuse, it is to aspire to thy knowledge and thy
wer."
“ Vain man! knowledge and power are not
happiness.”
ut they are better than happiness Say, if
I marry Viola, wilt thou be my master—my
guide? Sny this, and I am resolved”
“ It were impossible."
“ Then I renounce her! I renounce love. I re
nounce happiness Welcome solitude, welcome
dos air, if they are the entrances to thy dark and-
sub ime secret."
“ I will not take thy answer now. Before the
last hour of night thou shalt give it in one word—
ay or no! Farewell till then."
Zanoni waved his hand, and, descending rapidly,
was seen no more.
61 don rejoined his impatient and wondering
frien ; but Mervnle, gazing on his face, saw that a
great change had passed there. The flexile and
dubious expression of youth was forever gone.—
'l‘he features were locked, rigid, and stem; and
so faded was the natural bloom, that an hour
seemed to have done the work of years.

CHAPTER XII.
" Was ist's
Das hinter dlesem Schleler sich verbrlgt '!"
Du VIRBCIILIIIRTI Bin :11 Sns.
On returning from Vesuvius or Pompeii, you
enter Naples through its most animated, its most
N en. litnn quarter ' through that unrter in which
in em life most élosely rosemb es the ancient,
and in which, when, on a fair day, the thorough-
fare swarms alike with indolence and trade, you
are impressed at once with the recollection of that
restless, lively raw from which the population of
Naples derives its origin; so that in one day you
may see at Pompeii the habitations of a remote
age; and on the Mole, at Naples, you may inm-
gine you behold the very beings with whom those
habitafions had been peopled.
But now, as the Englishmen rode slowly through
the deserted streets, lighted but by the lam of
heaven, all the gayety of day was hushedpgnnd
breathless Here and there, stretched under a
portion or a dingy booth, were sleeping groups of
houscless lnzmroni, a tribe now merging its indo-
lent individuality nmid an energetic and active
population.


ZANONI.
57
.g-The Fhighshmen rode on in silence; for Glyn-I
in neither appeared to heed nor hear the neo-
tions and comments of Mervale, and Mervale ' 1-
oelf was almost as weary as the jaded animal he
bests-ode.
Suddenly the silence of earth and ocean was
broken by the sound of a distant clock, that pro-
claimed the uarter preceding the last hour of
night Glyn on started trom his rcvery, and
looked anxrously round. As the final stroke died,
the noise of hoofs rung on the broad stones of the
pavement, and from a narrow street to the right
emerged the form of a solitary horseman. He
neared the Englishmen, and Glyndon recognised
the features and mien of Zanoni.
“ What! do we meet again, signer i" said Mer-
‘He, in a vexed, but drowsy tone.
, “ Your friend and I have business together,” re-
plied Zononi, as he wheeled his steed to the side
ol,‘ Glyndon. “ But it will be soon transacted——
Perhn s you, sir, will ride on to your hotel.”
“ A ne 7"
“ There is no danger !” returned Zanoni, with a
alight expression of disdain in his voice.
“ None to me ; but to Glyndon i"
“ Danger from me 1 Ah, perhaps you are right."
“Go on, my dear Merva e," said Glyndon; “ I
will join “you before you reach the hotel.”
Merv e nodded, whistled, and pushed his horse
lab a kind of amble.
“ Now your answer—quick."
“I have decided. The low of Viola has van-
ished from my heart The pursuit is over."
“ You have decided l"
" I have; and now my reward"
“ Thy reward! Well, ere this hour to-morrow
it shall await thee.”
Znnoni gave the rein to his horse; it sprang
firward with a bound; the sparks flew from its
boots, and horse and rider disappeared amid the
shadows of the street whence they had emerged.
. Mervale was sur rised to see his triend by his
side a minute after ey had parted.
- a,“ What has (1 between you and Zanoni l"
"“ “Mervale, 0 not ask me tonight“, I am in a
dream."
“I 'do not wonder at it, for even I am in a
sleep. Let us push on.”
In the retirement of his chamber, Glyndon
sought to re-collect his thou ts. He sat down
on the foot of his bed, on pressed his hands
tightly to his throbbing temples. The events of
the last few hours; the apparition of the gigantic
and shade Companion of the Mystic, amid the
fires and “blends of Vesuvius; the strange on-
counter with Zanoni himself, on a spot in which
he could never, by ordinary reasoning, have cal-
culated on finding Glyndon, filled his mind with
emotions, in which terror and owe the least re-
Vailed. A fire, the train of which had been ong
laid,was lighted at his heart—the asbestos-fire,
that, once lit, is never to be quenched. All his
early aspirations, his young. ambition, his longings
for the laurel, were merged in one passionate
mining to overpass the bounds of the common
wle ge of man, and reach that solemn spot
between two worlds, on which the mysterious
stnmger appeared to have fixed his home.
4 Far from recalling with renewed altdght the
remembrance of the apparition that had so a
pulled him, the recollection only served to kindle
and concentrate his curiosity into a burning focus.
.1 oh. -

w;
He had said night-Jove had vanished from his
heart; therewas no longer a. serene space amid
its disordered elements for human affection to
move and breathe. The enthusiast was rapt from
this earth; and he would have surrendered all
that beauty ever promised, that mortal hope ever
whis ~d, for one hour with Znnoni beyond the
p0 of the visible world. _
He rose, oppressed and fevered with the new -
thoughts that raged within him, and threw 0
his casement for air. The ocean lay suit in
the starry light, and the stillness of the heavens
never more eloquently preached the morality of
repose to the madness of cartth passions. But
such was Glyndon’s mood, that their very hush
only served to deepen the wild desires that prey-
ed upon his soul. And the solemn stars, that are
mysteries in themselves, seemed, b a kindred
sympathy, to agitate the wings of e spirit no
longer contented with its age. As he gazed, a
star shot from its brethren, and vanished from the.
depth of space!
'

CHAPTER XIII;
“ Fro gll occult! penslerl
Che vuol 1 ch 'lo lama, n spcrl '!
TAsso, cunzone vl.
TH! young actress and Gionetti had returned
from the theatre, and Viola, fatigued and ex-
hausted, had thrown herself on the sofa, while
Gionetti bus-led herselll with the long tresses
which, released from the fillet that bound them,
half concealed the form of the actress, like a veil
of threads of gold. As she smoothed the luxuri-
ant locks, the old nurse ran gossiping on about
the little events of the night, the scrmdal and pol-
itics of the scenes, and the tire-room. Gionetta
was a worthy soul. Almauzor, in Dryden's tra-
gedy of “Almnhide,” did not change sides with
more gallant indifference than the exem )lary
nurse. She was at last grieved and sound ' d.
that Viola had not selected one chosen cavalier.-
But the choice she left wholly to her fair clmrge.
Zegri or Abeiwemge, Glyndon or Zanoni, it had
been the some to her, except. that the rumours she
had collected respecting the latter, combined with,
his own recommendations of his rival, had 'von
her preference to the Englishman. She inter-
preted ill the impatient and heavy sigh with-
which Viola eted her praises of Glyn on, and'
her wonder t he had of‘ late so neglected his
attentions behind the scenes, and she exhausted
all her powers of panegyric upon the supposed
object of the sigh. “And then, too,” she said,
“ if nothing else were to be said against the other
signer, it is enough that he is about to leave
Naples."
“ Leave Naples! Zanoni l"
“ Yes, darling. In passing by the Mole to-day,
there was a crowd round some outlandish-looking
sailors. His ship arrived this morning, and all—-
chors in the bay. The sailors so. that they are
to be prepared to sail with the rst wind; they
were taking in fresh stores. They "
“ Leave me, Gionetta! Leave me i” _
The time had already passed when the girl'
could confide in Gionetta. Her theughtslhnd ad-
vanced to that point when the heart receils from
all confidence, and feels that it carinot be compre-


58
ZANONI.
bended. Alone now, in the principal apartment
of the house, she paced its narrow boundaries
with tremulous and agitated steps; she recalled
the frightful suit of Nicot; the injurious taunt
of Glyndon; and she sickened at the remem-
brance of the hollow applauses which, bestowed
on the actress, not the woman, only subjected her
to contumely and insult. In that room the recol~
lection of her father’s death, the withered laurel
and the broken chords, rose chillingly before her.
Hers, she felt, was a. yet glloomier fate; the
chords may break while the urel is yet green.
The lam , waning in its socket, burned pale and
dim, an her eyes instinctively turned from the
darker corner of the room. Orphan! by the
hearth of thy parents, dost thou fear the presence
of the dead!
And was Zanoni indeed about to uit Naples?
Should she see him no more i Oh, ool, to think
that there was grief in an other thought! The
Past! that was gone! he Future! there was
no Future to her—Zanoni absent ! But this was
the night of the third day on which Zanoni had
told her that, come what might, he would visit
her again. It was, then, if she might believe
him, some ap inted crisis in her fate; and how
should she tellmhim of Glyndon’s hateful words?
The pure and the proud mind can never confide
its wrongs to another, only its triumphs and its
happiness. But at that late hour, would Zanoni
visit her? could she receive himl Midnight was
at hand. Still, in undefined suspense, in intense
anxiety, she lingered in the room. The quarter
before midnight sounded dull and distant. All
was still, and she was about to pass to her sleep-
ing-room, when she heard the hoofs of a horse at
full speed; the sound ceased; there was a knock
at the door. Her heart beat violently; but fear
gave way to another sentiment when she heard a
voice, too well known, calling on her name. She
paused, and then, with the fearlessness of inno-
cence, descended, and unharred the door.
Zanoni entered with a light and hasty ste .
His horseman’s cloak fitted tightly to his nob e
form; and his broad but threw a gloomy shade
over his commanding features
The girl followed him into the. room she had
gust left, trembling and blushing doe ly, and stood
efore him with the lamp she hel shiniu up-
ward on her cheek, and the long hair that fe like
a shower of light over the half~clad shoulders and
heaving bust. ' '
“Viola,” said Zanoni, in a Voice that spoke
deep emotion, “I am by thv side once more to
save thee. Not a, moment is to be lost. Thou
must it with me, or remain the victim of the
Prince ' I would have made the charge
I now undertake another’s ; thou k'nowest I would
—-thou knowest it! but he is not worthy of thee,
the cold Englishman! I throw myself at thy feet;
have trust in me, and fl .”
He gras 0d her hand passionately as he drop
p'cd on his nee, and looked up into her face with
'23 bright, beseeching e es.
“Fly with thee i" said Viola, scarce behaving
her senses.
“With me. Name, fame, honour—all will be
sacrificed if thou dost not.”
“Then—then,” said the wild girl, falteringly,

Zanoni was silent; but his breast heaved, his
cheeks flushed, his eyes darted dark and impas~
sioncd fire.
“ Speak !” exclaimed Viola, in jealous suspicion
of his silence.
“Indifferent to me! No; but I dare not yet
say that I love thee.”
“Then what matters my fate i" said Viola,
turning pale, and shrinking from his side; “leave
me; i fear no danger. My life, and therefore my
honour, are in mine own hands.”
“Be not so mad," said Zanoni. “Hark! do
you hear the neigh of my steed? it is an alarum
that warns us of the approaching peril. Haste,
or you are lost!”
“Why dost thou care for me i” said the girl,
bitterly. " Thou hast read my heart; thou know-
est that thou art the lord of m destiny. But to
be bound beneath the weight ofy a cold obligation;
to be the beggar on the eyes of Indifference; to
throw myself on one who loves me not; that
were indeed the vilest sin of my sex. Ah, Za-
noni, rather let me die l”
She had thrown back her clustering hair from
her face as she as he; and as she now stood, with
her arms drooping mournfully, and her hands
clasped together with the proud bittemess of her
wayward spirit, giving new zest and charm to
her singular beauty, it was im 'ble to conceive
a sight more irresistible to ie senses and the
heart.
“ Tempt me not to mine own danger—perhaps
destruction !” exclaimed Zanoni, in faltering ac-
cents. “ Thou canst not dream of what thou
wouldst demand—come !" and, advancing, he
wound his arm round her waist “ Come, Viola;
believe at least in my friendship, my honour, my
protection—”
“ And not thy love," said the Italian, turning
on him her reproachful eyes Those eyes met his,
and he could not withdraw from the charm of their
gaze. He felt her heart throbbing beneath his
own; her breath came warm upon his cheek. He
trembled—He! the lofty, the mysterious Zanoni,
who seemed to stand aloof from his race. With
a deep and burning sigh, he murmured, “ Viola,
I love thee ! Oh i” he continued, passionatel ,
and releasing his hold, he threw himself abrup y
at her feet, “ I no more command; as Woman
should be wooed, I woo thee. From the first
glance of those eyes, from the first sound of thy
voice, thou becnmest too fatally dear to me. Thou
speakest of fascination—it lives and it breathes in
thee ! I fled from Naples to fly from thy presence
——it pursued me. Months, years passed, and th
sweet face still shone upon my heart. I returne
because I icturcd thee alone and sorrowful in the
world, an knew that dangers from which I might
save thee were gathering near thee and around.
Beautiful Soul! whose leaves I have read with
reverence, it was for thy sake, thine alone, that I
would have given thee to one who might make
thee happier on earth than Ican. Viola! Viola!
thou knowest not—never canst thou know—how
dear thou art to me!"
It is in vain to seek for words to describe the
delight, the proud, the full, the complete, and the
entire delight that filled the heart of the Neapoli-
tan. He whom she had considered even too lofty for
and turning aside her face, “then I am not indif- ' love, more humble to her than those she had half
ferent to thee! Thou wouldst not give me to
another?”

keto
despised ! She was silent, but her eyes s
t the
him; and then slowly, as aware, at last,


ZANONI.
59
hmpanlove had advanced ontheideal, sheshnmk
' [fire tenors of a modest and virtuous nature.
vdidnot.dare—she did not dreamtoaskhim
la question she had so fearlessly made to Glyn-
ddl; but she felt a sudden coldness—a sense that
a'barrier was yet between love and love. “ Oh,
Zanoni 1" she murmured, with downcast eyes,
" ask me not to fly with thee; tempt me not to
my shame. Thou wouldst rotect me from others.
Oh, me from thyse 1”
‘ oor o han” said he, tenderly, “ and canst
thou think t I ask from thee one sacrifice, still
less the eatest that woman can give to love 8
As my wrfe I woo thee, and by every tie and by
every vow that can hallow and endear affection.
Alas! they have belied love to thee, indeed, if
thou dost not know the reli ion that belongs to it 1
They who truly love woul seek for the treasure
the obtain, eve bond that can make it lasting
secure. Vio weep not, unless thou givest
me the holy right to kiss away thy tears I"
And that beautiful face, no more averted, droop-
ed u n his bosom; and as he bent down, his lips
' t the rosy mouth : a long and burning klsn‘
—life—the world was forgotten! Sud-
denl Zanoni tore himself from her.
“ earest thou the wind that sighs and dies
away? As that wind, my wer to preserve thee,
to guard thee, to foresee t e storm in thy skies is
No matter. Haste, haste; and may love
supply the loss of all that it has dared to sacrifice!
Come 1”
Viola hesitated no more. She threw her mantle
over her shoulders, and gathered up her dishevell<
ed hair; a moment, and she was prepared, when
a sudden crash was heard below.
“ Too late l—fool that I was—too late !" cried
Zanoni, in a sharp tone of agony, ashe hurriedto
the door. He opened it, only to be borne back
by the press of armed men. The room literally
swarmed with the followers of the ravisher, mask-
ed and armed to the teeth.
Viola was already in the grasp of two of the
m ‘dons. Her shriek smote the ear of Zanoni.
rang forward, and Viola heard his wild cry
in a ,oreign tongue! She saw the blades of the
rufialis pointed at hisbreastl She lost her senses;
and when she recovered, she found herself gagged,
and in a carriage that was driven rapidly, by the
ads of a masked and motionless figure. The car-
riage stopped at the portals of a gloom ' mansion
The gates opened noiselessly; a broa flight of
steps, brilliantly illuminated, was before her. She
minfiepalaoeofthePnncedi—

r.
I
.w . CHAPTER XIV.
“girl,” r _
k I r “ Ma luclaron. per Dlo. llgnore, ormal
‘g D! parlar d'ira, e dl cantor dl morte.“
- 031.. Fun.’ canto xvii. xvii.
Tl! ‘ actress was led to, and left alone in
and“: ed with all the luxurious and half~
Eastern taste that at one time characterized the
of the great seig-neurs of Ital . Her first
thought was for Zanoni. Was be yet 'ving? Had
he esea unscathed the blades of the feel her
new treasure—the new light of her life—her lord,
lb but her lover? w
" '81» had short time for reflection.” She heard
stepsappronchingthe chamber; she drew back,

but trembled not. A courage, not of herseH, never
known before, sparkled in her eyes and dilated her
stature. Living or dead, she would be faithful
still to Zanoni! There was a new motive to the
preservation of honour. The door opened, and
the prince entered in the gorgeous and gaudy cos-
tume still worn at that time in Naples.
“ Fair and cruel one," said he, advancing, with
a half sneer upon his lip, “thou wilt not too harsh-
ly blame the violence of love.” He attempted to
take her hand as he spoktr '_
"' Nay,” said he, as she recoiled, “ reflect that
thou art now in the power of one that never fal-
tercd in the pursuit of an object less dear to him
than thou art. Thy lover, presumptuous though
he be, is not by to save thee. Mine thou art; but
instead of thy master, suffer no to be thy slave."
“ Prince," said Viola, with a stern gravity,
“yourboastisinvain. Your er! Iammt
in your wer. Life and death are in my own
hands. Iowill not def , but I do not fear you. I
feel—and in some fee ' gs," added Viola, with a
solemnity almost thrilling, “ there is all the strength
and all the divinity of knowledge—I feel that I
am safe even here ; but you—you Prince di -—-,
have brought danger to our home and hearth l"
The N02. litan seeme startled by an earnest-
nem and a ldness he was but little prepared for.
He was not, however, a man easily intimidated
or deterred from any purpose be had formed ; and,
approaching Viola, he was about to reply with
much warmth, real or affected, when a knock was
heard at the door of the chamber. The sound was
repeated, and the prince, chafed at the interrup-
tion, opened the door and demanded, impatiently,
who had ventured to disobey his orders and in-
vade his leisure. Mascari presented himself, pale
and itated: “ My lord,” said he, in a whisper,
“' par on me; but a stranger is below, who insists
on seeing you; and from some words he let bill,
I judged it advisable even to infringe on your com-
mands."
“ A stranger l and at this hour! W'hat business
can he pretend t Why was he even admitted l”
“ He asserts that your life is in imminent dan-
ger. The source whence it proceeds he will relate
to our excellency alone.”
1e prince frowned, but his colour changed He
mused a moment, and then rc-entering the cham-
ber, and advancing towards Viola, he said,
“ Believe me, fair creature, I have no wish to
take advantage of my war. I WOUld fain trust
alone to the gentler nu orities of affection. Hold
yourself ueen within these walls more absolutely
than you lave ever enacted that part on the stage.
Tonight, farewell l May your s eep be calm, and
your dreams propitious to my hopes.”
With these words he retired, and in a few mo-
ments Viola was surrounded b ofiicious atten-
dants, whom she at length, wi some difficulty,
dismissed ; and refusing to retire to rest, she pent
the night in examining the chamber, which she
found was secured, and in thoughts of Zanoni, in
whose power she felt an almost preternatural con-
fidence. _
Meanwhile, the prince descended the stalls, and
sought the room into which the stranger had been
shown. or
He found the visitor wrap d from head to foot
in a long robe—half gown, mantle—such as
was sometimes worn by ecclesiastlcs. The face of
this stranger was remarkable. SO sunbumed and


eo‘
ZANONI.
swarthy were his hues, that he must, apparently,
have derived his origin among the races of the
farthest East His forehead was lofty, and his
eye so penetrating, yet so calm in their gaze, that
the prince shrunk from them as we shrink from a
questioner who is drawing forth the guiltiest se-
crets of our hearts.
“ What would you with me i" asked the prince,
motioning his visiter to a seat.
“ Prince of ," said the stranger, in a. voice
deep and sweet, but foreign in its accent, “son
of the most energetic and masculine race that
ever up lied godlikc genius to the service of
Human Vii], with its winding wickedness and its
stubborn grandeur; descendant of the great Vis-
conti, in whose chronicles lies the History of Italy
in her palmy day, and in whose rise was the de-
velopment of the mightiest intellect, ripened by
the most relentless ambition, I come to gaze upon
the last star in a darkening firmament. By this
hour to-morrow, space shall know it not. Mani
unless thy Whole nature change, thy days are
numbered l”
“ Whnt means this on i“ said the prince, in
visible astonishment an secret awe. “Comest
thou to menace me in my own balls, or wouldst
thou warn me of a danger? Art thou some
itinerant mountebank, or some unguesscd-of
friend? Speak out, and plainly. What danger
threatens me 2”
“ Zanoni and thy ancestor’s sword.”
“ Ha! ha l.” said the prince, la hing scornfully,
“ I half suspected thee from the Thou art,
then, the accomplice or the tool of that most dex-
terous, but, at present. defeated charlatnni And
I suppose thou wilt tell to me, that if I were to
release a certain captive that I have made, the
danger would vanish and the hand of the dial
Would be put back i”
“ Judge of me as then wilt, Prince di —. I
confess my knowledge of Zanoni. Thou, too,
wilt know his power, but not till it consume thee.
I would save, therefore I warn thee. Dost thou
ask me why! I will tell thee. Canst thou rc-
member to have heard wild tales of thy grand-
sirel of his desire for a knowledge that passes
that of the schools and cloistorsi of a strange
man from the East, who was his familiar and
master in lore, against which the Vatican has
from age to age launched its mimic thunder?
Dost thou call to mind the fortunes of thy ances-
tor? how he succeeded in youth to little but a
name? how, after a career wild and dissolute as
thine, he disappeared from Milan, a. pauper and a
self-exilei how, after years s nt, none knew in
what climcs or in what pursmts, he again revisit-
ed the city where his progenitors had reigned?
how with him came this wise man of the East,
the mystic Mejnouri how they who beheld him,
behel with amase and fear that time had
ploughed no furrow on his brow; that youth
seemed fixed, as by a spell, upon his face and
form? Dost thou not know that from that hour
his fortunes rose? Kinsmen the most remote
died; estate after estate fell into the hands of the
ruined noble. He allied himself with the royalty
0f Austria; he became the guide of princes, the
first magnate of Italy. He founded anew the
house of which thou art the last lineal upholder,
and transferred his splendour from Milan to the
Sicilian realms. Visions of high ambition were
then present with him nightly and daily. Had


he lived, Italy would have known a new d ,
and the Visconti would have reigned over agna~
Graacia. He was a man such as the world rarel
sees; but his ends, too earthl , were at war wi
the means he sought. his ambition been
more or less, he had been worthy of a realm
mightier than the Caesars swayed; worthy of our
solemn order; worthy of the fellowship of Mej-
nour, whom you now behold before you."
The prince, who had listened with deep and
breathless attention to the words of his singular
guest, started from his seat at his last words.
“ Imposim‘ l” he cried, “ can you dare thus to play
with my credulityi Sixty years have flown
since in grandsire died; were be living, he had
passed is hundred and twentieth year; and you,
whose old age is erect and vigorous, have the
assurance to pretend to have been his contem-
porary] But you have imperfectly learned your
tale. You know not, it seems, that my grand‘
sire, wise and illustrious, indeed, in all save his
faith in a charlhtan, was found dead in his bed,
in the very hour when his colossal plans were
ripe for execution, and that Mejnour was guilty
0 his murder."
“ Alas l" answored the stranger, in a voice 0f
great sadness, “ had he but listened to Mejnour,
had he but delayed the last and most perilous
ordeal of daring wisdom until the requisite train-
ing and initiation had been completed, your an-
cestor Would have stood with me upon an emi-
nence which the waters of Death itself wash
everlastingl , but cannot overflow. Your grand—
sire resisted, my fervent prayers, disobcyed my
most absolute commands, and in the sublime
rashness of a soul that anted for secrets which
he who desires orbs and) sceptres never can ob-
tain, perished, the victim of his own phrensy.”
“ He was poisoned, and Mejnour fled.“
“Mejnour fled not," answered the stranger,
roudly; “ Mejnour could not fly from danger;
ibr, to him, danger is a thinglong left behind. It
was the day before the duke took the fatal
draught which he believed was to confer on the
mortal the immortal boon, that, finding my
power over him was gone, I abandoned him to
his doom. But a truce with this; I loved your
grandsire. I would save the last of his race.
Oppose not thyself to anoni. O pose not thy
son to thine evil passions. Draw act: from ther
precipice while there is yet time. In thy front
and in thine eyes I detect some of that diviner
glory which belonged to thy race. Thou best in
thee some germs of their hereditary genius, but
they are choked up by worse than thy hereditary
vices. Recollect that by genius thy house rose;
by vice it ever failed to perpetuate its power.
In the laws which regulate the Universe it is de
creed that nothing wicked can long endure. Be
wise. and let history warn thee. Thou‘standest
on the verge of two worlds, the Past and the
Future, and voices from either shriek omen in
thy car. I have done. I bid thee farewell !"
“ Not so; thou shalt not uit these walls. I
will make experiment of t y boasted power.
What, be there! hol"
The prince shouted; the room was filled with
his minions. .
“Seize that man!" he cried, pointing to the
spot which had been filled by the form of Mej-
nour. To his inconceivable amaze and horror,
the spot was vacant. The mysterious stranger


ZANONI.
61
had vanished like a dream. But a thin and fra-
grant mist undulat'ed, in pole volumes, round the
walls of the chamber. “ Look to my lord," cried
Mascari. The prince had fallen to the floor in-
sensiblc. For many hours he seemed in a kind
of trance. When he recovered, he dismissed his
attendants, and his step as heard in his cham-
ber, pacing to and fro with heavy and disordered
strides. Not till an hour before lu's banquet the
next day did he seem restored to his wonted self.
0

CHAPTER XV.
"Oime! come poss ‘lo
Alul n-ovnr, so me trovor non posso."
\ Ann-r“ at. L, 54:. ii.
Tm: sleep of Glyndon, the night after his last
interview with Zanoni, was unusually profound,
and the sun streamed full upon his eyes as he
opened them to the day. He rose refreshed, and
with a strange sentiment of calmness, that seem-
ed more the result of resolution than exhaustion.
The incidents and emotions of the past. night had
settled into distinct and clear impressions. He
thought of them but slightly—he thought rather
of the future. He was as one of the initiated in
the old Egyptian mysteries, who have crossed
the gate only to long more ardently for the pen-
etralia.
He dressed himself, and was relieved to find
that Mervale had joined a pnrty of his country-
men on an excursion to lschia. He spent the
heat of noon in thoughtful solitude, and gradual-
ly the image of Viola returned to his heart It
was a holy—for it was a human—image. He
had resigned her; and though he repented not,
he was troubled at the thought that repentance
w ld have come too late.
e started impatiently from his seat and
strode with rapid steps to the humble abode of
the actress.
The distance was considerable and the air 0 -
ive. Glyndon arrived at the door, breatii-
ess and healed. He knocked: no answer came.
He lifted the latch, and entered. He ascended
the stairs: no sound, no sight of life met his ear
and eye. In the front chamber, on a table, lay
the guitar of the actress and some manuscript
parts in the favorite operas. He paused, and,
summoning courage, tap ed at the door which
seemed to lead into the inner apartment. The
door was ajar; and, hearing no sound within, he
pushed it open. It was the sleeping chamber
of the young actress, that holiest ground to a
lover; and well did the place become the presi-
ding deity; none of the tawdry finery of the pro-
fusion wais visible on the one hand; none of the
slovenly disorder common to the humbler classes
of the South on the other. All was pure and
simple; even the ornaments were those of an
innocent refinement; a few books, placed care-
fully on shelves, a few half~faded flowers in an
earthen vase, which was modelled and painted
in the Etruscan fashion. The sunlight streamed
over the snowy draperies of the bed, and a few
articles of clothing on the chair beside it. Viola
was not there ; but the nursel was she gone
also? He made the house resound with the
name of Gionetta, but there was not even an
echo to reply. At last, as he reluctantly quitted
I

the desolate abode, he perceived Gionetta com-
ing towards him from the street. The poor old
woman uttered an exclamation of joy on seeing
him; but, to their mutual disappointment, nei-
ther had any cheerful tidings or satisfactory ex-
planation to afi'ord the other. Gionetta had been
aroused from her slumber the night before by
the noise in the rooms below; but, ere she could
muster courage to descend, Viola was gone!
She found the marks of violence on the door
without; and all she had since been able to learn
in the neighbourhood was, that a. lazzerone, from
his nocturnal resting-place on the Chiajn, had
seen by the moonlight a carriage, which he re-
cognised as longing to the Prince di -——-, pass
and re-pass t at road about the first hour of
morning. Glyndon, on gathering from the con-
‘ fused words and broken sobs of the old nurse the
heads of this account, abruptly left her, and re—
paired to the alace of Zanoni. There he was
informed that the signor was gone to the banquet
of the Prince di —, and would not return till
late. Glyndon stood motionless with erplexity
and dismay; he knew not what to above or
how to set. Even Mchde was not at hand to
advise him. His conscience smote him bitterly.
He had had the power to save the woman he
had loved—and had foregone that power; but
how was it that, in this, Znnoni himself had fail-
edl How was it that he was gone to the very
banquet of the ravisheri Oould Zanoni be aware
of what had passed? If not, should he lose a
moment in npprising himl Though mentally
irresolute, no man was more physically brnve.
He would repair at once to the palace of the
prince himself; and if Zanoni failed in the trust
he had half appeared to arrogate, he, the humble
foreigner, would demand the captive of fraud
and force, in the very halls and before the assem-
bled guests of the Prince di


CHAPTER XVI.
“ Arduu mllstur Ilurls laplenlia scrnpls."
Hun. Juan, Emblan., xxxvii.
We must go back some hours in the progress
of this narrative. It was the first faint and gra-
dual break of the summer dawn, and two men
stood in a balcony overhanging a garden fragrant
with the scents of the awakening flowers. The
stars had not yet left the sky, the birds were yet
silent on the bonghs; all was still, hushed, and
tranquil; but, how different-the tranquillity of
reviving day from the solemn repose of night!
In the music of silence there are a thousand va-
riations. These men, who alone seemed awake
in Naples, were Zanoni and the mysterious stran-
ger who had but an hour or two ago startled the
Prince di in his voluptuous palace.
“No,” said the latter; “hadst thou delayed
the acceptance of the Arch Gift until thou hadet
attained to the years, and passed through all the
desolate bereavements that chilled and scared
myself ere my researches had made it mine, thou
wouldst have escaped the curse of which thou
complainest now; thou wouldst not have mom-n-
ed over the brevity of human afl'ection as com-
pared to the duration of thine own existence, for
thou wouldst have survived the very desire and
dream of the love of woman. Brightest, and.


ZANONI.
but for that error, perhaps the loftiest of the
secret and solemn race that fills u the interval
in creation between mankind and e children of
the empyreal, age after age wilt thou rue the
splendid foil which made thee ask to carry the
beauty and e passions of youth into the dreary
grandeur of earthly immortalit ."
“I do not repent, nor shall ," answered Za-
noni. “ The transport and the sorrow, so wildly
blended, which have at intervals diversified my
doom, are better than the calm and bloodless
tenour of thy solitary way. Thou, who lovest
nothing, hatest nothing, feelest nothing, and walk-
est the world with the noiseless and joyless foot-
steps of a dream i"
“ You mistake," replied he who had owned
the name of Mejnour; “ though I care not for
love, and am dead to every passion that agitates
the sons of clay, I am not dead to their more
serene enjoyments I carry down the stream of
the countless years, not the turbulent desires of
wuth, but the calm and spiritual delights of age.
isely and deliberately I abandoned youth for-
ever when I separated my lot from men. Let us
not env or reproach each other. I would have
saved is Neapolitan, Ziinoni, (since so it now
pleases thee to be called,) partly because his
grandsirc was but divided by the last airy bar-
rier from our own brotherhood, partly because
I know that in the man himself lurk the elements
of ancestral courage and power, which in earlier
life would have fitted him for one of us. Earth
holds but few to whom nature has given the
qualities that can bear the ordeal l But time
and excess, that have thickened the grosser sen-
ses, have blunted the imagination. I relinquish
him to his doom 1"
“ And still, then, Mejnour, you cherish the de-
sire to revive our order, limited now to ourselves
alone, by new converts and allies; surely, surely
thy experience might have taught thee that
scarcely once in a thousand years is born the be-
ing who can pass through the horrible gates that
lead into the worlds without. Is not thy path
already strewed with thy victims 3 Do not their
ghastly faces of agony and fear—the blood-stain-
ed suicide, the raving maniac—rise before thee,
and warn what is yet left to thee of human sym-
pathy from thy insane ambition i"
“Nay,” answered Mcjnour; “have I not had
success to counterbalance failurel And can I
forego this lofty and august hope, worthy alone
of our high condition; the hope to form a migllliéy
and numerous race with a force and power s -
cient to permit them to acknowledge to mankind
their majestic con 'uests and dominion, to become
the true lords of t is planet, invaders, percliance,
of others, masters of the inimical and maligiiant
tribes by which at this moment we are surround-
ed—a race that may proceed, in their deathless
destinies, from stage to stage of celestial glory,
and rank at last among the nearest ministrants
and agents gathered round the Throne of Thronesl
What matter a thousand victims for one convert
to our band! And you, Zanoni,” continued Mej-
nour, after a pause, “you, even you, should this
aflection for a mortal beauty that you have dared,
despite yourself, to cherish, be more than a pass-
ing fancy; should it, once admitted into your in-
most nature, partake of its bright and enduring
essence, even you may brave all things to raise
the beloved one into your equal. Nay, interrupt

me not. Can you see sickness menace her, dim-
ger hover around, years creep on, the eyes grow
dim, the beauty fade, while the heart. youthful
still, clings and fastens round your own; can you
see this, and know it is yours —-—"
“ Cease i” cried Zanoni, fiercely. “ What is all
other fate as compared to the death of terror!
What! when the coldest sage, the most heated
enthusiast, the hardiest warrior, with his nerves
of iron, have been found dead in their beds,
with straining eye-balls and horrent hair, at the
first ste of the Dread Progress—thinkest thou
that this weak woman—from whose cheek a
sound at the window, the screech of the night,
owl, the sight of a drop of blood on a man's
sword, would start the colour—could brave one
glance of—away ! the very thought of such sights
for her makes even myself a coward l" f
' “ When you told her you loved her—when yon
clasped her to your breast, you renounced all
power to foresee her future lot or protect her
from harm. Henceforth to her you are human,
and human only. How know you, then, to what
you may be tern ted! How know you what
er curiosity ma earn and her courage bravei
But enough of ' -, you are bent on your pur-
suit l"
“ The fiat has gone forth."
" And tomorrow i"
“To-morrow, at this hour, our bark will be
bounding over yonder ocean, and the weight of
ages will have fallen from my heart! I com-
passionate thee, O foolish sage; thou hast given
up thy youth I"

CHAPTER XVII.
“ Anon. Thou always speakest riddles. Tell me If thou
art that fountain of which Bernard Lord Trcvlzsn writ!
" Mane. [am not that fountain. but I am the water.
The fountain compasseth me about."—Smmvooius, New
Light of fllchymy.
Tan Prince di was not a man whom
Naples could sup to be addicted to supersti-
tious fancies. Sti l, in the south of Italy, there
was then, and there still lingers, a certain spirit
of credulity which may, ever and anon, be visi-
ble amid the boldest dogmas of their philoso-
hers and skeptics. In his chilth the rims
d learned strange tales of the ambition, e ge-
nius, and the career of his grandsire ; and secret-
ly, aps influenced by ancestral example, in
ear 'er youth he himself had followed science, not
only through her legitimate course, but her anti-
quated and erratic windings. I have, indeed,
been shown, in Naples, a little volume, blazoned
with the arms of the Visconti, and ascribed to the
nobleman I refer to, which treats of alchymy in a
spirit half mocking and half reverential.
Pleasure soon distracted him from such a-
lations, and his talents, which were unquestiona-
bly great, were wholly perverted to extravagant
intrigues, or to the embellishment of a gorgeous
ostentation with something of classic grace. His
immense wealth, his imperious pride, his unscru-
pulous and daring character, made him an object
of no inconsiderable fear to a feeble and timid
court; and the ministers of the indolent govern-
ment willingly connived at excesses which a] lured
him, at least, from ambition. The strange visit,
and yet more strange departure, of Mejnour, filled


ZANONI.
08
the breast of the Neapolitan with awe and won- 1
dcr, against which all the haughty arrogance and
learned skepticism of his maturer manhood com- i
hated in vain. The apparition of Mejnour served,
indeed, to "invest Zanoni with a character in
which the prince had not hitherto regarded him.
He felt a strange alarm at the rival he had ‘
braved—at the foe he had provoked. When, a
little before his banquet, he had resumed his self-
possession, it was with a fell and gloomy resolu-
tion that he brooded over the perfidious schemes
that he had previously formed. He felt as if the
death of the mysterious Zanoni were necessary
for the preservation of his own life; and if at an
earlier period of their rivalry he had determined
m the fate of Zanoni, the warnings of Mejnour
served to confirm his resolve.
“ We will try if his magic can invent an antidote
to the bane," said he, half aloud, and with a stern
mile, as be summoned Mascari to his presence.
The poison which the prince, with his own hands,
mixed into the wine intended for his guest, was
com unded from materials, the secret of which
had en one of the proudest heirlooms of that
able and evil race, which gave to Italy her wisest
and guiltiost tyrants. Its o eration was quick,
yet not sudden; it produce no ain; it left on
the form no grim convulsion, on t e skin no pur-
pling s t, to arouse suspicion; you might have
out carved every membrane and fibre of the
but the sharpest eyes of the leech would
not have detected the presence of the subtle life~
queller. For twelve hours the victim felt nothing,
save a joyous and elated exhilaration of the
blond; a delicious languor followed, the sure
forerunner of apoplexy. No lancet then could
navel Apoplexy had run much in the families
of the enemies of the Viseontil
The hour of the feast arrived; the guests as-
sembled. There were the flower of the N eapoli-
tn uignorie, the descendants of the Norman, the
Teuton, the Goth; for Naples had then a nobil-
ity, but derived it from the North, which has in-
deed been the Nutriz Leonum, the nurse of the
lion-hearted chivalry of the world.
Inst of the guests came Zanoni ; and the
crowd gave way as the dazzling foreigner moved
to the lord of the palace. The prince greet-
ad him with a meaning smile, to which Zanoni an-
swered by a whis er, “ He who plays with load-
ed dice does not always win."
The prince hit his lip; and Zanoni, passing on,
seemed deep in conversation with the fawning
Mascari.
“ Who is the rince‘s heir l" asked the guest.
“ A distant re tion on the mother’s side ; with
his excellency dies the male line."
“ Is the heir present at our host‘s banquet i"
“ N 0; they are not friends.”
“ N o matter; he will be here to-morrow."
Mascari stared in surprise; but the signal for
the banquet was given, and the guests were mar-
shelled to the board. As was the custom then,
the feast took place not long after midday. It
was a long 0%. ball, the whole of one side open-
ing by a marble colonnade upon a court or gar-
den, in which the eye rested gracefully u n
0001 fountains and statues of whitest marble, alf
sheltered by orange-trees. Every art that lux-
ury could invent to give freshness and coolness

to the lan 'd and breezeless heat of the day
without (a y on which the breath of the sirocco
was abroad) had been called into existence. Ar-
tificial currents of air through invisible tubes,
silken bands waving to and fro as if to cheat the
senses into the belief of an April wind, and minia-
ture jets Jean in each corner of the n artment,
gave to the Italians the same sense of exhilaration
and comfort (if I may use the word) which the
welldrawn curtains and the blazing hearth afford
to the children of colder climes.
The conversation was somewhat more lively
and intellectual than is common among the lan-
guid pleasure hunters of the South ; for the
prince, himself accomplished, sought his acquaint-
ance not only among the beans esprit: of his own
coun , but among the gay foreigners who adorn-
ed an relieved the monotony of the Neapolitan
circles. There were present two or three of the
brilliant Frenchmen of the old regime, who had
already emigrated from the advancing revolution,
and their uliar turn of thought and wit was
well calcu ated for the meridian of a society that
made the Dolcefir nimte at once its philosophy
and its faith. e prince, however. was more
silent than usual; and when he sought to rouse
himself, his spirits were forced and exaggerated.
To the manners of his host, those of Zanoni af—
forded a striking contrast. The bearing of this
singular person was at all times characterized by
a calm and polished ease, which was attributed
by the courticrs to the long habit of society. He
could scarcely be called gay; yet few persons
more tended to animate the general 5 irits of a
convivial circle. He seemed, by a kin of intui-
tion, to elicit from each companion the qualities
in which he most excelled; and if occasionally a
certain tone of latent mocker characterized his
remarks upon the topics on w lich the conversa-
tion fell, it seemed to men who took nothing in
earnest to be the language both of wit and wis-
dom. To the Frenchmen in articular, there
was something startling in his intimate knowledge
of the minutest events in their own capital and
country, and his profound penetration (evinced
but in epigrams and sarcasms) into the eminent
characters who were then playing a_ part upon
the great stage of Continental intrigue. It was
while this conversation grew animated, and the
feast was at its height, that Glyndon arrived at
the palace. The porter, perceiving by his dress
that he was not one of the invited guests, told
him that his excellency was engaged, and on no
account could be disturbed; and Glyndon then,
for the first time, became aware how strange and
embarrassing was the duty he had taken on him-
self. 'l‘o force an entrance into the banquet hall
of the great and powerful noble, surrounded by
the rank of Naples, and to armign him for what
to his boon companions would appear but an act
of gallantry, was an exploit that could not fail to
be at once ludicrous and impoan He mused a
moment; and, slipping a piece of gold into the
porter's hand, said that he was commissioned to
seek the Signor Zanoni upon an errand of life and
death, and easily won his way across the court
and into the interior building. He passed up
the broad staircaseand the voices and merriment
of the revellers smote his ear at a distance. At
the entnmce 0f the rece tion-rooms he found a
e, whom he des atc ed with a 1118897889
anoni. The page id the errand; and Moon],
on hearing the whispered name of (Hindu,
turned to his host.


64
ZANONI.
" Pardon me, my lord; an English friend of
mine, the Signor Glyndon (not unknown by
name to your excellency) waits without; the hu-
siness must indeed be urgent on which he has
sought me in such an hour. You will forgive my
momentary absence.”
“ Nav, signer,” answered the prince, courte-
ously, at with a sinister smile on his counte-
nance, “ would it not be better for your friend to
join us? An Englishman is welcome everywhere;
and even were he a Dutchman, your friendship
would invest his presence with attraction. Pray
his attendance: we would not spare you even for
a moment.”
Zanoni bowed ; the page was despatehed with
allflattering messages to Glyndon; a seat next
to Zanoni was placed for him, and the young
Englishman entered.
" You are most welcome, sir I trust your bu-
siness to our illustrious guest is of good omen
and pleasant import. If you bring evil news, de-
fer it, I pray you."
Glyndon’s brow was sullen; and he was about
to startle the guests h his reply, when Zanoni,
touching his am; sign' cantly, whispered in Eng-
lish, “ I know why you have sought me. Be si-
lent and witness what ensues”
“ You know, then, that Viola, whom you boast-
ed you had the power to save from danger—"
“ Is in this house! yes. I know also that Mur-
der sits at the right hand of our host. But his
fate is now separated from hers forever; and the
minor which glasses it to my eye is clear through
the steam of blood. Be still, and learn the fate
that awaits the wicked!"
“My lord,” ‘said Zanoni, s 'ng aloud, “the
Signor Glyndon has indeed rought me tidings
not wholly une. cted. I am compelled to leave
Naples: an additional motive to make the most
of the resent hour."
" what, if I may venture to ask, may be
the cause that brings such aflliction on the fair
domes of Naples 'f”
“ It is the approaching death of one who hon-
oured me- with most loyal friendshi ," replied Za~
noni, gravely. “ Let us not speai of it; grief
cannot put back the dial. As we supply by new
flowers those that fade in our vases, so it is the
secret of worldly wisdom to replace by fresh
friendships those that fade from our th.
“ True hilosophy l" exclaimedpa the prince.
“ ‘ Not to adl/hirc,’ was the Roman‘s maxim; 'Never
to mourn] is mine. There is nothing-in life to
grieve for, save, indeed, Signor Zanoni, when some
young beauty on whom we have set our heart.
slips from our grasp. In such a moment we have
need of all our wisdom, nbt to succumb to despair,
and shake hands with death. What say yum, sic-
nori You smile! Such never could be your lot~
Plcdgc me in a sentiment: ‘ Long life to the for-
tui‘urne lover; aquick release to the baflled suit-
“ I pledge you," said Zanoni. And as the fatal
wine was poured into his glass, be repeated,
his eyfs on the prince, “ I pledge you, even in this
wme .
He lifted the glass to his lips The prince
seemed ghastly pale while the gaze of his guest
bent upon him, with an intent and stem bright-
ness beneath which the conscience-stricken host
oowered and quailed. Not till he had drained the
dnghgandreplacedtheglals upon the board,

did binoni turn his eyes from the rince; and he
then said, “Your wine has been e t too long;
it has lost its virtues. It might 00 with
many; but do not fear; it will not harm me,
prince. Signor Mascari, you are a judge of the
grape; will you favour us with your opinion I”
“ N ay,” answered Mascari, with well-affected
corn sure, “I like not the wines of Cyprus; they
are eating. Perhaps Signor Glyndon may not
have the same distaste? The English are said to
love their potntions warm and pungent."
“ Do you wish my friend also to taste the wine,
prince? said Zanoni “ Recollect, all cannot
drink it with the same impunity as myself.”
“ No,” said the Prince, hastily; “if you do not
recommend the wine, Heaven forbid that we
should constrain our guests ! My lord-duke,"
turning to one of the Frenchmen, “yours is the
true soil of Bacchus. What think you of this
mask from Burgundyi Has it borne the journey i"
“ Ah,” said Zanoni, “ let us change both the wine
and the theme."
With that, Zanoni grew yet more animated and
brilliant. Never did wit more sparkling, airy, ex-
hilarating, flash from the lips of reveller. His
spirits fascinated all present—even the rims '
himself, even Glyndon—with a strange an wild
contagion. The former, indeed, whom the words
and of Zanoni, when he drained the ison,
had lied with fearful misgivings, now hailed in
the brilliant eloquence of his wit a certain sign of
the operation of the bane. The wine circulated
fast; but none seemed conscious of its effects
One by one the rest of the partv fell into a charmed
and spellbound silence, as oni continued to
ur forth sally upon sally, tale upon tale. The
ung on his words, they almost held their b
to listen. Yet, how bitter was his mirth! how
full of eontem t for the triflers present, and for
the bids whic made their life.
Night came on; the room grew dim, and the
feast had lasted several hours longer than was the
customary duration of similar entertainments at
that day. Still the guests stirred not, and still
Zanoni continued, with glittering eye and mocking
li , to lavish his stores of intellect and anecdote;
when suddenly the moon rose, and shed its ra s
over the flowers and fountains in the court wig-
out, leaving the room itself half in shadow and
half tinged by a quiet and ghostly light.
It was then that Zanoni rose. “ W'ell, gentle
men," said he, “ we have not yet wearied our host,
I hope; and his garden offers a new temptation
to protraet our stay. Have you no musicians
among your train, prince, that might regale our
ears while we inhale the fragrance of your orange
trees 3”
“ An excellent thought i" said the prince. “ Mas- .
cari, see to the music.’
The rose simultaneously to ad'om'n to the
garden; and then, for the first time, e effect of
the wine they had drunk seemed to make itself
felt.
With flushed cheeks and unstearl steps they
came into the open air, which tcnde yet more to
stimulate that glowing fever of the gm -. As if
to make up for the silence with which t 1e guests
had hitherto listened to Zanoni. every ton e was
now loosened; every man talked, no man fitened.
There was something wild and fearful in the con-
trast between the calm beauty of the night and
scene, and the hubbub and clamour of these dil-


ZANONI. 65
orderly roistcrs. One of the Frenchman, in es< “‘The is a ’ said he, with the
ial. the young Due de R-——, a nobleman of same smile that displeased me before. ‘ He would
the highest, rank, and of all the quick, vivacious, monopolze all fortune and all love. Let us take
and irascihlc temperament of his countrymen, was ' our revenge.’
particularly noisy and excited. And as circum- “‘And howl’
stances, the remembrance of which is still pre- “ ‘ He has at this moment in his house the most
served among certain circles of N aplca, rendered l enchanting singer in Naples—the celebrated Viola
it afterward necessary that the due should him-‘ Pisani. She is here, it is true, not by her own
self give evidence of what occurred, I will herel choice; he carried her hither by force, but he will
translate the short account he drew up, and which l pretend that she adores him. Let us insist on his
was kindly submitted to me some few ears ago producing this secret treasure; and when she en-
hy my accomplished and lively frien il Cava- terms the Due de R— can have no doubt that
liere di B-——. his flatteries and attentions will charm the lad ,
and l1provoke all the jealous fears of our host. It
“ I never remember,” writes the due, “to have we d be a fair revenge upon his imperious se -
felt mv spirits so excited as on that evening; we conceit.‘ -
were like so many boys released from school, I hastened to

" This suggestion delighted me.
the prince. At that instant the musicians hao
‘ust commenced; I waved my hand, ordered the
musicians to stop, and, addressing the prince, who
jostling each other as we reeled or ran down the:
flight of seven or eight stairs that led from the}
colonnade into the garden; some laughing, somey
whooping, some scolding, some babbling. The, was standing in the centre of one of the gayest
wine brought out, as it werefeach man's in- grou complained of his want of hospitality in
most character. Some were loud and quarrel-l to us such poor proficients in the art,
some, others sentimental and whining; some whomI while he reserved for his own solace the lute and
we had hitherto thought dull, most mirthful;lvoice of the first rformer in Naples. I de-
some whom we had ever regarded as discreet and‘ manded, half lang ringl , half seriously, that he
taciturn, most one and uproarioua. I re-l should produce the Pisani. My demand was re
mrmber that in the midst of our clamorons gay-i ceived with shouts of applause by the rest. We
, e , my eye fell upon the cavalier, Signor Zanoni,; drowned the replies of our host with uproar, and
w conversation had so enchanted us all ; and. would hear no denial. ‘ Gentlemen,’ at last said
I felt a certain chill come over me to perceivej the prince, when he could obtain an audience,
that he wore the same calm and unsym athizingl ‘ even were I to assent to your proposal, I could
smile u his cormtcnnnce'whieh had nractcr-, not induce the signora to present herself before
ized it in his singular and curious stories of the] an assemblage as riotous as they are noble. You
court of Louis XIV. I felt, indeed, half illined have too much chivnl to use compulsion with
to seek a quarrel with one whose composure was her, though the Due e R forgets himself
almost an insult to our disorder. Nor was such sufliciently to administer it to me.“
an effect of this iritating and mocking tranquillity, “ I was stung by this taunt, however well de—
confined to myself alone. Several of the partyi> served. ‘ Princc,‘ said I, ‘ I have for the indelicacy
have told me since, that, on looking at Zanoni, of corn ulsion so illustrious an example, that I
they felt their blood yet more heated, and gayetyl. cannot csitate to pursue the path honoured by
changed to resentment. There seemed in his icy your own footsteps. All Naples knows that the
smile a very charm to wound vanity and provokel Pisani despises at once your old and your love;
rage. It was at this moment that the prince that force 'alone could have rought or under
came up to me, and, passing his arm into mine,‘ vo'ur roof; and that you refuse to produce her,

led me a little a rt from the rest. He had cer-
tainl indulged in the same excess as ourselves,
but it did not Tpmducc the same effect of noisy
excitement. ere was, on the contrary, a cer-
tain cold arrogance and an rcilious scorn in his
hearing and language, whic , even while affecting
so much caressing courtesy towards me, roused
my self-love against him. He seemed as if Za-
noni had infected him; and, in imitating the man-
ner of his guest, he surpassed the original. He
rallied tnc on some court gossip which had hon-r
cured m name by associating it with a certainl
beautiqu and distinguished Sicilian lady, and of!
fected to treat with contempt that which, had it'
been true, I should have regarded nsa boast. He
s lre, indeed, as if he himself had gathered all
flowers of Naples, and left us foreigners only;
the gleanings he had scorned. At this rn natural
and national gallant'rky was iqued, and retortcdi
by some sarcasms at I s ould certainly have\
spared had mv blood been cooler. He laughed
hartily, and left me in a strange fit of resent-
ment and anger. Perhaps (I must own the truth)
the wine had produced in me a wild disposition
to take offence and provoke quarrel. As the
1

prince left me, I turned and saw Zanoni at my
ide- E
ecuuse you fear her complaints, hnd know
enough of the chivalry your vanity sneer-s at to
feel assured that the gentlemen of France are not
more disposed to worship beauty than to defend
it from wrong.’
“ ‘ You speak well, sir,‘ said Zanoni, gravely.—
‘ The rince dares not produce his prize 1’
“ e prince remained a echless for a few mo
ments, as if with indignation. At last he broke
out into expressions the most injurious and insult‘
ing against Signor Zanoni and myself. Zanoni re-
plied not; I was more hot and hasty. The guests
a peared to delight in our dispute. None, except
asmri,,whonr we pushed aside and disdained to
hear, strove to concihnte ; some took one side, some
another. The issue may be well foroscen. Swords
were called for and procured. Two were offered
me by one of the party. I was about to choose
one, when Zanoni placed in my hand the other,
which, from its hilt, appeared of antiquated work-
manship. At the same moment, looking towards
the prince, he said, smilingly, ‘ The due takes your‘
grandsire's sword. Prince, you _nre too brave a
man for superstition; you have forgot the forfeit l’
Our host seemed to me to recoil and turn pale at
those words; nevertheless, he returned Zanorn’s
smile with a look of defiance. The next moment


68
ZANONI.
\
all was broil and disorder. There might be some
six or eight rsons engaged in a strange and con-
fused kind oiiiiwlée, but the prince and myself only
sought each other. The noise around us, the-coir
fusion of the guests, the cries of the musicians, the
clash of our own swurds, only served to stimulate
our unhappy fury. We feared to be interrupted
by the attendants, and fought like mndmen,
without skill or method. I thrust and parried.
mechanically, blind and frantic as if a demon had
entered into me, till I saw the prince stretched at
my feet, bathed in his blood, and Zanoni bending
over him and whispering in his ear. That sight
cooled us all. The strife ceased; we gathered in
shame, remorse, and horror round our ill-fated
host: but it was too late; his eyes rolled fear-
fully in his head. I have seen many men die, but
never one who wore such horror on his counte-
tn‘ilincc. At last all was overi Zanoni rose from
e co , and, taking with great com osure the
swordfi'rsgm my hand, said, calmly, ‘ YPe are wit-
nesses, gentlemen, that the prince brought his fate
upon himself. The last of that illustrioth house
has ' ied in a brawl l'
“ saw no more of Zanoni. I hastened to our
envoy to urinate the event and abide the issue.
I am grateful to the Nea litan government, and
to the illustrious heir of tii):nnfortunate nobleman,
for the lenient and generous, yet just, interpreta-
tion put upon a misfortune. the memory of which
will afilict me to the last hour of my life.
(Signed) “ Lonis Vro'roa, Due on R.”
In the above memorial, the readeer find the
most exact and minute account yet given of an
event which created the most lively sensation at
Na les in that day.
lyndon had taken no in the afl'ray, neither
had he participated larg y in the excesses of the
revel. ‘or his exemption from both, he was per-
haps indebted to the whispered exhortations of Za<
noni. When the lust rose from the cor se, and
withdrew from that scene of confusion, alyndon
remarked that, in passing the crowd, he touched
Masmri on the shoulder, and said some ' which
the Englishnandid not overhear. Glyn on fol-
lowed Zanoni into the banquet-room, which, save
where the moonlight slept on the marble floor,
was wrapped in the sad and gloomy shadows of
the advancing night.
“ How con d you foretel this fearful event? He
fell not b vour arm 1” said Glyndon, in a tremu-
lous and hollow tone.
“The general who calculates on the victory
does not fight in rson,” answered Zanoni; “let
die past sleep With the dead. Meet me at mid-
night by the seashore, half a mile to the left of
your hotel. You will know the spot by a rude
pillar—the only one near—to winch a broken
chain is attached There and then, if thou wouldst
learn our lore, thou shalt find the master. G0;
I have business here yet. Remember, Viola is
still in the house of the dead man !”
Here Mnscari approached, and Zanoni, turning
to the Italian, and waving his hand to Glyndon,
drew the former aside. Glyndon slowly departed.
’ “Mnscnri,” said Zanoni, “ your patron is no
more : your services will be valueloss to his heir,
a sober man, whom poverty has preserved from
vice. For ourself, thank me that I do not give
you up to e executioner; recollect the wine of
Cyprus. Well, never tremble, man; it could not
act on me, though it might react on others; in
that it is a common t of crime. I forgive you;
and, if the wine uhoul kill me, I romise you that
my ghost shall not haunt so Wor ' ful a penitent.
Enough of this; conduct me to is chamber of
Viola Pisa-iii. You have no filrther need of her.
The death of the jailer 0 us the cell of the cap-
tive. Be quick, I would b: "
Mascari uttered some innudiblé words, bowed
low, and led the way to the chamber in which
Viola was confined

CHAPTER XVII'I.
“Minn—Tell me therefore what lhOll scckest after,
,and who! lbou will have. 	ht dost thou desire to
make '.I
" Atom—The Philosopher's Stone.“—S.
wivooius.
I-r wanted several minutes of midnight, and
Glyndon repaired to the appointed spot. The
mysterious empire which Zanoni had acquired over
him was still more solemnl confirmed the
events of the last few hours; - e sudden fate of the
prince, so deliberately foreshadowed, and yet so
seemingly accidental, brought out by causes the
most common lace, and yet associate with words
the most prop etic, impressed him with the deep-
est sentiments of admiration and awe. It was as -
if this dark and wondrous being could convert
the most ordinary events and the meanest instru-
ments into the agencies of his inscrutable will;
yet, if so, why have permitted the capture of
Vith Why not have prevented the crime
rather than unish the criminal? And did Za-
noni really eel love for Violai Love, and yet
offer to resign her to himself; to a rival whom his
arts could not have failed to batflei He no
longer reverted to the belief that Zanoni or Viola
had sought to dupe him into marriage. His fear
'and reverence for the former now forbade the no-
tion of so poor an imposture. Did he any longer
love \{iola himself? N o ; when that morning he
had heard of her danger, he had, it is true, re-
turned to the s 'm thies and the fears of afi'ec-
tion ; but with the Sgath of the prince, her image
faded again from his heart, and e felt no jealous
g at the thought that she had been saved by
oni. that at that moment she was, perhaps,
beneath his roo£ Whoever has, in the course of
his life, indulged the absorbing passion of the
gamester, will remember how all other pursuits
and objects vanished from his mind; how solely
he was wrapped in the one wild delusion; wi
what a sceptre of magic power the despot-demon
ruled every feeling and every thought. Far more
intense than the pamion of the gamester was the
frantic, yot sublime desire that mastered the breast
of Glyndon. He would be the rival of
not in human and perishable afi'ectious, but in a
reternntuml and ctemnl lore. He would have
lhid down life with content—nay, rapture, as the
price of learning those solemn secrets—which sep-
arated the stranger from mankind. Enamoured
of the goddess of goddesses, be stretched forth
his arms—tho wild Ixion—and embraced a cloud!
The night was most lovely and serene, and the
waves scarcely rippled at his feet, as the English-
, man glided on b the cool and starry boach. At
length he arrive at the s t, and there, leaning
{against the broken pillar, e behold a man wrap-


ZANONI. . 67
pad in a long mantle, and in an attitude of pro- feudalism of the classic time: even these might
ound repose. He approached and uttered the serve you to trace back the primeval settlements
nameof Zanoni. The figure turned, and he saw of the Hellenes to the same region whence, in
the face of a stranger; a time not stamped by the 1 later tunes, the Norman warriors broke on the
glorious beauty of Zanoni, but equally majestic dull and savage borders of the Celt, and became
In its aspect, and perhaps still more im )ressivo the Greeks of the Christian world. But this in
from the mature age and the passionles's epth of terests you not, and you are wise in your indiffe-
thought that characterized the expanded forehead, trence. Not in the knowledge of things without,
and deep—set but, piercing eyes
“ You seek Znnoni," said the stranger ; “ he will
be here anon; but, perhaps, he whom on see be-
fore you is more connected with your estiny, and
more disposed to realize your dreams.”
“ Hath the earth, then, another Zanoni l”
“ If not,” replied the stranger, “ why do you
cherish the ho - and the wild faith to be yourself
a Zanoni t .Think you that none others have bum-
ed with the same godlike dream? 'Who, indeed,
in his first youth—youth when the soul is nearer
to the heaven from which it s rung, and its divine
and primal longings are not efi'need by the sor-
did 'ons and petty cares that are begot in time
'— o is there in youth that has not nourished the
belief that the universe has secrets not known to
the common herd, and panted, as the hart for
the water-springs, for the fountains that lie hid
and far away amid the broad wilderness of track-
less science i The music of the fountain is heard
in the soul within, till the steps, deceived and
erring, rove away from its waters, and the wan-
derer dies in the mighty desert. Think you that
none who have cherished the hope have found the
truth ; or that the yearning after the inefl‘able
knowledge was given to us uttcrl in vain? No!
every desire in human hearts is lint a glimpse of
things that exist, alike distant. and divine. No!
in the world there have been, from age to age,
some brighter and hap ier spirits who have at-
hined to the air in which the beings above man-
kind move and breathe. Zanoni,
be, stands not- alone. He has
sore, and long lines of successors may
come.”
“ And will you tell me," said Glyndon, “ that
in yourself I behold one of that mighty few over
whom Zanoni has no superiority in power and
wisdmn i”
“ In me,” answered the stranger, “ you see one
from whom Zuuoni himself learned some of his
lofniest secrets. On these shores, on this spot, have
I stood in ages that your chroniclers but feebly
reach. The Plimnicmn, the Greek, the Oscan,
the Roman, the Lombard, I have seen them alll
loaves gay and glittering on the trunk of the uni-
versal life, scattered in due season and againle-
newed; till, indeed, the same race that gave its
glory to the ancient world bestowed a second
gunk upon the new. For the ure Greeks, the
ellene.=, whose origin has bewildlz-red your dream-
ing scholars, were of the same great family as the
Norman tribe, born to be the lords of the universe,
and in no land on earth destined to become the
hcwers of wood. Even the dim traditions of the
learned, which bring the sons of Hellas from the
vast and undetermined territories of northern
Thrace, to be the victors of the pastoral Pelasgi,
and the founders of the line of demi-gods; which
to a po ulation bronzed beneath the suns
of the west, t 10 blue~eyed Minerva and the yel—
low-haired Achilles (physical characteristics of the
north); which introduce among a pastoral people,
eat though he
his edecea—
yet to

'but in the perfection of the soul within, lies the
empire of man aspiring to be more than men."
“ And what books contain that science 9 from
what laboratory is it wrought i"
“ N uture supplies the materials; they are around
you: in your daily walks. In the herbs that the
st devours and the chemist disdains to cull : in
the elements, from which matter in its meanest
and its mightiest shapes is deduced ; in the wide
bosom of the air; in the black nbysses of the
earth; everywhere are given to mortals the re-
sources and libraries of immortal lore. But as
the simplest problems in the simplest of all studies
are obscure to one who braces not his mind
to their comprehension, as the rower in yonder
vessel cannot tell you why two circles can touch
each other only in one point, so, though all earth
were carved orer and inscribed with the letters of
diviner knowledge, the characters would be value-
less to him who does not pause to inquire the lan-
guage and meditate the truth. Young man, if
thy imagination is vivid, if thv heart is during, if
thy curiosity is insatiate, I will accept thee as my
pupil. But. the first lessons are stern and dread.”
“ If thou hast mastered them, why not I I!" an-
swered Glyndon, boldly. “ I have felt from my
boyhood that stmnge mysteries were reserved for
my career; and from the proudest ends of ordi-
nary ambition, I have carried my gaze into the
cloud and darkness that stretch he 0nd. The in-
stant I beheld Zanoni, I felt as if had discover-
ed the guide and the tutor for which my youth
had idly languished and vainly burned.”
“ And to me his duty is transferred," replied
the stmiger. “ Yonder lies, anchored in the boy,
the vessel in which Zanoni seeks a fairer home ; a
little while, and the breeze will rise, the sail will
swell, and the s r will have passed, like a
wind away. Still, hkc the wind, he leaves in thy
heart the seeds that may bear the blossom and
the fruit. Zanoni hath performed his task, he is
wanted no more; the port‘ecter of his work is at
thy side. He comes ! I hear the 'dash of the car.
You will have our choice submitted to you. Ac
cording as you ( ecide, We shall meet again." With
these words the stranger moved slowly away, and
disappeared beneath the shadoWs of the chfls. A
boat glided rapidly across the waters; it. touched
land ; a. man leaped on shore, and Glyudon recog-
nised Zanoni.
“ I give thee, Glyndon, I give thee no more the
option of happy love and serene enjoyment. That
hour is pnst, and fate has 'linked the hand that
might have been thine own to mine. But I have
ample gifts to bestow upon thee, if thou wilt
abandon the ho that gnaws thy heart, and the
realization of w 'ch even I have not the power to
foresee. Be thine ambition human, and I can
lgratify it to the full. Men desire four things in
life, love, wealth, fame, power. The first 1 can-
not give thee ; the rest are at my disposal. 59190:
which of them thou wilt, and let us in peace.
“ Such are not the gifts I covet. choose know—
wsrlike aristocracies and limited monarchies, the 1 ledge (which, indeed, as the schoolman said, i"


gs .
ZANONI.
power, and the loftiest); that knowledge must be
thine own. For .this, and for this alone, I surren-
dered the love of Viola ; this, and this nlopc must
be my recompense.”
“I cannot gainsay thee, though I can warn.
The desire to learn does not always contain the
faculty to acquire. I can give thee, it is true, the
teacher; the rest must depend on thee. Be wise
in time, and take that which Ican assure to thee.”
“ Answer me but these questions, and accord-
ing to your answer I will decide. It is in the
er of man to attain intercourse with the be-
ings of other worlds 2 It is in the power of man
to influence the elements, and to ensure life against
the sword and against disease i"
“ All this may be possible," answered ZanonL
evasively, “ to the few. But for one who attains
such secrets, millions may rish in the attempt.”
“ One question more. hon—J
“ Beware! Of myself, as I have said before,
I render no account."
“ Well, then, the stranger I have met this night,
are his boosts to be believed? Is he in truth one
of the chosen seers whom you allow to have mas-
tered the mysteries I yearn to fathom l"
“ Rash man,” said Zanoni, in a tone of com-
'on, “ thy crisis is past, and thy choice made l
can only bid thee be bold and prosper; yes, I
resign thee to a master who has the power and
the will to open to thee the gates 0 an awful
world. Thy weal or we is as non ht in the eyes
of his relentless wisdom. I woul bid him spare
thee, but he will heed me not. Me'nour, receive
'thy pupil l" Glyndon turned, and ' heart heat
When he perceived that the stranger, whose foot-
steps he had not heard upon the pebbles, whose
approach he had not behe d in the moonlight, was
once more b his side.
“ Farewel " resumed Zanoni', “ thy trial com-
mences. When next we meet, thou wilt be the
victim or the victor."
Glyndon’s eyes followed the receding form of
the mysterious stranger. He saw him enter the
boat, and he then for the first time noticed that
besides the rowers there was a female, who stood
up as Zanoni gained the boat Even at the dis
tance he recognised the once adored form of Viola.
She waved her hand to him, and across the still
and shining air came her voice, mournfully and
sweetly in her mother's tongue: “ Farewell, Cla-
rence: I forgive thee! farewell! hireon 1”
He strove to answer, but the voice touched a
chord at his heart, and the words failed him.
Viola was then lost forever; gone with this dread
er; darkness was round her lot! And he
himself had decided her fate and his own I The
boat bounded on, the soft waves flushed and
sparkled beneath the oars, and it was along one
sapphire track of moonlight that the frail vessel
bore away the lovers. Farther and farther from
his gaze sped the boat, till at last the speck,
scarcely visible. touched the side of the ship that
lay lifeless in the glorious bay. At that instant,
as if by magic, up sprau", With is glad murmur,
the playful and freshenmg wind ; and Glyndon
turned to Mejnour and broke the silence.
“ Tell me (if thou canst read the.futurc,) tell
me that her lot will be fair, and that her choice
at least is wise i”

“ My pupil l" answered Mejnour, in a voice, the
calmness of which well accorded with the chilling l
words, “thy first task must be to withdraw alll
thought, feeling, sympathy from others. The
elementary stage of knowledge is to make self,
and self alone, thy study and thy world Thou
hast decided thine own career; thou hast re—
nounced love; thou hast rejected wealth, fame,
and the vulgar poinps of power. What, then,
are all mankind to thee! To perfect thy facul<
ties and concentrate thy emotions, is henceforth
thy onl aim!"
“ An will happinms be the end t”
“ If happiness exist,” miswered Mejnour, “it
must be centred in a am to which all passion is
unknown. But happiness is the last state of be-
ing; and as yet thou art on the threshold of the
first.”
As Mejnour spoke, the distant vessel s read its
sails to the Wind, and moved slowly son the
deep. 'Glyndon sighed, and the pupil an the
master rctraced their steps towards e city.

B 0 0 K IV.
THE DWELLER OF THE THRESHOLD.

CHAPTER I.
" Commc vltllnia i0 vengo nll' am."
Mans-n, at it, so. vll.
Ir was about a month after the date of Zano—
ni’s departure, and Glyndon‘s introduction to Mej-
nour, when two Englishmen were walking, arm
in am, through the Toledo.
“I tell you,” said one (who spoke warmly,)
“that if you have a, particle of common sense
left in you, you will accompany me to England.
This Mejnour is an impostor more dangerous, be-
cause more in earnest, than Zanoni After all.
what do his promises amount toiI You allow
that nothing can be more equivocal. You any
that he has left Na lea; tint he hm selecteda
retreat more congenifi than the crowded thorough-
fares of men to the studies in which he is to ini-
tiate you; and this retreat is among the haunts
of the fiercest bandits of Italy ;—-haunts which
justice itself dares not penetrate. Fitting hermit-
age for a sagel I tremble for you. What ifthis
stranger, of whom nothing is known, he leagued
with btmhe robbers; and these lures for your credu-
lit, 't but the tra for our r0 , rha
your lifel You niisght clinic Efl‘pchlgplge by}:
ransom of half your fortune. You smile indig-
nantlyl Well; put common sense out of the
uestion; take our own view of the matter.
on are to un ergo an ordeal which Mejnour
himself does not profess to describe as a very
tempting one. It may, or it may not succeed;
if it does not, you are menaccd with the darkest
evils; and if it does, you cannot be better off
than the dull and joyless mystic whom you have
taken for a master. Away with this folly; enjoy
youth while it is left to on. Return with me to
England; forget these arms. Enter your ro-
per career; form afl'ections more respectable t on
those which lured you a while to an Italian ad-
venturess. :Attend to your fortune, make money,
and become a happy and distinguished man.


ZANONI.
69
This is the advice of sober friendship; yet the{ “And I to mine. Farewell!”
promises I hold out. to you are fairer than those I That day Mervale left Naples; the next mom-
of Mejnourf' I Glyndon also quittcd the City of Delight, alone
“Mervale,” said Glyndon, doggedly, “ I cannot, l and on horseback. He bent his way into those
if I Would, yield to your wishes. A power that I picturesque, but dangerous parts of the country,
is above me urges me on; I cannot resist its in- l which at that time were infested by banditti, and
fluence. I will proceed to the last in the strange which few travellers dared to pam even in broad
career I have commenced. Think of me no more. l daylight, without a strong escort. A read more
Follow yourself the advice you give to me, and ‘ lonel cannot Well be conceived than that on
be hop y," ‘ whi the hoofs of his steed, striking upon the
“ This is madness," said Mervale ; “ our health ‘ fragments of rock that encumbered the neglected
is ahead failing; you are so change , I should ‘- wny, woke a dull and melancholy echo. Large
scarcely know you. Come ; I have already had , tracks of waste land, varied by the rank and pro-
our name entered in my passport; in another fuse foliage of the South, lay before him; wea-
hour I shall be gone, and you, boy that you are, , sionally, a wild goat peeped down from some
will be left without a friend, to the deceits of your l rooky era-g, or the discordant cry of a bird of prey,
own fancy and the mrwhinations of this relentless l startled in its sombre haunt, was heard above the
mountebank,‘ hills. These were the only signs of life; not a
“ Enough l” said Glyndon, coldly; “you cease lhurnan being was met—not a hut was visible.
to be an effective counsellor when you suffer your ' Wrapped in his own ardent and solemn thoughts,
e'udices to be thus evident. l have already the young man continued his way, till the sun bad
girl ample pn'mf," added the Englishman, and his spent its noonday halt, and a breeze that apnouno
pale cheek grew more pale, .‘of the power of this \ ed the approach of eve sprung up from the un-
man, if man he be, which I sometimes doubt, ‘ seen (man which lay far distant to his right. It
and, come life, come death, I will not shrink from l was then that a turn in the road brought before
the paths that allure me. Farewell, Mervale; him one of those long, desolate, gloomv villages
if we never meet again; if you hear amid our which are found in the interior of the Neapolitan
old and cheerful haunts that Clarence Gl ndon
sleegs the last sleep by the shores of Nap es, or
uni yon distant hills, say to the friends of our
youth, ‘He died worthily, as thousands of mar-'
tyr-students have died before him, in the pursuit
0f knowledge.’ ” _
He wrung Mervale's hand as he spoke, darted
from his side, and disappeared amid the crowd.
By the corner of the Toledo, he was arrested
by N icot.
“ Ah, Glyndon l I have not seen you this
month. Where have you hid yourself 3 Have
you been absorbed in your studies ‘3”
“ Yes.”
" I am about to leave N a les for Paris. Will
you accompany me i '1‘ cut of all order is
eagerly sought for there, and will be sure to rise.”
“I thank you; I have other schemes for the
‘9'
“So laconicl what ails you? Do you grieve
for the loss of the I’isanit Take example by
me. I have already consoled myself with Bian-
ca Sacchini—a handsome woman—enlightened—
no prejudices. A valuable creature I shall find
her, no doubt. But as for this Zanoni "
What of him i"
“ If ever I paint an allegorical subject, I will
take his likeness as Satan. Ha, ha! a true pain-
ter’s revenge—chi And the way of the world,
tool When we can do nothing else against a
man whom we hate, we can at least point his ef-
figies as the devil. Seriously, though, I abhor
that man—" -
“ Wherefore l"
“ Wherefore! Has he not carried off the wife
and the dowry I had marked for myself I Yet.
after all,” added Nicot, musingly, “ had he served
instead of injured me, I should have hated him all
the same. His very form and his very time made
me at once envy and detest him. I feel that
there is something nntipathetic in our natures. I
feel, too, that we shall meet again, when Jean
Nicot's hate may be less impotent. We too, alter
meéTb—Wfl too may meet againl Viva In Re
~publique ! I to my new World !”

‘ dominion! ; and now he came upon a small chapel
\ou one side of the road, with a gnudily-painted
l image of the Virgin in the open shrine. Around
‘ this spot, which, in the heart of a Christian land,
retained the vestigc of the old idolatry (for just
such were the chapels that in the pagan age were
dedicated to the daemon-saints of m'tlrology),
gathered six or seven miserable an squalid
wretches-whom the Curse of the Leper had cut
off from mankind. They setup a shrill cry as
they turned. their ghastly visang towards the
horseman; and, without stirring from the spot,
stretched out their gaunt arms, and implored
loharit in the name of the Merciful Mother 1—-
(ilyn on hastily threw them some small coins,
and turning away his face, cla ped s urs to his
horse, and relaxed not his speed till e entered
the village. On either side the narrow and miry
street, fierce and haggard forms—some leaning
against the ruined walls of blackened huts, some
seated at the threshold some lying at full in the
mud—presented groups that at once invoked pity
and aroused alarm; pity for their squalor, alarm
for the ferocity imprinted on their savage aspects
They gazed at him, grim and sullen, as he rode
slowly up the rugged street ; sometimes whisper-
ing significantly to each other, but without at»
tempting to sto his way. Even the children
hushed their bub 1e, and rugged urchins, devour-
ing him with sparkling eyes, muttered to their
mothers, “ We shall feast well to-morrowl” It
was indeed one of those hamlets in which Law
sets not its sober step, in which Violence and
Murder house securchhamlets common then in
the wilder parts of Italy—in which the peasant
was but the gentler name for the robber.
Glyndon’s heart somewhat failed him as he
looked around, and the question he desired to ask
died upon his lips. At length, from one of the
dismal cabins emerged a form superior to the rest.
Instead of the patched and ragged overall which
made the only garment of the men he had hitherto
seen, the dress of this person was characterized by
all the trappings of the national bravo. Upon hip
raven hair, the glossy curls of which made a no-


' 'IO ZANONI.
table contrast to the matted and elfin locks of the [left in a few minutes neither houses or m were
savages around, was placed a cloth ca with a. ‘visiblc, and the mountains closed their path on
gold tassel that hung down to his sho der; his [either side. It was then that, releasing the bridle
mustaches were trimmed with care, and a. silk and slackening his pace, the guide turned his dark
kerchief of gay hues was twisted round a well- ‘ eyes on Glyndon with an arch expression, and
aha ed but smewy throat; a. short jacket of rough said,
clotli was decorated with several rows of gilt fila- “ Your excellency was not, perhaps, prepared
e buttons; his neither garments fitted tight to for the hearty welcome we have given you.
girlimbs, and were curiously braided; while in n " Why, in truth, I ought to have been prepared
broad perti-coloured sash were laced two silver- for it, since the signor, to whose house I am bound.
hilted iatols and the sheathed 'fe usually worn y did not disguise from me the character of the neigh-
b Ita 'ans of the lower order, mounted in ivory lbourhood. And your name, my friend, if I-may
e bomtely carved. A small carbine of handsome iso call you '4"
workmnnshi was slung across his shoulder, and “Oh, no ceremonies with me, excellency. In
- com leted his costume. The man himself was of 1 the village I am generally called Maestro Péolo.
middle size, athletic, yet slender, with straightll had a surname once, though a very equivocal
and regular features, sunburned, but not swarthy ; ;onc; and I have forgotten that since I retired
and an expression of countenance which, though ifmm the world.” ‘
reckless and bold, had in it frankness rather than “And was it from disgust, from poverty, or
ferocity, and, if defying, was not altogether nn— [from some—some cbullition of passion which on-
preposessing. tailed punishment, that you betook yourself tothe
Glyndon, after eying this figure for some mo- ,mountnins '4”
ments with great attention, checked his rein, and! “Why signer," said the bravo, with a gay
asked his way to the “ Castle of the Mountain." [lnugh, “ hermits of my class seldom love the con-
The man lifted his on as he heard the question, Ifessional. However, have no secrets while my
and, approaching Glyn on, laid his hand upon the ste are in these dcfiles, my whistle in my pouch,
neck of the horse, and said, in a low voice, “ Then on my carbine at my back." With that the rob
you are the cavalier whom our patron the signer her, as if he loved permission to talk at his will,
expected. He bade me wait for dyou here, and hemmed thrice, and began with much humdnr;
lead you to the castle. And in ecd, signor, it though, as his title proceeded the memories it
might have been unfortunate if I had neglected mused seemed to mrry him farther than he at
to obey the command” . first intended, and reckless and light-hearted ease
The man then, drawing a. little aside, culled out gave way to that fierce and varied plnv of coun-
to the by-stauders in a loud voice, “ Ho, hol my tenance and passion of gesture which characterize
friends, pay henceforth and forever all respect to the emotions of his countrymen.
this worshipful cavalier. He is the expected “ l was born at 'l‘errncina, a fair spot, is it not?
est of our blessed patron of the Castle of the My futher was a learned monk, of high birth;
ountain. Long life to him ! May he, like his my mother, heaven rest her! on iriri~kecpcr‘s
host, be safe by day and" by night—on the hill .pretty daughter. Of course, there could be no
and in the wastehaguinst the dagger and the marriage in the case; and when I was born, the
bullet—in limb and life ! Cursed be he who monk gravely declared my nppomnnce to he
touches a hair of his head or n baioocho in his miraculous. I was dedicated from my cradle to
uch. Now and forever we will protect' and the altar, and my head was universally declared
Egnour him—for the law or against the law— to be the orthodox shape for n cowl. As I grew
with the faith, and to the death. Amen! Amen l" up, the monk took great pains with my educa-
“ Amen !" responded, in wild chorus, a hundred tion ; and I learned Latin and psalmody as soon
voices: and the scattered and staggling groups as less miraculous infants leanied crowing. Nor
ressed up the street, nearer and nearer to the did the holy man's care stint itself to my interior
Kane. mun. accomplishments. Although vowed to poverty,
“ And that he may be lmown,” continued the he always contrived that my mother should have
Englishman’s strange protector, “to the eye and her pockets full; and between her pockets and
to the ear, I place around him the white sash, and Finine there was soon established a clandestine
I give him the sacred watchwoid ‘Peaca to the communication; accordingly, at fourteen I wore
Braz't'.’ Signor, when you wear this sash, the my cap on one side. stuck pistols in in belt, and
dest in these parts will bore the head and msurned the swagger of n cnvulier an a gallant.
d the knee. Signor, when on utter this watch- i At that age my pour mother died ; and about the
word, the bravest hearts be bound to your I same period, my father, having written a History-
bidding. Desire you safety or ask you revenge, of the Pontifical Bulls, in forty volumes, and be-
io gain a beauty or to lose a foe, speak but the ling, as I said, of high birth, obtained a curdinnl's
word, and we are yours, we are yours! Is it not hot. From that time he thought fit to disown
so, comrades 3” And again the hoarse voices your humble servant. He bound me over to an
shouted, “ Amen! Amen l" |honest notary at Naples, and gave me two hun.
“N ow, signor,” whispered the bravo, “if you dred crowns by way of provision. Well, signer,
have a few coins to 5 re, scatter them among i I saw enough of the law to convince me that I
the crowd, and let us egone.” ishould never be rogue enough to shine in the pro-
Glyndon, not displeased at the concluding scn- fession. So, instead of spoiling parchment, I
fence, emptied his purse in the ,streets; and i made love to the notary's daughter. My master
while with mingled oaths, blessings, shrieks, and [discovered our innocent amusement, and turned
yells, men, women, and children scrambled for me out of doors; that was disagreeable. Butm
the money, the brow, taking the rein of the horse, Ninetta loved me, and took care thnt'I should
led it a few paces through the village nt a brisk inot lie out in the streets with the lnzzeroni. Lit-
hot, and then, turning up a narrow lane to the i tle jade, I think I see her now, with her bare feet


ZANONI.
71‘
lndher finger to her li s, opening the door in
the summer nights, and bidding me creep softly
into the kitchen, where, praised be the saints! a
flask and a mancbet always awaited the hungry
amoroso. At last, however, Ninetta grew cold.
It is the way of the sex, signer. Her father
found her an excellent marriage in the person of
a withered old picture-dealer. She took the
spouse, and very properly chipped the door in
t e face of the lover. I was not disheartened,
excellency; no, not I. Women are plentiful
while we are young. So, without a. ducat in in
pocket or a crust for my teeth, I set out to seek
my fortune on board of a Spanish merchantman.‘
That was duller work than I expected; but,
luckily, we were attacked by a. pirate; half the
(law were butchered, the rest captured. I was
one of the last: always in luck, you see, signer;
monks’ sons have a knack that way! The cap-
tain of the pirates took a fancy to me. ‘ Serve
with us,’ said he. ‘ Toe happy !' said I. Behold
‘ me, then, a piratel O jolly lifcl how I blessed
the old' notary for tuming me out of doors!
What feasting, what fighting, what wooing, what
quarrellingl Sometimes we ran ashore and en-
joyed ourselves like princes; sometimes we lay
in a calm for days together, on the loveliest see.
that man ever traversed. And then, if the breeze
rem and a sail came in sight, who so merry as
we 1 I pas~=ed three years in that charming pro-
fession, and then, signer, I grow ambitious. I
caballed against the captain; I wanted his post.
One still night we struck the blow. The ship
was like a log in the sea; no land to be seen
from the masthead; the waves like glass, and
the moon at its full. Up we rose, thirty of us
and more. Up we rose with a shout; we pour-
ed into the captain‘s cabin, I at the head. The
brave old boy had caught the alarm, and there
- he stood at the doorway, a pistol in each hand;
and hisone eye (he had only one!) worse to meet
than the pistols were.
“ ‘ Yield !’ cried I; ‘ your life shall be safe.’
“ ‘ Take that,’ said he, and whiz went the pis-
tol; but the saints took care of their own, and
the ball passed by my check, and shot. the beat-
swain behind me. I closed with the captain, and
the other pistol went off without mischief in the
struggle. Such a fellow he was; six feet four
without his shoes! Over we went, rolling each
on the other. Santa Maria 1 no time to get hold
of one’s knife. Meanwhile, all the crew were
up, some for the captain, some for me; clashing
and firing, and swearing and groaning, and now
and then a heavy splash in the seal Fine sup-
5; for the sharks that night! At last old Bil-
got uppermost; out flushed his knife; down
it came, but not in my heart. No! I gave my
left arm as a. shield; and the blade went through
to the hilt, with the blood spirting up like the
rain from a hale‘s nostril. With the weight of
the blow the stout fellow came down, so that his
face touched mine; with my right hand I caught
him by the throat. turned him over like a lamb,
signer. and faith it was seen all up with him; the '
boatswain‘s brother, a fat Dutchman, ran him
through with a pike.
“ ‘ Old fellow,’ said I, as he turned his terrible
eye to me, ‘I hear you no malice, but we must
try to get on in the world, you knew.‘ The can
tain grinned and gave up the ghost. I went
upon deck—what a sight l Twenty bold follows
lstark and cold, and the moon sparkling on the
‘ puddles of blood as calmly as if it were water.
- Well, signer, the victory was ours and the ship
mine; I ruled merrily enough for six months.
i We then attacked a French ship twice our size;
;' what sport it was! And we had not had a good
fight so long, we were quite like virgins at itl
We got the best of it, and won shi and cargo.
They wanted to pistol the captain, at that was
against my laws; so we gagged him, for he
scolded as loud as if we were married to him;
left him and the rest of his crew on board our
own vessel, which was terribly battered; clapping
our black flag on the Frenchman‘s, and set off
merrily, with a brisk wind in our favour. But
luck deserted us on forsaking our own dear old
ship. A storm came on, a plank struck; several
of us escaped in the boat; w'e had lots of gold
with us, but no waterl For two da s and two
,nights we suffered horribly; but at ast'we ran
ashore near a French seaport. Our sorry plight
moved compassion, and as we had money we
were not suspected; people only suspect the
poor. Here we soon recovered our fatigues, rig-
ged ourselves out gayly, and your humble ser-
vant was considered as noble a captain as ever
walked deck. But now, alas! m fate would
have it that I should fall in love With a silk-mer-
eer’s daughter. Ah, how I loved her l the pretty
Clara! Yes, I loved her so well that I was
seized with horror at my past life! I resolved
to repent, to marry her, and settle down into an
honest man. Accordingly, I summoned my mess-
mates. told them my resolution, resigned my
command, and persuaded them to depart. They
were good fellows: engaged with a Dutchman,
against whom I afterwards heard they made a
successful mutiny, but I never saw them more.
Ihad two thousand crowns still left; with this
sum I obtained the consent of the silk-mercer,
and it was agreed that I should become a partner
in the firm. I need not say that no one suspect-
ed that I had been so great a man, and I passed
for I. Nea olitan goldsmilh’s son instead of a car-
dinal’s, fwas very happy then, signer, very; I
could not have banned a fly! Had I married
Clara, I had been as gentle a mercer as ever
handled a measure.”
The bravo paused a moment, and it was easy
to see that he felt more than his words and tone
hetokened. “ Well, well, we must not look back
at the past too earnestly; the sunlight upon it
makes one’s eyes water. The day was fixed for
our wedding—it approached. ()n the evening
before the appointed day, Clam, her mother, her
little sister, and myself were walking b the port,
and as we looked on the sea I was to lint,r them
old gossip-tales of mermaids and sea-serpents,-
when a red-faced, bottle-nosed Frenchman clap-
ped himself right before me, and placing his spec-
tacles very deliberately nstride his reboscis,
echoed out, ‘Sacri', mille tonnerresl t is is the
[ damned pirate who boarded the Niobe!’
“ ‘Nene of your jests,’ said I, mildly. ‘HO.
ho!‘ said he; ‘ I can‘t be mistaken; help there !’
and he griped me by the collar. I replied, as
you may su pose, by laying him in the kennel;
but it oultlhiet do. The French captain had a
French lieutenant as his back, whose memory
; was as good as his chief ’s. A crowd assembled;
'other sailors came up; the odds were against
lme. I slept that night in prison; and in a few


'72 ‘
ZAN ON I.
weeks afterward I was sent to the gall They
spared my life, because the old Frenc iman po-
litely averred that I had made my crew s are
his. You may believe that the our and the c am
were not to my taste. I and two others esca d;
they took to the road, and have, no doubt, een
long since broken on the wheel. I, soft soul,
would not commit, another crime to gain my
bread, for Clara was still at my heart with her
sWeet eyes; so, limiting my rogueries to the
theft of a beggar's rags, which I compensated by
leaving him my galley attire instead, Ibegged
my way to the town where I left Clara. It was
a clear winter's day when I approached the out-
skirts of the town. _I had no fear of detection,
for my board and hair were as good as a mask.
Oh, Mother of Mercy ! there come across my way
a funeral procession! There, now you know it;
I can tell you no more. She had died, perhaps
of love; more likely of shame. Can you guess
how I spent that night? I stole a pickaxe from
a mason‘s shed, and all alone and unseen, under
the frosty heavens, I dug the fresh mould from
the grave; I lifted the coflin, I wrenehed the lid,
I saw her again—again! Deea had not touch-
ed her. She was always pale in lifel I could
have sworn she livedl It was a blessed thing
to see her once more, and all alone moi But
then, at dawn to give her back to the earth—to
close the lid, to throw down the mould, to hear
the pebbles rattle on the coffin—that was dread-
ful! Signor, I never knew before, and I don't
wish to think now, how valuable a thing human
life At sunrise I was again a wanderer; but
now that Clara was gone, my scruples vanished,
and again I Was at war with my betters. I con-
trived at last, at O , to get taken on board a
vessel bound to Leghorn, working out my pass-
age. From Leghorn I went to Rome, and sta~
tioned myself at the door of the cardinal's palace.
Out he came, his gilded coach at the gate.
“ ‘ Ho, father l‘ said I ', don’t you know me i’
“ ‘ Who are you l'
“ ‘ Your son,‘ said I, in a whisper.
“The cardinal drew back. looked at me ear-
nestly, and mused a. moment. ‘ All men are my
sons,’ quoth he then, very mildly; ‘ there is gold
for thee! To him who begs once aims are due;
to him who begs twice, jails are open. Take the
hint, and molest me no more. Heaven bless
thee!’ With that he got into his coach, and
drove off tothe Vatican. His purse which he
had left behind was well supplied. I was grate-
ful and contented, and took my way to Terracina.
I had not long passed the marshes, when I saw
two horsemen approach at a canter.
"‘ You look poor, friend,‘ said one of them,
halting; ‘ yet you are strong.’
“ ' Poor men and strong are both serviceable
and dangerous, Signor (Javalierf
“‘ Well said; follow us.’
“ I obeyed, and became a bandit. I rose by
degrees; and as I have always been mild in my
calling, and have taken purses without cutting
throats, I bear an excellent character, and can
eat my macaroni at Naples without any danger
to life and limb. For t 9 last two years I have
settled in these parts, where I hold sway. and
where I have purchased land. I am called a
farmer, signor; and I myself now only rob for
amusement, and to keep my hand in. I trust I


have satisfied your curiosity. We are within a
hundred ards of the castle."
“ And ow,” asked the Englishman, whose in-
terest had been much excited by his companion’s
narrative, “and how came you acquainted with
my hostl and by what means has he so well
conciliated the good will of yourself and your
friends i"
Maestro Péolo turned his black eyes very
gravely towards hi questioner. “ Why, signer,"
said he, “ you must surely know more of the fo-
reign cavaher with' the hard name than I do. All
I can say is, that about a fortnight I chanced
to be standing by a booth in the To edo at Na-
ples, when a sober-! oking gentleman touched me
by the arm, and sai ‘. ‘Maéstro Poole, I want to
make your acquainane; do me the favour to
come into yonder tavern, and drink a flask 0f
Lécrima. ‘ Willingly,’ said I. So we entered the
tavern. When we were seated, my new ac-
quaintance thus accosted me 2 ' The Count do—
has offered to let me hire his old castle near
B****. You know the spot 7"
“ ‘ Extremely well ; no one has inhabited it for
a century at least ; it is half in ruins, signor. A
queer place to hire; I ho e the rent is not heavy.’
“ ‘ Maestro Peolo.’ sai he, ‘ I am a philosopher,
and don't care for luxuries. I want a quiet re-
treat for some scientific experiments. The castle
will suit me very well, provided you will accept
me as a neighbour, and place me and my friends
under your special protection. I am rich; but
I shall take nothing to the castle worth robbing.
I will pay one rent to the count, and another to
on.
“ With that we soon came to terms; and as
the strange signor doubled the sum I myself pro-
ppsed, he is in high favour with all his neigh-
lurs. We would guard the old castle against
an army. And now, signor, that I have been
thus frank, be frank with me. \Vho is this sin-
gular cavalier l"
“ Who 7 he himself told you, a philosopher."
“ H'em! searching for the_philosopher's stone
—-eh i a bit of amagician ; afraid of the priests t”
“ Precisely. You have hit it."
“ I thought so; and you are his pupil ?"
“ I am.”
“ I wish you well through it," said the robber,
seriously, and crossing himself with much dew»
tion; “ I am not much better than other people,
but one's soul is one's soul. I do not mind a lit-
tle honest robbery, or knocking at man on the
head if need be; but. to make a bargain with
the devil ! Ahl take care, young gentleman,
take care."
“You need not fear," said Glyndon, smiling;
“ my preceer is too wise and too good for such
a compact. But here we are, I suppose. A no-
ble rum, a glorious rospect l."
Glyndon paused d)\liglitedly, and surveyed the
scene before and below with the eye of a ainter.
Insensibly, while listening to the bandit, 1e had
Wound up a considerable ascent, and now he was
upon a broad ledge of rock covered with mosses
and dwarf shrubs. Between this eminence and
another of equal height upon which the castle
was built, there was a deep but narrow fissure,
overgrown with the most profuse foliage, so that
the eye could not penetrate many yards below
the rugged surface of the abyss; but the pro-
fouudncss might be well conjectured by the hoarse,
'0


ZANONI.
78‘
‘l
low, monotonous roar of waters unseen that rolled
below, and the subsequent course of which was
visible at a distance in n perturbed and rapid
stream, that intersected the waste and desolate
valleys. To the left, the prospect seemed uhnost
boundless; the extreme clearness of the purple,
air serving to render distinct the features of a
range of coun that u. conqueror of old might
have deemed in itself a kingdom. Lonely and
desolate as the road which Glyndon had passed
that. do ' had appeared, the landscape now seemed
studde with castles, spires, and villages. Afar,
Naples gleamcd whiter in the last rays of the
sun, and the rose~tints of the horizon melted into
the azure of her glorious bay. Yet more remote,
and in another dpart of the pros ect, might be
caught, dim an shadowy, and lied by the
darkest folin'glel, the ruined pillars of the ancient
Posidonin. ere, in the midst of his blackened
and sterile realms, rose the dismal Mount of Fire;
while on the other hand, winding through vnrie—
gated plains, to which distance lent all its magic,
glitter-ed many and many a stream, by which Et-
niacan and Sybarite, Roman, and Saracen, and
Norman, had, at intervals of ages, pitched the in-
vading tent. All the visions of the past, the
atm'mv and dazzling histories of southern Italy,
over the artist’s mind, as he gazed below.
And then, slowly turning to look behind, he saw
maimy and mouldcring walls of the castle in
w ' he sought the secrets that were to give to
hope, in the Future, a mightier empire than me-
mory owns in the Past. It was one of those ba-
ronial fortresses with which Italy was studded in
the earlier Middle Ages, having but little of the
Gothic grace or grandeur which belongs to the
ecclesiastical architecture of the same time; but
rude, vast, and menacing, even in decay. A
wooden bridge was thrown over the chasm, wide
enough to admit. two horsemen abreast; and the
planks trembled and gave back a hollow sound as
Glyndon urged his 'adod steed across.
A road which had once been broad, and paved
with rough flags, but which now was half oblite-
rated by long grass and rank weeds, conducted to
the outer court of the castle hard by: the gates
were open, and half the building in this part was
dismantled; the ruins partially bid by my that
was the growth of centuries. But on entering
the inner court, Glyndon was not sorry to notice
that there was less apperu-nnce of neglect and de-
cay; some wild roses gave a smile to the gray
Walls, and in the centre there was a fountain, in
which the waters still trickled coolly, and with a
leasing murmur, from the jaws of a gigmitic
g‘riton. Here he was met by Mejnour with a.
smile.
“ Welcome, my friend and pupil," said he ; “ he
who seeks for Truth can find in these solitust an
immortal Acifiieme."

CHAPTER II.
" And Ahnrls, so for from altecrning Pythagoras. who
laugh! these lhlmzs, n nccronmnccr or wizard. rather res
vered and ndlnlicd him as something divine."——Ln.no<
mom, Vt. Pytlmg.
THE attendants whom Mejnour had engaged
for his strange abode, were such as might suit a
philosopher of few wants. An old Armenian,
whom Glyndon recognised as in the mysu'c’o ser-
[ vice at Naples; a tall, hard-featured woman from
i the village, recommended by Maestro Priolo, and
two long-haired, smooth—spoken, but fierce-visaged
i youths, from the same place, and honoured by
‘the same sponsorship, constituted the establish-
ment. The rooms used by the sage were com-
lmodious and weather-proof, with some remains
, of ancient. splendour in the faded arms that clothed
lthe walls, and the huge tables of costly marble
! and elaborate carving. Glyndon‘s sleeping apart-
1ment communicated with a kind of belvidere, or
,terrace, that commanded prospects of unrivalled
[beauty and extent, and was so arated ‘on the
other side by a long gallery, on a flight of ten
ior a dozen stairs, from the private chambers of
I the mystic. There was about the whole place a
sombre and et not displeasing depth of repose.
It suited w with the studies to which it was
now to be ap reprinted.
For eeve ys, Mejnour refused to confer
with Glyndon on the subjects nearest to his
, heart.
| “All without," said he, “is prcpnred, but not
all within; your own soul must grow accustomed
to the spot, and filled with the surrounding na-
ture ', for nature is the source of all inspiration.”
With these words, Mejnotu- tmned to lighter to-
pics. He made the Englishman accompany him
in long rumbles through the wild scean around,
and he smiled approvingly when the young artist
gave way to the enthusiasm which their fearful _
beauty could not have failed to rouse in a duller
ibreast; and then Mejnour poured forth‘to his
wondering pupil the stores of a knowledge that
seemed inexhaustible and boundless. He gave
accounts the most curious, graphic, andminute,
of the various races (their characters, habits, creedn,
i and manners) by which that firir land had been
successive-l overrun. It is true that. his descrip-
tiorm coul not be found in books, and were un-
supported by learned authorities; but he pos-
i sessed the true charm of the talc-teller, and spoke
‘ of all with the animated confidence of a personal
witnem. Sometimes, too, he would converse upon
. the more durable and the loftier mysteries of na-
| turc, with an eloquence and a research which in-
vested them with all the colours rather of poetry
than science. Insensibly, the young artist found
himself elevated and soothed by the lore of his
companion; the fever of his wild desires was
slacked. His mind became more and more lulled
into the divine tranquillity of contemplation; he
felt himself a nobler being; and in the silence
of his senses, he imagined that he heard the voice
of his soul.
It was to this state that Mejnour evidently
sought to bring the Neophyte, and in this ele-
mentary initiation the mystic was like every more!
ordinar sage. For he who seeks to Discovrm,
must rst reduce himself into a kind of abstract
idealism, and be rendered u , in solemn and sweet
bondage, to the faculties w 'ch CONTEMPLATE and
tumour.
Glyndon noticed that, in their rambles, Mejnour
of ten paused where the foliage was rifest, to 5‘1-
thcr some herblor flower; and this reminded lum
that he had seen Zanoni similarly occupied. “ Can
these humble children of_ nature," said he one
day to Mejnour, “ thin that bloom and wither
in a day, be scrvicea 1e to the science of the
higher secrets? Is there a phammcy for the soul
on well an the body, and do the nursliogs of the


74
ZANONI.
summer minister not only to human health, but
spiritual immortalit i”
“ If," answered ejnour, “ a stranger had visit-
ed a wandering tribe before one ro rty of herb-
alism was known to them; if e d told the
savages that the herbs, which every day they
trample under foot, were endowed With the most
potent virtues; that one would restore to health
a brother on the verge of death; that another
would paralyze into idiocy their wisest sage ; that
a third would strike lifeless to the dust their most
stalwart champion; that tears and laughter, vi-
gour and disease, madness and reason, wakeful-
ness and sleep, existence and dissolution, were
coiled up in those unregarded leaves, would they
not have held him a sorcerer or a liarl To half
the virtues of the vegetable world mankind are
yet in the darkness of the savages I have sup-
. There are faculties within us with which
certain herbs have affinity, and over which the
have power. The moly of the ancients is not
a fable."
The apparent character of Mejnour differed in
much from that of Zanoni; and while it fascina-
ted Glyndon less, it subdued and impressed him
more. e conversation of Zanoni evinced a deep
and general interest for mankind—a feeling ap
preaching to enthusiasm for Art and Beauty. The
stories circulated concerning his habits elevated
the mystery of his life by actions of charity and
beneficence. And in all this there was something
genial and humane, that softened the awe he
created, and tended, perhaps, to raise suspicions
as to the loftier secrets that he ted to him-
self. But Mejnour seemed wholly rudifi'erent to
all the actual world. If he committed no evil, he
seemed equally apathetic to good. His deeds re-
lieved no want, his words pitied no distress.
What we call the heart appeared to have merged
into the intellect. He moved, thought, and lived
like some regular and calm Abstraction, rather
than one who yet retained, with the form, the
feelings and sympathies of his kind !
lendon once, observing the tone of supreme
indifference with which he spoke of those changes
on the face of earth, which he inserted he had
witnessed, ventured to remark to him the distinc~
tion he had noted.
“ It is true,” said Mejnonr, coldly. “ My life is
the life that contemplates; Zanoni’s is the life
that enjoys: when I gather the herb, I think but
of its uses; Zanoni will pause to admire its beau-
fies}!
“ And you deem your own the superior and the
loftier existence i”
"‘ No. His is the existence of outh; mine of
. We have cultivated di erent faculties.
firth has powers the other cannot aspire to.
Those he associates with, live better; those who
associate with me, know more."
llI have heard, in truth,” said Glyndon, “that
his companions at Naples were observed to lead
purer and nobler lives after intercourse with Za-
noni; yet, 'were they not strange companions, at
the best, for a sage? This terrible power, too,
that he exercises at will, as in the death of the
Prince di , and that of the Count Ughelli,
scarcely becomes the tranquil seeker after good."
“ 'l‘ruo," said Mejnour, with an icy smile; “ such
must ever be the error of those hilosophers who
would meddle with the nctive ~fe of mankimi
You cannot serye some without injuring others;

you cannot protect the good without warring on
the bad; and if on desire to reform the faulty,
wh you must ower yourself to live with the
fa ty to know their faults Even so saith Pain-
celsua, a great man, though often wrong!It Not
mine this folly; I live but in knowledge: I have
no'life in mankiudl”
Another time, Gl don questioned the mystic
as to the nature 0 that union or fraternity to
which Zanoni had once referred.
“ I am right, I suppose," said he, “ in conjectur-
ing that you and himself profess to be the brothers
of the Rosy Cross.”
“Do you imagine," answered Mejnour, “ that
there were no mystic and solemn unions of men
seeking the same ends, through the same means,
before the Arabians of Dnmus, in 1878, taught to
a wandering German the secrets which founded
the Institution of the Rosicruciansl I allow,
however, that the Rosicrucians formed a sect de-
scended from the greater and earlier school. They
were wiser than the Alchemists; their masters
are wiser than they."
“ And of this early and primary order, how
many still exist l”
“ Zanoni and mvself."
“What, two only! and you profess the power
to teach to all the secret that bafiies Death 1"
“ Your ancestor attained that secret; he died
rather than survive the only thing he loved. We
have, my pu il, no arts by which we can It
Death out 0 our tion, or out of the wi of
Heaven. Trese ma crush me as I stand.
All that we rofcss to do is but this; to find out
the secrets 0? the human frame, to know why the
parts ossify and the blood stagnates, and to sp ly
continual preventives to the etfects of Time. 'Ilhrs
is not M vic; it is the Art of Medicine rightly
undersboiid. In our order we hold most noble,
first, that knowledge which elevates the intellect;
secondly, that which reserves the body. But the
mere art (extracted mm the juices and simples)
which recruits the animal vigour and arrests the
progress of decay, or that more noble secret which
I will only hint to thee at present, by which HEAT
or camsro, asye call it, being, as Heraclitus wisely
tapght, the primordial principle of life, mu be
m e its perpetual renovator; these, I say, would
not suffice for safet . It is ours also to disarm
and elude the Win of men, to turn the swords
of our foes against each other, to glide (if not in-
corporeal) invisible to eyes over which we can
throw a mist and darkness. And this some. seers
have professed to be the virtue of a stone of agate.
Abuns placed it in his arrow. I will find you an
herb in yon valley that will give a surer charm
than the to and the arrow. In one word, know
this, that the humblest and meanest products of
Nature are those from which the subhmest prop-
erties are to be drawn"
“ But," said Glyndon, “ if assessed of these
at secrets, why so churlish in withholding their
gill-‘usionl Does not the Mae or charlatnnic sci-
ence differ in this from the true and indisputable,
that the last communicates to the world the -
case by which it attains its discoveries; the i;
Iboasts of marvellous results, and refuses to ex-
: plain the causes l"
“ Well said, O Logician of the schools; but
" " I! is as access 
y to know evil things as good ; ft!
who run know what ls good without the knowing what
is evil 7" km—Paraceluu, I): Not. Rem, lib. Ill.


ZANONI. '15
think again. Suppose we were to impart all our‘ chamber which Glyndon entered was empty.—
knowiedgc to all mankind indiscriminatei , alike i With a noiseless stop he passed on, and opened
to the vicious and the virtuous, should we ben~ ‘ the door that admitted into the inner one. He
afictors or scourgcsi Imagine the tyrant, the‘ drew back at the threshold, ovarpowered by a
aensualist, the evil and corrupted, being possessed ‘ strong fragrance which filled the chamber: a kind
of these tremendous powers; would he not be a of mist thickened the air rather than obscured it,
dzemon let loose on earth? Grant that the same for this vapour was not. dark, but resembled a
privilege be accorded. also to the good; and ini snow-cloud moving slowly and in heavy undula-
what state would be society 7 Engaged in a 'I‘i-i tions, wave u a wave, regularly over the space.
tan war—the good forever on the defensive, thel A mortal col struck to the Englishman’s heart,
bad foreVer in assault In the present condition and his blood froze. He stood rooted to the spot,
of the earth, evil is a more active principle than ' and, as his e as strained involuntarily through the
good, and the evil would prevail. It is for these vapour, he cied (for he could not be sure that
reasons that we are not only solemnly bound to y it was not the trick of his imagination) that he saw
administer our lore only to those who will not dim, spectre-like, but gigantic forms floating
misuse and pervert it, but that we place our or- through the mist; or was it not rather the mist
deal in tests that purify the ptssions and elevate ' itself that formed its vapours fantastically into
the desires. And Nature in this controls and as- i those moving, impalpable, and bodiless a pari-
sists us; for it laces awful guardians and insur-
mountable bamers between the ambition of vice
and the Heaven of the loftier science."
Such made a small part of the numerous con-
versations Mejnour held with his pupil; conversa- ' that the river was but a s
tions that, While they a poured to address them-
selves to the reason, in med yet more the fancy.
It was the very
create, that gave an air of probability to those
which Mejnour asserted Nature might bestow.
Thus days and weeks rolled on; and the mind I
of Glyndon,
and musing
chimeras of the world without.
fladnally fitted to this sequestered
of all powers which;
Nature, properly investigated, did not suffice to!
tionsi Agreat ‘iterofan‘ uit issai ,ina
picture of Madcap;1 have re ml yted the mon-
sters that glide through the g ostly River of the
Dead, so artfully, that the eye perceived at once
tre, and the blood
less things that tenanted it no life, their forms
blended with the dead waters, till, as the eye con-
tinued to gaze, it ceased to discern them ‘from the
preternatural clement they were supposed to in-
abit. Such were the moving outlines that coiled
and floated through the mist; but, before Glyn
don had even drawn breath in this atmosphere—
for his life itself seemed to be arrested or changed
e, forgot at last the vanities and i into a kind of horrid trance—he felt his hand
~scized, and he was led from that room into the
One evening he had lingered alone and latei outer one. He heard the door close, his blood
upon the ramparts, watching the stars as, one by i
rushed again through his veins, and he saw Meg-
one, they broke upon the twilight~ Never had he i nour by his side Strong convulsions then an
felt so sensibly the mighty power of the Heavens
and the Earth upon man ow
of our intellectual being are moved and acted
upon by the solemn influences of Nature! As a
patient on whom, slowly and by degrees, the
' 'es of mesmerism are brought to hear, he
acknowledged to his heart the growing force of
that vast and universal magnetism which is the
life of creation, and binds the atom to the whole.
A strange and ineifible consciousness of wer,
of the scrum-ruse can't within the perishable
clay, appealed to feelings at once dim and lori-
ous, like the faint recognition of a holier for-
mer being. An impulse that he could not resist
led him to seek the mystic He would demand,
that hour, his initiation into the worlds beyond
our Wm'ld; he was prepared to breathe a diviner
air. He entered the cast e, and strode the shadowy
and star-lit gallery which conducted to Mejnour’s
apartment.
fill-J}

CHAPTER IIL
“lien is the eye oflhings.-—I-‘.|Jitvrn.. do I'll. Ilum.
. . "There is, therefore, a certain ecst'iticnl or trans-
purting power which, "at any time it shall be excited or
all-rad up by an ardent desire anti most strong imagina-
tion, is nbie In conduct the spirit of the more outward
oven to some absent and far distant ObjBCl."—VON liar.-
Inn.
Tm: rooms that Mejnour occupied, consisted of
two chambers communicating with each other,
and a third in which he slept All these rooms
were laced in the huge square tower that bectled
over 1e dark and bushgrown precipice. The first
much the springs '

idenly seized his whole frame; he fell to the
ground insensible. When he recovered, he found
himself in the open air, in a rude balcony of stone ‘
that jutted from the chamber, the stars shining
serenely over the dark abyss below, and resting
calmly upon the face of the mystic, who stood
beside him with folded arms.
“ Young man," said Mejnour, “judge, by what
on have just felt, how dangerous it is to seek
Knowledge until pared to receive it. Another
moment in the air 0 that chamber, and you had
been a corpse.”
“ Then of what nature was the knowledge that
you, once mortal like myself, could safely have
sought in that icy atmosp ere which it was death
for me to breathe, Mejnour i” continued Glyndon,
and his wild desire, sharpened by the very dan-
ger he had once more animated and
nerved him. “ I am prepared at least fix the
first etc I come to you as of old, the pupil
to the ierophant, and demand the initiation."
Mejnour passed his hand over the you man's
heart; it beat loud, regularly, and bold y. He
looked at him with something almost like admi-
ration in his aslonless and frigid features, and
muttered, hnl to himself, “Surely, in so much
courage the true disci mic is found at last.” Then,
speaking aloud, he u dcd, “ Be it so; man's first
initiation is in mason. In commences
all human knowledge; in dreams hovers over
measureless space the first faint bridge between
spirit and s irit—this world and the Worlds be-
yond! Loo steadfastly on yonder star ir'
Gl ndon obeyed, and Mejnour retired into the
chamber, from which there then slowly emerged
in vapour, somewhat paler and of fainter Odour


7 6 "
ZANONL
than that which had nearly produced so fatal an
effect on his frame. This, on the contrary, as it
coiled around him. and then melted into thin
spires into the air, breathed a. refreshing and
healthful fragrance. He still kept his eyes on
the star, and the star seemed gradually to fix and
command his gaze. A sort of languor next seized
his frame, but without, as he thought, communi-
cating itself to the mind; and as this crept over
him, he felt his temples sprinkled with some vola~
tile and fiery essence. At the same moment, a
alight tremour shook his limbs and thrilled through
his veins. The languor increased; still he kept
his gaze upon the star; and now its luminous
circumference seemed to ex and and dilate. It
became gradually softer an clearer in its light;
spreading wider and broader, it diffused all space
-—sll space seemed swallowed up in it. And at
,lnst, in the midst of a silver-shining atmosphere,
he felt as if something burst within his brain—as
if a strong chain were broken; and at that mo-
ment 0. sense of heavenly liberty, of unutterable
delight, of freedom from the body, of bird-like
ligllémess, seemed to float him into the space it-
se " Whom, now open earth, dost thou wish to
seei" whis red the voice of Mejnour. “ Viola
and Zanom!“ answered Glyndon, in his heart;
but he felt that his li s moved not. - Suddenly, at
that thought—throng this space, in which noth-
ing, save one mellow, translucent light, had been
discernible—a swift succession of shadowy land-
scapes seemed to roll: trees, mountains, cities,
seas, glided along like the changes of n phantas-
magoria; and at last, settled and stationary, he
saw a cave by the gradual marge of an ocean
shore, myrtles and orange-trees clothing the gen-
tle banks. On a height at a distance, glearned
_ the white, but shattered relics of some ruined
heathen edifice ; and the moon, in calm splendour,
shining over all, literally bathed with its light
two forms 'without the cave, at whose feet the
blue waters crept, and he thought that he even
heard them murmur. He recognised both the
figures. Zanoni was seated on a fragment of
stone ; Viola, half reclining by his side, was look-
ing into his face, which was bent down to her, and
in her countenance was the expression of that per-
fect ha piness which belongs to perfect love.—
“ Woul ‘st thou hear them speak i” whispered
Mejnour; and again, without sound, Glyndon iuly
answered, “ Yes !" Their voices then came to his
ear, but in tones that seemed to him strange ; so
subdued were they, and sounding, as it were, so
fiir off, that the were as voices heard in the vis-
ions of some ho ier men from 'a distant 5 here.
“ And how is it," said Viola, “that ion canst
find ]pleasure in listening to the ignorant l”
“ cause the heart is never ignorant; because
the mysteries of the feelings are as full of wonder
as those of the intellect If at times thou must
not com rehend the language of my thoughts, at
times,
' emotions."
“ Ay, say not so !" said Viola, winding her arm
tenderly round his neck, and under that heavenly
' ht. her face seemed lovelier for its blushes.—
“ or the eni as are but love’s common lan-
ue, and ove ~should solve them. Till I
fiziv thee—till I lived with thee—till I learned
to watch for thy footstep when absent, yet even
, I hear sweet enigmas in that of thy}
etween Nature and the human soul 1" . . . .
“ And yet," she continued, “ I am now assured
of what I at first believed—that the feelings
which attracted me towards thee at jirst were
not those of love. I know that by comparing the
present with the past; it was a sentiment then
wholly of the mind or the spirit! I could not
hear thee now say, ‘ Viola, be happy with an-
other !’ ”
“ And I could not now tell thee so ! Ah,
Viola! never be weary of assuring me that thou
M happy I”
“ Happy, while thou are so. Yet at times, Za-
noni, thou art so sad 1”
“ Because human life is so short; because we
.must part at last; because you moon shines on
when the nightingale sings to it no more! A
little while, and thy eyes will grow dim. and th
beauty haggard, and these locks that I toy wi
now will be gray and loveless.”
“ And thou, cruel one l" said Viola, touchingly,
“ I shall never see the signs of age in thee 1 But
shall we not grow old together, and our eyes be
accustomed to a change which the heart shall not
share l”
Zanoni sighed. He turned away, and seemed
to commune with himself
Gl ndou's attention grew yet more earnest.
“ Illiit were it so," muttered Zanoni; and then
looking steadfastly at Viola, he said, with a half
smile, “ Hnst thou no curiosity to learn more of
the Lover thou once couldst believe the agent of
the Evil One l”
“ None; all that one wishes to know of the be-
loved one, I know—that thou (overt me !"
“I have told thee that my life is apart from
others. Wouldst thou not seek to share it i"
“1 share it now i"
“But were it possible to be thus voung and
fair forever, till the world blazes round us as one
funeral pyre l” .
“ We shall be so when we leave the world !”
Zanoni was mute for some moments, and at
length he said,—
“Canst thou recall those brilliant and aerial
dreams which once visited thee when thou didst
fancy that thou wert pre-ordained to some fate
aloof and afar from the common children of the
earth 3"
“ Zanoni, the fate is found.”
“ And hast thou no terror of the future l"
“The future! I forget it! Time past, and
present, and to come, re oses in thy smile. Ah,
Znnoni, play not with t as foolish credulities of
my youth 1 I have been better and humbler
since thy presence has dispelled the mist of the
air. The Future! well, wlkn l have cause to
dread it, I will 100k up to Heaven, and remem-
ber who guides our fate l”
As she lifted her eyes above, a dark cloud
swept suddenly over the scene. (It. wrapped the
orange-trees, the azure ocean, the dense sands;
but still the last ll es that it veiled from the
chamied eyes of Glyn on were the forms of Viola
and Znnoni. The face of the one, ra t, serene,
and radiant; the face of the other, dar , thought-
ful, and locked in more than its usual rigidness
of melancholy beauty and profound repose.

“Rouse thyself," said Mejnour; “thy ordeal
has commenccdl There are pretenders to the
in absence to see thec everywhere—I dreamed solemn science, who oculd have shown thee the
not how strong and all-pervmfing isthe unmexion absent, and prated to thee, in their charlatanic


ZANONI.
77
jargon, of the secret electricities and the mag]
netic fluid, of whose true properties they know‘
but the germs and elements. I will lend thee|
the books of those glorious dupes, and thou will
find, in the dark ages, how many erring steps
have stumbled upon the threshold of the mighty
learning, and fancied they had pierced the tem-
ple. Hermes, and Albert, and Paracelsus, [knew
e all; but, noble as e were, -ye were fated to
deceived. Ye ha not souls of faith and da-
ring fitted for the destinies at which ye aimed !
Yet I’aracelsus, modest Paracelsus, had an arro-
gance that soared higher than all our knowledge.
Ho! ho! he thought he could make a race of
men from chemistry; he arrogath to himself the
Divine gift—the breath of life.* He would have
made men, and, after all, confessed that they
could be but igmies! My art is to make men
shove mankind). But you are impatient of my
digressions. Forgive me. All these men (they
were great dreamers, as you desire to b0,) were i
intimate friends of mine. But they are dead and
rotten. They talked of s irits—but they dreaded
to be in other company an that of men. Like
orators whom I have heard, when I stood by the
Pnyx of Athens, blazing with words‘like comets
in the assembly, and extinguishing their ardour
like holida -rockets when they were in the field.
Hol hol emosthenes, my hero-Coward, how
nimble were thy heels at Chteronea l And thou
art impatient stilll Boy, I could tell thee such
truths of the Past, as would make thee the lumi-
nary of schools. But thou lustest only for the
shadows of the Future. Thou shalt have thy
wish. But the mind must be first exercised and
trained. Go to thy room and sleep; fast austere-
ly; read no books; meditate, imagine, dream,
bewilder thyself, if thou wilt. Thought shapes
out its own chaos at last. Before midnight, seek
meagainl"

CHAPTER IV.
“I! is tit that we who endeavour to rise to an elevation
Iosnblims, should study first to leave behind carnal affec-
tionu.the frailty of the senses, the passions that belong
In matter; secondly, to learn by what means we may
“tend to the climax of pure intellect, united with the
powers above. without which never can we gain the lore
oflecret things, nor the magic that effects true wonders."
_TllTlII\J! on Sun! Things and Surat Spirits.
I: wanted still many minutes of midnight, and
yndon was once more in the apartment of the
mystic. He had rigidly observed the fast or-
dained to him; and in the rapt and intense reve-
ries into which his excited fancy had plunged
im, he was not only insensible to the wants of
the flesh—he felt above them.
Mejnour, seated beside his disciple, thus ad-
dressed him:
“Man is arrogant in pro ortion to his igno—
rance. Man’s natural ten ency is to tisnt
Man, in his infancy of knowledge, thinksegiitt all
Creation was formed for him. For several ages.
he saw in the countless worlds that sparkle
tllll’t'mgh space like the bubbles of a shoreless
Ocean, only the etty candles, the household ‘
torches that Provi ence had been pleased to light
in! no other purpose but to make the night more ,
Igreeable to man. Astronomy has corrected this i
Y Paracelsus, De Nat. Ran, lib. t. i

‘4
delusion of human vanity; and man now relno-
tantly confesses that the stars are worlds, larger
and more glorious than his own; that the earth
on which he crawls is a scarce visible speck on
the vast chart of creation. But in the small as
in the vast, God is equally profuse of life. The
traveller looks upon the tree, and fancies its
boughs were formed for his shelter in the sum-
mer sun, or his fuel in the winter frosts. But in
each leaf of these boughs the Creator has made
a world: it swarms with innumerable races.
Each drop of the water in you moat is an orb
more populous than a kingdom is of men. Every-
where, then, in this ilnmense Design, Science
brings new life to light. Life is the one‘per-
vading principle, and even the thing that seems
to die and putrify, but engenders new life, and
changes to fresh forms of matter. Reasoning,
then, by evident analogy, if not a leaf, if not a
drop of water, but is, no less than yonder star,
0. habitable and breathing world—nay, if even
man himself is a world to other lives, and mil-
lions and myriads dwell in the rivers of his
blood, and inhabit man‘s frame, as man inhabits
earth—common sense (if your schoolmen had it)
would sufioe to teach that the circumfiuent In-
finite which you oall space—the boundless Im-
palpable which divides earth from the moon and
stars-4s filled also with its correspondent and
appropriate life. Is'it not a visible absurditv to
suppose that Being is crowded u n every ear,
and yet absent from the immensities of space?
The Law of the Great_System forbids the waste
even of an atom; it knows no a t where some-
thing of life does not breathe. n the very char-
nel-house is the nursery of roduction and ani-
mation. Is that trust We 1, then, can you con-
ceive that space, which is the Infinite itself, is
alone a waste, is alone lifeless, is less useful to
the one design of universal being than the dead
carcass of a dog, than the peopled leaf, than the
swarming globulel The microscope shows you
the creatures on the leaf; no mechanical tube is
yet invented to discover the nobler and more
gifted things that hover in the illimituble air.
Yet between these last and man is a mysterious
and terrible affinity. And hence, by tales and
legends, not wholly false, nor wholly true, have
arisen, from time to time, beliefs in apparitions
and spectres. If more common to the earlier
and simpler tribes than to the men of your duller
age, it is but that, with the first, the senses are
more keen and quick. And as the savage can
see or scent, miles away, the traces of n foe in-
visible to the gross sense of the civilized animal,
so the barrier itself between him and the crea-
tures of the airy world is less thickened and ob-
scured. Do you listen l"
“ With my sodl l"
“But first, to penetratethis barrier, the soul
with which you listen must be sharpened by
intense enthusiasm, purified from all earthlier
desires. Not without reason have the so-st led
magicians, in all lands and times, insistet on
chastity and abstemious reverv as the commu-
nicants of inspiration. When t ius prepared._sci-
encc can be brought to aid it; the sight itself
may be rendered more subtle, the nerves more
acute, the spirit more alive and outward, and the
element itself—the air, the s ace—may be made,
by certain secrets of the big er chemistry, more
palpable and clear. And this, too, is not mlglci


78
ZANONI.
as the credulous call it; as I have so often said
before, magic (or science that violates nature)
exists not; it is but the science by which Nature
can be‘controlled. Now, in space there are mil-
lions of beings, not literally spiritual, for they
have all, like the animnlculzc unseen by the na-
lred eye. certain forms of matter, though matter
so delicate, air-drawn, and subtle, that it is, as it
were, but a film, a gossamer, that clothes the
spirit. Hence the Bosicrucian’s lovely phantoms
of sylph and gnomen. Yet, in truth, these races
and tribes differ more widely, each from each,
than the Calmuc from the Greek—(litter in attri-
butes and powers. In the drop of water you see
how the animalculte vary, how vast and terrible
are some of those monster-mites, as compared
with others. Equally so with the Inhabitants
of the atmosphere; some of surpassing wisdom,
some of horrible malignity; some hostile as fiends
to men, others gentle as messengers between
earth and heaven. He who would establish in-
tercourse with these varying beings, resembles
the traveller who would penetrate into unknown
lands. He is exposed to strange dangers and
unconjectured terrors. That intercourse once
gained, I cannot Secure thee from the chances to
which thy journey is exposed. I cannot direct
thee to paths free from the wanderings of the
deadliest foes. Thou must alone, and of thyself,
face and hazard all. But if thou art so enamour-
ed of life as to care only to live on, no matter for
'what ends, recruiting the nerves and veins with
the alchemist’s vivifying elixir, why seek these
dangers from the intermediate tubesl Because
i the very elixir that pours a more glorious life
into the frame, so sharpens the senses that those
larvae of the air become to thee audible and ap-
parent; so that, unless trained by degrees to en-
dure the phantoms and subdue their malice, a
life thus gifted would be the most awful doom
man could bring upon himself. Hence it is, that
though the elixir be compounded of the simplest
herbs, his frame only is pre nred to receive it
who has gone through the su tlcst trials. Nay,
some, scared and daunted into the most intoler-
able horror by the sights that burst u on their
eyes at the first draught, have found e potion
less powerful to save than the agony and travail
of Nature to destroy. To the unprepared, the
elixir is thus but the deadliest poison. Amid
the dwellers of the threshold is one, too, surpass-
ing in malignity and hatred all her tribe; one
whose eyes have paralyzed the bravest, and‘
whose power increases over the spirit precisely
in proportion to its fear. Does thy courage fal-
ter 1"
“Nay; thy words but kindle it.”
“ Follow me, then, and submit.to the initiatory
labours.”
With that, Mejnonr led him into the interior
chamber, and proceeded to explain to him certain
chemical operations, which, though extremely
simple in themselves, Glyndon soon perceived
were on ble of very extraordinary results.
“ In th: remoter times,” said Mejnour,
“our brotherhood were often compelled
to delusions to protect realities; and, 2E dexter-
ous mechanicians or expert chemists, they obtain-
And Glyudou beheld, with delighted surprise,
the simple means by which thh wildest cheats of
the imagination can be formed. The magical
landscapes in which Baptists Poi-ta rejoiced ; the
apparent change of the seasons with which Al-
bertus Magnus startled the Earl of Holland ; nay,
even those more dread delusions of 'the Ghost
and Image with which the Necromancers of Her-
nclea woke the conscience of the Conqueror of _
Plataea;* all these, as the showman enchants
some trembling children on a Christmas Eve with
his lantern and phantasmagoria, Mejnour exhibit-
ed to his pupil. ’
“ And now laugh forever at magic i when
these, the very tricks. the very sports and frivol-
ities of science, were the very acts which men
viewed with nbhorrence; and in uisitors and
kings rewarded with the rack and tie stake."
“But the alchemist’s transmutation of me-
tals—J’
“ Nature herself is a laboratory in which we
tals, and all elements, are forever at change.
Easy to make gold—easier, more commodious,
and cheaper still to ma. the pearl, the diamond,
and the ruby. Oh, yes; wise men found ear
in this, too ;_ but they found no sorcery in the dis-
covery, that by the simplest combination of
things of everyday use, they could raise a devil
that would sweep away thousands of their kind
by the breath of consuming fire. Discover what
will destroy life, and you are are a great man l
what will prolong it, and you are an impostor!
'Discover some invention in machinery that will
make the rich more rich and the poor man more
poor, and they will build you a statue l Discover
some mystery in art that would e ualize physi-
cal disparities, and they will pul down their
own houses to stone you! Ha, ha, my pupill
such is the world Zanoni still cares forl you and
I will leave this world to itself And now that
'ou have seen some few of the effects of science,
cgin to learn its grammar.”
Mcjnour then set before his pupil certain tasks,
in which the rest of the night wore itself away.


CHAPTER V.
“ Great iravcll hath the gentle Calldore,
And tuer endured
There on a day—
He chnunst to spy a sort of shepheard groomes,
Playing on ipes and cunning space.
. . ll-ie, there. besyde
dnmzell."
ersssn, Faé‘n'c Queen, cant. ix.
&\w u fnire

smiling,
to recur
Foa a considerable period, the pupil of Mej-
nour was now absorbed in labour dependant on
,the most vigilant attention, on the most minute
‘and subtle calculation. Results astonishing and
I various rewarded his toils and stimulated his in-
terest. Nor Were these studies limited to chemi~
cal discovery—in which it is permitted me to say
that the greatest marvels upon the organization
of physical life seemed wrought by experiments
of the vivifying influence of Heat. Among the
rest, Glyndon was surprised to find Mejuour at-
tached to the more abstruse mysteries which the
[l’ythagoreans ascribed to the occult science of
‘ Pausanlar-see Plularch.


ZANONI:
79
that even the power to predict, or, rather, to cal-
culate results, might by—-*
But he observed that the last brief process by
which, in each of these experiments, the wonder
was achieved, Mejnour reserved for himself, and
refused to communicate the secret. The answer
he obtained to his remonstrances on this head
' was more stem than satisfactory : ,
“ Dost thou think," said Mejnour, " that I
would give to the mere pupil, whose qualities.
are not yet tried, powers that might change the
face of the social world? The last secrets are
intrustcd only to him of whose virtue the Master
is convinced. Patience ! It is labour itself that is
the great purifier of the mind; and by degrees
the secrets will grow upon thyself as thy mind
becomes riper to receive them.”
At last Mejnour professed himself satisfied with
the progress made by his pupil. “ The hour now
of Mejnour, and he found himself gazing too often,
with perturbed and daring curiosity, upon the
key of the forbidden chamber. He began to feel
indignant at a trial of constancy which he deems
cd frivolous and puerilc. What nursery tales of
Bluebeard and his closet were reviVed to daunt
and terrify himl How could the mere walls of
a chamber, in which he had so often securely
pursued his labours, start into living danger?
lf haunted. it could be but by those delusions
which Mejuour had taught to despise. A shad-
owy lion—n chemical phantasma! Tushl he
lost half his awo of Mcjnour when he thought
that by such tricks the sage could practise upon
the very intellect he had awakened and instruct-
Edl Still he resisted the impulses of his curios
ity and his pride, and, to escape from their dicta-
tion, he took long ramble: on the hills, or amid
the valleys that surrounded the castle, seeking
bodily fatigue to subdue the unreposing mi
One day, suddenly emergin from a dark ravine,

arrives," he said, “when thou mayst ass the
great but airy barrier—when thou mnyst grad-
ually confront the terrible Dweller of the Thresh-
old. Continue thy labours—continue to suppress i
thy impatience for results until thou cam-st fathom
the causes. I leave thee for one month -, if at the
end of that period, when I return, the tasks set
thee are completed, and thy mind prepared for
contem lation and austere thought for the ordeal,
I promise thee the ordeal shall commence. One
caution alone I give thee, regard it as a peremp-
tory command—Enter not this chamber!" (They
were then standing in that one where their ex 1:-
riments had been chiefly made, and in which
Glyndon, on the night he had sought the solitude
of the Mystic, had nearly fallen a victim to his
intrusion.) “ Enter not this chamber till my re-
turn; or, above all, if by any search for materials .
necessary to thy toils, thou shouldst venture l
hither, forbear to light the naptha in those ves-
sels, and to open the vases on yonder shelves. I
leave the key of the room in thy keeping. in or-
der to try thy abstinence and self-control. Young
man, this very temptation is a. art of thy triaL"
With that, Mejnour placed) the key in his
hands, and at sunset he left the castle.
For several days Glyndon continued immersed
in employments which strained to the utmost all
the faculties of his intellect. Even the most par-
tial success depended so entirely on the abstrac-
tion of the mind and the minuteness of its calcu-
lations, that there was scarcely room for any
other thought than those absorbed in the occupa-
tion. An , doubtless, this perpetual strain of
the faculties was the object of Mejnour in works
that did not seem exactly pertinent to the pur-
poses in view. As the study of the elementary
mathematics, for example, is not so profitable in
the solving of problems useless in our after-mill-
ings, as it is serviceable in training the intellect
to the comprehension and analysis of general
truths.
But in less than half the time which Me'nour
had stated for the duration of his absence, that
the Mystic had appointed to his toils was com-
leted by the Pupil; and then his mind, thus re-
'eved from the drudgery and mechanism of em-
ployment, once more sought occu atiou in dim
oon'ecture and restless fancies. is in uisitivc
and rash nature grew excited by the pro ibition
he came upon one of those talian scenes of rural
festivity and mirth in which the classic age ap-
pears to revive. It was a festival, artly agri-
cultural, partly religious, held yearly y the pea.-
sants of that district. Assembled at the out-
skirts of a village, animated crowds, just return-
ed from a. procession to a neighbouring chapel,
were now forming themselves into groups—the
old to taste the vintage, the bong to (lance—all
to be gay and happy. This sudden picture of
easy 'oy and careless ignorance, contrasting so
‘forciblly with the intense studies and that parch-
ing desire for wisdom which had so long made a
his own life, and burned at his own heart, sensi-
bly nifected Glyndon. As he stood aloof and
gazing on them, the young man fclt once more
that he was youngl The memory of all that he
had been content to sacrifice spoke to him like the
sharp voice of remorse. The flitting forms of the
women in their picturesque attire, their happy
laughter ringing through the cool, still air of
the autumn noon, brought back to the heart,
or rather, perhaps, to the senses, the images
of his past time, the “ golden shepherd hours,”
when to live was but to enjoy.
He 0. reached near and nearer to the scene,
and sudilZuly a noisy group swept round him;
and Maestro Paolo, tapping him on the
shoulder, exclaimed, in a hearty voice, “ elcome,
excellencyl we are glad to see you among us.”
Glyndon was about to reply to'his salutation, when
his eyes rested upon the face of a young girl,
lean‘ on Paolo’s arm, of a beauty so attractive,
that his colour rose-and his heart beat as be en-
countered her gaze. Her eyes sparkled with a
roguish and petulant mirth, her parted lips showed
teeth like pearls; as if impatient at the case of
her com 'on from the rcvcl of the rest, icr little
foot beat the ground to a measure that she half
bummed, half chanted. Péolo laughed as he saw
the effect the girl had produced upon the young
foreigner. ,
“ Will you not dance, excellency l Come, lay
aside your greatness, and be m , like us poor
devils. See how our pretty F' do is longing
for 1!- er. Ta 9 compassion on hen” _
Fil 'de pouted at this speech ; and ihscngagmg
her arm from Paolo's, turned away, but threw
over her shoulder a glance half inviting. half defy-

. Here there is an erasure 1n the MS.
ing. Glyndon almost involuntarin advanccdto
her, andaddreased her.


80 ZANONI.
Oli yes, he addresses her! She looks down, and ! ed his gaze from the fresh, fair, rosy face of the
smiles Paolo leaves them to themselves, saunter- girl, and saw the eyes dropping rheum, the yellow
ing ofl" with a dcvil-me-earish air. F illide speaks 1 wrinkled skin, the tottering frame of the old man.
now, and looks up at the scholar’s face with arch ! “ Ha, ha. !” said the (lees-e it creature, hobhling
invitation. He shakes his head: Fillide laughs, near to him, and with a m icious laugh. “ Yet I
and her laugh is silvery. She points to a gay too was young once! Give me a baioccho for a
mountaineer, who is tripping up to her mem'ly. ‘ glass of ncqua vita !"
Why does Glydon feel jealous? Why, when she Tara, rara, ra-ram, tam, ram-rs! There dan-
speaks again, does he shake his head no more i He ces youth 1 Wrap thy rags round thee and totter
oifers his hand; Fillide blushes, and takes it with off, Old Age !
a demure coquetry. What ! is it so, indeed !
They whirl into the noisy circle of the revellers.
Ha! ha! is not this better than distilling herbs,
and breaking thy brains on Pythagorean numbers?
How lightly Fillide bounds a ong ! How her lithe-
. CHAPTER. VI.
some waist supples itself to thy circling arm!
Tara-ra-tara, ta-tara, ram-m! What the devil is
in the measure, that it makes the blood course
like quicksilver through the veins? Was there
ever a pair of eyes like Fillide’sl Nothing of the
cold stars there! Yet how they twinkle and
laugh at. thee ! And that rosy, pureed-up mouth,
that will answer so sparingly to thy flatteries, as
“ \Vhilest Calldnre does follow that fake mayd,
Umnindt'ul of his vow nnil high behensl
Which by the Faerie Queens was on him luyd."
Sricssi-zn, Fiziiric Qurcn, cunt x., s. 1.
Ir was that gray, indistinct.v struggling interval
betweerwie night and the dawn, when Clarence
stood once more in his chamber. The nbstruse
calculations lying on his table caught his eye, and

if words were a, waste of tune, and ldsges ero filled him with asentiment 0f weariness and dis-
their proper language. Oh, pupil of Mejnour! I taste. But—o Alas, if we could be alwa syoungl"
oh, woul -be Rosicrucian—Platonisb—Magmn—I Oh, thou horrid spectre of the old r cum-eyed
know not what ! I am ashamed of thee! What, man! What apparition can the mystic chamber
in the name of Avorroes, and Burri1 and Agrippa, ] shadow forth more ugly and more hatefiil than
and Hermes, have become of thy austere contem- E the“? Oh, yes; if we could be always young!
plationsl Was it for this thou didst resign Viola? j “ But not (thinks the Neophyte now)—not to la-
don't think thou bust the smallest recollection of
the elixir or the cabala. Take care ! What are
is: about, sir! Why do you clasp that small
d locked within your ownl Vihy do you—-
Tara-ram tam-m, tam-mm~ra, mrara, tarara-ra !
Keep your eyes off those slender ankles and that
crimson bodice l Tara-mra-ra! There they go
again! And now the rest under the broad trees.
The revel has whirle away from them. They
hear—or do they not hear—the laughter at the
distance l
about them, they should see—eon le after couple
gliding by, love~talking and love- coking. But I
will lay a wager, as they sit under that tree, and
the round sun goes down behind the mountains,
that thev sec or hear ve little exec tthemselves!
“ Hollo, Signor Exec cncy ! and ow does your
ner please youl Come and join our feast,
oiterers; one dances more merrily after wine.”
Down goes the round sun; up comes the au-
tumn moon. Tara, tam, raram, rarara, tarara-ra!
Dancing again ; is it a dance, or some movement
gayer, noisier, wilder still? How they glance and
gleam through the mghtmhndows, those flitting
forms! What confusion! what order! Ha, that
is the Tarantula dance; Maestro Paolo foots it
bravely! Diavolo, what fury l the tmuntnla has
stung them all. Dance or die; it is fiiry—the
Oorybantés—the Maanads—the— Ho, ho! more
wine! the Sabbat of the Witches at Benevento
is a joke to this! From cloud to cloud wanders
the moon ; now shining. now lost. Dimness while
the maiden blushes; light when the maiden smiles.
“ Fillide, thou art an enchantress !”
“ Buona notte, excellency; you will see me
again I”
“ Ah, young man,” said an old decrepit, hollow-
eyed octogennrian, leaning on his statf, “ make the
best of your youth. I too once had a. Fillide! I
was handsomer than you then! Alas >! if we could
be always young l” ‘
“ Always young l" Glyndon started as he turn-
They see—or, if they have their eyes ,
‘ hour for ever at these crabbed figures and these
i cold compounds of herbs and drugs N 0; but to
i enjoy, to love, to revel! What should be a com-
‘lpanion of youth but pleasure? And the gift of
! eternal (ygnth may be mine this very hour! What
means a ' prohibition of Mejnour’sl is it not of
the 'same com lexion as his ungeuerous reserve
even in the mmutcst secrets of chemistry or the
numbers of his cabalal com lling me to perform
all the toils, and yet withh'eslding from me the
knowledge of the crowning result 2 ‘No doubt
he will still, on his return, showme that the
mystery can be attained, but will still forbid mo
to attain it. Is it notas if he desired to keep my
youth the slave to his age? to make me depen-
dent s'olely on himself i to bind me to a. journey-
man’s service by perpetual excitement to etn-iosity,
and the sight of the fruits he places beyond my
li l” These, and many refle'ctions still more re-
pming, disturbed and imtsted him. Heated with
wine—excited by the wild revels he had left—he
was unable to sleep. The image of that revolting
Old Age which Time, unless defeated, must bring
upon himself, quickened the cagemess of his de—
sire for the dazzling and im Irishable Youth he
ascribed to Zanoni. The pro 'bition only served
to create a spirit of defiance. The reviving day,
laughing jocu'ndly through his lattice, dispelled
all the fears and superstitions that belong to night.
The mystic chamber presented to his imagination
nothing to differ from any other apartment in the
castle. What foul or malignant apnrition could
harm him in the light of the blesse sun i It was
the peculiar, and, on the whole, most unhnp y.
contradiction in Glyndon’s nature, that while his
rensonings led him to doubt—and doubt rendered \
him in moral conduct irresolute and unsteady—he
was physically brave to rashness. Nor is this un-
common: skepticism and presumption are often
twins. When a man of this character determines
upon any action, personal fear never deters him ;
and for the moral fear, any sophistry sufiices to


ZANONI.
81
mlf-will. Almost without analyzing himself the]
mental process by which his nerves hardenedi~
themselves and his limbs moved, he traversed the ,1
corridor, gained Mejnour‘s apartment, and opened
the forbidden door. All was as he had been ac- i
customed to see it, save that on a table in the,i
centre of the room lay open a large volume. He '
approached, and gazed on the c aracters on the
; they were in a cipher, the study of which
made a part of his labours. With but slight
ulty be imagined that he interpreted the
fining of the first sentences, and that they ran
' o quafi' the inner life is to see the outer life;
to live in defiance of time is to live in the whole.
He who discovers the elixir, discovers what lies in
space ; for the spirit that vivifies the frame strength-
ens the senses. There is attraction in the ele~
mentary principle of light. In the lamps of Re
sicrusius, the fire is the pure elementary rinciple.
Kindle the lamps while thou openest the vessel
that contains the elixir, and the light attracts to
those heir whose life is that light. Beware
of Fear; ear is the deadliest enemy to Know-
ledge.” Here the ciphers changed their charac-
ter, and'becnme incomprehensible. But. had he
not read enough? Did not the last sentence suf-
fice? “ Beware of Fear X” It was as if Mejnour
had purposely left the page open—as if the trial
was, in truth, the reverse of the one pretended;
as if the mystic had designed to make experiment,
of his courage, while afiecting but that of his fo'r-
bearance. Not lmldness, but Fear was the dead-
liest enemy to Knowledge. He moved to the
shelves on which the crystal vases were placed;
with an untrembling hand he took from one of
them the ate 1', and a delicious odour suddenly
difl’imed itseliptz‘ough the room. The air sparkled
as if with a diamond dust. A sense of unearthly
delight—of an existence that seemed all s irit,
flashed throughhis whole frame ; and a faint, ow,
but exquisite music, crept, thrilling, through the
chamber. At this moment, he heard a voice in
the corridor, calling on his name; and presently,
there was a knock at the door without. f‘Are
you there, signer," said the clear tones of Maes-
tro Pziolo. G] “1011 hastily reclosed and replaced
the vial ; and, iddlng Paolo await him in his own
apartment, tarried till he heard the intruder’s
steps de art; he then reluctantly uitted the
room a be locked the door, he sti heard the
dying strain Of that fairy music ; and with a light
step and a joyous heart, he re mired to Priolo, inly
resoln'n to visit again the c number at an hour
when 1 experiment would be safe from inter-
ruption.
As he crossed his threshold, Paolo started back,
flld exclaimed, “ Why, excellencyl I scarcely re-
cognise you i Amusement, I see, is a great beau-
tifier to the young. Yesterday you looked so
Sale and haggard; but Fillide‘s merry eyes have
one more for you than the philosophcr’s stone
(saints, forgive me for naming it !) ever did for the
wizards.” And Glyndun, glancing at the old Ve~
netian mirror, as r’iolo spoke, was scarcel less
startled than Paolo himself at the change m his
own mien and bearing. His form, before bent
with thought, seemed to him taller b half thei
head ; so lithesome and erect rose his ender sta-
tus, his e es glowed, his cheeks bloomed with‘,
health an the innate and pervading pleasure.l
If the more fragrance of the elixir was thus pol
F

tent, well might the alchemists have ascribed life
and Youth to the draught!
“ You must forgive me, excellency, for disturb-
ing you,” said Péolo, producing a letter from his
pouch; “ but our pigtron has just written to me
to say that he will here tomorrow, and desired
me to lose not a moment in giving to yourself this
billet, which he enclosed.”
“ VV'llo brought the letter i"
“ A horseman, who did not wait for any reply.I
Glyndon opened the letter, and read as follows:
“ I return a week sooner than I had intended,
and you will expect me to-morrow. You will
then enter on the ordeal you desire; but remem-
ber that, in doing so, you must reduce Being as
far as possible into Mind. The senses must be
mortified and subduedrhnot the whisper of one
ssion heard. Thou mayest be master of the
shale and the Chemistry, but thou must be mas-
ter also over the Flesh and the Blood—over Love
and Vanity, Ambition and Hate. I will trust to
find thee 50. Fast and meditate till we meet 1"
Glyndon crumbled the letter in his hand with
a srmle of disdain. What ! more drudgery, more
abstinence! Youth without love and leasure!
Ha, ha! bafi‘led Mejnour, thy pupil shal gain thy
secrets without thine aid 2
“ And Fillide l I passed her cottage in my way;
she blushed and sighed when I jested her about
you, excel] l”
" Well, Pao l I thank thee for so charming an
introduction. Thine-must be a rare life.”
“All, excellency, while we are young nothing
like adventure—Lexcept love, wine, and laughter !"
“ Very true. Farewell, Master Paolo; we will
talk more with each other in a few da 's.”
All that morning, Glyndon was est over-
fiered with the new sentiment of happiness that
entered intohim. He roamed into the woods,
and he felt a leasure that resembled his earlier
life of an artist, but a pleasure yet more subtle
and vivid in the various colours of the autumn
foliage. Certainly, N atureseemed to be brought
closer to him; he comprehended better all that
Mejnour had often preached to him of the mys-
tery of sympathies and attractions He was about
to enter into the same law as those mute children
of the forests! He was to know the renewal of
life,- the seasons that chilled to winter should yet
bring again the bloom and the mirth of spring,
Man’s common existence is as one ear to the
vegetable world: he has his spring, ’ summer,
his autumn, and winter—but only once. But the
giant oaks around him, go through a reVolving se-
ries of verdure and youth, and the green of the
centenarian is as vivid in the beams May as that
of the sapling by its side. “Mine shall be your
spring, but not your winter 1" exclaimed the As-
pirant.
Ra t in these sanguine and joyous reveries
Glyn on, quitting the woods, found himself amid
cultivated fields and vineyards, to which his foot-
step had not before wandered; and there stood,
by the skirts of a con lane, that reminded him
of verdant Englanfif a modest house, half 00
half firm. The door was 11. and he saw a
at work with her distafl'. S e looked up, uttered
n. slight cry, and, trip ing gayly into theplane to
his side, he recognise the dorleeyed F‘llhde.
" Hist !” she said, arcth putting her finger to


82
ZANONI.
her li ; “ do not is loud—m
and I knlizevtkyou would
It is kind !"
Glyndon, with a little embarrassment, aoce ted
the compliment to his kindness, which he di not
exactl deserve. “ You have thought, then, of
me, fair Fillide i”
“ Yes,” answered the girl, colouring, but with
that frank, bold ingenuousness, which characterizes
the females of Ital , especially of the lower
class, and in the sou em provinces; “ oh, yes! I
have tho ht of little else. Paolo said he knew
you woul visit me."
“ And what relation is Piiolo to you 2"
“None; but a good friend to us all. My bro-
ther is one of his band."
“One of his band! A robber?"
“ We of the mountains do not call a moun-
taineer ‘ a robber,’ signor."
“ I ask on. Do you not tremble sometimes
for your brother’s lifei The law "
“ Law never ventures into these defiles. Trem-
ndsire
‘ I were
mother is asleep
come to see me.

ble for him! No. My father and
were of the same calling. I often
a man 1"
“ By these lips I am enchanted that your wish
mnnot be realized!”
“ vy, signorl And do you really love me i”
“ ith my whole heart !"
“And I thee i” said the girl, with a candour
that seemed innocent, as she suffered him to clasp
her hand _
“But,” she added, “thou wilt soon leave us,
and 1—" She stopped short, and the tears stood
in her eyes
There was something dangerousin this, it must
be confessed. Certainly Fillide had not the sera-
phic loveliness of Viola; but hers was a beauty
that ewually, at least, touched the senses. Per-
hope (‘1 yndon had never really loved Viola; pic:
hnps the feelings with which she had inspired ' 1
were not of that ardent character which deserves
the name of love. However that be, he thought,
as he azed on those dark eyes, that he had never
loved fore.
“ And couldst thou not leave thy mountains l"
he whispered, as he drew yet nearer to her.
“Dost thou ask me 9" she said, retreating, and
looking him steadfastly in the face. “ Dost thou
know what we daughters of the mountains are!
You gay, smooth cavaliers of cities seldom mean
what you speak. With you, love is amusement;
with us, it is life. Leave these mountains!
Well ! I should not leave my nature."
“ Keep thy nature ever—it is a sweet one."
“ Yes, sweet while thou art true ; stern, if thou
art faithless. Shall I tell thee what I, what the
girls of this country are ? Daughters of men
whom you call robbers, we aspire to be the com-
panions of our lovers or our husbands. We love
srdently—we own it boldly. We stand by our
side in danger ; we serve you as slaves in sagety;
we never change, and we resent change. You
may reproach, strike us, trample us as a dog-—
we bear all without a murmur; betray us, and
no tiger is more relentless. Be true, and our
hearts reward you; be false, and our hands re-
venge! Dost thou love me now i"
During this speech the Italian‘s countenance
had most eloquently aided her words, by turns
soft, frank, fierce; and at the last question she
Inclined her head humbly, and stood, as in fear
of his reply, before him. The stern, brave, wild
'spirit, in which what seemed unfeminine was at
if I may so say, still womanl , did not reco' it
rather captivated Glyndon. e answered readi-
ly, briefly, and freely, “ Fillide, yes!" . . . .
Oh, “ yes !" forsooth, Clarence Glyndon! Every
light nature answers “yes” lightly to such a
question from li so rosy! Have a care, have
a care ! Why t e deuce, Mcjnour, do you leave
your pupil of four-andtwenty to the mercy of
these Wild cats-a-mountain! Preach fast, and
abstinence, and sublime renunciation of the
cheats of the senses! Very well in you, sir,
Heaven knows how many ages old! but at four-
and- twenty your hierophant would have kept you
out of Fillide's way, or ou would have had
small taste for the Cabala?
And so the stood, and talked, and vowed,and
whispered t' the girl‘s mother made some noise
within the house, and Fillide bounded back to the
distafi‘, her finger once more on her li .
“ There is more magic in Fillide than in Mej-
nour," said Glyndon to himself, walking gany
home; “ yet, on second thoughts, I know not if
I quite so well like a character so ready for re-
venge ! But he who has the real secret can baf-
fle even the vengeance of a woman, and disarm
all dan er l"
Sirrn ! dost thou even already meditate the
possibility of treason? Oh, well said Zanoni,
“ to ur pure water in the muddy well does
but isturb the mud !"

CHAPTER VII.
“ Cernll, custodia qualis
Voctihnlo sedeat’l facial qua: limins servctf"
Elna, lib. vi., 574.
AND it is profound night. All is at rest within
the old castle, all is breathless under the melan-
choly stars. Now is the time. Mejnour, with
his austere wisdom; Mejnour, the enemy to love;
Mejnour, whose eye will read thy heart, and re
fuse thee the promised secrets, because the sunny
face of Fillide disturbs the lifeless shadow that
he calls repose; Mejnour comes to-mon-owi
Seize the night ! Beware of fear! Never, 0!
this hour! So, brave youth, brave despite till
thy errors, so, with a steady pulse, thy hand un-
locks once more the forbidden door !
He placed his lamp on the table beside the
book, which still lay there opened; he turned
over the leaves, but could not decipher the"
meaning till he came to the following passage=
“ When, then, the pupil is thus initiated and
repared, let him open the casement, light the
pa, and bathe his temples with the elixir. H8
must beware how he presume yet to quafi' the
volatile and fiery spirit. To taste, till repeated
inhalatious have accustomed the frame grfldllluy
to the ecstatic liquid, is to know not life, but
deat ."
He could penetrate no farther into the‘instflw
tions ; the cipher again changed He now looked
steadily and earnestly round the chamber._
moonlight came quietly through the lattice ll
his hand opened it, and seemed, as it rested 0"
the floor and filled the walls, like the resence 0‘
some ghostly and mournful power. e mum

the mystic lamps (nine in number) round



ZANONI. 83
All else
from sodarlr—shrouded—veiled and larva-like. But
centre of the room, and lighted them one by on.. shuddering nature in those eyes alone.
A silvery and blue tinted flame sprung u
each, and lighted the apartment with a calI
t grew more soft and dim, as a thin gray
cloud like a mist gradually spread over the room,
and an icy thrill shot through the heart of the
Englishman, and quickly gathered over him like
the coldness of death.
his danger, he tattered, though with difficulty,
for his limbs seemed rigid and stone-like, to the
Ihelf that contained crystal vials; hastily he in-
haled the spirit, and laved his temples with the
sparkling liquid. The same sensation of vigour
and youth, and joy. and airy lightness that he
had felt in the morning, instantaneousl re laced
the deadly numbness that just before ad invad-
ed the citadel of life. He stood with his arms
folded on his bosom, erect and dauntless, to watch
what should ensue.
The vapour had now assumed almost the thick-
ness and seeming consistency of a snow-cloud,
the lamps piercing it like stars. And now he
distinctly saw shapes somewhat resembling in
outline those of the human form gliding slowl
and with regular evolutions through the clan .
They appeared bloodless; their bodies were
tnmsparent, and contracted or expanded like the
folds of a serpent. As they moved in majestic
order, he heard a low sound—the ghost, as it
were, of voickwhich each caught and echoed
from the other; a low sound, but musical, which
seemed the chant of some uns kably tranquil
joy. None of these apparitions heeded him.
His intense longing to accost them, to be of
them, to make one of this movement of aiérial
lmppiness—for such it seemed to him—made
him stretch forth his arms and seek to cry aloud,
but only an inarticulate whisper passed his lips ;
and the movement and the music went on the
same as if the mortal were not there. Slowly
they glided round and aloft, till, in the same ma-
jestic order, one after one, they floated through
thcasement and were lost in the moonlight;
then, as his eyes followed them, the easement
became darkened with some object undistinguish-
able at the first gaze, but which sufficed m steri—
ously to change into inefiable horror the elight-
he had before 0 ricnced. By degrees this object
shaped itself box-fis sight. It was as that of a
human head, covered with a dark veil, through
which glared, with livid and demoninc fire, eyes
that froze the marrow of his bones. Nothing
else of the face was distinguishable—nothing
but those intolerable eyes; but his terror, thati
even at the first seemed bevond nature to endure,
was increased a thousand fold, when, after u
use, the Phantom glided slowly into the cham-
r. The cloud retreated from it as it advanced ;
the bright lamps grew wan, and flickered rest-
lesst as at the breath of its presence. Its form
was veiled as the fires, but the outline was that
of a female; yet it moved not as move even
the ghosts that simulate the living. It seemed
rather to crawl as some vast misshapen reptile ;
and sing, at length it cowered beside the
table which held the mystic volume, and again
fined its eyes through the filmy veil on the rash
invoker. All fancies, the most grotesque. of
Ion! or Painter in the early North, would have
fiiled to give to the visage of ingp or fiend that
aspect of deadly malignity whi spoke to the
Instinctively aware of ;
m and that burning glare so intense, so livid, yet so liv-
_et more dazzling splendour; but presently this 1
ing, had in it something that was almost human,
in its passion of hate and mockery; something
that served to show that the shadowy Horror
} was not all a spirit, but partook of matter
.enough, at least, to make it, more deadl and
fearful an enemy to material forms. As, 0
with the gras of agony to the wall, his air
erect, his eye ulls starting, he still gazed back
upon that up alling gaze, the Image spoke to
him—his soulJ rather than his ear comprehended
the words it said.
“ Thou hast entered the immeasurable region.
I am the Dweller of the Threshold. What
wouldst thou with me? Silent i Dost thou fear
mel Am I not thy beloved I Is it not for me
that thou hast rendered up the delights of thy
race ? Wouldst thou be wisei Mine is the
wisdom of the countless ages. Kiss me, my mor-
tal lover." And the Horror crawled near and
nearer tohim; it crept to his side, its breath
breathed upon his cheekl With a sharp cry he
fell to the earth insensible, and knew no more
till, far in the noon of the next day, he opened
his eyes and found himself in his bed, the glorious
sun streaming through his lattice, and the bandit
P6010 b his side, engaged in polishing his car-
biuc an whistling a Calabrian love air.
I ‘r'

.124,“qu
, I. 3-,,-
CHAPTER VIII.
ls one of those islands whose history the im-
perislmble literature and renown of Athens yet
invest with melancholy interest, and on which
Nature, in whom “ there is nothing melanchol ,”
still bestows a glory of swnc and climate equ y
radiant for the freeman or o slave—the Ionian,
the Venetian, the Gaul, the Turk. or the restlem
Briton—Zanoni had fixed his bridal home. There
the air mrries with it the perfumes of the plainl
for miles along the blue, translucent dcc .* Seen
from one of its an sloping heights, e island
he had sel seemed one delicious garden.—
The towers and tun-eta of its capitol gleaming
ll amid groves of oranges and lemons; vineyards
I and olive woods filling up the valleys, and clnsra
boring along the hill-sides; and villa, farm, an
cottage covered with luxuriant trellises of dark
green leaves and purple fruit. For there the pro
3 digal beauty yet seems half to justify those grace-
ful superstitious of a creed that, too cnamoured of
1 earth, rather brought the deities to man than rais-
l ed the man to their loss alluring and less volup-
ituous Olympus.

“ Durch dlc scopfung floss da lrlvcnsfulle,
.
 dur Llebc Busen sls zu zlruckcn
Gab man hohern Adel der Natursf“
3 And still to the fishermen, weaving yet their
1 antique dances on the sand; to the maiden, adprn-
ing yet with many lasilver fibula her glissy tres-
ses under the tree that overshadows her tranquil
cot; the same great mlhher that watched over
the wise of Santos; the democracy of Corcyra;
the graceful and deep-taught loveliness of Miletui‘,
‘ Sea Dr. Holland's vavls to the Ionian Isles, be,
If bio Cotter Gricehenlanda.


84
ZANON I.
miles as graciously as of yore. For the North,
hilosophy and freedom are essentials to human
happiness. In the lands which Aphrodite rose
from the waves to govern, as the seasons hand in
hand, stood to welcome her on the shores,’ Nature
'm all-sufficient.
'l‘he isle which Zanoni had selected was one of
the loveliest in that divine sea. His abode, at
some distance from the city, but near one of the
creeks in the shore, belonged to a Venetian, and,
though small, had more of elegance than the na-
tives ordinarily cared for. On the seas, and in
slrwly approached, and Zanoni entered calm as
usual, an seemed unconscious of her fears The
next morning three men were found dead at the
threshold of the rinci )al entrance, the door of
which had been orced. They were recognised
in the neighbourhood ate the most sanguinary and
terrible marauders of the coasts—men stained
with a thousand murders, and who had never
hitherto failed in an attem t to which the lust of
ratpine had impell them. 0 footsteps of many
0 crs were tracked to the seashore. It seemed
that their accomplices must have fled on the death
sight, rode his vessel. His Indians, as before, min-' of their leaders. But when the Venetian provedi-
istered in mute gravity to the service of the tore, or authority of the island, came to examine
household. No 5 mt could be more beautiful, no , into the matter, the most unaccountable mystery
solitude less invaded. To the mysterious know-1 was the manner in which these rnffians had met
ledge of Zanoni—to the lmrmlcss ignorance of their fate. Zanoni had not stirred from the apartr
Viola—the babbling and garish world of ment in which he ordinarily pursued his chemical
man was alike unhcedcd. The loving sky and ‘ studitx None of the servants had even been dis-
the lovely earth are companions enough to Wis' turbed from their slumbers. N 0 marks of human
dam and to Ignorance while they love i I violence were on the bodies of the dead. They
Although, as I have before said, there was no- , died and made no sign. From that moment Za-
thing in the visible occn tions of Zanoni that noni’s house—nay, the whole vicinity, was sacred.
trayed a cultivator of t e occult sciences, his hai The neighbouring villages, rejoiced to be delivered
hits were those of a man who remembers or re. from a scourge, regarded the stranger as one
fleets. He loved to roam alone, chiefly at dawn, whom the Pngiana fior Virgin) held under her ea-
or at night when the moon was clear (:Secially pecial protection. n truth, the lively Greeks
in each month, at its rise and full), es and around, facile to all external impressions, and
miles away over the rich inlnnds of the island, struck with the singular and majestic beauty of
and to cull herbs and flowers, which he boarded ‘ the man who knew their language as a native,
with 'cnlous care. Sometimes at the dead of , whose voice often cheered them in their humble
night . iola would wake by an instinct that told sorrows, and whose hand was never closed to their
her he was not by her side, and, stretching out herl wants, long after he had left their shore, preserv-
arms, find that the instinct had not deceived her. = ed his memory by grateful traditions, and still
But she early saw that he was reserved on his pe-ll point to the lofty platonns beneath which the '
culiar habits ; and if at times a chill, a foreboding, ‘, had often seen him mated, alone and thoughtf
a suspicious awe ere t ovvr her, she forbore to; in the heats of noon. But Zanoni had haunts less
question him. But his rambles were not always, open to the gaze than the shade of the platoons
uncompanioncd ; he took pleasure in excursions: In that isle there are the bituminous springs which
less solitary. Often, when the sea lay before Herodotus has commemorated. Oftca at night.
them like a lake, the barren dreariness of the op— \ the moon, at least, beheld him emerging from the
posite coast of Ccphallcuia contrasting the smiling, myrtle and cystus that clothe the hillocks around
shores on which they dwelt, Viola md himself, the marsh that imbods the pools containing the
would pass days in cruising slowly around the inflammable matcria, allthe medical uses of which
coast, or in visits to the neighlmuring isles. Every l as applied to the nerves and organic life, modern
spot of the Greek soil, “ that fair fable-land,“ science has not yet perhaps explored Yet more
seemed to him familiar; and as he conversed of \ often would he ass his hours in a cavern, by the
the Past, and its exquisite traditions, he tanghtl loneliest part oi) the beach, where the stalactites
Viola to love the race from which have descended seem almost anangcd by the hand of art, and
the poetry and the wisdom of the world. Therei which the superstition of the peasants associate,
was much in Zanoni, as she knew him better, that, in some ancient legends, with the numerous and
deepened the fascination in which Viola was from i almost incessant earthquakes to which the island
the first enthralled His love for herself was sol is so singularly subjected
tender, so vigilant, and had the best and most on-l Wlmtcver the pursuits that instigated these
during attribute, that it seemed rather grateful; wanderings and favoured these haunts, either they
for the happiness in its own cares than vaini were linked with, or else subordinate to, one main
of. the happiness it created. His habitual model and master desire, which every fresh day,
with all who approached him was calm and gcn- ‘. in the sweet human company of Viola, confirmed
tle, almost to apathy. An angry word never
passed his lips; an angry gleam never shot from
is eyes. Once they had been to the
(larger not uncommon in those thcn half-savage
la . Some pirates who infested the neighbour-
ing coasts hm heard of the arrival of the stran—
gers, and the seamen Zanoni- employed had gos-
si cd of their master's wealth. One night, after
Viola had retired to rest, she was awakened by a
slight noise below. Zanoni was not by her side;
she listened in some alarm. Was thata groan
that came u 11 her car? She started up, she
Went to the sgor; all wzm still. A footstcp now
° Homeric Hymn.
I and strengthened
i The scene that Glyndon had witnessed in his
trance was faithful to truth. And some little
time after the date of that night. Viola was dimly
,aware that an influciice, she knew not of what
1 nature, was struggling to establish itself over her
hap y life. Visions, indistinct and beautiful, such
as lose she had known in her earlier days, but
more constant and impressive, began to haunt her
night and day when Zanoni was absent, to fade
in his presence, and seem less fair than that. Zl-
noni questioned her eagerly and minute! of these
, visitationa but seemed dissatisfied, andy at time!
| perplexed, by her answers.


o ZANONI. 85
.-,~_“Tell me not," he said, one day, “of those un- were sweet to thee once; and once, night after
mnected images, those evolutions of starry night, thy soul could follow my wings through
shapes in a choral dance, or those delicious melo- the untroubled splendours of the Infinite. New
dies that seem to thee of the music and the lan- thou hast bound thyself back to the earth by its
of the distant spheres. Has no om shape strongest dmins, and the attraction to the clay is
get) thee more distinct and more beautiful more potent than the sympathies that drew to
than the rest? no voice uttering, or seeming to thy charms the Dweller of the Starbeam and the
utter, thine own tongue, and whispering to thee ‘ Airl When last thy soul hearkened to me, the
of strange secrets and solemn knowledge?” senses already troubled thine intellect and ob
it“ No; all is confused in these dreams, whether ‘ scured thy vision. Once again I come to thee;
of day or night; and when, at the sound of thy I but thy power even to summon me to thy side is
footsteps, I recover, my memory retains nothing ' fading from thy spirit, as sunshine fades from the
but. a vague im ression of happiness How dif- wave, when the winds drive the cloud between
ferent, how (20166)“) the rapture of hanging on th I the ocean and the sky.”
smile, and listening to thy voice, when it says, ‘ll ,‘ “ Alas, Adon-Ai l" answered the seer, mourn»
love thee l’ " fully, “ I know too well the conditions of the be-
“ Yet how is it that visions less fair than these ‘ ing which thy presence was wont to rejoice. I
met: seemed to thee so alluringi How is it that , know that our wisdom comes but from the indif-
fliey then stirred thy fancies and filled thy heart? ‘ ference t0 the things of the world which the wis-
Once thou didst desire a fairy-hunt, and now thou ‘ dom masters The mirror of the soul cannot re-
seemest so contented with common life !" “ fleet both earth and heaven; and the one vanishes
,p “ Have I not explained it to thee before? Is it , from the surface as the other is glassed upon its
mason life, then, to love and to live with the deeps. But it is not to restore me to that sub
one we love? My true fairy-land is won! Tell L lime abstraction in which the Intellect, free and
mg of no other.” disimbodiod, rises, region after region, to the
5 And so Night s rised them by the lonely ‘ spheres, that once again, and with the agony and
beach; and Zanoni, ured from his sublimer pro- i travail of cnfecbled power, I have calle thee to
jecta, and bending over that tender face, forgot \ mine aid. Ilove; and in love I to live in
that in the Harmonious Infinite which spread the sweet humanities of another! If wise, yet.
around, there were other worlds than that one hu- in all which makes dangers powerless against
manheartl mseltorthoseonwhomlcanganefromthe
A; height of indifferent science, I am blind as
\psi'fkfzt, M the merest mortal to the destinies of the creature
9*; Fg that makes my heart beat with the passions that
PTE obscure my gaze."
we; CHA R Ix “ What matter I” asked Adon-AL “ Thy love
"'l'here is a principle of the soul. superior malt nature, must be but a mockery of the name; thou canst
man‘s?th,:sd'waizsfliz'nrtsttzm not love a whiff" my“; deg; and
‘ H , }-_ l , “mm.” thegrave. As time ' a in in-
mer-e khan he}, “in : i all. for" Prile calculable life, and the form thou dotesyt on is dust!
and, deflcnlng the order of things with which it was con- Others of the nether world go [mud in hand. each
“.n-ez'izd, links and mingle: itself wlth another. '"lAMBLI‘ with each, unto the tomb; hand in hand they w
' cend from the world to new cycles of existence
7 "f' Anon-Ari Adon-Ail appear, appear I” For thee, below- are ages; for her, but hours.
PLAIN] in the lonely cave, whence once had gone And for her and thee—oh poor but mighty‘gpe !--
!orth the oracles of a heathen god, there emerged will there be even a joint hereafter? ough
from the shadows of fantastic rocks a luminous what grades and heavens of spiritualized being
and gigantic column, glittering and shifting. It will her soul have passed when thou, the solitary
resembled the shining but misty spray, which, Loiterer, comest from the vapours of the earth to
seen afar off, a. fountain seems to send up on a . the gates of light!”
starry night. The mdiance lit the stalacfiteslthe i “ Son of the Starbeam, thinkest thou that this
crags, the arches of the cave, and shed a pale and i thought is not with me ever; and scest thou not
hemulous s lendour on the features of Zanoni. i that I luwe invoked thee to hearken and minister
't Son of “term! Light," said the invoker, “ thou ; to my designi Remlest thou not. my desire and
to whose knowledge, grade after grade, race after , dream to raise the conditions of her being to my
race, I attained at last on the broad Chaldrean ‘ own? Thou, Adon-Ai, bathing the celestial joy
plains; thou from whom I have drawn so largely y that makes thy life in the oceans of eternal splen-
nf the unutterable knowledge that yet eternity - dour, thou, save by the sympathies of knowledge,
alone can sufliee to drain; thou who, congenial i canst conjecture not what I, the o ' of more
with myself, so far as our various beings will per- i tals, feel—debai'red yet from the jects of the
mit, hast been for centuries my familiar and my \ tremendous and sublime ambition that first winged
friend, answer me, and counse " imy desires above the clay—when I see myself
From the column there emerged a shape of un- compelled to stand in this low world alone. 1
imaginable glory. Its face was that of a man in ‘ have sought among my tribe for comrades, and in
his first youth; but solemn, as with the conscious- ' vain. At last I have found a mate i The wild
ness of eternity and the tran uillity of wisdom; i bird and the wild beast have theirs; and my mas-
light, like starbeams, flowed t rou it its transpo- tery over the malignant tribes of terrorcsn '
rent veins; light made its limbs emselves, and their larvae from the path that shall lead her up
undulated in restless s arkles through the waves ward till the air of etemity fits the frame for the
of its dazzling hair. ith its arms folded on its ‘ elixir that baffles death”
breast, it stood distant a few feet from Zanoni, “ And thou hast begun the initiation, and than
and its low voice murmured gently, “My counsels ‘ art foilch I know it. Thou hast conjured tr;


88
ZANONI. o
he: slee the fairest visions; thou hast invoked
the love 'est children of the air to murmur their
music to her trance, and her soul heeds them not,
and, returning to the earth, escapes from their
control. Blind one, wherefore? Canst thou not
rceive i Because in her soul all is love. There
is no intermediate passion with which the things
thou wouldst charm to her have association and
affinities. Their attraction is but to the desires
and cravings of the intellect. What have they
with the passion that is of earth, and the hope
that goes direct to Heaven i"
" But can there be no medium—no link--in
which our souls, as our hearts, can be united, and
so mine may have influence over her own i"
“ Ask me not; thou wilt not comprehend me i”
“ I adjure thee ! speak i”
“When two. souls are divided, knowest thou
not that a third, in which both meet and live, is
the link between them i”
“ I do comprehend thee, Aden-Al," said Zanoni,
with alight of more human joy upon his face
than it had ever before been seen to wear; " and
if m destiny, which here is dark to my eyes,
vouc safes to me the ha py lot of the humble, if
ever there be a child t at I may clasp to my
bosom-and call my own—”
“ And is it to be men at last, that thou hast as-
pired to be more than man i"
“ But a child—a second Viola!” murmured Za-
noni, smrcely heeding the Son of Light; “a
young soul fresh from Heaven, that I my rear
from the first moment it touches earth, whose
wings I may train to follow mine through the
glories of creation, and through whom the mother
herself may be led upward over the realm of
death i“
" Beware, reflect ! Knowest thou not that thy
darkest enemy dwells in the Real? Thy wishes
bring thee near and nearer to Humanit ."
“Ah, Humanity is sweet i” answere Zanoni.
And as the Seer spoke, on the glorious face of
Adon-Ai there broke a smile.
CHAPTER X.
“ Emma sacrum trihnii, mortalia confsrt
Mortaiis ; divina Deus, pcrilura caducus."
ABE-IL, Puon. cones SYHIACIIUI, lib. ii.
EXTRAUI‘S F110! THE L‘ETI'EBS 0F ZANONI T0 m-
HOUR.
urn-ran 1.
Tnou hast not informed me of the css 0f
thy pupil; and I fear that so different y does Cir-
cumstance shape the minds of the generations to
which we are descended, from the intense and
earnest children of the earlier world, that even
thy most careful and elaborate guidance would
fill, with loftier and inner natures than that of
the Neo hyte thou ast admitted within thy
tea. ven that third state of being, which the
gdian sage“ rightly recognises as being between
the sleep and the waking, and describes imper-
‘ The Bramins, speaking of Brahm. say. “To the Orn>
lisclent the three modes of being—sleep. waking. and
trance—are not;" distinctly recognising trance as a third
lml unequal condition of being.

fectl by the name of rasuca, is unknown to the
chil en of the Northern world; and few but
would recoil to indul it, regarding its peopled
calm as the mdyd an delusion of the mind. In-
stead of ripening and culturing that airy soil,
from which nature, dul known, can evoke fruits
so rich and. flowers so air, they strive but to ex-
clude it from their gaze; they esteem that strug-
gle of the intellect from men's narrow world, to
the spirit’s infinite home, as a disease which the
leech must extirpate with pharmacy and drugs,
and know not even that it is from this condition
of their being, in its most imperfect and infimt
form, that Poetry, Music, Art—all that belongs
to an Idea of Beauty, to which neither sleeping
nor waking can furnish archet pe and actual
semblance—take their immorta birth. When
we, 0 Mejnour, in the far time, were ourselves
the Neoph tes and Aspirants, we were of a class
to which the actual world was shut and barred.
Our forefathers had no object in life but know-
ledge. From the cradle we were predestined and
reared to wisdom as to a priesthood. We com-
mencecl research where modem Conjecture closes
its faithless wings. And with us, those were the
common elements of science which the sages 0f
to-da disdain as wild chimeras, or despair of as
unfathomable mysteries. Even the fundamental
principles, the large, yet simple theories of Elec-
tricit and Magnetism, rest obscure and dim In
the isputes of their blinded schools: yet, even
in our youth, how few ever attained to the fir“
circle of the brotherhood; and after wearily en-
joying the sublime privileges they sought, they
vo untariiy abandoned the light of the sun, and
sunk, without effort, to the grave, like pilgrlmfl
in a trackless desert, overawed by the stillnefli
of their solitude and appalled by the absence of l
goal. Thou, in whom nothing seems to live but
the desire to know—thou, who, indifferent wher
ther it leads to weal or to wo, lendest thyself?
all who would tread the path of mysterious 80‘1-
ence, a Human Book, insensate to the Precel)m 'r'
enounces, thou hast ever sought, and often made-
additions to our number. But to these have only
been vouchsafed partial secrets; vanity and I?“
sion unfitted them for the rest; and new, Wll-l"
out other interest than that of an experiment In
science, without love, and without 'tyi thou er
poseth this new soul to the hazar' s of the W'
mendous ordeal! Thou thinkest that a zeal 8°
inquisitive, a courage so absolute and daunfles‘h
ma sufice to con uer where austerer intellect
am? purer virtue ave So often failed. _Th°“
thickest, too, that the germ of art that lies in the
Painter's mind, as it com ehends in itself the 8:"
tire embryo of Power andpr Beauty, may beexpanlé
ed into the stately flower of the Golden Such“-
is a new experiment to thee. Be gentle With my
Neophyte; and if his nature disappomq thee
the first stages of the process, disimsB 11"? babe
to the Real, while it i! yet time to enioy *
brief and outward life which dWells in the Sena:
and closes with the tomb. And a8 thus v
monish thee, O Mejnour, wilt thou smile BF 3.
inconsisteot hopesi I, who have so 1'1"“: y
refused to initiate others into our in steries, I w
gin at last to comprehend why t 8 great):
that binds man to his kind, even WIN"! ,5“ has
most to set himself aloof from their condition, be
made thy cold and bloodless science the mk m
tween thyself and thy race; why the" “5" song


ZANONI. .
87
converts and pupils; why, in seeing life after life
voluntarily dropping from our start order, thou
stillaspirest to renew the vanishe and repair
the lost ; why, amid thy calculations, restless and
unceasing as the wheels of Nature herself, thou
recoilest from the thought To an ALONE! So with
myself; at last I too seek a convert—an engual
-—I too shudder to be alonel What thou ast
warned me of has come to pass. Love reduces
or things to itself. Either must I be drawn‘
down to the nature of the beloved, or hers must
be lifted to my own. As whatever belongs to
true Art has always necessarily bad attraction;
for us, whose very being is in the ideal whence ;
artdescends, so in this fair creature I have learn-
ed, at last, the secret that bound me to her at the i
first glance. The daughter of music—music pass-
ing into her being, became poetry. It was not
the stage that attracted her, with its hollow
falsehoods; it wu the land in her own fancy
which the stage seemed to centre and represent.
There the poetry found a voice—there it strug-
gled into imperfect shape; and then (that land
insuflicient for it) it fell back 11 n itself. It
wlourcd her thoughts, it snfi‘use her soul; it
asked not words, it created not things; it gave
birth but to emotions, and lavished itself on ‘
dreams. At last came love; and there, as a river i
into the sea, it poured its restless waves, to be—
come mute, and deep, and still—the everlasting
mirror of the heavens.
And is it not through this poetry which lies
within her that she may be led into the large
poetry of the universe! Often I listen to her
careless talk, and find oracles in its unconscious
beauty, as we find strange virtues in some lonely
flower. I see her mind ripening under my eyes ;

and in its fair fertility what ever-teeming novel-
ties of thought! 0, Mejnourl how many of our.
tribe have unravelled the laws of the universe}!
have solved the riddles of the exterior nature,\
and deduced the l'rght from darkness! And isl
not the POET, who studies nothing but the hu-
man heart, a greater philosopher than all i
Knowledge and atheism are incompatible. To
know nature is to know that there must be ai
God! But does it require this to examine the
method and architecture of creation 1 Methinks,
when I look upon a pure mind, however ignorant
and childlike, that I see the August and Imma-
terial One more clearly than in all the orbs of
matter which career at His bidding through the
u see.
Rightly is it the fundamental decree of our or-
der, that we must im art our secrets only to the
pure. The most terri le part of the ordeal is in i
the temptations that our power affords to the
criminal.
being could attain to our faculties, what disorder
it might introduce into the globel Happ that
it is not possible; the malevolence would isarm
the power. It is in the urity of Viola that I
rely, as thou more vainly hast on the courage or
the genius of thy pupils. Bear me witness, Mej-
nour! Never since the distant day in which I
pierced the Arcana of our knowledge, have I
ever sought to make its mysteries subservient to
unworthy objeCts: though, alas! the extension
of our existence robs us of a country and a home;
If it were possible that a malevolent tag

though the law that places all science, as all art,
in the bstractiou from the noisy passions and
turbulent ambition of actual life, forbids us to
influence the destinies of nations, for which Hes-
ven selects ruder and blinder agencies; yet,
wherever have been my wanderings, I have
sought to soften distress and to convert from sin.
My power has been hostile only to the guilty;
and yet, with all our lore, bow in each step we
are reduced to be but the permitted instruments
of the Power that vouchsafes our own, but only
to direct it. How all our wisdom shrinks into
naught, com ared with that which gives the
meanest her its virtue, and peoples the small~
est globule with its appropriate world. And
while we are allowed at times to influence the
happiness of others, how mysteriously the sha-
dows thicken around our own future doom! We
cannot be prophets to ourselves! With what
trembling hope I nurse the thought that I may
preser‘ve to my solitude the light of a living
am e
“TRACKS FROM LE‘I'I'EI. II.
Deeming or self not pure enough to initiate so
pure a heart, invoke to her trance those fairest
and most tender inhabitants of space that have
furnished to Poetry, which is the instinctive
guess into creation, the ideas of the Glendoveer
and Sylph. And these were less pure than her
own thoughts, and less tender than her own
love! They could not raise her above her hu-
man heart, for that has a heaven of its own.
I have just looked on her in sleep—I have
heard her breathe my name. Alasl that which
is so sweet to others has its bitterness to me ; for
I think how soon the time may come when that
sleep will be without a dream; when the heart
that dictates the name will be cold, and the lips
that utter it be dumb. What a two-fold shape
there is in love! If we examine it coarsely—if
we look but on its fleshy tics, its enjoyments of a
moment, its turbulent fever and its dull react-ion.
how strange it seems that this ssion should be
the su rcme mover of the wor d; that it is this
which dictated the greatest sacrifices, and in-
fluenced all societies and all times; that to this
the loftiest and loveliest genius has ever consecra—
ted its devotion; but that for love there were no
civilization, no music, no poetry, no beauty, no life
be ond the brute‘s.
nt examine it in its heavenlier shape—in its
utter ubnegation of self—in its intimate connex-
ion with all that is most delicate and subtle in the
spirit; its power above all that is sordid in ex~
istcnce; its mastery over the idols of tho baser
worship; its ability to create a palace of the cot-
e, an oasis in the desert, a summer in the Ice-
land, where it breathes, and fertilizes, and glowa,
and the Wonder rather becomes how so few re-
gard it in its holiest nature. What the sensual
:‘ call its enjoyments, are the least of its joys. True.
love is less a pamion than a symbol. Mejnour.
shall the time come when I can speak to thee of
Viola as a thing that was i
EXTRACT FROM LEITEB m. ‘-
Knowest thou that of late I have sometimes
asked myself, “ Is there no guilt in the knowlede
that has so divided us from our race 7” It is true
‘v


ZANONI.
89

fion'hdw the leaves swarm with hisects, only by
an effort visible to the eye. They follow the
breath of the lngue 1" As he spoke, a bird fell
lhom the bong is at Violn’s feet; it fluttered, it
writhed an insan and was dead.
“ Oh, Viola i" cried Zanoni, passionately, “ that
is death. Dost thou not fear to die 8”
6 “ To leave thee 1 Ah, yes l"
"' “ And if I could teach thee how Death may be
defied ; ,if I could arrest for thy youth the course
of time; if I could—”
He paused abruptly, for Viola’s eyes spoke only
terror; her cheek and li were
“Speak not thus—loo not thus,” she said, re-
from him. “ You dismay me. Ah, speak
mt thus, or I should tremble—no, not for myself,
but for th child.”
“Thy c ' d! But wouldst thou reject for thy
diild the same glorious boon 'i”
"' Zanoni !"
~ Well 'l”
“ The sun has sunk from our eyes, but to rise
on those of others. To disappear from this world
in to‘live in the world afar. Oh, lover—oh, hus-
blhd!” she continued, with sudden energy, “tell
me that thou didst but jest, that thou didst
buttrifle with my folly! There is less terror in
in "lence than in thy words.”
moni’s brow darkened; he looked at her in
deuce for some moments, and then said, almost
lave-rely,
“ What hast thou known of me to distrust ?”
iOh, pardon, pardon! nothing!" cried Viola,
throwing herself on his breast, and bursting into
tears. “ Iwill not belieVe oven thine own Words,
if they seem to wrong thee l" He kissed the
tears from her eyes, but made no answer.
“And, nhl" she resumed with an enchanting
imd childlike smile, “ if thou wouldst give me a.
charm against the pestilence, see, I willtake it
fiom thee." And she laid her hand on a small
anti' ue amulet that he wore on his breast.
“ ou knowast how often this has made me
jealous of the past; surely, some love-gift, Za-
mnil But no, thou didst not love the giver as
thou dost me. Shall I steal thine mnulet i”
“Infantl'I said Znnoni, tenderly; “she who
this round my neck deemed it indeeda
dmnn, for she had superstitions like thyself; but
to me it is more than the Wizard's spell; it is the
relic of a sweet vanished time, when none who
loved me could distrust"
He said these words in a tone of such melan-
dioly reproach, that it went to the heart of Viola;
hut the tone changed into a solemnity which
chilled back the gush of her feelings as he re-
sumed: “And this, Viola, one day, perhaps, I
will transfer from my breast to thine; yes, when-
ever thou shalt comprehend me better—calm
the laws of our being shall be {he same 1"
He moved on gently. They retumod slowly
home; but fear still was in the heart of Viola,
though she strove to shake it off. Italian and
Catholic she was, with all the superstitions of land
: and sect. She stole to her chamber, and prayed
‘ before a little relic of Sennaro, which the priest
‘ of her house had given to her in childhood, and
4 which had accompanied her in all her wanderings.
, She had never deemed it possible to part with it
before. Now, if there was a charm against the
, pestilence, did she fear the pestilence for herself l
The next morning, when he Woke, Zanoni found
;thc relic of the saint suspended, with'.his mystic
amulet, round hileBCk.
“ Ah l thou wilt have nothing to fear from the
pestilence now,” said yViola, between tears and
! smiles; “ and when thou wouldst talk to me again
‘25s thou didst 1w night, the saint shall rebuke
lee."
Well, Zanoni, can there ever indeed be com-
munc of thought and spirit, except with equalsi
Yes, the Plague broke out; the island-home
must be abandoned Mighty Seer, thou has! no
1014113710 save those Hum lowest! Farewell, thou
ridnl roof! sweet resting-place from Cure, fare-
well! Climates as soft may grect e, O lovers—
skies as serene, and waters as b no and calm.
But that time, can it evermorc return? Who
shall say that the heart does not chau c with the
scene—the place where we first dwe t with tho
beloved one! Every spot there has so many
memories which the place only can recall. The
past that haunts it seems to command such con-
stant? in the future. If a thought less kind, less
trust ul, enter within us, the sight of :1 tree under
which a vow has been exchanged, a tear hns been
kissed away, restores us again to the hours of the
first divine illusion. But in a home where no
thing speaks of the first nuptials, where there is no
‘cloqucncc of association, no holy; burial-places of
emotions, whose ghosts are nngc ! yes, who that
has gone through the sad history of Affection will
tell us that the heart changes not with the scene!
Blow fair, yo favouring winds; cheerily sWell ye
sails; away from the land where Dcath has come
to snatch t c sceptrc of Love! The shores glide
by: new coasts succeed to the green hills and
orange-groves of the Bridal Isle. From afar now
gleam in the moonlight the coluan yct extant,
of a temple which the Athenian dedicated to
Wisdom; and, standing on the bark that bounded
on in the frcshcning gale, the votary who had
survived the goddess murmured to himself,
“Has the wisdom of ages brought me no lmp-
picr hours than those common to the shepherd
and the herdsman, with no world beyond their
village, no aspiration beyond the kiss and the
smile of home i"
And the moon, resting alike over the ruins of
the temple of the departed creed; over the but
of the living peasant; over the immcmorial
mountain top, and the perishable herbage that
clothed its sides, seemed to smile back its answer
of calm disdain to the being who, perchance,
might have seen the temple built, and who, in his
inscrutable existence, might behold the mountain
mattered from its base.


90
ZAN ON I.
B O 0 K V.
THE EFFECTS OF THE ELIXIR.

CHAPTER I.
“ chi Seelen ohnen, Mb E in melner Brust.
Was stehst a“ so, und blicksthrstahnt hiahus 1"
FAUST.
IT will be remembered that we left Master
Paolo by the bedside of Glyndou; and as, wak-
ing from that profound slumber, the recollections
of the past night came horribly back to his mind,
the Englishman uttered a cry, and covered his
face with his hands.
“ Good-morrow, excellency,‘I said Péolo, gayly.
“Corpo di Bacco, you have slept soundly l”
The sound of this man’s voice, so lusty, ring-
ing, and healthful, served to scatter before it the
phantasma that yet haunted Glyndon‘s inemor .
He rose erect in his bed. “ And where 'd
you find me? Why are you here 8"
“ Where did I find on!" repeated P6010, in
surprise; “ in your be , to be sure. Why am I
here! because the adrone bade me await your
waking, and atten your commands.”
“ The padrone, Mejnour! is he arrived 1”
“Arrived and departed, signor. He has left
this letter for you.”
“ Give it me, and wait without till I am
dressed."
“ At your service. I have bespoke an excel-
lent breakfast; you must be hungry. I am a
very tolerable cook: a monk's son ought to be!
You will- be startled at my genius in the dressing
of fish. My singing, I trust, will not disturb on.
I always sing while I prepare a salad; it ar-
monizes the ingredients." And slinging his car-
bine over his shoulder, Paolo sauntered from the
room and closed the door. '
Glyndon was already deep in the contents of
the following letter:
“ When I first received thee as m pupil, I
promised Zanoni, if convinced by thy first trials,
that thou couldst but swell, not the number of
our order, but the list of the victims who have
aspired to it~in vain, 1 would not rear thee to
thine own wretchedness and doom; I would dis-
miss thee back to the world. I fulfil my romise.
Thine ordeal has been the easiest that eophyte
ever knew. I asked for nothing but abstinence
from the sensual, and a brief experiment of thy -
tieuce and faith. Go back to thine own wor d;
thou hast no nature to aspire to ours !
“ It was I who prepared Paolo to receive thee
at the revel. It was I who instigated‘the old
beggar to ask thee for alms. It was I who left
open the book that thou couldst not read without
violating my command Well, thou hast seen
what awaits thee at the threshold of knowledge.
Thou hast confronted the first foe that menaces
- him whom the senses yet grasp and enthral.
Dost thou wonder that I close upon thee the gates
forever 3 Dost thou not comprehend, at last, that
it needs a soul tempered, and purified. and raised,
not by external spells, but by its own sublimity
and valour, to as the threshold and disdain the
fuel Wretch . all my science avails nothing for
the rash, for the sensual; for him who desires our

secrets but to pollute them to gloss enjoymuta
and selfish vice! How have the impostors and
sorcerers of the earlier times perished by,their
very attem t to netrate the mysteries that
should puri y, an not deprave I They have
boasted of the philosopher‘s stone, and died in
rags; of the immortal elixir, and sank to their
grave, gray before their time. Legends tell you
that the fiend rent them into fragments. Yes;
the fiend of their own unholy desires and criminal
designs ! What they coveted thou covefest ; and
if thou hadst the Wings of a seraph, thou couldst
soar not from the slough of thy mortality. Thy
desire for knowledge but petulant presumption;
thy thirst for happiness but the diseased long'
for the unclean and muddied waters of corpo
pleasure ; thy very love, which usually elevates
even the mean, a passion that calculates treason
amid the first glow of lust: thou one of us! Thou
a brother of the august order! Thou an aspirant
to the stars that shine in the Shemaitl of the
Chaldman lore! The eagle can raise but the
eaglet to the sun. I abandon thee to thy twi-
light!
“ But, alas for thee, disobedient and profane!
thou hast. inhaled the elixir; thou hast attracted
to thy presence a ghastly and remorseless foe.
Thou thyself must exorcise the phantom thou
hast raised. Thou must return to the world;
but not without unishment and strong efl'ort
canst thou regain e calm and the joy of the life
that thou hast left behind. This for thy comfort
will I tell thee: he who has drawn into his frame
even so little of the volatile and vital energy of
the aérial juices as thyself", has awakened facul-
ties that cannot sleep—faculties that may yet,
with patient humility, with sound faith, and the
courage that is not of the body like thine, but of
the resolute and virtuous mind, attain, if not to
the knowledge that reigns above. to high achieve-
ment in the career of men. Thou wilt find the
restless influence in all that thou wouldst under-
take. Thy heart, amid vulgar joys, will aspire
to something holier; thy ambition, amid coarse
excitement, to something beyond thy reach. But
deem not that this of itself will suffice for glory.
Equally ma the craving lead thee to shame and
guilt. It iii!" an imperfect and newborn en-
ergy, which will not suffer thee to repose. As
thou directest it, must thou believe it to be the
emanation of thine evil genius or th good. -
“ But we to thee ! insect meshed 1D the web in
which thou hast entangled limbs and wings!
Thou hast not only inhaled the elixir, thou hast.
conquered the spectre; of all the tribes of the
space, no foe is so malignant to man—and thou
hast lifted the veil from thy gaze. I cannot‘reL
store thee to the happy dimuess of thy vision.
Know, at least, that all of us—the highest and
the wisest—who have, in sober truth, passed be-
yond the threshold, have had, as our first fearful
task, to master and subdue its grisly and appal»
ling guardian. Know that thou cans! deliver
thyself from those livid eyes—know that, while
they haunt, they cannot harm, if thou resistest
the thoughts to which they tempt and the horror
they engender. Dread them most when thou be-
ledest them not. And thus, son of the worm,
we part! All that I can tell thee to encourage,
yet to warn and to guide, I have told thee m
these lines. Not from me, from thyself has come
the gloomy trial, from which 1 yet trust thou


ZAN ON I.
91
wilt emerge into peace. Type of the knowledge
that I serve, I withhold no lesson from the pure
aspirant; I am a dark enigma to the general
seeker. As man’s only indestructible possession
is his memory. so it is not in my art to crumble
into matter the immaterial thoughts that have
g up within thy breast. The tyro might
mr this castle to the dust, and topple down
the mountain to the plain. The master has no
wer t9 say, ‘Exist no more,’ to one 'rnouon'r
that his knowledge has inspired. Thou mayst
change the thought into new forms; thou ms at
ratify and sublimatc it into a finer spirit; but
than canst not annihilate that which has no home
but in the memory, no substance but the idea.
373:! “occur is a soon! Vainly, therefore,
would I or thou undo the past, or restore to thee
the gay blindness of thy outh. Thou must on-
dure the influence of the e ixir thou hast inhaled;
thou must wrestle with the spectre thou hast in-
l"
The letter fell from Glyndon’s hand. Asort
of stupor succeeded to the various emotions
which had chased each other in the perusal; a
stupor resembling that which follows the sudden
destruction of any ardent and long-nursed hope
in the human heart, whether it be of love, of ava-
rice, of ambition. The World for which he had
so thirsted, sacrificed, and toiled,was closed upon
him “ forever." and by his own faults of rashness

ed himself, he rejoined Paolo, it was with a flush-
ed cheek and a haughty step.
“ So, Péolo,” said he, “ the padrone, as you call
him, told you to expect and welcome me at your
village feast l” .
“ He did so, by a message from a wretched old
cripple. This surprised me at the time, for I
thought he was far distant. But these great hi-
losophers make a joke of two or three huncii'ed
leagues" _
“ Why did you not tell me you had heard from
Mejnour i"
“ Because the old cripple forbade mc."
“ Did you not see the man afterward during the
dance i”
“ N o, excollency.”
“ Humph l"
“Allow me to serve you," said Paolo, piling
Glyudon’s plate, and then filling his glass. “
wish, signor, now the padrone is gone—not," ad
cled Paolo, as be cast rather a frightened and sus'
picious glance round the room, ‘fthat I mean to
say anything disrespectful of him-I wish, I say,
now that he is gone, that you would take pity on
yourself, and ask your own heart what your youth
was meant for. Not to bury yourself alive in
those old ruins, and endanger body and soul by
studies which I am sure no saint could approve
of}.
“Are the saints so partial, then, to your own
and presumption. But Glyndou‘s was not of that i occu tions, Master Priolo l"
' nature which submits long to condemn itselflf “ iii}. ," answered the bandit, a little confused,
His indignation began to kindle against Mejuour, ; “a gen eman with plenty of pistoles in his purse
who owned he had tempted, and who now aban- need not, of necessity, make it his profession to
doned him—abandoned him to the presence of a i take away the pistoles of other people. It is a
s tre. The Mystic’s reproaches stung rather difl'crent thing for us poor rogues. vAfter all, too,
n humbled him. What crime had he com- l I always devote a tithe of m gains to the Vir-
mitted to deserve language so harsh and disdain- l gin; and I share the rest c 'tnbly with the
ful‘? Was it so deep is debasement to feel plea- I poor. But eat, drink, enjoy yourself—be ab-
sure in the'smile and the eyes of Fillidei Had i solved by your oonfessor for any little pcccndil-
not Zanoni himself confessed love for Violal had 1 loss, and don’t run too long scores at a time—
he not fled with her as his companioni Glyndon I that’s my advice. Your“ health, excellencyl
never paused to consider if there are no distinc-j Pshnw, signor, fasting, except on the days pre-
between one kind of love and another. . scribed to a good Catholic, only engenders phan-
W iere, too, was the great offence of ‘iclding to ‘ toms,"
a temptation which only existed for ihe brave i “ Phantoms i"
Had not the mystic volume Mejnour had pur- “ Yes; the devil always tempts the empty
ly left open, bid him but “ Beware of fear l" , stomach. To covet, to hate, to thicve, to rob, and
as not, then, every wilful provocative held out i to murder—these are the natural desires of aman
to the strongest influences of the human mind, in l who is furnishing. ‘Vith a full belly, signer, we
the prohibition to enter the chamber—in the pos- ' are at peace with all the world. That‘s right;
neselon of the key which excited his curiosity—in you like the partridge ! Cospettol When I my-
the cvltlilume which seemed to dictate the mode by l self have passed two or three days in the moon-
'hi the curiosity was to be gmtifiedl As, i tains, with nothin from sunset to sunrise but a
rapidly, these thoughts passed over him, he bc- } black crust and En onion, I grow as ficrce as a
tooonsider the whole conduct of Mejnour ei- wolf. That’s not the worst, too. In these times
thur as a perfidious t(liesignktofentmp him to his I see little im dancing before me. Oh, yes;
own miss , or as c trio 0 an im tOI', W 0 fastin is as fu of s,cctres as a field of battl ."
knew that 10 could not realize the grcpiist profes- Glygndon thought there was some sound philiiso-
aions he had'made. On glancing. again over the I phy in the reasoning of his companion; and, cor-
more mysterious threats and warnings in quours trunly, the more he ate and drank, the more the
letter, they seemed to assume the. language of recollection of the past night and of Mejnour‘s de-
mere parable and allegory; the Jargon of _thc ; sertion faded from his mind. The casement was
Phtomsts and Pythagoreans. By httle and httle open, the breeze blew, the sun shone—all N atuns
he began to consider that the very spectre he had 1 was merry; and merry as Nature herself grew
seen—even that one phantom so homd in‘lts as- ‘ Maécstro Paolo. He talked of adventures, of tzrar
pest—were but the delusions which MEJHOIIY'S vol, of women, with a hearty gusto that had its
science had enablcd him to raise. The healthful ‘ infection. But Glyndon listened yet more com.
sunlight, filling up every cmnny in his chamber, l placently when Paolo turned, with an arch smih;
seemed to laugh away _the terrors of the (put ‘ to praises of the eye, the teeth, the ankles, an
night. His pride and lus resentment nerve his the shape of the handsome Fillide.
habitual courage; and when, having hastily dress-i This man, indeed, seemed the very personation


02
ZANONI.
of animal sensml life. He would have beento
Faust a more dangerous tempter than Mephisto-
es. There was no sneer on his lip at the
urea which animated his voice. To one awak-
mg to a sense of the vanities in knowledge, this
reckless, ignorant joyousncss of temper, was a
worse corrupter than all the icy mockeries of a
learned Fiend. But when Pdolo took his leave,
with a promise to return the next day, the mind
of the Englishman again settled back to a gruver
and more thoughtful mood. The elixir seemed,
in truth, to have left the refining effects Mejnour
had ascribed to it. As Glyndon paced to and fro
the solitary corridor, or, pausing, gazed upon the
extended and glorious scene that stretched be-
low, high thoughts of enterprise and ambition—-
bright visions of glory—passed in rapid succession
through his soul.
“Mejnour denies me his science. Well,” said
the painter, proudly, “ he has not robbed me of
to art.”
What ! Clarence Glyndon! dost thou return to
that from which th career commenced! Was
bnoni right after :11 3
He found himself in the chamber of the Mys-
66; not :1. vessel—not an herb! the solemn v0-
lume is vanished—the elixir shalLs kle for him
no more! But still, in the room itself seems to
linger the atmosphere of a charm. Foster and
fiercer it burns Within thee, the desire to achieve,
to create! Thou longest for a life beyond the
sensual! but the life that is permitted to all ge-
nius—that which breathes through the immortal
work and endures in the imperishnble mime.
Where are the implements of thine nrtl 'I‘ush! ‘
when did the true workman ever fail to find his
toolsi Thou art again in thine own chamber—
the white wall thy canvass—a fragment of char-
coal for thy pencil.
outline to the conception, that may otherwise van-
ish with the morrow.
The idea that thus excited the imagination of
the artist, was unquestionably noble and august.
It was derived from that. hgyptian ceremonial
which Diodorus has recorded—the Judgment of
the Dead by the Living? When the cor ,duly
embnlmed, is placed by the margin of t is Ache-
rusinn Lake, and before it may be consigned to
the bark which is to bear it across the waters to
its final resting-place, it is permitted to the ap-
ppinted judges to hear all accusations of the past
' e of the deceased, and, if proved, to deprive
the corpse of the rites of sepulture.
Unconscioust to himself, it was Mejnour’s de-
scriptions of this custom, which he had illustrated
by several anecdotes, not to be found in books,
that now suggested the design to the artist, mid
gave it reality and force. He supposed a power-
ful and guilty king, whom in life scarcely a whis-
per had dared to arntign, but against whom, now
the breath was gone, come the slave from his fet-
ters, the mutilated victim from his dungeon, livid
and squalid as if dead themselves, invoking
with parched lips the justice that outlives the
grave.
Strange fervour this, 0 Artist! sud-
‘Dlod., llh. 1.
They suffice, at least, to give ‘
'denly forth horn the mists and darkness whidl
,the occult science had spread so long overth
lfnncies; strange that the reaction of the nigh s
,terror and the day’s disappointment should be
back to thine holy art ! Oh, how freely goes the
i bold hand over the large outline l How, despite
[those rude materials, speaks forth no more the
1 pupil, but the master! Fresh yet from the glo-
! rious elixir, how thou givest to thy creatures the
\ finer life denied to m self! some powerpot thine
! own writes the gran symbols on the wall. Be
‘hind rises the mighty se )ulchre, on the building
of which repose to the (earl, the lives of thou-
sands had been consumed There sit in a semi-
circle the solemn judges. Black and sluggish
flows the lake. There lies the mummicd and
royal dead. Dost thou quail at the frown on his
lifelike browi Hal bravely done, 0 Artist! up
rise the haggard foMs! pale speak the ghastly
faces! Shall not Humanity after death avenge
itself on Power? Th conception, Clarence Glyn-
don, is a sublime trut ; thy design promises re
nown to genius. Better this magic than the
charms of the volume and the vessel. Hour afler
hour has gone ; thou hast lighted the lam -, night
sees thee yet at thy labour. Merciful eaven!
what chills the atmosphere? why does the lamp
grow want why does thy hair bristle? There!
there! at the casement! it gazes on thee, the
dark, mantled, loathsome thing! There, with
their devilish mockery and hateful craft, glare on
thee~those horrid eyes l
He stood and gazed. It was no delusion; it
spoke not, moved not, till, unable to bear longer
that steady and burning look, he covered his face-
with his hands. With :1 start. with a thrill, he re-
moved them; he felt the nearer resence of the
Nameless. There, it cowered on t 0 floor beside
his design; and, lo! the figures seemed to start
from the well 1 Those pale, accusing figures, the
shapes he himself had raised, frowned at him and
gibbered. \Vith aviolent effort, that convulsed
his whole ‘being and bathed his body in the sweet
of agony, the young man mastered his horror.
He strode towards the Phantom; he endured its
eyes; he accosted it with a steady voice ; he de-
manded its purpose, and defied its wer.
And then, as a wind from :1 channel, was heard
' its voice. What it said, what revealed, it is fw-
bidden the li s to repeat, the hand to record. No
thing, save t e subtle life that yet animated tho
frame, to which the inhalations of the elixir had
given vigour and energy beyond the strength of
the strongest, could have survived that awful hour.
Better to wake in the catacombs and see the
buried rise from their cerements, and bear the
ghouls, in their horrid orgies, among the festering
ghastliness of corruption, than to front those fed-
tures when the veil was lifted, and listen to flat
whispered voice!


The next day Glyndon fled from the ruined
castle. With what. hopes of starry light had he
.crossed the threshold! with what memories to
ishudder evennore at the darkness, did he look
back at the frown of its timewom towers!


.. ZANONI. 98 =
CHAPTER IV. 1 nor in that worst of disillusions, a morning wrap-
' per. At half-past eight every morning Mrs. Mer-
l vale was dressed for the day; that is, till she
rcdrcssed for dinner; her sta s well laced, her cap
iprim, hcr gown, winter and' summer, of a thick,
, handsome silk. Ladies at that time wore vcry
Dasw your chair to the fireside, brush clean the short waist-s; so did Mrs. Mervale. Her morning
hearth, and trim the lights. Oh, home of sleek- ‘ ornaments were a thick gold chain, to which was
none, order, substance, comfortl Oh, excellent suspended a ld watch-hone of those ile
thing art thou, Matter-of-Fnct! dwarfs of meci‘dnism, that look so rctty an
It is soine time BflCl‘ the date of the last chap— ' so ill, but a handsome repeater, which chronicled
ter. Here we are, not in moonlit islands or moul- ] Father Time to a. moment -, also a mosaic brooch;
dering miles, but in a room twenty-six feet by ‘1 also a miniature of her uncle, the admiral, sot in
twenty-two, well carpeted, well cushioned, solid a bracelet. For the evening, she had two hand-
arm-chairs, and eight such bad 1picturcs, in such isomc sets—necklace, earrings, and bmcclets, com-
fine frames, upon the walls! homas Mervale, i plate—one of amethysts, the other topazes. With
Esq, merchant, of London, you are an enviable these, her costume, for the most part, was a gold-
d ! coloured satin and a turban, in which last her
ogtwas the easiest thing in the world for Mcr- picture. had been taken. Mrs. Mervale had an
vale, on returning from his Continental 0 isodc of ~ uquiline nose, good teeth, fair hair, and light e 0-
life, to settle down to his desk; his heart d been I lashes, rather a high complexion, what is gene y
always there. The death of his father gaVc him, called a fine bust, full cheeksg e, useful feet,
as a birthright, a high position in a respectable , made for walking, large white han , with filbert
though second-rate finn. To make this establish- ‘ nails, on which not a. speck of dust had, even in
meat first'rato was an honourable ambition; it , childhood, ever bcen known to alight. She looked
was his 1 He had lately married—not entirely for , a little older than she really was; but that might
money—no ! he was worldly rather than mer- , arise from a certain air of dignity and the afore-
ccnary. He had no romantic ideas of love; but ‘ said nquiline nose. She generally wore short
he was too sensible a man notto know that a wife ‘mittcns. She never rcad any poetry but Gold~
should be a companion, not morel ' a speculation. smith’s and Cowper‘a She was not amused by
He did not care for beauty an gemus, but he novels. though she had no prejudice against them.
liked health and good temper, and a certain pro- 3‘ She liked' a play and a pantominc, with a slight
portion of useful understanding. He chose a wife supper afterward She did not like concerts or
from his reason, not his heart, and a very ood operas. At the begirming of the winter she se-
choice he made. Mrs. Mcrvale was an cxcc lent llected some book to read, and some iew of work
young woman, bustling, managing, economical, but to commence. The two lasted her ti the spring,
afi'ectionate and good. Shchad a will of her own, when, though she continued to work, she left off
but was no shrew. She had a great notion of the reading. Her favourite study was history, which
rights of a wife, and a strong perception of the she read thronin the medium of Dr. Goldsmith.
qualities that ensure comfort. She would never “Her favourite author in the belles lettres was, of
have forgiven her husband, had she found him course, Dr. Johnson. A worthier woman, or one
guilty of the most passing fancy for another; bu: , more respected, was not to be found, except in an
in return, she had the most admirable sense of ‘ epitaph!
“Fun-r. “'ohln sell on nun gchn’!
lenis'r. Wohin es der gefullt.
“'ir schn dle klcine, dann die grosse “’qul."
lins'r.


pmpriet- herself. She held in abhorrence all ler-, It was an autumn night. Mr. and Mrs. Mer-.
tion, all coquetry—emall vices, which ' vale, lately returned from an excursion to Wey-
o ruin domestic happiness, but which a giddy { month, are in tho drawing-room; “the dame sate
nature incurs without consideration. But she did on this side, the man sat on that."
not think it right to love a husband over much.‘ “Yes, I assure you, my clear, that Glyndon,
She left a surplus of afi'cction for all her relations, , with all his eccontricities, was a very engaging.
all her friends, some of her acquaintances, and the nminblo follow. You Would certainly haVc liked
Emaihility of a second marriage, should any acci- him -, all the women did."
t happen to Mr. M. She kept a good table, : “ My dear Thomas, you will forgive the remark;
for it suited their station, and her tompcr was}but that expression of yours, ‘all the women—’ "
considered even, though firm; but she could say; “I beg your pardon; you are right. I meant
a sharp thing or two if Mr. Mervale was not punc- ‘ to say that. he was a general favourite with your
tnal to a moment. She was very articular that charming sex."
he should change his shoes on coming home—the i " I understand; rather a frivolous character.”
ts were new and expensive. She was not; “Frivolousl no, not exactly; a little unsteady,
gill-E; nor passionate—Heaven bless her for that l very odd, but ccrtninl ' not frivolous ', presump-
—but when displeased she showed it, adminis- ‘uons and headstrong in character, but modest and
tered a dignified rebuke, alluded to her own vir- shy in his manners, rathcrwo much so; just what
tues, to her uncle, who was an admiral, and to the you like. However, to return: I am seriously un-
thirty thousand pounds which she had brought to easy at the accounts I have heard of him to-day..
the obre' ct of her choice. But as Mr. Mervalc was He has been living, it seems, a very strange and
11,5 humoured man, owned his faults, and sub- irregular life, travelling from place to lace, and
eclide to her excellence, the displeach was soon must have spent already a great deal money."
over. i “Apropos of money,” said Mrs. Mervale; "1
Every household has its little disagreements, fear we must change our butcher; he is certainly
none fewer than that of Mr. and Mrs. Mervalc. in league with the cook."
Mrs Mex-vale, without being improperly fond of “ That is a pity; his beef is remarkably fine.
dress, paid due attention to it. She was never These London servants are as bad as the Car-
seen out of her chamber with papers in her hair, bonari. But, as I was saying, poor Glyndon—"


94
ZANONI.
Here a knock was heard at the door. “ Bless
rlc !” said Mrs Mervale, “it is past ten! Who
can that possibly be i"
“ Perhaps your uncle, the admiral,” said the
husband, with a slight peevishness in his accent.
“ He generally favours us about this hour.”
“ I hope, my love, that none of my relations
are unwelcome visiters at your house. The ad-
miml is a most entertaining man, and—his fortune
is entirely at his own dis "
“No one I respect more}; said Mr. Mervnle,i
with emphasis
The servant threw open the door and an-
nounced Mr. Glyndon.
“Mr. Glyndon! what an extraordinary—3' ex»
claimed Mrs. Mervale; hilt before she could con-
clude the sentence Glyndon was in the room.
The two friends greeted each other with all the
warmth of early recollection and long absence
An appropriate and roud presentation to Mrs.
Mcrvale ensued; and hire. Mervalc, with a digni-
fied smile, and a furtive glance at his boots, bade
her husband's friend welcome to England.
G] 'ndon was greatly altered since Moi-vale had
seen rim last. Though lest-i than two years had
elapsed since then, his fair com lexion was more
bronzed and manly. Deep 'ues of care, or
thought, or dissipation, had replaced the smooth
contour of hap y youth. To a manner once gen-
tle and polished, had succeeded a certain reckless-
ness of mien, tone, and hearing, which bespoke
the habits of a society that cared little for the
calm decorums of conventional ease. Still a kind
of wild nobleness, not before apparent in him,
characterized his aspect, and gave something of
dignity to the freedom of his language and ges-
tures.
“So, then, you are settled, Mervale; I need
not ask
wealth, c sracter, and so fair a companion, de-
serve hap iness, and command it.”
“ Woul on like some tea, Mr. Glyndon i"
asked Mrs. Mervnle, kindly.
“Thank you, no. I propose a. more convivial
stimulus to in old friend. Wine, Mervale, wine,
ehi or a bow of old English punchl Your wife
will excuse us; we will make a night of it l"
Mrs. Merrale drew back her chair, and tried
not to look aghast. Glyndon did not give his
friend time to reply.
“ So at last I am in England,” he said, looking
round the room, with a slight sneer on his lips;
“surely this sober air must have its influence;
surel hero I shall be like the res ”
“ ave you been- ill, Glyndon l"
“llll yes. Humph! you have a fine house.
Does it contain a spare room for a solitary wan-
derer l"
Mr. Mervnle glanced at his wife, and his wife
looked steadily on the carpet. “ Modest and shy
in his manners—rather too much so l" Mrs. Mer-
vnle was in the seventh heaven of indignation
and amazel
“My dearl” said Mr. Mervalc at last, meekly
and interrogatingly.
“ My dear l" returned Mrs. Mervale, innocently ‘
and sourly.
“ We can make up a room for my old friend,
Samhl"
The old friend had sunk back on his chair;
and, gazing intently on the fire, with his feet at3
ou if you are happy. Worth, sense, '
l ease upon the fender, seemed to have forgotten
‘ his question.
Mrs. Mervale hit her lips, looked thoughtful,
and at. last coldly re lied, “ Certainly, Mr. Mer-
l vale. Your friends 0 right to make themselves
at home."
| With that she lighted a candle, and moved
', nmjestically from the room. When she returned,
the two friends had vanished into Mr. Mervale’s
study.
Twelve o'clock struck—one o'clock—two!
‘Thrice had Mrs. Mervale sent into the room to
lknow, first, if they wanted anything; secondly,
' if Mr. Glyndon slept on a mattress or a feather-
I bed; thirdly, to in uire if Mr. Glyndon’s trunk,
1‘ which he had broug t with him, should be un-
lpacked. And to the answer to all these quee-
" tions was added, in a loud voice from the visitor,
l a voice that pierced from the kitchen to the attic,
1" Another bowll—stronger, if you please—and
l be quick with it!"
1 At last, Mr. Mervale appeared in the conjugal
lchamber—not penitent, not apologetic—no, not
I a bit of it! His e es twinkled—his cheek flush-
ed—his feet reele ; he sung—Mr. Thomas Mer-
vale positively sung!
“ Mr. Mcrvalel is it possible, sir "
" ‘ Old King Cole was a. merry old soul—‘ "
“ Mr. Mervalcl sirl leave me alone, sir i”

“ 'And a. merry old soul was he——-‘ "
" What an example to the servants l"
“ 'And he called for his pipe, and he called for hi
bow]__. n
“ If you don’t keep your hands to yourself, sir,
I shall call-_”
" ‘ Call for his fiddlon three 2‘ "

CHAPTER III.
“ in der Welt welt.
Aus dcr Etnsamkelt.
W0 Sinnen nnrl Suite stockcn
Wollen ale dich locken."—Fu:s'r.
Tux next morning, at breakfast, Mrs. Mervale
looked as if all the wrongs of injured woman eat
11 n her brow. Mr. Mervale seemed the ictnn
o remorseful guilt and nvenging bile. IYe said
little, except to complain of head-ache, and to
request the eggs to be removed from the table.
Clarence Glyndon—impervious, unconscious, my
ailing, impenitent—was in noisy spirits, and talk-
ed for three.
“Poor Mervalel he has lost the habit of good
fellowship, madam. Another night or two, and
he will be himself again."
D “ Sir," said Mrs. Mervsle, launching a premedi-
tated sentence with more than J ohnsoniau digni ,
“ permit me to remind you that Mr. Mervale ll
now a married man, the destined father of a fn-
mily, and the present master of a household.”
“ Precisely the reason why I envy him so
much. I myself have a. great mind to marry.
Haplpiness is cont ious."

0 you still e to painting 1” asked Mer-
vale, languidly, endeavouring to turn the tale
on his guest.
"Oh, no; I have ado ted
is: advice. No
art, no idea], nothing lo tier commonplace


ZANONI.
95
for me now. If I were to paint again, I posi-{
tively think you Would purchase my pictures.
Make haste and finish your breakfast, man; I!
wish to consult you. I have come to England
to see after my afihirs. My ambition is to make .
money; your counsels and experience cannot fail l
to assist me here.” ,
"Ah, you were soon disenchanted of your Phi- ,
loeopher‘s stone! You must know,v Sarah, that
when I last left Glyndon, he was bent upon turn- I
ing alchemist and magician.”
“ You are witty to da , Mr. Mervale.”
“ Upon my honour it is true. Have .I not told
you so before l"
01 ndon rose abruptly.
“éhy revive those recollections of folly and
pesumptioni Have I not said that I have re-
turned to my native land to pursue the healthful
avocations of my kind? 0 yes! what so health-
ful, so noble, so fitted to our nature. as what you
call the practical life? If we have faculties,
what is their use, but to sell them to advantage?
Buy knowledge as we do our goods; buy it at
thechea market, sell it at the dearest Have
younot. reakfasted et i"
The friends walke into the streets. and Mer-
Vale shrunk from the irony with which Gl ndon
complimented him on his respectability, his sta-
tion, his pursuits, his happy marriage, and his
eight pictures in their handsome frames. For-
merly, the sober Mervale had commanded an
influence over his friend; his had been the ear-
msm—Glyndon‘s, the irresnlute shame at his
own culiarities. Now, this position was re-
versed:e There was a fierce earnestness in Glyn-
don's altered temper which awed and silenced
the quiet commonplace of his friend’s character.
He seemed to take a malignant delight in per-
suading himself that the sober life of the world
was oontemptible and base.
“ Ah," he exclaimed, “ how right you were to
tell me to marry respectably—to have a solid
position—to live in decorous fear of the world
and one‘s wife—and to command the envy of the
poor, the good opinion of the rich! You have
Hectised what you preach. Delicious existence!
e merchant’s desk and the curtain lecture!
Ha! ha! Shall we have another night of it?"
Mervale, embarrassed and irritated, turned the
anersatlon upon Glyndon's affairs. He was
mrprised at the knowledge of the world which
the artist seemed to have suddenly acquired;
surprised still more at the acuteness and energy
Wit which he spoke of the speculations most in
vogue at the market. Yes—G! ndon was cer-
tainly in earnest; he desired to rich and re-
spectable, and to make at least ten per cent. for
his money !
After s .cnding some days with the merchant,
(during which time he contrived to disorganizc all
the mechanism of the house, to turn night into
day, harmony into discord, to drive poor Mrs.
Mervale half distracted, and to convince her hus-
band that he was horribly hen- ckcd,) the ill-
omened visiter left them as su denly as he had
arrived. He took a house of his own; he sought
the society of persons of substance; he devoted
himself to the money-market; he seemed to have
become a man of business; his schemes were
bold and colossal; his calculations rapid and pro-
found. He startled Mervale b his energy, and


dazzled him by his success. ervale began to
envy him—to be discontented with his own regu-
lar and slow gains. When Glyndon bought or
sold in the funds, wealth rolled upon him like
the tide of a sea; what years of toil could not
have done for him in art. a few months, by a
succession of lucky chances, did for him in specu-
lation. Suddenly, however. he relued his exer-
tions; new objects of ambition seemed to attract
him. If he heard a drum in the streets, what
glor like the soldier’si If a new poem were
pub 'shed, what renown like the poet's? He
egan works in literature, which promised great
excellence, to throw them inside in disgust. All
at once be abandoned the decorous and formal
society he had courted; he joined himself with
young and riotous associates; he plunged into
the wildest excesses of the eat city, where Gold
reigns alike over Toil an Pleasure. Through
all, he carried with him a certain power and heat
of soul. In all society, he aspired to command;
in all ursuits, to excel. Yet whatever the pee
sion 0 the moment, the reaction was terrible in
its gloom. He sunk, at times, into the most pro
found and the darkest reveries. His fever was
that of a mind that would escape memory; his
repose, that of a mind which the memory seizes
again, and devours as a prey. Mervnle now saw
little of him; they shunned each other. Glyn-
don had no confidant and no friend.

CHAPTER XI V.
“ Ich fiihle dish Inir nahe, '
Dle Einsamkell beleht; . H
\Vye iiher seinen Welten
Der Unsichllmre schweht." ;
Unmxn.
F note this state of restlessness and agitation, I'av
thcr than continuous action, Glyndon was aroused
by a visiter who seemed to exercise the most salu-
infiuence over him. His sister, an orphan '
with himself, had resided in the com with her
aunt. In the early years of hope an home, he
had loved this girl, much younger than himself,
with all a brother’s tenderness. On his return to
England, he had seemed to forget her existence.
She recalled herself to him on her aunt’s death
by a touching and melancholy letter: she had now
no home but his, no dependch save on his atteo-
tion; he wept when he read it, and was impatient
till Adela arrived.
This girl, then about eighteen, concealed beneath
a gentle and calm exterior much of the romance
or enthusiasm that had at her own age character-
ized her brother. But her enthusiasm was of a far
urer order, and was restrained within proper
bounds, partly by the sweetness of a ver femi-
nine nature, and 'u'tly by a strict and met odical
education. She ' ered from him cs ecially in a
timidity of character, which exceede that usual
at her age, but which the habit of selfmmmand
concealed no less mrefull than that timidity itself
concealed the romance 1 have ascribed to her.
Adela was not handsome; she had the com-
lexion and the form of delicate health ; and too
ne an organization of the nerves rendered her
susce tible to every impression that could influ-
ence 9 health of the frame through the sympathy
of the mind. But as she never complaine , nd
as the singular serenity of her manners seemed to
betolren an equanimity of temperament which,


96 ' ZANONI.
with the vulgar, might have passed for indiffer- could find one who would comprehend andbaa
once, hcr sufferings had so long been borne un~ , with him better than any sterner and more practi-
noticed that it ceased to be an effort to disguise ‘ cal nature. Mervale Would have looked on his
them. Though, as I have said, not handsomelrevelations as the ravings of madness, and most
her wuntenance was intercetin and pleasing; and 1 men at best as the sickhcd dumerrw, the optical
there was that caressing kin nose, that winning ‘ delusions, of disease. Thus gradually preparing
charm about her smile, lwr manners, her anxiety 1 himself for that relief for which he yearned, the
to please, to comfort and to sooth. which went at moment for his disclosure arrived thus:
once to the heart, and made her lovely, because \ One evening, as they sat alone together, Adela.
so loving. I who inherited some portion of her brother’s talent
Such was the sister whom Glyndon had so long . in art, was employed in drawing, and Glyndon,
neglected, and whom he now so cordially wcl- rousing himself from meditations less gloomy than
conicd. Adela had passed many years avictim . usual, rose, and alfectionatcly pwing hir- arm
to the capricee and a nurse to the maladies of a l round her waist, looked over her as ahe eat. An
selfish and exacting relation. The delicate, andiexclamatinn of dismay broke from his Ii 5; be
generous, and respectful afl'ection of her brother snatchedthe drawing from her hand: “ What am
was no less new to her than delightful. He took you about? what portrait is this i”
pleasure in the happiness he created ; he gradu~ “ Dear Clarence, do you not remember the ori-
ally weaned himself from other society ; he felt ginali it iea copy from that goth of our wine
the charm of home. It is not surprising, then, ancestor which our poor mo er used to sayso
that this young creature, free and virgin from strongly resembled you. I thought it would
every more ardent attachment, concentrated all please you if I copie it from memory."
her grateful love in this cherished and proteding “ Accursed was the likeness !" said Glyndon,
relative. Her study by day, her dreamb night, gloomil . “ Guess you not the reason why I have
was to repay him for his afl'ection. S e was shunne to return to the home of my fathers? be-
proud of hls talents, devoted to his welfare; the muse I dreaded to meet that rtrait! because-—
smallth trifle that could interest him swelled in bemuee—but pardon me—I a arm you 1"
her eyesto the gravest aflaire of life. In short, “ Ah, no, no, Clarence, you nevvr alarm me
all the long-boarded enthusiasm, which was her when you speak, only when you are silentl 0h,
perilous and only heritage, she invested in this if you thought me worthy of your trust! oh, if
one object of her holy tenderness and her pure you had given me the right to reason with you in
ambition. the sorrows that I yearn to share I”
But in proportion as Glyndon shunned these ex- Glyndon made no answer, but paced the room
citements by which he had so long sought to oc- for some moments with disordered strides. He
cupy his time or distract his thoughts, the gloom stopped at last, and gazed at her earnestly. “ Yes.
of bin calmer hours became dee er and more con- you too are his descendant! you know that such
tinuous. He ever and especial y dreaded to be men have lived and suffered—you will not mock
alone", he could not bear lUB new com 'on to be me— on will not diebelievc l Listen 1 hark! what
absent from his eyes; he rode with er, walked soun is that l”
with her, and it was with visible reluctance, which “ But the wind on the house-top, Clarence ; but
almost partook of horror, that he retired to rest the wind."
at an hour when even revel grows fatigued This “ Give me your hand, let me feel its living clasp
gloom was not that which could be called by the d when I have told you, never revert to the
soft name of melancholy, it was far more intense; ta e again. Conceal it from all; swear that it
it seemed, rather, like despair. Often, after a shall die with us. the last of our predestined race !"
lilcnce as of death—so hen , abstracted, motion- “ Never will I betray our trust—I swear it,—
less did it appear—he wo d start abruptly and never i" said Adela, firn y; and she drew closer
cast hurried glances around him, his limbs tremb- to his side. Then Glyndon commenced his story.
ling, his lips livid his brows bathed in dew. Con- That which, perhaps in writing and to minds pre~
v'inced that some secret sorrow preyed upon his pared to ucstion and disbelicve, may seem cold
mind and would consume his health, it was the and terroi-less, became far different when told by
dearest as the most natural desire of Adela to be- those colourless lips, with all that truth of suffer-
come his confidant and consoler. She observed, ing which convinces and appala Much, indeed
with the quick tact of the delicate, that be dis- be concealed, much he involuntarily softened; but
liked her to seem afi'ectod by, or even sensible of he revealed enough to make his tale intelligible
his darker moods. She schooled herself to sup- and distinct to his pale and trembling listener.
press her fears and her feelings. She would not “ At da break," he said, “I left that mihallowed
ask his confidence; she sought to steal into it. and abhorred abode. I had one hope still; I
By little and little, she felt that she was succeed- would seek Mejnour through the world I would
' Too wmpt in his own strange existence to force him to in at rest the fiend that haunted my
be acutely observant of the character of others, soul. With this intent I journeyed from city to
Glyndon mistook the self-content of a generous city. I instituted the most vigilant researches
and humble afl'ection for constitutional fortitude, through the police of Italy. I even employed
and this quality pleased and soothed him. It is the services of the Inquisition at Rome, which
fortitude that the diseased mind requires in the had lately asserted its ancient powers in the trial
confidant whom it selects asits physician. And of the less dangerous Caglioetro. All was in
how irresistible is that desire to communicatel vain; not a. trace of him could be dimovercd. I
How often the lonely man thought to himself“ was not alona Adela" Here Glyndon pauseda
“My heart would be lightened of its misery if , moment, as if embarrassed; for in his recital, I
Once confessed!” peed scarcely say that he had only indistinctly nl-
He felt, too, that in the very youth, the inex- ‘ luded to Fillidc, whom the reader may surmise to
perienee, the poetical temperament of Adela, he be his companion. “ I was not alone, but the ac


ZANONI.
97
.nciate of m wanderings was not one in whom]
my soul on d confide; faithful and affectionate,
but, without education, without faculties to com-
prehend me, with natural instincts rather than
cultivated reason; one in whom the heart might
lean in its careless hours, but with whom the mind ‘
could have no commune, in whom the bewildered l
irit, could seek no guide. Yet in the society of
gin person the daemon troubled me not. Let me
explain yet more fully the dread conditions of its
*nce. In coarse excitement, in commonplace
Hafiz: the wild riot, in the. fierce excess, in the
tm'pid lethargy of that animal existence which we
share with the brutes, its eyes were invisible, its
whisper was unheard But whenever the soul
would aspire, whenever the llIlZLngflllUIl kindled
to the loftier ends, whenever the consciousness of
our oper destiny struggled against the unworthy
life pursued, then, Adela, then it cowered by
m side in the light of noon, or sat by my bed—
I. . rlmess visible through the Dark. If, in the
galleries of Divine Art, the dreams of my youth
woke the early emulation; if I turned to the
droughts of sages; if the example of the great,
if the converse with the wise, aroused the silenced
intellect, the daemon was with me as by a spell.
At last, one evening, at Genoa, to winch city I
had travelled in pursuit of the mystic, suddenly,
and when least. expected, he appeared before me.
It was the time of the Carnival. It was in one of
dime half-frantic scenes of noise and revel, call it
not gayetv, which establish a. heathen snturnalia
in the midst of a. Christian festivaL Wezu'ied
with the dance, I had entered a room in which
several revellers were seated, drinking, singing,
shouting; and in their fantastic dresses and hid-
eous masks, their orgy seemed scarcely human.
I placed myself among them, and in that fearful
excitement of the spirits which the happ never
lmow, I was soon the most. riotous of a The
conversation fell on the Revolution of France,
which had always possessed for me an absorbing
fascination. The masks spoke. of the Millennium
it was to bring on earth, not as philosophers re-
joicing in the advent of light, but as rufiians ex-
ulting in the annihilation of law. I know not
why it was, but their licentious language infected
myself; and, always desirous to be foremost in
every circle, I soon exceeded even these rioters in
declamations on the nature of the liberty which
was about to embrace all the families of the globe;
a liberty that should ervade not only public leg-
islation, but domestic ife; an emancipation from
every fetter that men had forged for themselves.
In the midst of this tirade, one of the masks
whispered me,
“ ‘Take care. One listens to you who seems
to be a spy i’ .
“ My eyes followed those of the mask, and I
observed a man who took no part in the conver-
sation. but whose gaze was bent upon me. He
was disguised like the rest, yet I found by a gen-
eral whisper that none had observed him enter.
His silence, his attention, had alarmed the fears
of the other revellers; they only excited me the
more. Rapt in my subject, I pursued it, insensi-

_“‘And you, signer, what is your view of tin:
mlgitg era? Opinion without persecution; broth-
erh without Jealousy ; love without bondage—’
“ ‘ And life without God,‘ added the mask, as I
hesitated for new images. _
“' The sound of that well-known voice changed
the current of my thought. I sprung forward,
and cried,
“ ‘ Impostor or Fiend, we meet at last. l‘
“The figure rose as I advanced, and, unmask-
ing, showed the features of Mejnour. His fixed
eye, his majestic aspect, awed and repelled me.
I stood rooted to the ground.
“ ‘ Yes,’ he said, solemnly, ‘ We meet, and it is
this meeting that-I have sought. How hast thou
followed my admonitions! Are these the scenes
in which the Aspirant for the Serene Science
thinks to escape the Ghastly Enemy? Do the
thoughts thou hast uttered—thoughts that would
strike all order from the universe—c ress the
hopes of the sage who would rise to the _ any
of the Eternal S heresl’
“ ‘ It is th fa t—it is thine !’ I exclaimed ‘ Ex-
ercise the plantom! Take the haunting Terror
from my soul 1’
“ Mejnonr looked at me a. moment with a cold
and cynical disdain, which provoked at once my
fear and rage, and replied,
“ ‘ No, fool of thine own senses! N o; thou must
have full and entire experience of the illusions to
which the Knowledge that is without Faith climb
its Titan way. Thou pantest for this Millennium;
thou shalt behold it! Thou shalt be one of the
agents of the era of Light and Reason. I see,
while I speak, the Phantom thou fliest, by thy
side; it marshals thy path; it has 'power over
thee as yet; a power that defies m own. In the
last days of that Revolution whic thou haileat,
amid the wrecks'of the Order thou consent as Op-
pression, seek the fulfilment of thy destiny and
await thy cure.’
“ At that instant a group of masks, clamorous,
intoximted, reeling, and rushing as they reeled,
poured into the room, and separated me from the
mystic. I broke through them and sought him
everywhere, but in vain. All my researches the
next day were equally fruitless. Weeks were
consumed in the same pursuit; not a trace of
Mejnour could be discovered. Wenried with false
pleasures, roused by reproaches I had deserved,
reeoiling from Mejnour’s rophecy of the scene in
which I was to seek de 'verance, it occurred to
me, at last, that in the sober air of my native
country, and amid its orderly and vigorous pur-
suits, I might work out my own emanci ation
from the spectre. I left all whom I had fore
courted and clung to; I came hither. Amid mer-
cenary schesz and selfish speculations, I found
the same relief as in debauch and excess. The
Phantom was invisible, but these pursuits soon
became to me distasteful as the rest. Ever and
ever I felt that I was born for something nobler
than the greed of gain; that life may be made
equally Worthless, and the soul equally degraded
by the icy lust of Avarico, as by the noisier pas-
sions. A higher Ambition never ceased to tor-
ment me. But, but,” continued Glyndon, with a
ble to the signs of those about me; and, address- 1
ing myself only to the silent mask, who sat alone, ‘ whitening lip and a. visible shudder, “ at every
apart from the grou , I did not even observe that, , tempt to rise into loftier existence came. that lud-
one by one, the reve era slunk off, and that I and 1 eons form. It gloomed beside me at the easel.
the silent listener were left alone, until, pausing
from my heated and impetuous declamation, I said, ,
G

Before the volumes of Poet and Sage it stood
with its burning eyes in the stillness of night, and


I ' ZA‘S'ONI. 99
The physician lifted her in his arms. “My oriflamme. They shouted as they beheld the
Worst fears are confirmed," he said gravely; "the iitriot Nieot, the friend of Liberty and relent-
disease is epilepsy."fl lhas Ilébert, by the stranger's side, at the ease-
Tlie next night, at the some hour, Adela Glyn- ment.
don died. , “Ay, shout again !” cried the painter, “shout
for the brave Englishman who abjures his Pitta
'-——- and his Colmrgs to be a citizen of Liberty and
France 1"
CHAPTER VL : A thousand voices rent the air, and- the hymn
1 of the Marsellaise rose in majest again.
“ L1 101 ilonl le regne VOIH épom'ilntr- a son glnivo‘ “ We“, and if it be among these high hOPQ
21:“:0', 'e gm“ h""“““ i and this brave people that the phantom is to van-
0 h m inth curi!1 to come!” muttered Glyndon;
“ a,'o,‘o Etouartoomeagainl ' is c ought efeltagain' theelixirs khng'
thy han theiey iy lips. , Say that thou (lidst not , throu h his veins. par
desert me from he love of another; say it again, “ ou shalt be one of the Convention.with
it everl and I will pardon thee all the ‘ Paine and Chintz—I will manage it all for thee I"
rest _ cried Nieot, slapping him on the shoulder; “ and
“ So thou hast mourned for me ?” Parie—"
“Mourned! and thou wert cruel enough tof “Ah, if I could but see Paris l” cried'Fillide,
leave me gold; there it is—there—untouclied!" iin her joyous voice. Joyous! the whole’ time,
“Poor child of Nature! how, then, in thisithe whole town, the air—save where, unheard,
strange town of Marseilles, hast thou found bread " rose the cry of agony and the yell of murder-—
and shelter i” were joyl Sleep unhauntin in thy grave, cold
“Honestly, soul of my soul! honestly, but yet Adela! Joy! ‘oy! In the ubilee of Humanity
by the face thou dith once think so fair: tliinlzest ! all private grie should cease! Behold, the vast
then that now 1" 1 whirlpool draws thee to its stormy bosom. There,
‘4‘ Yea, Fillide, more fiiir than ever. But what ‘ the individual is not. All thingsare of the whole!
meanest thou 't" i Open thy gates fair Paris, for the stranger-citizen!
“ There is a painter here—a great man, one of ' Receive in our ranks, O meek Republicans, the
their great men at Paris—I know not what they ! new champion of liberty, of reason, of mankind! ‘
call them; but he rules over all here—life and “Mejuour 18 right: it was in virtue, in velour, in
death; and he haspaid me largely. but to sit for . glorious struggle for the human race, that the
rait. It is for a picture to be given to the 1 spectre was to shrink to her kindred dnrkness.”
Nation; for he paints only for glory. Think of And Nimt's shrill voice praised him, and lean
thy Fillidc‘s renown 1" And the girl's wild eyes i Robes ieri'e—“ Flambeau, eolonne, pierre angu-
sparkled; her vanity was roused “And he lairc (e l’cdificedelaRé iiin iie""—smiled omi-
would have married me if I would! divorced his ' nously on him from his loods ot eyes; and Fil-
wife to marry me! But I waited for thee, un-ylide clasped him with passionate arms to her
mfull" -tender breast. And at his tip-rising and down-
A knock at the door was heard—a man en- | sitting, at board and in bed, though he saw it not.
tel-ml ‘ the Nameless One guided him to the sea, whoa“
“Nieot 1" . ‘ iwaves were gore, with the daemon eyes.
“ Ali, Glyndon! hiim! welcome! What! thou 1
art twice iny rival! But Jean Nicot bears no' h A
malice. Virtue is my dream—my country, my

mistress. Serve my country, citizen, and I for-.
gch thee the preference of beauty. (To in: .' 5a B 0 0 K V I .
vira !”
But as the painter a e, it hymned, it rolled' SUPERSTITION DESERTING FAITH.
through the streets— e fiery song of the Mar-
sellaise! There was a crowd—a multitude—iii
people up, abroad with colours and arms, cntliu- ,
J‘iasm, and long; with song, With enthusiasm, With CHAPTER I.
ours Mid arms! And who could guess flmtI “Therefore the Genll were painted with a platter full
that martial IDOVOIIlQHt W88 071“. "M "f “at, bllt; of garlands and flower»v in one hand. and n whip in "11‘
massacre—Frenclmcn against Frenchmen? Fori 0!ll0f-"—ALIXA$DIE Ross, Mil-mg. Peelv
there are two parties in Marseilles-—iind am lei _
work for Jourdan Coupe-trite! But this, the ll< .Aooomlxq to the order “f 8‘? even.“ relate?! '“
. . . _ _ - _ this narrative, the departure of Lanom and Viola.
ghshman, Just arrived, a straw er to all fflLHOlln, fm th (, ' k m . '1. h ha
did not M yet comprehend. Ie comprehended m in ’12“ bee’ m “ “cl two PPY yc'm‘
new the an.
and the colours that lifted to the sun the glorious I do“ at MMNHIGK It must have been in .flhl
‘ _n - I 'l J r I ‘ I
he Le purple Franyazv deio'ut con ft Ifi‘mwrse Of the year 1791 when Viola fled fmm
‘tymna l" _ Na . .
_ . . .. - plea With her mysterious lover, and when
The dark brow “$110 “retamd “:“Ilidmu gray l lendon sought Mejnour in the fatal castle. It is
1" mated; he g from m n 0w on e 1 noiv towards the close of 1798, when our awry
died ' vi . , . .
'thmug that mar below’bcnemh thurwa ngiagain returns to Lanoni. The stars of Winter
' The most celebrated practitioner in Dublin minted
shone down on the Iagunes of Venice. The burn
to the editor it nor,“ of optical delusion precisely similar,
.lnltu circumstance: and Its physical cause. to ilic one ' lettrn du Ciloyen 2—. Paplm lncilits Uuuhts
hero narrated. chem Robcsplem. tom.rl.. p. 197. ' “


100
ZANONI.
' encel
of the Rialto was hushed; the last loitercrs had
deserted the place of St. Mark’s, and onl at dis-
tant intervals might be heard the ours of t re rapid
gondolns, hearing reveller or lover to his home.
But lights still flitted to and fro across the win-
dows of one of the Pallarlian palaces, whose shad‘
ow slept in the great canal; and within the palace
watched the twin Eumcnides, that never slept for
man—Fear and Pain.
“ I will make thee the richest man in all Vc-
nice if thou savest her.” .
“ Signor," said the leech, “ your gold cannot con-
trol death and the will of heaven; signor, unless
within the next hour their is some blessed change,
e e vour courage.”
Wilfrid, Zanoni ! man of mystery and might,
who hast walked amid the passions of the World,
with no' changes on thy brow, art thou tossed at
last upon the billows of tem stuous fearl Does
thy spirit reel to and fro? owest thou at last
the stre th and the majesty of Death 1
He fle , trembling, from the pale-faced man of
art; fled through stately hall and long-drawn cor-
ridor, and gained a remote chamber in the palace,
which other step than his was not permitted to
whine. Out with thy herbs and vessels. Break
m the enchanted elements, 0 silvery-azure
flame ! ¥£y comes he not, the Son of the Star-
beam l y is Adon-Ai deaf to thy solemn call 3
It comes not, the luminous and delightsome Pres-
Cabulist! are thy charms in vain? Has
thy throne vanished from the realms of space 7
Thou standest pale and trembling. Pale trem-
bler! not “mildlth thou look when the things of
gl gathere at th s 11. Never to the c
trgrrii’bler how the thiiigspif glory: the soulfhldd
not the herbs, nor the silvery-azure flame, nor the
chemistry of the Cabnla, commands the children
of the air; and thy soul, by Love and Death, is
made sceptrcless and discrowucdl
At length the flame quivers, the air grows cold
as the wind in channels. A thing not of earth is
present; a mistlike, formless thing. It cowers in
the distance—q; silent horror! it rises, it creeps, it
, nears thee—dark in its mantle of dusky haze ; and
under its veil it looks on thee with its livid, ma-
lignant eyes—the thing of malignant eyes!
“ Ha, young Chaldauin ! young in thy countless
ages; young as when, cold to lcnsure and to
beauty, thou stoodest on the oltFFire-tower, and
heardest the starry silence whis -r to thee the
last mystery that hafiles Den , fearest thou
Death at length! Is thy knowledge but a circle
that brings thee back whence thy wanderings be-
gan! Generations on generations have withered
since we two met ! Lo l thou beholdest me now 1"
“ But I behold thee without fearl
neath thine 0 as thousands have perished ; though,
wh e they urn, spring up the foul poisons of
the lumen heart, and to those whom thou camst
subject to thy will, thy presence glares in the
dreams of the raving maniac, or blackens the dun-
geon of despairing crime, thou art not my van-
quisher, but in slave l"
“ And as a 3 ve will I serve thee l Command
thy slave, 0 beautiful Chaldumn l Hark, the
wail of women! hark, the sharp shriek of thy be-
loved one! Death is in thy palace! Adun-Ai
comes not to thy call. Onl where no cloud of
the passion and the flesh ve' the e e of the Se~
rene Intelligence can the Sons of the Starbcam
glide to man. But I can aid thee; hark !" And
{Zanoni heard distinctly in his heart, even at that
"distance from the chamber, the voice of Viola
j calling in delirium on her beloved one.
; “ And I can save thee not l" exclaimed tho
Seer, passionately; “my love for thee has made
me piwerlcss l"
“Not powerless; I can gift thee with the art to
save her; I can place healing in thy hand l"
“ For both? child and mother—for both i"
“ Both l'I
A convulsion shook the limbs of the Seer, a
mighty struggle shook him as a child: the Hu-
{manity and the Hour conquered the repugnant
s irit.
P“I yield l Mother and child—save both l”
In the dark chamber la Violzg in the sharpest
ngonies of travail; life {deemed rending itself
away in the groans and cries that spoke of pain
in the midst of phrensy; and still, lll groan and
cry, she called on Zanoni, her beloved. The hy-
sician looked to the clock; on it beat, the cart
of Time, regularly andslowl ; Heart that never
sympnthized with Life, an never flagged for
,‘Dtlilll‘l. “The cries are fainter,” said the leedi;
“ in ten minutes more all will be past."
Fooll the minutes laugh at thee ; Nature, even
now, like a blue sk through a shattered temp}:
is smiling throng the tortured frame.
breathing grows more calm and hushed; the.
voice of delirium is dumb; a sweet dream has
come to Viola. Is it a dream, or is it the soul
that scesl She thinks suddenly that she is with
Zanoni, that her homing head is pillowed on his
bosom; she thinks, as he gazes on her, that his
eyes the tortures that prey upon her -, the
touch of his hand cools the fever on her brow; she
bears his voice in murmurs; it is a music from
which the fiends fly. Where is the mountain that
seemed to ress upon her temples? Like 9. var
pour, it re s away. In the frosts of the winter
night, she sees the sun laughing in luxurious hea-
ven; she hears the whisper of green leaves; the
beautiful world, valley and stream, and woodland,
lic before, and with a common voice speak to her :
“ We are not yet past for thee l" Fool of drugs
and formula, look to thy dial-plate l the hand has
moved on; the minutes are with Etemit ; the
soul thy sentence would have dism' , still
dwells on the shores of Time. She sleeps; the
fever abates; the convulsions are gone ; the living
rose blooms upon her cheek; the crisis is pastl
Husband, thy wife lives! lover, thy universe is
no solitude. Heart of time, beat on I A while, a
little while——joyl joyl joyl father, embrace thy
Though he Md l

CHAPTER II.
“ Trlstis Erlnnyl
Pnel'ullt lnfausll! sangutnolanta fares"
( vin.
AND they placed the child in the fnflier's arms!
As silent] he bent over it, tears—tears how hu-
' man l—fc l from his eyes like rain l And the
{ little one smiled through the tears that bathed its
‘\ checks l Ah, with what happy tears we welcome
the stranger into our sorrowmg world ! With
what tearswcdismiasthe strangerbeck


ZANON I.
101
to the angels! Unselfish joy, but how selfish is
the sorrow!
And now through the silent chamber a faint,
sweet voice is heard; the young mother‘s voice.
“I am here: I am by thy side i" murmured
Zanoni.
' The mother smiled, and clasped his hand, and
naked no more ; she was contented.
Viola recovered with a rapidity that startled
Hie physician; and the young stranger thrived as
if it. already loved the world to which it had de—
scended From that hour Zanoni seemed to live
in the infant‘s life; and in that life the souls of
mother and father met as in a new bond. Notlt
ing more beautiful than this infant had eye ever
dwelt upon. It was strange to the nurses that it
came not wailing to the light, but smiled to the
light as a thing familiar to it before. It never
uttered one cry of childish pain. In its very re
pose it seemed to be listening to some happy
voice within its heart bit seemed itself so happy.
In its eyes .ou would have thought intellect al-
ready kindled, though it had not yet found a lan-
guage. Already it seemed to recognise its pa-
rents; already it stretched forth its arms when
Ynnoni bent over the bed, in which it breathed
and bloomed—the budding flower! And from
that bed he was rarely absent: guzin upon it
with his serene, delighted eyes, his sou? seemed
to feed its own. At night and in utter darkness
he was still there; and Viola often heard him
murmuring over it as she lay in a half sleep. But
the murmur was in a language strange to her;
and sometimes, when she heard, she feared, and
vague, undefined superstitions came back to her;
the superstitions of earlier youth. A mother fears
everything, even the gods, for her new-bom. The
mortals shrieked aloud when of old they saw the
great Demeter seeking to make their child im-
maul!
~ But Zanoni, wrapt in the sublime designs that
animated the human love to which he was now
awakened, forgot all, even all he had forfeited
and incurred, in the love that blinded him.
But the dark, forlnless thing, though he nor
invoked nor saw it, ere t often round and round
him, and often sat by t m infant’s couch with its
hateful eyes.

Q K)
CHAPTER III.
" Fuscls tcilurem ampleclitur alis.“—Vrnan..
LINER Flt-OI ZANONI T0 HUMOUR.
MEJNOUR, Humanity with all its sorrows and
all its joys, is mine once more. Day by day lam
forging my own fetters. ' I live in other lives than
my own, and in them I have lost more than half
my empire. 'Not lifting them aloft, they drag
me by the strong bands of the affections to their
own earth. Exiled from the beings only visible
to the most abstract sense, the grim Enemy that
guards the Threshold has entangled me in its
web. Canst thou credit me when ltell thee that
I have accepted its gifts, and endure the forfeit!
Ages must ass ere the brighter beings can again
obey the s lrit that has bowed to the ghastly
one! An --

In this hope, then, Mejnour, I triumph still; I
yet have supreme power over this young life.
insensiny and inaudiny my soul speaks to its
own, and prepares it even now. Thou knowest
that for the pure and unsullied infant spirit, the
ordeal has no terror and no periL Thus uneeus-
ingly I nourish it with no unholy light; and ere
it yet be conscious of the gift, it will gain the
privileges it has been mine to attain: the child.
by slow and scarce seen degrees, will communi
cote its own attributes to the mother : and content
to see Youth forever radiant on the brows of the
two thst now suffice to fill up my whole infinity
of thought, shall I regret the ainer kin dom that
vanishes hourly from my grasp? ut _thou,
whose vision is still clear and serene, look into
the fur deeps shut from my gaze, and counsel
me, or forewaml I know that the gifts of the
Being whose race is so hostile to our own, are,
to the common seeker, fatal and perfidious as it-
self. And hence, when, at the outskirts of know-
ledge, which in earlier ages men called Magic,
they encountered the things of the hostile tribes,
they believed the apparitions to be fiends, and,
by fancied compacts, imagined the had signed
away their souls; as if man coul give for an
eternity that over which he has control but while
he lives! Dark, and shrouded forever from hu-
man sight, dwell the daemon rebels, in their im-
penetrable realm: in them is no breath of the
Divine One. In every human creature, the Di-
vine One breathes ; and He alone can judge his
own hereafter, and allot its new career and home.
Could man sell himself to the fiend, man could
prejudge himself, and arrogate the disposal of
etemityl But these creatures, modifications as
the are of matter, and some with more than the
ma ignity of man, may well seem, to fear and
unreasoning superstition, the representatives of
fiends. And from the darkest and mightiest of
them Ihave accepted a boon—the secret that
startled Death fibm thoseso dear to me. Can Inot
trust that enough of power yet remains to me to
bathe or to dawn. the Phantom, if it seek to pervert
the gift? Aswer me, Mejnour'. for in the dark-
ness that veils me I see only the pure eyes of
the new-bom ; I hear only the low beating of my
heart. Answer me, thou whose wisdom is with-
out love I.
unseen 'ro zanorn.
ll-nnn.
FALLEN One! I see before thee, Evil and
Death, and W0! Thou to have relinquished
Adon-Ai for the nameless Terror—the heavenly
stars for those fearful eyes! Thou at the last
to be the victim of the Larva of the dreary
Threshold, that, in thy first novitiate, fled, with-
ered and shrivelled, from thy kingly browl
When, at the rimar grades of initiation, the
pupil I took rom ee on the shores of the
changed Parthenope, fell senseless and cowering
before that Phantom-Darkness, I knew that his
spirit was not formed to front the worlds beyond;
for sir/is is the attraction of man to earthiest
earth; and while he fears he cannot soar. But
time, seest thou not that to love is but to fear!
seest. thou not that the power of which thou
boastest over the malignant one is already gone 1
1t awes, it masters thee; it will mock thee, and
betray. Lose not a moment; come to me. If


102
ZAN ON I.
there can yet be suficient sympathy between us,
through my eyes shalt thou see, and perhaps
guard against the perils that, shapeless yet, and
looming through the shadow, marshal themselves
around thee and those whom thy very love has
doomed. Come from all the ties of thy fond
humanity; they will but obscure thy vision I
Come forth from thy fears and hopes, thy desires
and passions. Come as alone Mind can be the
monarch and t.ch seer, shining through the home
it tenants—>11 pure, impressionless, sublime Intel-
ligence l _ '
CHAPTER. IV.
“ Plus que vous ne pensez cc moment est terrible."
LA HARP§, Its Comte de Warwick, not. 3, so. 5.
Pen. the first time since their union Zanoni and
Viola were separated : Zanoni went to Rome on
important business. “ It was,” he said, “ but for
a few days ;" and he went so suddenly that
there was little time either for surprise or sorrow.
But first parting is always more melancholy than
it need be ; it seems an interruption to the exist-
ence which love shares with love; it makes the
heart feel what a void life will be when the last
rting shall succeed, as succeed it must, the first.
at Viola had a new companion; she was enjoy-
ing that most delicious novelty which ever renews
the youth and dazzles the eyes of a woman. As
the mistress, the wife, she leans on another; from
another are reflected her happiness, her being,
as an orb that takes light from its sun. But
now, in turn, as the mother, she is raised from
dependence into power; it is another that leans
on he‘r—a star has sprung into space, to which
she herself has become the sun 1
A few days, but they will be sweet through
the sorrow! A few days, ever hour of which
seems an era to the infant, or whom bend
watchful the eyes and the heart. From its wak-
ing to its sheep, from its sleep to its waking, is a.
revolution in time. Every gesture to be noted,
every smile ‘to seem a new regress into the
world it has come to bless! Eanrmi has gone!
the last dash of the oar is lost, the last speck of
the gondola has vanished from the ocean-streets
of Venice! Her infant is slee ing in the cradle
at the mother’s feet; and she t links through her
tears What tales of the fairy-land, that spreads
far and wide, with a. thousand wonders, in that
narrow bed, she shall have to tell the father!
Smile on, weep on, young mother l Already the
fairest leaf in the wild volume is closed for thee!
and the invisible finger tums the page 1
By the bridge of the Rialto stood two Vene-
tians, ardent Republicans and Democrats, looking
to the Revolution of France as the earthquake
which must shatter their own expiring and vici<
ous constitution, and give equality of ranks and
rights to Venice. 1
“ Yes, Cottalto," said one, “ my correspondent
of Paris has promised to elude all obstacles and
baflle all danger. He will arrange with us the
hour of revnlt. when the legions of France shall
be within hearing of our guns. One day in this
Week, at this hour. he is to meet me here. This
is but the fourth day." '

He had scarce said these words before a man,v
wrapped in his requelot're, emerging from one of
the narrow streets to the left, halted opposite the
pair, and eying them for a few moments with an
earnest scrutiny, whispered, “ Solid 1"
“Et fraternité," answered the s ker.
"' You, then, are the brave Dando 0, with whom
the Comité deputed me to correspondl And this
citizen "
“Is Cottalto, whom my letters have so ofien
mentioned.“
“ Health and brotherhood to him ! I have much
to impart to you both. I will meet you at night,
Dandolo. But in the streets we may be ob-
served.”
“And I dare not appoint my own house; ty-
ranny makes 'es of our very walls. But the
place herein designated is secure ;" and he slipped
an address into the hand of his corres ndent.
“To-night, then, at nine! Meanw rile, I have
other business.” The man paused, his colour
changed, and it was with an eager and passionate
voice that he resumed, .
“ Your last letter mentioned this 'ealthy and
mysterious visitor, this Zanoni. He is still at
Venice 1”
“ I heard that he had left this morning; but his
wife is still here.”
“ His wife! that is well i"
“ What know you of himi Think you that he
would join us? His wealth would be "
“ His house, his address, quick 1" interrupted
the man.
“ The Palazzo di , on the Grand Canal.”
“ I thank you, at nine we meet."
“ The man hurried on through the street from
which he had emerged; and, easing by the house
in which he had taken n ,his edging, (he had ar-
rived at Venice the nig t before,) a. woman who
stood by the door caught his arm.
“ Mmm'rur,” she said, in French, “ I have been
watching for your return. Do you understand
the? I will brave all, risk all, to go back with
you to France; to stand, through life or in death,
y my husband‘s side i”
“ Citoyenm, I promised your husband that, if
such our choice, I would hamrd my own safety
to ai it. But, think again! Your husband is
one of the faction which Robespierre’s eyes have
already marked: he cannot fiy. All France is
become a prisoner to the ‘suspect.’ You do but
endanger yourself by return. Frankly, eitoyenne,
the fate you would share may be the guillotine
I speak as you know by his letter) as your hus-
band e me.” ‘
“lfomivrur, I will return with you," said the
woman, with a smile upon her pale face.
“ And yet you deserted our husband in the
fair sunshine of the Revolution, to return to him
amid its storms and thunder I" said the man, in I
tone half of Wonder, half rebuke.
"' Because my father’s days were doomed; be-
cause he had no safety but in flight to a foreign
land; because he was old and .penniless, and had
none but me to work for him; because my bus-
band was not then in danger, and m father was;
he is dead—dead! My husband is in danger




" l know not if the nuthor of the orlzimil MSSJlesigns,
under those names, to intrnduco the real Cottaltn and the
true Dnndolo. who, in 1797, tlistlngulshed themselves by
thelr nyrn lhy with. the French, and their democratic
ardour.— .


ZANONI. 103
now. The daughter‘s duties are no more; the ' “Listen!” interrupted Glyndon, laying his hand
wife's return I" u n her arm, and its touch was as cold as death!
“Be it so, ciloyenne; on the third night I'de- " ' ten! You have heard of the old stories of
Before then you may retract your choice.” men who have leagued themselves with devils for
“ Never 1" the attainment of preternatural wers. Those
A dark smile paused over the man's face. stories are not fables. Such men 've. Their de—
, “ O guillotine !" he said, “ how many virtues light is to the unhallowed circle of wretch-
lmst thou brought to light! Well may they call 0s like themselves. If their proselytes fail in the
thee ‘ A Holy Mother,‘ 0 gory guillotine l” ordeal, the daemon seizes them, even in this life,
He {kissed on, muttering to himself, hailed a as it hath seized me! if they succeed, wo, yea, a
gondola, and was soon amid the crowded waters more lasting wo! There is another life, where
of the Grand Canal. no spells um charm the Evil One, or allay the
torture. I have come from a. scene where blood
flows in rivers; where death stands by the side
of the bravest and the highest,.and the one man—

CHAPTER V. ' arch is the guillotine; but all the mortal perils
"Ce qua y on with which men can be beset, are nothing to the
"Est plus triste pent-ems 01. plus 0 reux encore," dreariness of a chamber where the horror
14A HAIU‘K. La Gnnplc do Warwick, act. v., so. 1. passes death moves and stirs 1n
Tm: casement stood open, and Viola. was seated It was then that G! don, with a cold and dis-
by it. . Beneath sparkled the broad waters in the tinct precision, detailedu as he'had done to Adela,
cold but cloudless sunlight; and to that fair form, the initiation through which he had gone. He
that half-averted face, turned the eyes of many described, in words that froze the blood of his lis-
a gallant cavalier, as their gondolas glided by. tener, the appearance of that formless phantom,
But at last, in the centre of the canal, one of with the eyes that seared the brain and congealed
these dark vessels halted motionless, as a man the marrow of those who beheld. Once seen, it
fixed lliSfiil-ZG from its lattice u )0“ that stater was never to be exercised. It came at its own
palace. e gave the word to t rowers—the will, prompting black thoughts, whis ering strange
vessel approached the nuirgc. The stranger quit- temptations. Only in scenes-of tur ulent excites
ted the gondola; he passed up the broad stairs; ment was it absent! Solitude, serenity, the strug-
he entered the. palace' .Weep on! smile no more, gling desires after (peace and virtue, these were
young mother! the hist‘page is turned ! the elements it love to haunt! Bewildered, tcr- '
An attendant entere the room, and gave to ror-stricken, the wild account confirmed b the
Viola a card, with these words in En lish : “ Vio- dim impressions that never, in the depth an con-
la, I must see you! Clarence Glyn on.” fidence of affection, had been closely examined,
Oh, yes, how gladly would Viola see him! how but rather banished as soon as felt, that the life
gladly speaktohim of her happiness—of Zunoui! and attributes of Zanoni were not like those of
how gladly show to him her child! Poor Cla- mortals; impressions which her own love had
rence! she had forgotten him till now, as she had made her hitherto censure as sus icions that
all the fever of her earlier life—its drmuns, its wronged, and which,,thus mitigated, perhaps
vanities, its poor excitement, the lamps of the * oulv served to rivet the tiiscinated chains in which
gaudy theatre, the applause of the nois crowd. he bound her heart and senses, but which now, as
He entered. She started to behol him, .so Glyndon’s awful narrative filled her with conta-
clmnged were his gloomy brow, his resolute, care- gious dread, half unbound the very spells they
worn features, from the graceful fonu and care- 'had woven before, Viola started vup in fear—not
less coiuitenance of ,the artist-lover. His dress, ' for Iwrsclf—and clas d her child in her arms!
though not mean, was rude, neglected, and disor “ Unhappiest one " cried Glyndon, shuddering,
dered. A wild, desperate, half~savuge air, had,“ha.st thou indeed given birth to-a victim thou
supplanted that higenuous mien—ditfident in its I canst not save! Refuse it sustenance; let it look
grace, earnest in its diflidence—which had once , to thee in vain for food! In the grave, at least,
characterized the young worshipper of Art, the there are repose and peace !”


dreaming As irnnt after some starrier lore. Then there came back to Viola's mind the re-
“ Is it you " she said, at last. “ Poor Clarence, membrunce of Zanoni’s nightlong watches by that
‘how changed !” cradle, and the fear which even then had crept
“ Changed !" he said, abruptly, as he placed over her as she heard his murmured, half-dianted
himself by her side. “ And whom am I to thank words; and, as the child looked at her with its
but the fiends, the sorcerers, who have seized upon clear, steadfast eye, in the strange intelligence of
thy existence, as upon mine? Viola, hear me. that look, there wnssomething that only confirm-
A few weeks since, the news reached me that you ed her awe. So there both Mother and Fuel
were in Venice. Under other pretences, and warmer stood in silence, the sun smiling upon them
through innumerable dangers, I have come hither, through the easement, and dark, by the cradle,
risking 'liberty, perhaps life, if my name and en,- though they saw it not, sat the motionless veiled
reer are known in Venice, to warn and save you. Thing!
Changed, you called me! changed without; buti But by degrees better, and juster, and more
what is that to file ravages within! Be warned, grateful memories of the past returned to the
be warned in time !“ youn mother. The features of the infant, as she
The voice of Glyndon, sounding hollow and se- i gaze , took the aspect of the absent father. A
pgzlchflfl1 alarmed Viola even more than his words. voice seemed to break from those rosy UPS, and
ale, haggard, emaciated, he seemed almost as say, mournfully, “I speak to thee in thy child.
one risen from the dead to appal and awe her. In return for all my love for thee and thine, dost
" What," she said, at last, in a faltering voice, thou distrust me at the first sentence of a maniac
“ what wild words do you utter! Can you —“ , who accuses l"

l


104
ZANONI.
Her breast heaved, her stature rose, her eyes hitherto made up her life, she formed the resolu-
ahone with a serene and holy light.
tion natural to her land and creed: she sent for
“ Go, poor victim of thine own delusions,” she the priest who had habitually attended her at
said to Glyndon; ‘-‘I Would not believe mine
own senses if they accused its father! And what
Venice, and to_him she confessed, with passionate
sobs and intense terror, the doubts that had
ltnowest thou of Zanoni? What relation havejbroken upon her. The good father—a Worthy
Mejnour and the grisly spectres he invoked, with ,l and pious man, with little education and less
the radiant image With which thou wouldst con- sense, one who held (as many of the lower Ita-
nect them 7”
“ Thou wilt learn too soon," replied Gl ndon,
gloolnily. “ And the very phantom that aunts
me whis rs, with its bloodless lips, that its hor-
rors await both thine and thee! Itakc not th
decision yet; before I leave Venice we shall
meet again." '-
He said, and depafled.

CHAPTER _VI.
" anI eat l'egaremet on ton nme se llvre 7“
LA HARPI. L: (“maple rlc Warwick, nct. iv. sc. iv.
Aus, Zanoni! the aspirer, the dark~bright
survivor of ages and the daughter of a day could
endure? Didst thou not foresee that, until the

vlians do to this day) even a poet to be a sort of
sorcerer—seemed to shut the gates of hope upon
her heart. His remonstraaces were urgent, for
his horror was unfcigned. He joined with Glyn-
don in imploring her to fly if she felt the smallest
doubt that her husbands pursuits were of the
,nature which the Roman Church had benevo-
|lently burned so many scholars for adopting.
And even the little that'Viola could communicate
seemed to the ignorant ascetic irrefragable proof
of sorcery and witchcraft; he had, indeed, previ-
ously heard some of the strange rumours which
ifollowed the path of Zanoni, and was therefore
4 prepared to believe the worst; the worthy Bar-
itoloméo would have made no bones of sending
l Watt to the stake, had he heard him speak of
one! didst thou think that the bond between the i the steam-enginel
But Viola, as untutored as
himself, was terrified by his rough and vehement
eloquence; ' terrified, for by that enetration
ordeal was past, there could be no equality be- which Catholic priests, however dul , generally
tween thy wisdom and her love! Art thou ab acquire in their vast ex *rience of the human
sent now, seeking, amid thy solemn secrets, the heart hourly exposed to tieir probe, Bartolomeo
solemn safeguards for child and mother, and for- i spoke less of danger to herself than to her ‘chiltl
ettest thou that the phantom that served thee “Sorcerers,” said he, “have ever sought the most
th power over its own gifts; over the lives it to decoy and seduce the souls of the young—nay,
taught thee to rescue from the grave? Dost thou | the infant ;" and therewith he entered into a long
not know that Fear and Distrust, once sown in {catalogue of legendar fables, which he quoted
the heart of Love, spring up from the seed into as historical facts: a l, at which an Englishwo-
a forest that excludes the stars! Dark-bright } man would have smiled, appalled the tender but
one! the hateful eyes glare beside the mother so rstitious Neapolitan; and when the priest
and the childl le t her, with solemn rebukes and grave accusa-
All that day Viola was distracted by a thou~ ‘ tions of a derelict-ion of her duties to her child if
sand thoughts and terrors, which fied as she ex- lfihe hesitated to fly with it from an abode pol-
amined them, to settle back the darklier. She l luted by the darker powers and unhallowcd arts,
remembered that, as she had once said to' Glyn- l Viola, still clinging to the image of Zanoni, sunk
don, her very childhood had been ha'unted with"
strange forebtxlings that she was ordained for
some pretematural doom. She remembered that,
as she lltd told him this, sitting by the seas that
alumbered in the arms of the bay of Naples, he
too had acknowledged the same forebodings, and
a mysterious sympathy had appeared to unite
their fates. She remembered. above all, that,
comparing their entangled thoughts, both had
then said that with the first sight of Zanoni the
foreboding, the instinct, had spoken to their hearts
more audibly than before, whispering that “ with
nut mm connected the secret of the unconjec-
tured life."
And now, when Glyndon and Viola met again,
the haunting fears of childhood, thus referred to,
woke from their enchanted sleep. With Glyn-
don's tenor she felt a sympathy, against which

into a passive lethargy, which held her very rea-
son In suspense.
The hours ; night came on; the house
was hushed; and Viola, slowly awakened from
the numbness and torpor which had usurped her
faculties, tossed to and fro on her couch, restles
and perturbed. The stillness became intolera~
ble; yet more intolerable the sound that alone
broke it, the voice of the clock, knelling moment
after moment to its grave. The Moments, at last,
seemed themselves to find voice, to‘ gain shape.
She thought she beheld them s ringing, wan and
fairy-like, from the womb of arkness; and ere
the fell again, extinguished, into that womb,
their grave, their low, small voices murmured,
“ Woman! we report to eternity all that is done
in time! What shall we report of thee, Oguard-
ian of a new-born soul 9" She became sensible
her reason and ln-r love struggled in vain. And l that her fancies had brought a sort of panial de-
atill, when she turned her looks upon her child, lirium, that she was in a state between sleep
it watched her with that steady, earnest eye, and , and waking, when suddenly one .thought became
its lips moved as if it sought to speak to her; ‘ more predominant than the rest. The chamber
but no sound came. The infant refused to sleep. 1 which, in that and every house they had inhabit-
Whenever she gazed upon its face, still those‘ed, even that in the Greek isle, Zanoni had set
wakeful, watchful eyes! and in their earnestness ’ apart to a solitude on which none might intrude,
there spoke something of pain, of upbraiding, of the threshold of which even Violn's step was for-
accusation. 'l'hey chilled her as she Ooked. Un- bid to cross, and never, hitherto, in that sweet
able to endure, of herself, this sudden and com- ‘ repose. of confidence which belongs to nomented
plete revulsion of all the feehugs which had ,love, she even felt the curious desire to disobey ;


ZANONI.
105
now, that chamber drew her towards it. Per-
haps, III-Ire, might be found a somewhat to solve
the riddle, to dispel or confirm the doubt: that
thought grew and deepened in its intenscncss;
it fastened on her as with a it] able and irre-
sistible grasp; it seemed to raise er limbs with-
out her will.
And now, through the chamber, along the gal-
leries thou glidest, O lovely shapcl sleepwalking,
yet awake. The moon shines on then as thou
glidest by casement after casement, white-robed
and wanderingr spiritl thine arms crossed u
th bosom, thine eyes fixed and open, wit a
ca , unfearing awe. , Mother! it is thy child
that leads thee on. The fair Moments go be-
fore thee. 'l‘hou hearest still I c clock-knell toll-
ing them to their graves behind. On, gliding on,
thou hast gained the door; no lock bars thee, no
magic spell drives thee back. Daughter of the
dust, thou standest alone with Night in the cham-
ber where, pale and numbcrless, the hosts of
space have gathered round the sear!

CHAPTER VIL
" Des Erdcnlcbcm
Bchweres Traumblld slnkl. uml sinkt, and sinki.“
Dan mun. us» in: Luna's.
Sm: stood within the chamber, and gazed
around her; no signs by which an Inquisitor of
old could have detected the Scholar of the Black
Art were visible. No crucibles and caldrons, no
brass-bound volumes and ciphered girdles, no
skulls and crossbonea Quietly streamed the
'broad moonlight through the desolate chamber,
with its bare white walls. A few bunches of
withered herbs, a fcw antique vessels of bronze,
placed carelessly on a ouden form, were all
which that curious gaze could identify with the
pursuits of the absent owner. The magic, if it
existed, dwelt in the artificer; and the materials,
to other bands, were but herbs and bronze. So
is it ever with thy works and wonders, O Genius
—Seeker of the Starsl Words themselves are
the common propert of all men; yet, from
words themselves, 'l'hou, Architect of Immortal-
ities, pilest. up temples that shall outlive the
Pyramids, and the very leaf of the Papyrus be
comes a bhinar, statel with toWers, round which
the Deluge of Ages s iall run.- in vain 1
But in that solitude hasthe Presence that there
had invoked its wonders left no enchantmcnt of
its ownl It seemed so; for,as Viola stood in
the chamber, she became sensible that some mys-
terious change was at work within herself Hcr
blood coursed rapidly, and with a sensation of de-
light, through her veins : she felt as if chains were
falling from her limbs, an if cloud after cloud was
rolling from her gaze. All the confused thoughts
which had moved through her trance settled and
centred themselves in one intense desire to see
the Absent One, to be with him. The mounds
that make up space and air seemed charged with
a spiritual attraction ; to become a medium
through which her spirit could from its clay,
and confer with the spirit to w ich the matters-
ble desire compelled it. A faintness seized her;
she mttcred to the seat on which the Vessels and
herbs were placed. and, as she bent down, she saw
in one of the vessels a small vase of crystal. By

a mechanical and involuntary impulse her hand
seized the vase; she opened it, and the volatile
essence it contained sparkled up, and spread
through the room a powerful and delicious fra-
grance. She inhaled the odour, shc lavcd her
temples with the liquid, and suddenly her life
seemed to spring up from the previous t‘aintncss;
to spring, to soar, to float, to dilate, upon the
wings of a. bird.
The room vanished fromher eyes. Away, away,
over lands, and sorts, and space, on the rushing de—
n sire flies tho disprisoned mindl
Upon a stratum, not of this world, stood the
world-born shapes of the sons of Science; upon
an embryo world—upon a crude, wan, attenu-
ated mass of matter, one of the Nebula, which the
suns of the myriad systems throw off, as they roll
round the Creator’s throne? to become themselves
new worlds of symmetry and glory ; planets and
suns, that forever and forever shall in their turn
multiply their shining race, and be the fathers of
suns and planets yet to come.
There, in that enormous solitude of an infant
world, which thousands and thousands of cars
can alone ripen into form, the irit of Vio he-
held the shape of Zanoni, or rat or, the likeness,
the simulacrum, the Luna of his sha , not
its human and corporeal substance, as if, like
hers, the Intelligence was parted from the Clay;
and as the arm, while it revolves and glows;
had cast. off into remotcst space that Nebula!
image of itselfi; so the thing of earth, in the action
of its more luminous and enduring being, had
throwndts likeness into that new-bom stranger of
the heavens. There stood the lantom—n phan-
tom-Mejnour by its side. In t e gigantic chaos
around raved and struggled the kindling elements
—water and fire, darkness and light, at war—va-
ur and cloud hardening into mountains, and the
reath of Life moving like a steadfast splendour
overall! .
As the dreamer looked and shivcrcd, she be-
hold that even there the two phantoms of humani-
t were not alone. Dim monster-forms, that that
'sordered chaos alone could engender, the first
reptile colossal race that wreathe and crawl
through the earliest stmt-um of a world labouring
into life, coiled in the oozing matter or hovered
through the meteorous vapours. But these the
two seekers seemed to heed not; their gaze was
fixed intent upon an object in the farthest a
With the eyes of the spirit, Viola followed theirs;
with a terror far greater than the chaos and its
hideous inlmbitants, produced, she beheld a
' “ Astronomy instructs us that. in the original condi-
tion of the solar system, the sun was the nuclcus of! no-
hulomy orllnninouq mass. which revolved on its axis. and
extended firheyoml ilieorhitsofall the planets. the planets
as yet having no exislcnce. its Iempcrature gradually di-
lninishcd, and, becoming contracted by coollnz. the row
tion increased in rapidity. and zones of nebuloslly were
sllCCi‘f‘s'iVely thrown all“. in consequence of the centrifugal
force overpowering the neutral attraction. The condensa-
tion of these separate masses constituted the planets
and salclliles. But this view of the conversion of [3500"
matter into planetar'bodies is not limited to our own sys-
lem; it cxtend< lo the formation ofthe lnnnmcrallle sun:
and worlds which are lll~trihulcd throughout the uni-
verse. The sublime discoveries of modern astronomer!
have shown that eve part of the realms of some
abounds in large “pans om of attenuated mutter termed
nebula. which are irregularly reflective oflighl. ol'vnrionl
figures. and In different suites of condensation, from the:
of u dlfl‘uscd luminous mass m suns and planets like MI
own."—l"l'0m Mnnlell'l eloquent and delightful work,
entitled, “ The Wonders of Geology," vol. 1.. p. 92.


106
ZANONI.
shadowy likeness of the very room in which her
firm yet dwelt, its white walls, the moonshine
sleeping on its floor, its open casement, with the
iniet roofs and domes'of Venice looming over
e sea that sighed below; and in that room the
ghost-like image of herself 1 This double phan-
tom—here herself a antern—gazing there upon
a phantom-self, had in it a horror which no words
can tell, no lengfli of life forego.
But presently she saw this image of herself
rise slowly, leave the room with its noiseless feet
--it passes the corridor—it kneels by a cradle!
Hmven of Heaverr! she beholds her child! still
with its wondrous child-like beauty, and its silent,
wakeful eyes But beside that cradle there sits,
coweringv a mantled shadowy form—the more
fearful and ghastly from its indistinct and unsub-
stantial gloom.
open as the scene of a theatre. A grim dunfiso—n
—streets through which or shadowy crow -
wrath and hatred, and did aspect of demons in
their ghastly visagcs—a place of death—a mur-
derous instrument—a shamble-house of human
flesh—herself—her child—all, all, ra id phantas-
magoria, chased each other. Sudde y the phan-
tom-Zanoni turned -, it seemed to perceive herself
.-—her second-self. It sprang towards her; her
spirit could hear no more. She shrieked, she
woke I She found that in truth she had left' that
dismal chamber; the cradle was before her—the
child! all, all as that trance had seen it, and, van-
ishing into air, even that dark f0 ess Thing!
“My child! my child! thy mo er shall save
thee yet I” I

CHAPTER VIII.
“ Qui ? Toi ! m'uhnndonner, oli vas tn? non ! demcure,
Demenre 1"
La "as". La Came dz Warwick, act 4, le. 5.
LETTER FROM VIOLA T0 ZANONI.
“Ir hascome tothisl Iam the firstto part!
I, the unfaithful one, bid thee fhrewell forever.—
When thine eyes fall upon this writing, thou wilt
know me as one of the dead. For thou that Wort,
and still art my life, I am lost to thee l 0 lover!
O husband ! 0 still worship and adored! if
thou hast ever loved me, if u canal: still pit ,
seek not to discover the steps that fly thee. fi'
thy charms can detect and track me, spare me,
our child! Zanoni, Iwill rear it to love
. cc, to call thee father! Zanoni, its young li
shall pray for thee ! Ah, spare thy child, for in-
fants are the saints of earth, and their meditations
may be heard on high 1 Shall I tell thee why I
part? No; thou, the wisely terrible, canst di-
vine what the hand trembles to record; and while
I shudder at thy power—while it is thy power I
fly (our child upon my bosom)—-it comforts me
still to think that thy power can read the heart!
Thou knowest that it is the faithful mother that
writes to thee; it is not the' faithlesswife! Is
there sin in thy knowledge, Zanoni! Sin must
have sorrow; and it were sweetF-oh, how sweet,
to be thy comforter. ' But the child, the infant, the
soul that looks to mine for its shield! M 'cian,
I wrest from thee that soul! Pardon, par on, if {
my words wrong thee. See, I fall on my knees
to write the rest! i
' “ Why did I not recoil before from thy myste- I

The walls of that room seems to s
rious lore ? why did the very strangeness of thine
unearthly life only fascinate me with a delightful
fear i Because if thou wert sorcerer or angel-
demon, there was no peril to other but myself;
and none to me, for my love was my heavenliest
part; and my ignorance in all things, except the
art to love thee, re )elled every thought that was
not bright and glorious as thine image to my eyes.
But now there is another! Look, why does it
watch me thus? why that never-sleeping, earnest,
rebuking gaze? Have thy rolls encompassed it
ah'endyl Hast thou hlarke it, cruel one, for the
terrors of thine unutterable art! Do not madden
me, do not madden me ! unbind the spell!
“ Hark l the cars without! The come, they
come, to hear me from thee! I 100 round, and
methinks that I see thee everywhere. Thou
est to me from every shadow, from every
star. There b the casement thy li last pressed
mine; there, there by that thresho d didst thou
turn again, and thy smile seemed so trustingly to
mnfide in me! Zanoni—husband! I will stay!
Icannot part from thee! No, no! Iwillgoto
the room where th dear voice, with its gentle
music, assuaged e s of travail ! where,
heard through the thri ing darkness, it first whis-
pered to my ear, ‘ Viola, thou art a mother!’ A
mother! yes, I rise from my knees—I am a mo-
ther! They mine! I am firm; farewell !"
Yes; thus suddenly, thus cruelly, whether in
the delirium of blind and unreasoning superstitious
or in the resolve of that conviction which springs
from duty, the being for whom he had resigned
so much of empire and of glory forsook Zanoni.
Thisdesertion, never foreseen, never anticipated,
was yet but the constant fate that attends those
who lace Mind beyond the earth, and yet treasure
the llimrt within it. Ignorance everlastingly shall
recoil from knowledge. But never yet, from
nobler and purer motives of self-sacrifice1 did hu-
man love link itself to another, than did the for-
saking wife now abandon the absent. For rightly
had she said that it was not the faithlcss wife, it
was the faithful mother that fled from all in which
her earthly ha piness was centred.
As long as e passion and fervour that impelled
the act- anirnated her with false fever, she chisped
her infant to her breast, and was consoled—re-
signed Bnt what bitter doubt of her own con
duct, what icy pang of remorse shot through her
heart, when as the rested for a few hours on the
road to Leghom, e heard the woman who ac-
companied herself and Glyndon pray for safety
to reach her husband‘s side, and strength to share
the perils that would meet her there! Terrible
contrast to her own desertion 1 She shrunk into
the darkness of her own heart, and then no voice
from within consoled her.
CHAPTER IX.
“Zuknnft hast du mir gegsben.
h du nahmst den Augcnhlick."
Ksssas'naa.
“Memoirs, behold thy work! Out, out upon
our little vanities of wisdom! out upon our ages
of lore and life! To save her from Peril, I left
her presence, and the Peril has seized her in its
gras ! 4
“abide not thy wisdom, but thy paaionl!


ZANONI.
107
Abandon thine idle hope of the love of woman.
See, for those who would unite the lofty with the
lowly, the inevitable curse; thy very nature un-
comprehended, thy sacrifices unguessed. The
lowly one views but in the lofty a necromancer
or a fiend. Titan, canst thou weep i"
“I know it now; I see it all! It was her
irit that stood beside our own, and escaped my
airy clasp l Oh, strong desire of motherhood and
nature! unveiling all our secrets, piercing space,
and traversing worlds! Mejnour, what awful
learning lies hid in the ignorance of the heart that
loves l”
“ The heart,” answered the Mystic, coldly; “ ay,
for five thousand years I have ransacked e mys-
teries of creation; but I have not yet discovered
all the wonders in the heart of the simplest boor !"
“ Yet our solemnity deceived us not ;.the pro-
ct-shadows, dark with terror and red with
lood, still foretold that, even in the dungeon, and
before the deathman, 1—] had the power to save
them both !”
“ But at some unconjectured and most fatal sa~
orifice to thyself.”
" To myself! I sage, there is no self in love!
I go. Nay, alone fl want thee not. I want now
no other guide but the human instincts of afi'ec-
tion. No awe so dark, no solitude so vast, as to
mean! her. Though mine art fail me, though the
stars heed me not, though space, with its solemn
myriads, is again to me but the azure void, I re-
turn but to love, and youth, and hope! when have
they ever failed to triumph and to save l"

NWi,_
B 0 0 K V I I.
THE REIGN or TERROR.

CHAPTER I.
..*'Qul sulsflc. m0! qu'on accuse? Un enclave dc la.
libertc, nn martyr vlvnnt do In Republiquc.“-—Discocxs
DI Ronlsmlrnnl, B 'I‘hernidor. \
Ir roars—the river of hell, whose first outbreak
was chanted as the gush of a. channel to Ely-
sium. How burst into blossoming hopes l'air hearts
that had nourished themwlves on the diamond
dews of the rosy dawn, when Liberty came from
the dark ocean, and the mm of decrepit Thral-
dorn—Aurora from the bed of Tithon! Hopesl
ye have ripened into fruit, and the fruit is gore
and ashes! Beautiful Roland. eloquent Verg-
niaud, visionary Condorcet, high-hearted Male-
nherbesl wits, hilosophers, statesmen, patriots,
dreamers! beho d the millennium for which ye
dared and laboured l
I invoke the hosts! Saturn hath devoured his
children,it and ‘vos alone, in his true name of
Molochl .
It is the Reign of Terror, with Robespierre the
king. The struggles between the hon and the
lion are past; the. boa has consumed the lion, and
is heavy with the gorge; Danton has fallen, and
Camille Desmoulins. Danton had said before his
death, “ The poltroon Robespierre, I alone could
have saved him." From that hour, indeed, the

blood of the dead giant clouded the craft of “ Max-
imilien the Incorruptible," as at last, amid the din
of the roused Convention, it choked his voice?
If, after that last sacrifice, essential, rhaps, to
his safety, Robes ierre had proclaimege the close
of the Reign of error, and acted u n the mercy
which Danton had begun to ’reach, 10 might have
lived and died a monarch. ut the risons con-
tinued to reek; the glaivc to fall; and liobespierre
perceived n00 that his mobs were glutted to sa-
tiety with death, and the strongest excitement in
chief could give would be a return from devils into
men.
We are transported to a room in the house of
Citizen Dupleix, the mmuisicr, in the month of
July, 1794; or in the calendar of the Revolu-
tionists it was the Thermidor of the year 11 of
the Republic, one and indivisible ! Though the
room was small, it was furnished and decorated
with a minute and careful effort at elegance and
refinement. It seemed, indeed. the desire of the
owner to avoid at once what was mean and rude,
and what was luxurious and voluptuous. It was
a trim, orderly, precise grace that sha ed the
classic chairs, arranged the ample draperies, sunk
the fmnieless min'ors into the wall, )laccd bust.
and bronze on their pedestals, lulll filled up the
niches here and there with well-bound books, filed
regularly in their a pointed ranks. An observer
would have said, “This man wishes to impl to
you, I am not rich; I am not ostentatious; Iyam
not luxurious; I am no indolent Sybaritc, with
couches of down and pictures that provoke the
sense; I am no haughty noble with spacious halls,
and galleries that awe the echo. But so much
the greater is my merit if I disdain these excesses
of the ease or the pride, since I love the elegant,
and have a taste ! Others may be simple and
honest, from the very coarseness of their habits;
if I, with so much refinement and delicy, am sim-
ple and honest; reflect, and admire mo !"
On the walls of this chamber lnmg many por-
. traits; most of them represented but one face;
on the formal pedestals were grouped many busts;
most of them sculptured but one head. In that
small chamber Egotism sat supreme, and made
the Arts its looking-glasses. Erect in a chair, be-
fore a large table spread with letters, sat the ori-
ginal of bust and canvas, the owner of the apart-
ment. He was alone, yet he sat erect, formal,
stifi‘, precise, as if in his very home he was not at'
ease. His dress was in harmony with his posture
and his chamber; it afl'ccted a neatness of its own,
foreign both to the sumptuous fashions of the de-
posed nobles, and the filthy mggednenx of the
ml]>'—t\llott42.i. Frizzled and coifl'é, not a hair was
out of order, not a speck lodged on the sleek sur-
face of the blue root, not a. wrinkle crumpled the
snowy vest, with its under relief of delicate pink.
At the first glance, you might have seen in that
face nothing but the ill-anoured features of a.
sickly countermnce~ At a second glance you would
have perceived that it had a power, a character of
its own. The forehead, though low and com-
pressed, Was not without that appearance of
thought and intelligence which, it may be ob-
served, that breadth between the eyebrows almost
invariably gives; the lips were firm and tigth
' Ln Revolution as! comma Somme, cllo devorem tons
rel enfans.—Vnnsuwn.
' “ he sang do Danton i'mnnfl'e," said Gnrnlor do I'Aube,
when, on the fatal 91h of 'l‘hcnnldnr, Rnhuspierre gasped ’
feebly l‘orth—“ Pour In domlcre fols. Prcndenldes Anu- .
sins, je lo dumandc l;\ parole."


108
ZANONI.
drawn together, yet ever and man they trembled, | vourite author, (whom, in his orations, he labour-
and writhed restlessly.
The eyes, sullen and ed hard to imitate.) the second visitor was wheeled
loomy, were at icrcing, and full of a concen- into the room in a chair. This man was also in
ted vigour, at 'd not seem supported by the
thin, feeble frame, or the green hvidness of the
lmes which told of anxiety and disease.
Such was ‘Maximilien Robespierre—such the
chamber over the menuin'er‘x shop, whence is-
sued the edicts that launched ar lies on their
career of glory, and ordained an ar tficial conduit
to carry otf the blood that deluged the metro lis
of the most martial people in the globe! uch
was the man who had resigned a judicial appoint-
ment (the early object of his ambition.) rather
than violate hislphilanlhropical principles by sub-
scribing to the eath of a single fellow-creature!
Such was the virgin enemy to capital punish-
ments—and such, Butcher~Dictator now, was the
man whose pure and rigid manners, whose incor-
ruptiblc honesty, whose hatred of the. excesses
that tempt to love and wine, would, had he died
five years earlier, have left him the model for
rudent fathers and careful citizens to place be-
ore their sons. Such was the man who seemed
to have no vice, till circumstance—that hot-bed—
brought forth the two—Cownrdice and Envy.
To one of these sources is to be traced every
murder that master-fiend cmmnitted. _ His cow-
ardice was of n peculiar and strange sort; for it
was accompanied with the most unscrupulous
and determined will—a will that Napoleon rc~
vcrenced—a will of iron, and yet nerves of aspen.
Mental! , he was a hero—physically, a dnstnrd.
When he veriest shadow of danger threatened
his person, the frame cowered, but the will
swept the danger ti) the slaughter-house. So
there he sat, bolt u right, his small, lean fingers
clinched convulsive y, his sullen cyes straining
into space, their whites yellowed with streaks ( i'
corrupt blood. his ears literally moving to and
fro like the ignobler animal's, to catch every
sound —a Dionysius in his cave—but his sture
decorous and collected, and every forum! air in
its frizzled place.
“Yes, yes," he said, in amuttered tone, “I
hear them; my good Jacobius are at their post
on the stairs Pity they swear so! I have a
law against oaths: the manners of the poor and
virtuous people must be reformed. When all is
safe, an example or two among those goml Jaco-
bins would make effect. Faithful fellows. how
they love me! Hum! what an oath was that!
they need not swear so loud, upon the very stair-
case, too i It detracts from my reputation. Ha!
steps l"
he soliloquist glanced at the opposite mirror,
and took up a volume: he seemed absorbed in
its contents, as a tall fellow—a bludgeon in his
hand, a girdle, adorned with pistols, round his
waist—opened the door, and announced two
visiters. The one was a young man, said to re-
semble Robespierre in person, but of a far more
decided and resolute expression of countenance.
He entered first, and, looking over the volume in
Robcspierrc’s hand, (for the latter seemed still
intent on his lecture,) exclaimed.
“ What! Rousseau‘s ‘ Heloise i’ A love tale !"
“ Dear Payan, it is not the love—it is the phi-
losophy that charms me. What noble senti-
ments! what ardour of virtue! If Jean Jacques
had but lived to see this day l”
While the dictator thus commented on his fa.-

what, to most, is the prime of life, namely, about
thirty-eight; but he was literally dead in the
lower limbs; crippled, paralytic, distorted, he
was yet, as the time soon come to tell him, a
Hercules in crime! But the sweetest of human
smiles dwelt upon his lips—a. beauty almost an-
gelic characterized his features ;* nn inexpressible
aspect of kindness, and the resignation of suffering
but cheerful benignity, stole into the hearts 0
those who for the first time beheld him. With
the most caressing, silver, flute-like voice, Citizen
Couthon saluted the admirer of Jean Jacques.
“ Nay, do not say that it is not the love that
attracts thee; it is the love—but not the gross,
sensual attachment of man for woman. No—the
sublime affection for the whole human race, and,
indeed, for all that lives !"
And Citizen Couthon, bending down, fondled
the little spaniel that he invariably carried in his
bosom, even to the Convention, as a vent for the
exuberant sensibilities which overflowed his af-
fectionate heartil-
“ Yes, for all that lives," repeated Robespierre,
tender! '. “ Good Couthon—poor Couthon! Ah,
the ma ice of men l—how we are misrepresented! '
To be caluniniated as the executioan of our
colleagues! Ah, it is that which pierces the
heart! To be an object of terror to the enemies
of our country—that is noble; but to be an ob-
ject of terror to the good. the patriotic, to those
one loves and reveres—that is the most terrible
of human tortures; at least, to a susceptible and
honest heart !" 1
"How I love to hear him !" ejaculated Cou-
thon.
“ Hem i" said Payan, with some impatience.
“But now to business l"
“Ah, to business!“ said Robespicrre, witha
sinister glance fill?!“ his bloodshot eyes.
“ The time has come,” said l’ayun, “when the
safety of the republic demands acomplcte con-
centration of its power. These brawleis of on
Comité do Salut Public can only destroy; they
cannot construct. 'l'hey hated you, Maximilian,
from the moment. you attempted to replace anar-
chy by institutions. How they mock at the fee-
" "Figure de'Ange." says one of his contemporaries,
in describing Couthon. The address, drawn up most
probably by Paynn. (Thermidor 9.) after the arrest of
Rohcspierrc. thus mentions his crippled colleague: " Cou-
thon, ca ritoyen vertuetlx. qui n'a qua 1e CIBIH' ct la tits
do nirnnls. tnnis qui lea it lirillitnts do pritriotisme."
T This tenderness for some pct animal was by no mean!
peculiar InCouthon: it seems rather a common fashion
with the gentle butcher! of the revolution! M. George
Duv'd inl'onns us. ("Souvenirs tie in 'l‘t-rrour," vol. iii.,
p. 183) than Chsumetlo h-ul un nvi-try. to which be de-
Voted hit harmless leisure; the murderqu Fournler ur-
rled on his shoulder: a pretty little squirrel. attached by
a silver chain; Pants bestowed the superfluin of his
election. upon two gold pheasants; nnd Marat—who
would not nbatc one of the three hundred thousand head:
he demandetl—warrd tinvu! Apropos of the spaniel of
Cotillion: Duvul gives us an amusing anecdote of Ser-
gcnt. not one of the least relentless agents of the massacre
of September. A lady came to implore his protection for
one of her relations confined in the Abtrtye. llo scarcely
deittncrl to speak to her. As she retired in despair. she
trod by accident on tho paw of his [Ivourite spaniel.
Sement, lumintr round. enraged and furious exclaimed,
" Madam. have you I"! humanity I" ’
t Not to futizue the render with annotations, inlay
horc observe. that nearlv evcrv sentiment ascribed in the
text “I Rohespterrc, is to be found up"ch in his vurtom
discourses.


ZANONI.
109
tival which proclaimed the acknowledgment of
a Supreme Being! They would have no ruler,
even in heaven!
lect saw that, having wrecked an old World, it
became necessary to shape a new one. The first
step towards construction must be to destroy the
destroyers While we deliberate, your enemies
act. Better this very night to attack the llliltth
ful of gensdnrmes that guard them, than to con-
fi'ont the battalions they may raise tomorrow."
“ No," said Robcspierre, who reeoiled before
the determined spirit of Payan; “I have a better
and a safel' plan. This is the 6th of Thermidor;
on the 10th—on the 10th, the Convention go in
a body to the Fe'te Decadaire. A mob shall
form; the canonniern, the troops of Henriot, the
young pupils de l‘Ecole dc ii an, shall mix in
the crowd. Easy, then, to strike the conspirators
whom we shall designate to our agents. On the
same day, too, Fouquier and Dumas shall not
rest; and a sufficient number of ' the suspect' to
maintain salutary awe, and keep up the revolu-
timnry excitement, shall perish y the glaive of
the law. The 10th shall be the great day of
action. Payan, of these last culprits have you
prepared a list 1"
“ It is here," returned Payan, laconically, pre-
senting a paper.
Robespierrc glanced over it rapidly. “Collot
d’Herbois! goodl Barrére! a , it was Barrore
who said, ‘Let us strike! the end alone never
return l’* Vudier, the savage 'ester! good, 00d!
Vadier of the Mountain. e has calle me
' Mohammad !‘ Scelerat I blasphemer l"
“ Mohammed is coming to the Mountain,” said
Couthon, with his silvery accent, as he caressed
his s aniel.
“ ut how is this! I do not see the name of
Tallieu l Tallien—I hate that man l that is,"
said Robespierre, correcting himself with the
hypocrisy or self-deceit which those who formed
the council of this phrase-manger exhibited ha-
bitually, even among themselves, “ that is, Virtue
and our Country hate him! There is no man
in the whole Convention who inspires me with
the same horror as Tallien. Couthon, I see a
thousand Dantons where Tallien sits l"
“Tallien has the onl head that belongs to
this deformed body,” said Payan, whose ferocity
and crime, like those of St. Just, were not an
accompanied by talents of no common order.
“ Were it not better to draw away the head, to_
win, to buy him, for the time, and dispose of him
better when left alone 8 He may hate you, but
he loves money I”
“ No," snid Robespierre, writing down the
name of Jean~Lambert Tallien with a slow hand,
that shaped each letter with stem distinctness;
“ that one head is my necessity !"
“ I have a small list here," said Couthon, sweet-
I -, “a very small list. You are dealing with
e Mountain; it is necessary to make a few ex-
amples in the Plain. These moderates are as
straws which follow the wind. They turned
against us yesterday in the Convention. A little
tenor will correct the weathercocks. Poor crea-
tures! I owe them no ill will; I could weep for
them. But, before all, In chére patris I”
The terrible glance of Robespierre devoured
'.
7‘ "Fmpponl! ll n'y aque lies mom qnl no revlent g]
"IF—BAIIIII.
Your clear and vigorous intel- "
I
the list which the man of sensibility submitted to
him. “ Ah, these are‘well chosen; men not of
mark enough to be regretted, which is the best
policy with the relics of thntparty: some foreign'
ers, too; yes, they have no parents in Paris.
These wives and parents are beginning to plead
against us. Their complaints demoralize tho
‘ guillotine l"
“ Couthon is right,” said Payan -, “ my list con—
tains those whom it will be safer to despatch an
i mass: in the crowd assembled at the fete. Hi:
i list selects those whom we may prudently con-
sign to the law. Shall it not be signed at once t"
“It is signed}? said Itobespiurre, formally re
placing his pen upon the inkstand. “Now to
more important matters. These deaths will cre-
late n0 excitement; but Collot d'Herbois, Bour-
don de l’Oise, Tallien"—the last name Robes-
pierre gasped as he pronounced—“they are the
lheads of parties. This is life or death tons-as
well as them.”
" Their heads are the footstools to your comic
1 chair," said l'ayan, in a half whisper. “.There is
no danger, if we are bold. Judges, juries, all
ihave been your selection. You seize with one
,ihand the army, with the other the law. Your
i voice yet commands the people—”
“The poor and virtuous people," murmured
Robespierre.
“ And even," continued Payan, “if our design
at the fete fail us, we must not shrink from the
resources still at our command. Reflect ! Hen-
riot, the general of the Parisian army, furnishes
you with troops to arrest; the Jacobiu club with
a ublic to approve ; inexorable Dumas with
‘ju ges who never acquit. we must be bold l"
"' And we are bold!" exclaimed Robespierre,
with sudden passion, and striking his hand on the
table as he rose, with his crest erect, as a serpent
in the act to strike. “In seeing the multitude of
vices that the revolutionary torrent mingles with
civic virtues, I tremble to be sullied in the eyes
of pesterity by the impure neighbourhood of these
perverse men, who thrust themselves among the
sincere defenders of humanity. What! they
think to divide the country like a booty! I thank
them for their hatred to all that is virtuous and
worthy! These men"—and he grasped the list
of Paynn in his hand—“ these l not we, have
thrown the line of demarcation between them-
selves and the lovers of France l"
“True, we must reigu alone !" muttered Pay-
an; “in other words, the state needs unity of
will -," working, with his strong practical mind,
the corollary from the logic of his wordcompel-
ling colleague!
“ I will go to the Convention," continued
Robespierre. “ I have ubsented myself too long,
lest I might seem to overawe the republic that l
have created. Awa with such scruplesl I
will prepare the people ! I will blast the traitors
with a look i"
He spoke with the terrible firmness of the dra-
tor that had never failed—0f the moral will that
marched like a warrior on the cannon. At that
instant he was interrupted; a letter was brought
to him; he 0 ened it; his face fell; he shook
from limb to inib; it was one of the anonymous
warnings by which the hate and revenge of those
yet left alive to threaten tortured the death-
ver.
“ Thou art smeared," ran the lines, “with the


110
ZANONI.
best blood of France. Read thy sentencel I
await the hour when the ople shall knell thee
to the doomsman. If my ope deceive me, if de~
ferred too long—hearken—read! This hand,
which thine eyes shall search in vain to discover,
shall pierce thy heart. I see thee every day—
I am with time every day. At each hour my
arm rises against thy breast. Wretch! live yet
a while, though but for few and miserable days-—
live to think of me—sleep to dream of me l 'l‘hy
terror, and thy thought of inefarc the heralds of
thy doom. Adieu! this day itself I go forth to
riot on thy fears ‘."*
“Your lists are not full enough l” said the ty-
rant, with a hollow voice, as the paper dropped
from his trembling hand. “ Give them mc—give
them me i Think again—think again ! Burnt-re
is right—right l ‘ Frapponsl il n‘y a quo les
mqrts qui ne rcvient pas l’ "
4

CHAPTER X1.
" La hnlno dons cm livnv n‘a qu’nn glali'c assassin.
Elle marehe daus l'omhrc."
Ls than, Jmune dc .N'uples, act. iv., so. L
Warm: such the designs and fears of Maximi-
lien Rubespierre, common danger—common ha-
tred, whatever was yet left of mercy or of vir-
tue in the agents of the Revolution, served to
unite strange opposites in hostility to the univer—
sal death-dealer. 'l‘here wamim'leed, an actual
conspiracy at Work against him among men little
less bespattered than himself with innocent
blood. But that cons iracy would have been
idle of itself, despite tie abilities of 'l'allien and
Barrns (the only men whom it comprised worthy,
by foresight and energy, the names of “ leaders").
'1‘ he sure and destroying elements that gathered
round the tyrant were rl‘ime and Nature; the
one, which he no longer suited; the other, \leid:
be had outraged and stirred up in the human
breast. The most atrocious party of the Revolu-
tion, the followers of Hebert, gone to his last ac~ '
count, the butcher-atheists, who, in desecrating
heaven and earth, still arrogated inviolable sanc-
tity to themselves, were e nally enraged at the
execution of their filthy chief, and the. proclama-
tion of a Supreme Being. The populace, brutal
as it had been, started as from a dream of blood,
when their huge idol, Danton, no longer filled the
s 0e of tenor, rendering crime popular by that
combination of careless frankness and e1 uent
energy which endears their homes to the erd.
The glai-z'e of the guillotine had turned ainst
themselves! They had yelled and shoute , and
sung and danced, when the venerable age, or the
gallant youth, of aristocracy or letters, passed by
their streets in the dismal tumbrils; but they
_ shut up their shops. and murmured to each other,
when their own order was invaded, and tailorsl
and cobblcrs, and joumeymen and labourers.
here huddled off to the embraces of the “ Holy
Mother Guillotine" with as little ceremonv as if
they hnxl been the Montmorcncies or the Ila l'l‘re-
mouilles,the Malosherbes or the Lavoisiers. “ At
this time,” said Coutlion, justly, “lcs ambrcs dc
Danton, d’Hr'bcrl, d0 Chaumeltc, re proménent
pa'mu' nous!"
Among those who had shared the doctrines, and
who now dreaded the fate, of the atheist Hebert.
was the ainter, Jean Nicot. Mortified and en—
raged to nd that, by the death of his patron, his
career was closed; and that, in the zenith of the
Revolution for which he had laboured, he was lnrle
ing in caves and cellars, more )l', more obscure,
more despicable than he hadpbwn at the com-
mencement—not daring to exercise even his art,
and fearful every hour that his name would swell
the lists of the condemned, he was naturally one
of the bittcrest enemies of Robes done anst
government. He held secret meetings vwith Col-
lot d’Ht-rlmis, who was animated by the same
spirit; and, with the creeping and fnrtive craft
that characterized his abilities, he contrived, un-
detected, to disseminate tracts and inventich
against the Dictator, and to prepare, amid “the
pure and virtuous cople," the train for the grand
explosion. But s ' i so firm to the eyes, even of
profonnder politicians than Joan Nicot, appeared
the sullen power of the incorruptible Maximilieu;
so timorous was the movement against him, that
N icot, in common with many others, placed his
hopes rather in the dagger of the assassin than
the revolt of the multitude. But Nicot. though
not actually a coward, shrunk himself from
braving the fate of the martyr; he. had sense
enough to sec' that though all parties might re-
joice in the assassination, all parties would proba-
bly concur in lnlicading the assassin. He had
not the virtue to lwcomo a Brutus. His object
was to inspire a proxy-Brutus; and in the centre
of that inflammable population, this was no im-
probable hope.
Among those loudest an'l sternost against the
reign of blood—among those most disenchanted of
the Revolution—~among those most up lled by
“its excesses, was, as might be expecte , the En-
glishman, Clarence Glyndon. The wit and ac-
complishments, the uncertain virtues that had
lighted with fitful glean“ the mind of Camille
Dcsmoulins, had fascinated Glyndon more than
the qualities of any (ithcr agent in the Revolu-
tion. And when (for Camille Dcsmonlius had a
heart which seemed dead or dormant in most of
his contemporaries) that vivid child of genius and
of (nor, shocked at the massacre of the Gimndins
and rcpentant of his own efforts against them, be-
gan to rouse the serpent malice of Robespicrrc by
new doctrines of mercy and toleration, Glyndon
espoused his views with his whole strength zuid
soul Camille Desmoulins perished. and Glyn-
don, hopeless at once of his own life and the
cause of humanity, from that. time sought onlv
the occasion of flight from the devouring Gol-
gotha. He had two lives to heed besides his own :v
for them he trembled, and for them he schemed
land lotted the means of escape. Though Glyn-
idon ated the

principles, the any? and the
vices of Nicot, * yct extender to the ainter's
pcnury the means of subsistence; and can Ni-
cot, in return, desi'rned to exalt Glyndon to that
i very immortality ofa Brutus from which he mod-
lestly recoiled himself. Ilc founded his desi
, on the physical courage, 0n the wild and unsett ed
' See Papiers inedits, heave: chez Robesplem, 8w,
vol. ll.,p.155. (No.1x.)
‘ ' None were more oppoan to the Hebertists than Ca-
millo Desmoulins and his friends. It is curious and amu-
l sing to see thmo leaders of the mob calling the mob “ the
people" one day, and the "canalllc" the next, according
as it suits than]. "1 know," my: Camille. " that they.
the Hebertlsts. have all the canaillo with them." (115 out
mate in motile pour our.)


ZANONI.
'11'1
\
hacics of the English artist, and on the vehement !
hate and indignant loazhing with which he openly ,
regarded the govennnent of hL'tximilien. _ ‘
At the saun- hour, on the same day in July on
which Robespierre conferred (as we the seen),
with his allies, two persons were seated in a small
room in one of the streets leading out of the Rue
3L Honoré: the one, a man, appeared listening
impatiently, and with a sullen brow, to his com-l
anion, a woman of singular beauty, but with a‘
_ old and reckless cx re~sion, and her face, as she 1
spoke, was animat by the passions of a half
savage and vehement nature. '
“ Englishman,” said the woman, “ beware! you .
know that, whether in flight or at the place of 1
death, I would brave all to be by your side ; you t
know that .' Speak !" ,
“Well, Fillide, did I ever doubt your fidelity i" i
“ Doubt it you cannot. ; betray it- you may. You 1
There was something so brave and noble in
Glyndon’s Voice, micn and manner, as he thus
spoke, that N icot at once was silenced; at once he
saw that he had misjudged the man.
“No,” said Fillide, lifting her face from her
hands, “no! your friend has a wiser scheme in
preparation : he would leave on wolves to man-
gle each other. He is right; ut-—”
“Flight!” exclaimed Nicot; “is it possible!
Flight! How? when! by what means? All
France begirt with spies and guards! Flight!
would to heaven it were in our power 1"
“Dost thou too desire to escape the blessed
Revolution l"
“Desire! Oh!” cried Nicot, suddenly, and fall-
ing down, he clasped Glyndon’s knees; “Oh!
save me with thyself ! My life is a torture; every
moment the guillotine frowns before me. I know
that my hours are numbered; I know that the
tell me that in flight you must have a com uion I tyrant waits but his time to write my name in his
besides myself, and that companion is a emale. inexorable list; I know that llI-né Dumas, the
It shall not be 1”
" Shall not i” '
“It shall not l" repeated Fillide, firmly, and!
folding her arm-i across her breast. Before Glyn-
don could reply, a slight "knock at the door was‘
heard, and Xicot opened the latch and entered.
Fillid into a. chair, and. loaning her face ,
on her 1an a. appear-rd unhecdinq of the intrudcr
and the court-.- n‘i'm that ensued.
“I cannot bid tin-o godeay, (ilyndnnj said
Nicot, it; in ii: sans-vulnflr fashion he st rode to- '
wards the artist. his ragged hat on hi= ha-nzl, his
hands in his pickets, and the board of a week's-
growth upon hi1 thin; “I cannot bid thee good-
(lay, for while the tyrant lives. evil is every sun
that rhods- its bennh on France."
“It is true: what then i We have soch the
Wind. we mu<t reap the whirlwind."
“ And ,yci‘.“ said N icot. apparently not hearing


!
the reply, and as if musinglytohimself. “it. is‘ '
strange to thin'k that the butcher is as mortal as,I
the butchered; that his life hangs on us slight a'
thread; that l)“l\'c(‘u the cuticle and the heart
there is-a.~\ rhort a pni‘ngc; that, in short. one,
blow can free l‘rauco and redeem mankind !” i
Glyndm surveyed the speaker with :I. mrelessz
and haughty scorn. and made no answer. ‘
“Anilf prom-oiled Nicot, “I have sometimes
looked around for the man born for this destiny,
and whenever I have done so, my steps have led 1
me hither !”
“Should they not rather how led thee to the!
‘ side of Maxinnlien Robcspicrre i" said Glyndon,
with a sneer. ‘
“ No,” returned Nicct, coldly, “ no. for I am a ;
' suspect ;' I could not mix with his train; I could
not a preach within a. hundred yards of his person,
but {should be seized; you, as yet, are safe.—
Hear me i” and his Voice became camcst and ex- ,
pressive, “ hear me i There seems danger in this!

I judge who never pardons. has, from the first, re-
solved upon my death. Oh! Glyndon, by our old
friendship, by our common art, by thy loyal En-
glish faith and good English heart, let me share
thy flight l"
“ If thou wilt, so be it."
“ Thanks l my whole life shall thank thee. But
how hast thou pro ared the means—the passports
—the disguise—t
“ I will tell thee. Thou knowest C—-—-, of the
Convention; he has power, and he is coyotous.
‘ Qu'on mc llll'lirifitf' poi/rm 9r” jc dine,’ said he,
when r0 reached for his avarice."
“ We '1”
“By the help of this sturdy rc ublican, who
has friends enough in the (Yonde I aye obtained
the means nccc=snry for flight; I have purchased
n
,them. For a consideration, I can procure thy
puns rt also.”
“ 'hy riches, then. are not in amignnts .7”
“ No, I have gold enough for us all."
And here Glyndon beckoned Nicot into the
next room, first briefly and rapidly detailed to
him the plan pro "d, and the disguises to be
assumed conforma 1y to the pn<sports and then
added, “In return for the service I render thee.
gmnt me one favour. which I think is in
power. 'l'hnn rememberest Viola Pisnni?"
“ Ah, remember! yes! and the lover with
whom she fled." ‘
“ And from whom she is a fugitive new.”
“Indeed! what! I understand. Sucre Iqu.’
but you are a lucky fellow, clm‘ cmlfrm'c."
“Silence, man! with thy etomnl prate of bro-
therhood and virtue, thou sccmcst never to believe
in one kindly action, or one virtuous thought !"
Nicot hit his lip, and replied, sullenl , “ l'ix
ricncc is a grout nndeccivcr. Hum ! 'Wiiiii
service can i do thee with regard to e Italian 1"
“I have. bech accessory to her arrival in this
action; there is none. I have been with Colloticity of snares and pitfalls. I cannot leave her
d'IIcrbois and Billaud-anemies; they will hold ' alone amid dangers from which neither imioccnco
himlmrmlesh who strikes the blow; thc populace nor obscurity are safeguards. In your blessed
would run to thy su port; the Convention would Republic, :1 good and unsuspected citizen, who
hail thee as their dc ivcrer; the—“ [mists a desire on any woman, maid or wife, has
“Hold, man! How darcst thou couple my \ but to so , ‘Be mine, or I denounce you 1’ In a
name with the act of an assassin! Let the tocsin ! word, Viola must share our flight.” _
sound from yonder tower to a war between Hu-l “ W'hat so easy 7 I see your passports prode
manity and the Tyrant, and I will not be the but for her.” _
in the field! but liberty never yet acknowledged! What so 1 what so difficult? This
ll defender in I felon!” , [Fillide—Would that I had never seen her!


112
ZANONI.
would I had never enslaved my soul to my
senses! The love of an uneducated, violent,
unprinciplcd woman, opens with a heaven, to
merge in ahelll She is 'calous as all the Fu-
ries; she will not hearo a female com nion;
and, when once she sees the beauty of iola! I
tremble to think of it. She is capable of any
excess in the storm of her passions."
“ Aha, I know what such women are l M wife,
Beatrice Sacdlini, whom I took from a. les,
when I failed with this very Viola, divorce me
when my money failed, and, as the mistress of a
'udge, passes me in her carriage while I crawl
rough the streets. Plague on her i but patience,
patience i such is the lot of virtue. Would I
were Robespierre for a day l"
“ Cease these tirades l" exclaimed Gl
impatiently, “ and to the point
you advise 1"
“ Leave our Fillide behind."
“ Leave or to her own ' ioranoe; leave her
unprotected even by the min ; leave her in the
satumalia of Rape and Murder? No! I have
sinned against her once. But, come what may, I
will not so busely desert one who, with all ier
errors, trusted her fate to my love."
“ You deserted her at Marseilles"
“ True; but I left her in safety, and I did not
then believe her love to be so deep and faithful.
I left her gold, and I imagined she Would he ea-
sily consoled; but, since then, we have know'n dan-
ger together! And now to leave her alone to
that danger which she would never have incurred,
but for devotion to me! no, that is impossible!
A project occurs to me. Canst thou not any that
thou hast a sister, a relative, or a benefnctress,
whom thou wouldst savel Can we not, till we
have left France, make Fillidc believe that Viola
is one in whom than only art interested ; and whom
for thy sake only, I permit to share in our escape i"
"Ha, well thought of l Certainl !"
" I will then appear to yield to Iillide’s wishes,
and resign the project, which she so resents, of
saving the innocent object of her frantic jealousy.
You. meanwhile, shall yourself entreat Fillide to in-
tercede with me to extend the means of escape
don, im-
would
“To a lady (she knows I have no sister) who
has aided me in my distress. Yes, I will manage
all; never fear. One word more: what has be-
come of that. Zanoni 1”
“Talk not of him: I know not."
“ Does he love this girl still i"
“ It would seem so. She is his wife, the mo
ther of his infanfl who is with her.”
“ Wifel mother! He loves her. Aha! and
why—" 0
“ N 0 questions now. I will go and prepare Viola
for the flight; you, meanwhile, return to Fillide.”
" But the address of the Non litan i It is
necessary I should know, lest Fillit o inquire."
“ Rue M T , No. 27. Adieu."
_ Glyndon seized his hat, and hastened from the
house.
N icot, left alone, seemed for a few moments
buried in thought~ “Oho!” he muttered to him-
self, “can I not turn all this to my account! Can‘
I not avenge myself on thee, Zanoni, as I have
often swom, through thy wife and childl Can I
not prmess myself of thy gold, thy passports,



hast chucked me thine alms as to a beggar? And
Fillide, I love her: and thy gold, I love that more!
Pup cts, I move your strings !"
Hid passed slowly into the chamber where I'h'l-
lide yet eat, with gloomy thought on her brow
and tears standing in her dark eyes. She looked
up eagerly u the door opened, and tunied from
the ru face of N icot with an impatieth move-
ment 0 disappointment
“ lyndon, said the painter, drawing a chair
to Filhde's “ has left me to enliven your solitude,
fair Italian. He is not jealous of the ugly Nicot
—hal ha l—yet Nicot loved thee well once, when
his fortunes were more fair. But enough of such
past follies."
_“ Your friend, then, has left the house. Whi~
thert Ahl you look away, you falter; you'mn-
not meet my eyesl Speakl I implore, I com-
mand thee spea l”
“ Enfant / and what dost thou fear l"
“ Fear! yes, alas, I fear 1" said the Italian ; and
her whole frame seemed to shrink into itself as
she fell once more back into her seat.
Then, after a pause, she tossed the long hair
from her eyes, and, starting up abruptly, Speed
the room with disordered strides. At long she
stopped op ite to Nicot, laid her hand on his
arm, drew iim towards an escritoire, which she
unlocked, and opening a well, pointed to the gold
that lay within and said : “ Thou art poor—thou
lovest mone ; take what thou wilt, but unde-
ceive mel ho is this woman whom thy friend
visitsl and does he love her !”
Nioot's eyes sparkled, and his hands opened
and clinched, and clinched and opened, as he
gazed upon the coins. But reluctamt] resisting
the impulse, he said with an affected itterness,
“Thinkest thou to bribe me i If so, it cannot be
with gold. But what if he does love a rival I
what if he betrays thee? what- if, wearied by thy
jealousics, he designs in his flight to leave thee be-
hind t Would such knowledge make thee happier i”
“Yesl” exclaimed the Italian fiercely; “ yes,
for it would be happiness to hate and to be
avengedl Oh, thou knowest not how sweet is
hatred to those who have really loved l"
“ But wilt thou swear, if 1 reveal to thee the
secret, that. thou wilt not betray me; that thou
wilt not fall, as women do, into weak tears and
fond reproaches when thy betrayer returns 7"
“ Tears—reproaches ! Revenge hides itself in
smiles.”
“Thou art. a brave u'eature i” said Nicot, al-
most admiringly. “ One condition more: thy
lover designs to fly with his new love, to leave
thee to thy fate; if I prove this to thee. and if I
give thee revenge against thy rival, wilt thou fly
with met I love thee l I will wed thee !”
Fillidc's eyes flashed fire; she looked at him
with unutterable disdain, and was silent
Nicot felt he had gone too far; and with that
knowledge of the evil part of our nature, which
his own heart and association with crime had
taught him, be resolved to trust the rest to the
passions of the Italian, when raised to the height
to which he was repared to lead them.
“ Pardon me,” c said ; “ my love made me too
presum tuous; and et it is out that love, my
sympat 1y for thee, utiful and, betrayed, that
can induce me to wrong with my revelations one
\
and thy Fillide, hot Englishman, who wouldstl whom I have regarded as a brother. I can (It‘—
humble me with thy loathed benefits, and whol
pend upon thine oath to conceal all from Glyndon !"


ZANONI.
113
“ On m oath, and my wrongs, and my moun-
tain bl l"
“ Enough ! get thy hat and mantle, and follow
me i”
As Fillide left the room, Nicot's eyes again‘
rested on the gold; it was much, much more than
he had dared to hope for; and as he peered into
the well, and opened the drawers. be perceived a
packet of letters in the well-known hand of Ca-!
mille Desmoulins. He seized, he opened the!
packet; his looks brightened as he glanced over!
a few sentences. “This would give fifty Glyn-
dons to the guillotine !" he muttered, and thrust,
the packet into his bosom.
0 Artist! 0 hunted one! 0 erring Genius!“
Behold the two worst foes; the False Ideal that,
knows no God, and the False Love that burns!
from the corruption of the senses, and takes no‘
lustre from the soul! y

CHAPTER VIII.
" Llebe sonnt dzu Reich der Nncht."
DIR Tawurn DIR Luna. !

LETTER FROM ZANONI TO MEJNOUR.
Paris.
Dos'r thou remember in the old time, when the
Beautiful yet dwelt in Greece, how we two, in
the vast Athenian Theatre, witnessed the birth of
Divine Words as undying as ourselves? Dost
thou remember the thrill of terror that ran
through that mighty audience, when the wild,
Cassandra burst from her awful silence to shriek
to her relentless god'l How ghastly, at the en-
trance of the House of Atreus, about to become
her tomb, rang out her exclamations of foreboding
wo: “ Dwelling abhor-red of Heaven! human
shamble-house, and floor blood-bespattered l"
Dost thou remember how, amid the breathless
awe of those assembled thousands, I drew close
to thee and whispered, “ Verily, no prophet like
the Poet! This scene of fabled horror comes to
me as a dream shadowing forth some likeness in
my own remoter future !" As I enter this slaugh-
ter—house that scene returns to me, and I hearken
to the voice of Cassandra ringing in my cars. A
solemn and warning dread gathers roimd me, as
if I too were come to find a grave, and “the Net
of Hades" had already entangled me in its web!
What dark treasure-houses of vicissitude and
Wu are our memories become! What our lives,
but the chronicles of unrelent‘ Death! It
seems to me as yesterday when stood .in the
streets of this city of the Gaul, as the shone
with plumed chivalry, and the air rusted with
silken bravcries. Young Louis, the monarch and
the lever, was victor of the Toumament at the
Camusal, and all France felt herself s lendid in
the splendour of her gorgeous chief! ow there
is neither throne nor altar; and what is in their
stead? I seet it yonder—flu: GUILLOTINE! It is
dismal to stand amid the ruins of mouldering
cities, to startle the serpent- nnd the lizard amid
the wrecks of Persepolis and Thebes; but more
dismal still to stand as I—the stranger from em-
pires that have ceased to be—-stand now amid
the yet ghastlier ruins of Law and Order, the
shattering of mankind themselves! Yet here,
even here, Love, the Beautifier, that hath led my
* Alseh, Agam., 100s.

steps, can walk with unshrinlring hope through
the wilderness of Death! Strange is the passion
that makes aworld in itself, that individualizes
‘the One amid the multitude; that, through all
the changes of my solemn life, yet survives,
though ambition, and hate, and anger are dead;
the one solitary angel, hovering over a universe
of tombs on its two tremulous and human wings
-Hope and Fear!
How is it, Mejnour, that, as my diviner art
abandoned me—as, in my search for Viola, I was
aided but by the ordinary instincts of the merest
mortal—how is it that I have never desponded,
that I' have felt in ov difficulty the prevailing
rescience that we shou d meet at last? So cruel-
y was every vestige of her flight concealed from
me—so suddenly, so secretly had she fled—that
all the spies, all the authorities of Venice, could
give me no clew. All Italy I searched in vain!
Her young home at Naples ! how still, in its hum-
ble chambers, there seemed to linger the 00
of her presence! All the sublimest secrets of
our lore failed nae—failed to bring her soul visible
to mine; yet, morning and night, thou lone and
childless one, morning and night, detached from
myself, I can commune with my child! There,
in that most blessed, typical, and mysterious of
all relations, Nature herself appears to supply
what Science would refuse. S cannot se -
rate the Father’s watchful sou from the . is
of his first-born! I know not of its resting-place
and home; my visions picture not the land, only
the small and tender life to which all space is as
yet the heritage! For to the infant, bcfore rea-
son dawns—before man’s bad passions can dim
the essence that it takes from the element it hath
left—there is no peculiar country, on native city,
and no mortal language. Its soul, as yet, is the
denizcn of all airs and of every world, and in
space its soul meets with mine—-the Child com-
munes with the Father! Cruel and forsaking
one! thou for whom I left the wisdom of the
spheres—thou, whose fatal dower has been the
weakness and terrors of humanity—couldst thou
think that oung soul less safe on earth because I
would lead it evermore up to Heaven! Didst
thou think that I could have wronged mine own i
Didst thou not know that in im serenest eyes the
life that I gave it s he to warn, to n braid the
mother who would ind it to the dnr css and
pangs of the prison-house of clay! Didst thou
not feel that it was I who, permitted by the Hea-
vens, shielded it from suffering and disease 9 And
in its wondrous beauty, I blessed the holy medium
through which, at last, my spirit might confer with
thine!
And how have I tracked them hither i I learn-
ed that th pupil had been at Venice. I could
not trace t e young and gentle Neophyte of Par—
thenopc in the descri tion of the haggard and
savage visiter who hat come to Viola before she
fled ; but when I would have summoned his rum
before me it refused to obey, and I knew then
that his fate had become entwined with Viola's.
I have tracked him, then, to this Lazar House;
I arrived but yesterday -, I have not yet discover
I have just retumed from their courts of
ed him.
it"
tice—dcns where tigers arraign their prey. I d
not whom I would seek They are saved as yet;
but I recognise in the crimes of mortals the dark


1 1 4 ZANONI.
wisdom of the Everlasting. Mejnour, I see hex-0,] threshold, and whose victims are the souls that
for the first time, how majestic and beauteous a! would aspire, and can only fear. I see its dim
thing is death! Of what sublime virtues we} shapelessness going before the men of blood, and
robbed ourselves, when, in the thirst for virtue] marshalling their way. Robespierre passed me
we attained the art by which we can refuse to, with his furtive step. Those eyes of horror were
die! When, in some happy clime, where tojgnawing into his heart. I looked down upon
breathe is to enjoy, the chamel-house sWallows ‘ their Senate; the grim Phantom sat cowering on
up the young and fair—when, in the noble pursuit,l its floor. It hath taken up its abode in the cit
of knowledge, Death comes to the student, and of Dread. And what, in truth, are these woul -
shuts out the enchanted land which was opening’ be builders of n. new world? Like the students
to his gaze, how natinai for us to desire to liven who have vainly struggled after our su reme
how natural to make perpetual life the firstobjectl science, they have attempted what is beyon their
of research! But here, from my tower of time,
power; they have passed from this solid earth of
looking over the darksome past and into the starry, usages and forms into the land of shadow, and its
future, I learn how great hearts feel what sweet-l loathsome keeper has seized them as its prey. I
ness and glory there is to die for the they
love! I saw a father sacrificing himself for his
son; he was subjected to charges which sword
of his could dis 1—he was mistaken for his boy.
With what joy h: seized the error—confessed the
noble crimes of valour and fidelity which the son
had indeed committed—and went to the doom,
exalt-ing that his death saved the life he had given,
notinvain! I saw women, yonn , delicate, in
the bloom of their beaut ; they vowed them-
selves to the cloister. ands smeared with the
blood of saints opened the gate that had shut
them from the world, and bade them go forth,
forget their vows, forswear the Divine One these
daemons would depose, find lovers and helpmntcs,
and be free. And some of these young hearts
had loved, and even, though in struggles, loved
yet. Did they forswear the vow? Did they
sbandon the faith I Did even love allure them ?
Mejnour, with one voice, they preferred to die!
And whence comes this courngel because snob
hearts live in some -more abstract and leicr life
than their own. But to liveform'e'r upon this earth,
is 10 live in nothing divinrr than ourselves. ‘Yes,
even amid this gory butcherdom, God, the Ever-
living, vindicates to man the sanctity of His ser-
vant, Death !
Again I have seen thee in spirit; I have seen
and blessed thee, my sweet child! Dost thou
not know me also in thy dreams? Dost thou not
feel the beating of my heart through the veil of
thy rosy slumbch Dost thou not hear the wings
of the brighter beings that I yet can conjure
around thee, to watch, to nourish. and to save?
And when the spell fades at thv waking, when
thine eyes open to the day, will they not look
round for me, and ask thy mother, with their
mute eloquence, “ why she has robbed thee of a
father 1"
Woman, dost than not repent thee? Flying
from imaginary fears, hast then not come to the
very lair of terror, where Danger sits visible and
incarnate? Oh, if we could but meet, wouldst
thou not fall upon the bosom thou hast so wrong-
ed, and feel, poor wanderer of the storms, as if
thou hadst regained the shelter? Mejnonr, still, sits the mother, watching over her child !

looked into the tyrnnt's shuddering soul as it
trembled past me. There, amid the ruins of a
thousand systems which aimed at virtue, sat
Crime, and shivered at its desolation. Yet this
man is the only Thinker, the only Aspirant, among
them all. He still looks for a future of
and mercy, to begin—ay! at what date? en'
he has swept away every foe. Fool! new fem
spring from every dro of blood. Led by the
eyes of the Unutterab e, be is walking to his
doom.
0 Viola, thy innocence protects thee! Thou
whom the sweet humanities of love shutout even
from the dreams of aerial and spiritual beauty,
thy heart a universe of visions fairer than
the wanderer over the rosy Hesperus can survey,
shall not the same pure atfection encompass thee
even here with a charmed atmosphere, and terror
itself fall harmless on a life too innocent for wis-
doml
CHAPTER IV.
“ Umbra pin che dl nollc, ln cui di luce
Rnggiulnlslo non e iuno ll ceronda.
Ne pil'fil prilsgid appiu. né pin. le sue
Vesllgia ; né lr puossi—egli qu! fuc."
Gun. Lu, canto xvl.—lxix.
Tm: clubs are noisy with clamorous phrensy;
the leaders are with schemes. Black Hen-
riot flies here and there, muttering to his armed
troops, “ Robespierre, your beloved, is in danger !'
Robespierre stalks perturbed, his list of victims
swelling everyehour. Tallien, the Macdufi' to the
doome Mac. th, is whispering courage to his
pale coi‘tspimtors Along the streets heavily roll
the tumbrils. The shops are closed; the people
are gorged with gore, and will lap no more. And
night after night, to the eighty theatres flock the
children of the revolution, to laugh at the quips
of comedy, and weep gentle tears over imaginary
woes!
In a small chamber, in the heart of the city,
It is
my researches fail me. I mingle with all men“! quiet, happy noon; the sunlight, broken by the
even their judges and their spies, but I cannot, tall roofs in the narrow street, comes yct through
vet gain the dew. I know that she is here. Ii the open casement, the impartial playfellow of
know it by an instinct; the breath of my child! the air, gleesome alike in temple and prison, hall
seems warmer and more familiar. land hovel; as golden and as blithc, whether it
They peer at me with venomous looks as I,‘ laugh over the first hour of life or quiver in its
pass through their streets. With a glance I dis-
arm their malice, and fascinate the basilisks.
Everywhere I see the track, and scent the pre

gay delight on the terror and agony of the last!
The child, where it lay at the feet of Viola,
stretched out its dimpled hands as if to clasp the
sauce of the Ghostly One that dwells on the dancing motes that revellcd in the beam. The


ZANONI.
115
mother turned her eyes from the glory; it sad-
dened her yet more. She turned and sighed.
Is this the some Viola who bloomed fairer than 1
their own Idalia under the skies of Greece 1 How
changed! How pale and worn! She sat list-
lessly, her arms droo ing on her knee ; the smile
that was habitual to er li s was gone. A heavy,
dull dcspondeucy, as if e life of life were no
more, seemed to weigh down her youth, and make
it weary of that happy sun 1 In truth, her exist,
once had languished away since it had wandered,
as some melancholy stream, from the source that
fed it. The sudden enthusiasm of fear or super-
stition that had almost, as if still in the uncon-
scious movements of a dream, led her to H from
Zanoni, had ceased from the day which aimed
upon her in a foreign land. Then, there, she felt
that in the smile she had evennorc abandoned
lived her life. She did not repent; she would
not have recalled the impulse that winged her
flight. Thonin the enthusiasm was gone, the su-
perstition yet remained ', she still believed she had
uved her child from that dark and guilt ' sorcery,
mamingwhich the traditions of all ands are
' l, ut in none do they find such credulity
(I excite such dread as in the south of Italy.
This impression was confirmed by the mysterious
conversations of Glyndon, and b' her own per-
ception of the fearful change thatliad passed over
one who represented himmlf as the victim of the
embanters. She did not therefore repent, but her
v volition seemed gone.
their arrival at Paris, Viola saw her com-
panion, the faithful wife, no more. Ere three
weeks were passed husband and wife had ceased
to live.
And now, for the first time, the drudgeries of
this hard earth claimed the beautiful Neapolitan.
In that profession, giving voice and shape to poet-
and song, in which her first years were passed,
t ere is while it lasts an excitement in the art
that lifts it from the labour of a ' . Hover-
ing between two lives, the Real and 1 col, dwells
the life of music and the stage. But that was
lost evermore to the idol of the e es and ears of
Naples. Lifted t0 the higher of ‘onate
love, it seemed as if the fictitious genius which
represents the thoughts of others was merged in
the genius that grows all thought itself It had
been the worst infidelity to the lost to have de-
scended again to live on the applause of others.
And so—for she would not accept alms from Glyn-
hy the cmnmonest arts, the humblest in-
dustry which the sex knows, alone and unseen,
she who had sle t on the breast of Zanoni found
a shelter for their child. As when, in the noble
verse prefixed to this chapter, Armida herself has
destroyed her enchanted lace, not a vestige of
that bower, raised of old y Poetry and Love, re-
mained to say “it had been i”
And the child avenged the father; it bloomed,
it thrived, it waxed strong in the light of life. But
still it seemed haunted and preserved by some
other being than her own. In its sleep there was
that slumber, so deep and rigid, which a thunder-
bolt oould not have disturbed ; and in such sleep
often it moved its arms, as to embrace the air;
often its li stirred with murmured sounds of in-
distinct ection'qzot for her; and all the while
upon its cheeks a hue of such celestial bloom—
u n its lips, a smile of such mysterious joy!
en, when it waked, its eyes did not turn first to

her—wistful, earnest, wandering, they roved
around, to fix on her pale face, at last, in mute
sorrow and re roach.
Never had iola felt before how mighty was
her love for Zanoni; how thought, feeling, heart,
soul, life—ell la crushed and dormant in the icy
absence to whi she had doomed herself l She
heard not the roar without, she felt not one amid
those stonny millions—worlds of excitement la-
bouring through every hour. Only when 01 -
don, haggard, wan, and s ctre-like, glided in, y
after day, to visit her, di the fair daughter of the
careless South know how heavy and universal was
the Death-Air that her round. Sublime in
her passive unconsciousness, her mechanic life, she
sat, and feared not, in the den of the Beasts of
Prayll
1: door of the room opened abruptly, and
Glyndon entered Ilis manner was more agitated
than usual.
“ Is it you, Clarence i" she said, in her soft, lan-
guidytoncs. “ You are before the hour I expected
you;
" Who can count on his hours at Paris i" re
turned Glyndon, with a frightful smile. “ Is it
not enough that I am here i Your apath in the
midst of these sorrows appals me. Ylbu sa
calmly, ‘ Farewell l’ calmly you bid me ‘ We -
come l’ as if in every corner there was not a s y,
and as if every day there was not a massacre?
“Pardon mel But in these walls lies m
world. I can hardly credit all the tales you tefi
me. Everything here, save that," (and she point-
ed to the infant), “ seems already so lifeless, that
in the tomb itself one could scarcely less heed the
crimes that are don without."
Glyndon paused for a few moments, and gazed
with strange and mingled feelings upon that face
and form, still so oung, and yet so invested with
that saddest of repose—when the heart feels
old.
“ 0h, Viola i” said he, at last, and in a voice of
suppressed passion, “was it thus I ever thought
to see you, ever thought to feel for on, when we
two first met in the gay haunts of Izaplesi Ah!
why then did you refuse my love 1 or why was
mine not worthy of you? Nay, shrink not! let
me touch your hand. No passion so sweet as that
youthful love can return to me again. I fL'Ul for
you but as a brother for some younger and lonel
sister. With you, in your presence, sad though it
be, I seem to breathe back the purer air of my
early life. Here alone, unless in scenes of turbu-
lence and tempest, the Phantom ceases to pursue
me. I forget even the Death that stalks behind,
and haunts me as my shadow. But better days
may be in store for us yet. Viola, I at last begin
dimly to perceive how to battle and subdue the
Phantom that has cursed my life; it is to brave
and def it. In sin and in riot, as I have told
thee, “haunts me not. But I com rchend now
what Mejnour said in his dark apo ieglns, ‘ that
I should dread the spectre most when mm'm.’ In
virtuous and calm resolution it appears—Ry, I be-
hold it now—there—there, with its livid eyes l"
(and the drops fell from his brow). “ But it shall
no longer daunt me from that resolution I face
it, and it gradually darkens back into the shade.”
He paused, and his eyes dwelt with a terrible ex-
ultation upon the sunlit space ; then, with ahcavy
and deepdrawn breath, he resumed : “ Viola;
have found the means of escape. We will leave


116
ZANONI.
this city. In some other land we will endeavour
to comfort each other, and forget the past.”
“No,” said Viola, calmly; “I have no farther
'wish to stir till I am home hence to the last rest-
ing-place. I dreamed of him last night, Clarence !
dreamed of him for the first time since we parted;
and, do not mock me, methought that he forgave
the deserter, and called me ' Wife.’ That dream
hallows the room. Perhaps it will visit me again
before I die."
- “Talk not of him—of the demi-fiend!" cried
Glyndon, fiercely, and stamping his foot. “ Th:qu
the heavens for any fate that hath rescued “thee
from him."
" Hush !" said Viola, gravely. And as she was
about to roceed, her eye fell upon the child. It
was stan ing in the very centre of that slanting
column of light which the sun pom'ed into the
chamber, and the rays seemed to surround it as a
halo, and settled, crown-like, on the gold of its
shining hair. In its small shape, so exquisitely
modelled—in its large, steady, tranquil eyes, there
was something that awed, while it charmed the
mother‘s pride. It gazed on Glyndon as he s eke,
with a look which almost might have seemer dis-
dain, and which Viola at least, inte rcted as a
defence of the Absent, stronger than er own lips .
could frame.
1 'ndon broke the pause.
“ ou Wouldst stay, for whatl To betray a
mother’s dutyl If any evil happen to thee here,
what becomes of thine infantl Shall it be brought
lap an orphan, in a country that has desecrated
y religion, and where human charity exists no
more? Ah, weep and clasp it to thy bosoml
But tears do not protect and save."
“Thou hast conquered, my friend; I will fly
with thee."
“To-morrow night, then, be prepared. I will
bring thee the necessary ' ' ’
And Glyndon then proceeded to sketch rapid-
ly the outline of the path they were to take, and
t 0 story they were to telL Viola listened, but
scarcely com rebended ; he pressed her hand to
his heart, amfdeparted.

CHAPTER V.
“ Van seco nr anco
Sdegno ed Amor, quasi due eltrl ul fianco."
Gla. Lim. cant. xx., exvil.
GLYNnos did not perceive, as he hurried from
the house, two forms crouching by the angle of
the wall. He saw still the spectre gliding by his
side, but he beheld not the yet more poisonous
eyaes of human envy and woman’s jealousy that
g red on his retreating footste
N icot advanced to the house; Fillide followed
him in silence. The painter, an old aans-culotte,
know well what language to assume to the -
ter. He beckoned the latter from his 1 ge:
" How is this, citizenl Thou harbonrest a ‘ sm-
f.‘ n
“ Citizen, you terrify mel if so, name him."
“ It is not a man; a refugee, an Italian wo-
man, lodges here."
“ Yes, an troiaiéme; the door to the left. But

wl'hladt of hcrl she cannot be dangerous, poor
c ll l"
" Citizen, beware!
heri"
“ II No. No, indeed. But—"
“ Speak the truth I Who visits her i"
“ No one but an Englishman."
“ That is it ; an Englishman, a spy of Pitt and
Coburg.”
“ Just Heaven l is it possible i"
“ How. citizen! dost thou speak of Heaven!
Thou must be an aristocrat l”
“ No, indeed; it was but an old, bad habit, and
esca ed me unawares.”
“ ow often does the Englishman visit her!"
“ Daily."
Fillide uttered an exclamation.
" She never stirs out," said the porter. “ Her
sole occupations are in work and care of her in-
fant."
“ Her infant l"
Fillide made a bound forward. Nicot in vain
endeavoured to arrest her. She sprung up the
stairs; she paused not till she was before the
door indicated by the porter; it stood a‘ar; she
entered; she stood at the threshold, an beheld
that face, still so lovelyl The sight of so much
beauty left her hopeless And the child, over
whom the mother bent! she who had never been
a mother! she uttered no sound—the furies were
at work within her breast. Viola turned, and
saw her ; and, terrified by the strange apparition,
with features that expressed the deadliest hate,
and scorn, and vengeance, uttered a cry. and
snatched the child to her bosom. The ltalian
laughed aloud; turned, descended, and, gaining
the spot where Nicot still conversed with the
frightened porter, drew him from the house.
When they were in the open street, she halted
abruptly, and said, “ Avenge me, and name thy
price i"
“ My price, sweet onel is but permission to
love thee. Thou wilt fly with me tomorrow
night; thou wilt possess thyself of the passports
and the plan l"
“ And they—”
“Shall, before then, find their asylum in the
Coneiergerie. The guillotine shall requite thy
wrongs."
“Do this, and I inn satisfied,” said Fillide,
firmly.
And they spake no more till they regained
the house. But when she there, looking up to
the dull building, saw the windows of the room
which the belief of Glyndon's love had once
made a paradise, the tiger relented at the heart;
something of the woman gushed back upon her
nature, dark and savage as it was. She pressed
the arm on which she leaned oonvulsively, md
exclaimed, “ No, nol not himl denounce her; let
her perish; but I have slept on his bosom—not
him I"
“ It shall be as thou wilt,” said N icot, with a
devil‘s sneer; “ but he must be arrested for the
moment N0 harm shall happen to him, for no
accuser shall appear. But her—thou wilt not
relent for herl" _
Fillide turned upon him her eyes, and their
dark glance was sufieient answer.
Dost thou dare to pity


ZANONI. 1 1 7

1 CHAPTER VI. ‘the sumptuous mansion and the griping covet-
,J was ‘ l lousness of the worthy Citizen 0 .
w- “ loin ; l l ' . . -
or; Che guiiiiigeersislliiopiizgiifisi To this personage, then, Glyndon musingly
l bent his way. It was true, as he had darkly said
‘to Viola, that in proportion as he had resisted
‘the spectre, its terrors had lost their influence.
iThe time had come at last, when, seeing crime
and vice in all their hideousness, and in so vast a.
Tm: Italian did not overrate that craft of sim- ‘ theatre, he had found that in vice and crime there
ulation proverbial with her country and her sex. i are deadlier horrors than in the eyes of a photo-
N at a word, not a look that day revealed to Glyn- L tom-fear. His native nobleness began to return
don the deadly change that had converted devo- ; to him. As he passed the streets, he revolved in
tion into hate. He himself, indeed, absorbed in his mind projects of future re entancc and re-
his own schemes, and in reflections on his own ‘ formation. He even meditate , as a just return
strange destiny, was no nice observer. But her ‘ for F illide's devotion, the sacrifice of all the rea-
manner, milder and more subdued than usual, , sonings of his birth and education. ‘He would
produced a softening effect upon his meditations repair whatever errors he had committed against
towards the evening: and he then began to con- ,her. by the self-immolation of marriage with one
verse with her on the certain hope of escape, and 1 little congenial with himself. He who had once
on the future that would await them in less un- irevolted from marriage with the noble and gen-
v.1»- GIL Lia, can!“ xv., 3.
“ Post ignem ethereal domo
Subdncmm, nmcles et nova fehrlum
Torrls incubuit cohors."—Ho|u'r.
hallowed lands.
“ And thy fair friend,” said Fillide, with an
averted eye and a false smile, “ who was to be
our companion? Thou hast resigned her, Nicot
tells me. in favour of one in whom he is interest-
ed. Is it so i"
“He told thee this i" returned Glyndon, eva-
lsively. “ Weill does the change content tlicc l"
“ Traitor i” muttered Fillide -, and she rose sud-
denly, approached him, parted the long hair from
his forehead caressingly, and pressed her lips
convulsively on his brow.
“ This were too fair a head for the doomsman," ‘
mid she, with a slight laugh, and, turning away,
appeared occupied in preparations for their de—
are.
The next morning when he rose, Glyndon did
not see the Italian; she was absent from the
house when he left it. It was necessary that he
should once more visit 0 before his final de-
parture, not only to anange for Nicot's partici-

i tle Viola l—he had learned in that world of
wrong to know that right is right, and that Heav-
, en did not make the one sex to be the victim of
‘ the other. The young visions of the beautiful
and the good rose once more before him, and
‘ along the dark ocean of his mind lay the smile of
reawakening virtue, as a path of moonlight. Nev-
er, perhaps, had the condition of his soul been so
1 elevated and unselfish.
In the mean while, Jean Nicot, equal] ab-
sorbed in dreams of the future, and already, in
,his own mind, laying out to the best advantage
the gold of the friend he was about to betray,
took his way to the house honoured by the resi-
‘dence of Robespierre. He had no intention to
comply with the relenting prayer of Fillide, that
ithe life of Glyndon should be spared. He
ithonght with Barrera, “ il 11‘]; a que lens mom
\qui ne revient pas." In all men who have de-
Ivoted themselves toany study or any art with
isutficient pains to attain a certain degree of ex-
\ .
, ellence, there must be a fund of energy unmea-


pation in the flight, but lest any suspicion should
ave arisen to thwart or endanger the plan he [ surably above that of the ordinary herd. Usu-
had adopted. 0—, though not one of the im- ‘ally this energy is concentred on the objects of
mediate coterie of Robes ierre, and, indeed, se-itheir professional ambition, and leaves them,
cretly hostile to him, ha possessed the art of itherefore, apathetic to the other pursuits of men.
keeping well with each faction as it rose to power. But where those objects are denied—where the
Sprung from the dregs of the populace, he had, 1 stream has not its legitimate vent, the energy,
nevertheless, the grace and vivacity so often Iirritated and aroused, possesses the whole being,
found impartiallv among every class in France. and, if not wasted on desultory schemes, or if
He had contrive to enrich himself—none knew
how—in the course of his rapid career. He be-
ma, indeed, ultimately one of the wealthiest
proprietors of Paris, and at that time kepta
splendid and hospitable mansion. He was one
of those whom, from various reasons, Robespierre
deigned to favour; and he had often saved the
proscribed and suspected, by procuring them
passports under disguised names, and advising
their method of escape. But 0 was a man
who took this trouble only for the rich. “ The
incorruptible Maximilien," who did not want the
tyrant’s faculty of penetration, robably saw
ugh all his manreuvres, and) the avarice

not purified by conscience and riuciple, becomes
in dangerous and destructive e ement in the so—
cial system, through which it wanders in riot and
disorder. Hence, in all wise monarchies—nay,
in all well constituted states, the peculiar care
with which channels are opened for every art
and every science; hence the honour aid to
their cultivators by subtle and thoughtfullstates-
men, who, perhaps, for themselves, see nothing
in a icture but coloured canvass—nothing in a
prob em but an ingenious puzzle. No state is
lever more in danger than when the talent that
should be consecrated to peace has no occupation
,hut political intrigue or personal advancement.

which he cloaked beneath his charity. But itl'l‘alent unhonoured is talent at war with men.
was noticeable that Robespierre frequently seem- 1, And here it is noticeable that the class of actors
ed to wink at, nay, partially to encourage such having been the most degraded by the public
vices in men whom he meant hereafter to de' opinion of the old regime, their very (lust depriv-
stroy. as would tend to lower them in the pub— l ed of Christian burial, no men (with certain e!-
lic estimation, and to contrast with his own aus- ceptions 1n the company especially favoured l3
tere and unassailnble integrity and pun‘sm. And, , the court) were more relentless and rcVengef
doubtless, he often grimly smiled in his sleeve at i among the scourges of the revolution. 1n the


1 1 8 ZANONI.
savage Collot d'Herbois, mauvais comedian, were he was resolved ! for he hated both (to say n0~
imbodied the wrongs and the vengeance of a thing of his old but never-to-be-forgotten grudge
class. against Zanoni)—Viola had scorned him, Glyn-
Now the energy of Jean Nicot had never been don had served, and the thought of gratitude
sufficiently directed to the art he professed. Even was as intolerable to him as the memo of in-
in his earliest youth, the political disquisitions of l snlt. But why, now, should he fly from rancel
his master, David, had distracted him from the he could possess himself of Glyndon’s gold; he
more tedious lnbours of the easel. The defects doubted not that he could so master Fillide by
of his person had imbittered his mind; the Athe- her wrath and jealousy that he could command
ism of his benefactor had deadened his conscience. i her acquiescence in all he proposed. The papers
For one great excellence of Religion—above all, 1 he had purloined—Desmoulin’s correspondence
the Religion of the Cross- is that it raises PA- 1 with Glyndon—while it ensured the fate of the
rinses first into a Virtue, and next into :1 Hope. { latter, might be eminently serviceable to Robes-
Take away the doctrine of another life, of requi- 5 pierre ; might induce the tyrant to forget his own
tal hereafter, of the smile of a Father upon our ‘ old liaisons with Hebert, and enlist him among the
sufferings and trials in our ordeal here, and what allies and tools of the King of Tenor. Hopes of
becomes of Patiencel But, without patience, advancement, of wealth, of a career, again rose
what is maul and what a people? Without l before him. This correspondence, dated shortly
patience, Art never can be high; without pa~ibefore Camille Desmoulin’s death, was written
tience, Liberty never can be perfected. By wild with that careless and daring imprudence which
throes, and impetuous, aimless struggles, Intel- I characterized the spoiled child of Danton. It
Iect seeks to soar from Penury, and a. Nation to 1 spoke openly of designs against Robespierre ; it
struggle into Freedom. And wo—thus unforti- ' named confederates whom the t'rant desired
fied, guideless, and unendnring—wo to both ! l only a popular pretext to crush. t was a new
Nicot was a villain as a boy. In most crimi- I instrument of death in the hands of the Death-
nals, however abandoned, there are touches of 1 compeller. What greater gift could he bestow
humanity—relics of virtue; and the true deline- on Mnximilien the Incorruptible?
ator of mankind oftcn incurs the taunt of bad i Nursing these thoughts, he arrived atlast be- ‘
hearts and dull minds, for showing that even the I fore the 'door of Citizen Dupleix. Around the
worst alloy has some particles of gold, and even threshold were grouped, in admired confusion,
the best that comes stamped from the mint of, some eight or ten sturdy Jacobins, the volunta
Nature have some adulterntion of the dross. 1 body- uard of Rohespierrc ; tall fellows, will
But there are exceptions, though few, to the gene 1 ammo and insolent With the power that reflects
eral rule; exceptions, when the conscience lies ‘ power, mingled with women, young and- fair, and
utterly dead, and when good or bad are things gayly dressed, who had come, upon the rumour
indifferent but as means to some selfish end. So , that Mnximilien had had an attack of bile, to in-
was it with the protégé of the atheist. Envy , quire tonderl of his health; for Robespierre.
and hate filled up his whole being, and the con— strange thong it seem, was the idol of the sex!
sciousness of superior talent only made him curse Through this cortége, stationed without the
the more all who passed him in the sunlight with | door, and reaching up the stairs to the landing-
a fairer form or happier fortunes. But, monster l‘ place—for Robcspierre's apartments were not spa-
though he was, when his murderous fingers grip- ] cioua enough to afford sufficient antechamber for
ad the throat of his benefactor, Time, and that‘lovécs so numerous and miscellaneous—Nicot
ferment of all evil passions, the Reign of Blood, \ forced his way; and fill' from friendl or flatter-
had made in the deep hell of his heart a deeper , ing were the ex essions that regal his ears.
still. Unable to exercise his calling (for, even “4114,10 joli olichinelle!” said acomely mn<
had he dared to make his name prominent, revo- i tron, whose robe his obtrusive :uid angular el-
lutions are no season for painters ; and no ninn— i bows cruelly discomposed. “ But how could one
no ! not the richest and proudest magnate of the , expect gallantry from such a scarecrow !"
land, has so great an interest in pence and order, “ Citizen, I beg to advise thee* that thou art
has so high and essential a stake in the well-be treading on my feet. I beg thy pardon, but now
ing of society, as the poet and the artist), his 1 I look at thine, I see the hall is not wide enough
whole intellect, ever restless and unguided, was i for them." .
left to ponder over the images of guilt most con- , “ Ho ! Citizen Nicot,” cried a Jacobin, shoulder-
genial to it. He had no Future but in this life ; ing his formidable bludgeon, “ and what brings
and how, in this life, had the men of power i thee hither? thinkest thou that Hebert's crimes
around him, the great wrestless for dominion,I are forgotten already? Ofi', sport of Nature! and
thriveni All that was good, pure, unselfish— ’ thank the EM: Supreme that he made thee in-
whether among the Royalists or Republicans l significant enough to be forgiven”
-swept to the shambles, and the deathsmen leftv “A pretty face to look out of the National
alone in the pom and purple of their victims! Window]? said the woman whose robe the pain-
Nobler paupers t ian Jean Nicot would despair; l ter had rufiled.
and Poverty Would rise in its ghastly multitudes 1 “ Citizens,” said Nicot, white with passion, but
to cut the throat of Wealth, and then gash itself i constraining himself so that his words seemed to
limb by limb, if Patience, the Angel of the Poor,,
sat not by its Ride, Poll",le With 5010"“! finger to i " The eonrtenus use of the plural was proscribed at Pn~
the life 10 00mg! And now, as Nicol; neared the ‘ ris. :I‘he Sociétés P0[\lllllll'0-'I had decided that, whoever
of the viewer» he began w mediate :mmnttenarzsxLeewaardizimm
reversal of his plans of the previous day; not , lleswnsavrilten'illn “loo-l n’honore dull/liio'en, a n
that, be [altered in his resolution to denounce ‘ n Inlays"!!! Take away murder from the much Re-
Glyndon' and Viola would necessarily share his volntlon, and It becomes the greatest force ever played
. . ,er th I !
fate as a companion and accomplice—no, there, toiling 31553;,


1 20 ZANONI.
The old marquise lifted up her eyes to heaven f I “ But Aristides denounced him.”
and murmured, “ Quel Ange !” ' “ Nevertheless, are such men safe about thy
Robespierre waved his hand impatiently, and , person i"
the old woman, with a sigh, patted his pale cheek, ’ “ Humph l that is true.” And Robespierre,
kissed his forehead, and submissively withdrew. \ drawing out his ket-book, wrote a memoran-
The next moment, the smiling, sober man, we r dum in it, replaced“: in his vest, and resumed:
have before described, stood, bending low, before- “ What else of Tallien l" .
the tyrant. And well might Robespierre wel- “ Nothing more. He and Legendre, with the
come one of the subtlest agents of his power; one unknown, walked to the Jar-din hiqalité, and there
on whom he relied more than the clubs of his Ja-i parted. I saw Tallien to his house. But I have
cobins, the tongues of his orator-s, the bayonets of , other news. Thou badst me Watch for those who
his armies; Guérin, the most renowned 0f hisl threaten thee in secret letters.”
écoulcura, the searching, rying, universal, omni- i “ Guérinl Hast then detected them ? Hnst
present s y, who glided ike a sunbeam through thou—hast thou --—"
chink an crevice, and brought to him intelli- , And the tyrant, as he spoke, opened and shut
gence, not only of the deeds, but the hearts of ‘ both his hands. as if already grasping the lives of
men! . , the writers, and one of those convulsive grimaces,
“ Well, citizen, well! and what of Tallien l" ‘ that seemed like an epile tic affection, to which
“ This morning, early, two minutes after eight, -‘ he was subject, distorted his features.
he went out." \ “ Citizen, Ithink I have found one. Thou must
“ So early? hem !"
know, that among those most disaffected, is the
“He passed Rue des Quatre Fils, Rue du Tem- painter Nicot."
ple, Rue de La Réunion, an Mantis, Rue Martin ;.
nothing observable, except that —-" I
“ 'I'hat what i" i
“ He amused himself at a stall in bargaining?
for some books” -
“Bargaining for booksl Aha, the charlatanl,‘
he would cloak the intriguant under the savant ! ‘
Well I” [
“At last, in the Rue des Fosses Montmartrefl
an individual in a blue surtout (unknown,) ac— ,
coated him. They walked together about the
street some minutes, and were joined by
gendre.”
“ Legendre! approach, Payanl Legendre, thou]
hearest l”
“I went into a fruihstall and hired two littlei
ls to go and play at ball within hearing. 'I'hcyi
eard Legendre say, ‘ I believe his power is wear-i
ing itself out.’ And Tallien answered, ‘ And hisz
self too. I would not give three months' pur-‘i
chase for his life.’ I do not know, citizen, if they 1
meant thee I” i
“ Nor L citizen,” answered Robespierre, with al
fell smile, succeeded by an ex ression of gloomyi
thought. “ Ha !" he muttere , “I am young yet ‘
—in the prime of life. I commit no cxcesm. No;
my constitution is sound—sound. Anything far-
ther of Tallien l”
“ Yes. The woman whom he loves—Teresa de
Fontenai—who lies in prison, still mntinués to
correspond with him ; to urge him to save her by
thy destruction This my listeners overheard.
His servant is the messenger between the prisoner}
and himself." ‘
“ Sol The servant shall be seized in the open
streets of Paris. The Reign of Terror is not over
yet. With the letters found on him. if such their"
context, I will pluck Tnllien from his benches in
the Convention. '
Robespierre rose, and, after walking a few mo-
ments to and fro the room in thought, opened the
door, and summoned one of the J acobins without.
To him he gave his orders for the watch and ar-
rest of Tallien‘s servant, and threw himself again ;
“Stay, stay 1” said Robespicrre, oponin a
manuscript book, bound in red morocco or R0 -
icrre was neat and precise, even in is death-
ists,) and turning to an alphabetical index—“ N i-
cotl I have him—atheist, sans-culollc (I hate
slovens)—fricnd of Hébertl Aha! NB. Réné
Dumas knows of his early career and crimes.
Proceed i"
“This Nicot has been suspected of diffusing
tracts and pamphlets against thyself and the
Comité. Yesterday evening, when he was out,
his porter admitted me into his apartment, Rue
Beau~llepairc With my master-key I opened
his desk and escritoire. Ifound therein a draw-
ing of thyself at the guillotine; and underneath
was written, ‘Bawrreau do ton pug/a [is l’arrét de
ton vkdfiment 1‘ I compared the words with the
fragments of the various letters thou gavest me:
the handwriting tallies with one. See, I tore off
the writing."
Robcspierrc looked, smiled, and, as if his ven-
geance were already satisfied, threw himself on
his chair. “Itis well! I feared it was a more
powerful enemy. This man must be arrested at
once."
“ And he waits below. I brushed by him as I
ascended the stairs”
“Does he sol admit—nay-—hohl! holdl Gué-
rin, withdraw into the inner chamber till I sum-
mon thee again. Dear Payau, see that this Nioot
conceals no weapons.”
Payan, who was as brave as Robespicrre was
pusillnniinous, re ressed the smile of disdain
that quivered on ' lips a moment, and left the
room.
Meanwhile, Robespierre, with his head buried
in his bosom, seemed plunged in deep thought.
“Life is a melancholy thing, Oouthonl said he,
suddenly.
“Begging your pardon, I think death worse,”
unswored tho philanthropist. gently.
Robespierre made no re'oinder, but took from
his portefeuille that singular letter which was
found afterwards among his papers. and is mark-
into his chair. As the Jacobin departed, Guerin i ed LXI. in the published collection.*
whispered,
" is not that the Citizen Aristides l”
“ Yes; a faithful fellow, if he would Wash him-
self, and not swear so much."

“ Didst thou not guillotine his brother 1”
“Without doubt," it began, “ you are uneasy
at not. having earlier received news from me. Be
not alarmed; you know that I ought only to re
'Paplcrl inedlts, kc" vol. ii., p. 156.


ZANONL
121
ply by 0111’ courier; and, as he has been
Interrupted dam aa demiére course, that is the
cause of to delay. When you receive this, em-
ploy all dihgence to fly a theatre where you are
about to appear and disappear for the last time.
I “ Nay," said Nicot, apologetically, “we are all
liable to be deceived. I ceased to honour them
when thou didst declare against; for I disown
my own senses rather than thy justice."
“ Yes, I pretend to justice; that is the virtue

It Vere idle to recall to you all the reasons that I afi'cct,” said Robespierre, meekly; and with his
exfose you tolpcril. The last step that should , feline propensities he enjoyed, even in that criti-
plaee you mr n so ha dela ésidcnce, but brings 1 cal hour of vast schemes, of imminent danger,
you to the scafibd; and ie mob will spit oniof meditated revenge, the pleasure of playing
our time as it. has spat on those whom you have I‘ with a solitary victim.* “ And my justice shall
judged. Since, then, you have accumulated here ‘ no longer be blind to thy services, good Nicot.
a sufficient treasure for existence, I await you with Thou knowest this Glyndon 8”
grcat impatience, to laugh with you at the part} “ Yes, well, intimately. He was my friend,
you have played in the troubles of a nation as 1 but I would give up my brother if he were one
mdulous as it is avid of novelties. Take your , of the ‘indulgmls.’ I am not ashamed to say
part awording to our arrangements; all is pre- 5 that I have received favours from this man."
pared. I conclude: our courier waits. I expect; “ Aha! and thou dost honestly hold the doc-
itrine, that where a man threatens my life, ll
our reply.”
“Musingy and slowly, the Dictator devoured
Cie contents of this eiistle. "No," he said to
.‘imself, “no; he who as tasted power can no
longer enjoy repose. Yet, Danton, Danton! thou
'vert right; better to be a poor fisherman, than to
govern men."*
. The door opened, and Payan re-appeared, and
whispercd Robespierre, “ All is safe! See the
nan !"
The Dictator, satisfied, summoned his attend-
mt Jacobin to conduct Nioot to his presence.
The painter entered with a fearless expression
in his deformed features, and stood erect before
Robespierre, who scanned him with a sidelong
e.
It is remarkable that most of the principal
actors of the Revolution were singularly hideous
in appearance; from the colossal ugliness of Mi-
rabeuu and Danton, or the villanous ferocity in
the countenances of David and Simon, to the
filthy squalor of Marat, the sinister and bilious
meanness of the Dictator’s features. But Robes-
picrre, who was said to resemble a cat, had also
a cat’s cleanness; and his prim and daintv dross,
his shaven smoothness, the womanly whiteness
Of his lean hands, made yet more remarkable
the disorderly rut‘fianism that characterized the
attire and mien of the painter-mm»culotte.
“And so, citizen," said Robespicn'e, mildly,
“thou wouldst mark with me! I know thy
merits and civism ave been overlooked too long.
Thou wouldst ask some suitable provision in the
state? Scruple not; say on i”
“ Virtuous Robespierre, tot' qui eclaires l'uni-
nora, I come not to ask a favour, but to render
service to the state. I have discovered a corres-
pondence that lays open a conspiracy, of which
man of the actors are yet unsuspected." And
he p need the papers on the table. Itobespierre
seized, and run his eye over them rapidly and
eagerly.
“ Good 1 good i” he muttered to himself; “this
is all I wanted. Barrere—Legendrel Ihave
them '. Camille Desmoulins was but their dupe.
I loved him once; I never loved them! Citizen
Nicot, I thank thee. I observe these letters are
addrer to an Englishman. What Frenchman
but must distrust these English wolves in sheep's
clothing! France wants no longer citizens of
the world; that force ended with Anacharsis
Clootz I bei,r pardon, Citizen Nicot; but Clootz
and Hebert were thy friends.”
° " II naudrnit union," said Danton. in his dungeon,
' lire an pawn pécheur 710 do goiwerucr lea honinml"
‘ persoipld favours are to be forgotten i"
“A 1"
“Good citizen! kind Nicotl oblige me by
writing the address of this Glyndon."
Nicot stooped to the table, and suddenly, when
the pen was in his hand, a thought flashed across
; hiln, and he paused, embarrassed and confused.
’ “ Write on, kind Nicot."
The painter slowly obeyed.
" Who are the other fiuuiliars of Glyndon l"
i “It was that I was about to name to thee,
"representant," said Nicot. “He visits daily a
woman, a foreigner, who knows all his secrets:
she affects to be poor, and to support her child
‘ by industry ; but she is the wife of an Italian of
immense wealth, and there is no don t that she
has moneys which are spent in corrupting the
citizens. She should be seized and arrested.”
" Write down her name also.”
" But no time is to be lost; for I know that
both have a design to escape from Paris this
very night."
" Our government is prompt, good Nioot-
never fear. Humph ! hum h l" and Robcspierre
took the paper on which icot had written, and,
stooping over it—for he was nearsighted—add-
ed. smilingly, “ Dost thou always write the same
hand, citizen? This seems almost like a dis-
guised character."
“I should not like them to know who de- \
nounced them, representant."
“ Good! good! Thy virtue shall be reward—
ed: trust mc. Sal-u! at fraternité !"
Robespierre half rose as he spoke, and Nicot
withdrew.
" Ho, there! without I" cried the Dictator,
ringing his bell; and as the ready Jacohin at.-
tcnded the summons, " Follow that man, Jean
Nicot. The instant he has cleared the house,
seize him. At once to the Gonciergerie with
him! Stay! nothing against the law: there is
thy warrant. The public accuser shall have my
instruction. Away! quick 1"
The Jacobin vanished. All trace of illness,
of infirmity, had gone from the valetudinarian;
ihe stood erect 0n the floor, his face twitching
,convulsively, and his arms folded. “ H0! Gué-
rin l" (the spy rte-appeared) " take the<o ad-
dresses! Within an hour this Englishman and


" The most detestable anecdote of this pecnllar hy
crlsy ln Rohcspierre, is that in which he is records u)
have Ienderly pressed the hand of his old school frlend,
Camille Desmoulins, the day that he signed the warrant
for his arrest.


122
ZANONI.
this woman must be in prison: their revelations
will aid me against worthier foes. They shall
die ! they shall perish with the rest on the 10th,
the third day from thisl There l" and he wrote
hastily, “ there, also, is thy warrant 1 Oh" l"
“And now, Couthon—l’a an—we will daily
no longer with Tallien an his crew. I have
information that the Convention will not attend
the féte on the 10th. We must trust only to the
sword of the law. I must compose my thoughts,
prepare my harangue. Tomorrow I will reap-
pear at the Convention; tomorrow the bold St
ust joins us, fresh from our victorious armies;
to-morrow, from the tribune, I will dart the thun-
derbolt on the masked enemies of France; to-
morrow I will demand, in the face of the country,
the heads of the conspirators l"

CHAPTER VIIL
“ Le glaive est contre ml wont do tomes psrtes."
LA HAan, Jeanne dc .N'aplu, act iv., an. 4.
In the mean time. Glyndon, after an audience
of some length with C , in which the final
preparations were arranged, sanguine of safety,
and fort-seeing no obstacle to escape, bent his
way back to Fillide. Suddenly, in the midst of
his cheerful thoughts, he fancied he heard a voice,
too well and too terribly recognised, hissing in
his ear, “What! thou wouldst defy and escape
me! thou wouldst go back to virtue and content K
It is in vain—it is too late l No, Iwill not haunt
thee; human footste 5, no less inexorable, dog
thee now. Me thou alt not see again till in
the dungeon, at midnight before thy doom ! Be-
hold l"
And Glyndon, mechanically turnin his head,
saw close behind him the stealthy ure of a
man, whom he had observed before, but with
little heed, pass and re-pass him, as he quitted
the house of citizen 0 lnstautl and in-
stinctively he knew that he was we ed—that
he was pursued. The street he was in was ob-
scure and deserted, for the day was oppremively
sultry, and it was the hour when few were
abroad, either on business or pleasure. Bold as
he was, an icy chill shot through his heart. He
knew too well the tremendous system that then
reigned in Paris, not to be aware of his danger.
As the sight of the first plague-boil to the victim
of the Pestilence, was die first sight of the sha-
dowy spy to that of the Revolution: the watch,
the arrest, the trial, the guillotine—these made
the regular and rapid ste of the monster
that the anarchists called wl He breathed
hard—he heard distinctly the loud beating of his
heart. And so he paused, still and motionless,
gazing upon the shadow that halted also beside
nn
Presently, the absence of all allies to the spy,
the solitude of the streets, re-animnted his cou-
rage; he made a step towards his pursuer, who
retreated as be advanced. “ Citizen, thou fol~
lowest me," he said. “ Thy business 1"
“ Surely," answered the man, with a depre-


eating smile, “the streets are broad enough for
bothl Thou art not so bad a republican as to
arrogate all Paris to thyself l”
“ Go on first, then. I make way for thee."
The man bowed, dofl'ed his hat politely, and
passed forward. The next moment Glyndon
plunged into a winding lane, and fled fast through
a labyrinth of streets, passages, and alleys. By
degrees he com osed himself, and, looking be-
hind, imagined tiat he had baffled the pursuer;
he then, by a circuitous route, bent his way once
; more to his home. As he emerged into one of
‘the broader streets, a passenger, wrapped in a
mnutle, brushing so quickly by him that he did
not observe his countenance, whispered, “Cla-
rence Glyndon, you are dogged; follow me i” w
and the stranger walked quickly before him.
Clarence turned, and sickened once more to see
at his heels, with the same servile smile on his
face, the pursuer he fancied he had escaped. He
forgot the injunction of the stranger to follow
him, and, perceiving a crowd gathered close at
hand, round a caricature shop. dived amid them,
and, nining another street, altered the direction
he he before taken, and, after nlong and breath-
less course, gained, without once more seeing the
spy, a distant uartier of the city. Here, in-
deed, nll seeme so serene and fair, that his art-
ist'eye, even in that imminent hour, rested with
pieasure on the scene. It was a comparatively
roud spuca, formed by one of the noble unis.
The Seine flowed majestically along, with is
and craft resting on its surface. The sun gilt a
thousand spires and domes, and gleamed on the
white palaces of a fallen chivalry. Here, fatigued
and panting, he paused an instant, and a cooler
air from the river fanned his brow. “Awhile,
at least, I am safe here,” he murmured ; and as
he spoke, some thirty paces behind him he be-
held the sp l He stood rooted to the spot:
wearied an spent as he was, escape seemed no
longer ossible—the river on one side (no bridge
at hnn ,) and the long row of mansions closing
up the other. As he halted, he heard laughter
and obscene songs from ahouse it little in his
rear, between himself and the spy. It was a
café fearfully known in that quarter. Hither
often resorted the black troop of Henriot—the
minions and [missions of Robespicrre. The spy,
then, had hunted the victim within the jaws of
the hounds. The man slowly advanced, and,
pausing before the opened window of the café,
put his head through the aperture, us if to address
and summon forth its armed inmates.
At that very instant, and while the spy's head
were thus turned from him, standing in the half-
open gateway of the house immediately before
him, he perceived the stranger who had warned;
the figure, scarcely distinguishable through the
mantle that wrapped it, motioned him to enter.
He sprang noiseless“ through the friendly _open-
ing; the door closed; hrenthleasly he followed
the stranger up a flight of broad stairs, and through
la suit of empty rooms, initil, having gained a
ismachabinet, his conductor doffed the large but
‘ and the long mantle that had hitherto concealed
his shape and features, and Glyndon beheld h-
lnoni.


ZANONI. 1 23
CHAPTER IX. sitor he consulted, execruted all the practitioners
of the unlawful spells invoked,
“Think not my magic wonders wrought by aid
(if Slyginn nngels summoned up from hell : ' Per lsl'ormr Coclio o Flegetoiite.‘
Seorn‘d and uccuned be those who have essny‘d
g" gloomy Div‘B-i uhdhAfi‘im "1 mme l But in his sorrows and his wrongs, in the prison
lit ii ‘ rce ion 0 i e secret powers ‘ t .
Of minggd sgrings, in Nature‘s inmmt cell, l “f h“ Mmusev km," you “9" thin T3350
Of herbs in cumin of her greenest bower-i, i found 1113 801300, his escape, in the recognition of
And of the moving slurs o'er mountain tops and tow- . a holy and spirmml Theurgia, Of a magic that
iiil'mt't Translation of Tam, cant. xiv., xlili. fizzli€mqwatrg (infieluoigzliegzrfibgfigi 2':
. ,, . ‘ deeply versed as he was, forhis age, in the mys-
- Y?“ are. safe herc' young Enghfllumn ! Bald ‘ teries of the nobler l’latonism, which hints at the
Zanoni, motioning Glyndon to a seat Fortunate secrets of an the 8mm motherhoods fmm the
5" 3°“ "'1" I.°°m° 9“ Wurlmck at 1““ l" ‘Cimititwt w the litter Rosicrucian dishriminates
“ Far hqppler had It been A we had “over [Pit ! l in his lovely verse between the blsick art of Isme-
. Yet even in these last hours of my fate II'GJOICO no and the lorio'us lore of the Enchanter who
tolonk once more on the face of that ominous and counsel! audg “ides u n their errand the Charm
mymgfious beng to whom I can “scribe an the pious of the lion Lniiiii His not the charms
"fienngs PM“ km“ Hm, “1"” "1°" “halt i wrought by the aid of the Sty’gim Rebels,* but
not Pan” mm or elude me ! Here’ heft”? we ‘ the perception of the secret powers of the fount-
thou Shim unravel to To the dark emgma’ sin and the herb, the Arcana of the unknown na-
lfam' (ff it}? met mj'?°wl‘;l N h t6", .d ture, and the various motions of the stain. His,
b Has. t .to.“ "lu' “BY _ ‘im‘ _ .iop yth 'bsm the holy limuits of Lebanon and Carmel;beneath
B [20mg inf-7mg 3' ddst ii’ a?“ l on 2-7 ,his feet he saw the clouds, the snows, the hues of
u w are “re Wm. on . me me .1. Iris, the generations of the rains and dews. Did
31?; Yam “We “Emmi tile ,1:st 95 fl‘y “Pmtfi , the amount Hermit who converted that Enchan-
that glotxmlt ee to 0". wt] 11 g) 1' d notl ttf _ ter (no fabulous being, but the type of allspirit
' e r ea was one o a ‘ am am e .thnt Would aspire through Nature up to God)
mendous fears! nay did I not ofi‘er to resign to - t - -
thee the heart that’wns mighty enough, while Baum Iliay mlihiihe‘? $212“:
mine, Glyiidon, to content mei Was it not thine e 8‘? a “so mm L n u 0 . em.)
own during and resolute choice to brave the ini-iand dire“ tlle to worthy lind‘l' Ami m this
tiation i Of thine own free will didst thou make l grand conwpuon 9f the poet hes the seer“ oi the-
true Theurgia, which startles your ignorance in a
Mejnuur thv master and his lore thy studv l" | . . .
K v i . . . ~ . more learned day With puerile apprehensions, and
But whence came the irresistible desires of l _ - mm of a sick wads dr ‘ in
that wild and unholy knowledgci I knew them - , . . 1 _ a
not till thine evil eye tell u n me, and I was Ag?“ Lima: Piquseii'findt-aga? rag-lgnwdt'f In
! w" into the magic atmosp ere of thy beingwnges arrenio , o :1 cm zn ion In i_eren rem
that which now merges the indiVidnzil in the state,
“Thou en'esti the desires were in their and . . .
. . . ‘ there exxsted men of ardent minds, and an intense
whether in one direction or the other, would have desire of ] owledga In the mighty and sole
2:1? d gang?“ fiitxgntgifingg: kingdoms in which they dwelt, there were no tur-
. . - y _ _ . ibnlent and earthly channels to work off the fever
ing; is there not mystery every whciei Can thine of th - . d s_t . th t. m f
e trace the ripening of the grain beneath thcl elzhmmlf' “Lb m .etefi“ “luc 111110“ . °
grthl In the moral and the physical “'Oi‘llllmms mug w w no m ed; cm“ p'erce'
. . l no valour could force its way, the thirst for wis-
figiei mazetgmmngif’m um“ dom nlone reigned in the hearts of those who re-
“ cat the“ disown those powenfl dost um“ ceived its study as a heritage from sire to son.
. . Hence even in our ini rfect records of the re-
com’ess thyself an impostor? or Wilt thou dare to t ’ y] p6] - p
tell me that thou art indeed sold to the Evil One i l greats 0f bu - w} 9‘ you find that” m the
earliest ages, Philosophy descended not to the
:53 Whose familiar has haunted me mgh'", business and hem of men. It dwelt amid the
,, It matters not what I am,” returned zanoni ; ! wonders of the loftier creation; it sought to ana-
“ it matters only whether I can aid thee to exor- l 1y” the fommum 0‘ matmr’ the emcntiuls of the
. . !, prevailing soul; to read the mysteries of the
use thy dismal phantom, and return once more to _ stanza orbs; to dive into those depms of Nature
v
the wholesome air of this common life. Some- 1- - -
i . . . h Zoroaster is said, b the schoohnen first
thing. however, Will I tell thee, not to vindicate m ‘ c - y . , . '
myself. but the Heaven nnd.the Nature that thy l :0 lmleuilfivtitislnz fits
doubts mnlim" ‘ mag]. . . ’
. h . then, arose some men, who, amid the vanities and
Ingzxzrrk‘lzaused a.m°ment' and resumed' with a v delusions of their class, imagined that they detect-
“ ' ‘ , w ed gleums of a bri, hter and a stendier lore. The
. In "FY yo;mger day“; tiwif hast doubting; read fancied an affinity Existiuv among all the works 0%
H‘kth diggm' ‘7 R." gm?“ Chmunn Poet" Whose Mme' 1 Nature, and that in the llziwliest lay the secret atr
‘ e d "'93:"ng it celebmufd' c‘qm'iyie*earul i traction that might conduct them upward to the
crownc W1 owers culled in Paradise. No i 10m est 1, C “t - d, d H , M
spirit was more imbued with the knightly s'uper- e “fies passe an ma Wt",






“mom! 0f the tm'lei and surely the Poet 0f Jem- ' See this remarkable passage, which does. indeed, not
5819!!) hath suficiently, to satisfy even the Inqui- nni‘aiihfuliy represent the doctrine of thc Phylhngorean
and the Pintouist, in Team, cunt. xiv._ stanz'is xii. lo xlvii.
(Ger. Lib.) They are beiiui'ifully ininslnted hv Witteri-
“ UMP" '99“ 't Avrcenlily. it would'seem. to the notion oflnmblichiu
Dl rose colt in Parndlsoinflnru." and Pintinus, that the universe is an animal; so that
Tn'ot Gen Lib-t "-1 l- them is sympathy MNl communication between one part
and the other ; in the smallest part may be the subtlelt


ZANONI.
125
failed to accom lish; but I can give thee the next ‘ it green in the distance, the sun glancing through
best boon, r the fairest—I can reconcile 1
thee to the 'ly world, and place peace between ?
thy conscience and thyseli"
“ Wilt thou promise?" !
“ By their sweet lives, I romise !" ,*
Glyndon looked and believed He whispered;
the address to the house whither his fatal step nl- \
read had brought wo and doom. 1
“gless thee for this!“ exclaimed Zanoni, pas-1
donately, “ and thou shalt be blessed! What r l
couldst thou not perceive that at the entrance to x
all the grander worlds dwell the race that intimi- 1
date and awel Who in thy daily world ever left
the old regions of Custom and Prescription, and
felt not the first seizure of the shapeless and
nameless Fear 3 Everywhere around thee, where
men ire and labour, though they see it not—
in the c oeet of the sage, in the counsel of the
demagogue, in the camp of the warrior—every-
where cowers and darkens the Unntterable Hor-
ror. But thcre, where thou hast ventured, alone
is the tom visible,- and never will it cease to
haunt, till thou canst pass to the Infinite, as the
aeraph, or retum to the Familiar, as a child ! But
answer me this: When, seeking to adhere to some
calm resolve of virtue, the Phantom hath stalked
suddenly to thy side; when its Voice hath whis-
pered thee despair; when its ghastly eyes would
scare thee back to those scenes of earthly craft or
riotous excitement, from which, as it leaves thee
to worse fees to the soul, its presence is ever ab-
sent, hast thou never bravely resisted the spectre
and thine own horror? hast thou never said,
‘ Come what may, to Virtue I will cling 7’ "
“ Aim l" answered Glyndon, “only of late have
I dared to do so.” 7
“ And thou hast felt then that the Phantom

grew more dim and its power more faint."
“ It is true."
“ Rejoice, then i thou hast overcome the true ,
the ew-trees; he saw the tomb where father and
mo er lay united, and the spire pointing up to
heaven, the symbol of the hopes of those who
consigned the ashes to the dust ; in his ear
the bells. pcnling, as on a Sabbath day; this
all the visions of anxiety and awe that had
haunted and convulscd ; youth, boyhood, child-
hood, came back to him With innocent desires and
hopes: he thought he fell upon his knees to pro .
He woke—he woke in delicious tears ; he is t
that the Phantom was fled forever. He looked
round—Zanoni was gone. On the table lay these
lines, the ink et wet:
“I will fin ways and means for thy escape.
At nightfall, as the clock strikes nine, a boat shall
wait thee on the river before this house; the boat-
mnn will guide thee to a retreat where thou mayst
rest in safety, till the Reign of Terror, which nears
its close, be past. Think no more of the sensual
love that lured, and well-nigh lost; thee. It be-
trayed, and would have destroyed. Thou wilt
regain thy land in safety—long years yet spared
thee to muse over the past, and to redeem it.
For thy future, be thy dream thy guide, and thy
tears th baptism.”
The lishman obeyed the injunctions of the
letter, and found their truth.

CHAPTER X.
“ Quid mlrnre mess tot in mm corporc forums 7"
Pnorln'r.
ZANON I TO MBYNOUB.
“Sm; is in one of their prisons—their inexor-
able prisons. It is Robes icrre's order—I have
terror and mystery of the ordeal Resolve is the l tracked the cause to Glyn 011- This. them made
first success Rejoice, for the exorcism is sure! that terrible connexion between their fates which
Thou art not one of those who, denying a life to I I could not unravel. but Which (till severed as it
come, are the victims of the Inexorable Horror. How is) wrapped Glyndon himself in the me
Oh, when shall men leam, at last, that if the Greg; cloud that concealed her. In prison—in prison!
Religion inculcates so rigidly the necessity of it i8 the gate of the grave! Her trial, and the
rum, it is not alone that 1mm leads to the world inevitable execution that follows such trial, is the
to be; but without faith there is no excellence in third day from this. The tvrant has fixed all his
this; fiiith in something wiser, ha pier, djviner, schemes of slaughter for the 10th of Thermidor.
than We see on earth! the Artist ca sit the Ideal, While the deaths of the unofi'ending strike owe
the Priest Faith, The Ideal and Faith are one _ to the citv, his satellites are to massacre his foes.
and the same. Return, 0 wanderer! return. Feel , There is but one hope left—that the Power which
what beaut and holiness dwell in the Customary 'now dooms the doomer, may render me on instm-
snd the 01 Back to thy gateway glide, thou ment to expedite his fall. But two days left-two
Horror! and calm, on the childlike heart, smileldaysl In all my wealth of time I see but two
again, 0 azure heaven, with thy night and th l days ; all beyond—darkness—solitude. I my
morning star but as one, though under its doub e \ save her yet. The tyrant- shall fall the day before
name of Memory and Ho !" 	hat which he has set apart for slaughter! For
As he thus spoke, Zanoni laid his hand ently l the first time I mix among the broils and strata-
on the burning temples of his excited an won-lgems of men, and my mind leaps up from my
dering listener; and resendy a sort of trance “ despair, armed and eager for the contest"
came over him: he imagined that he woe re- . . .
turned to the home of his infancy; that he was
in the small chamber where, over his early slum- i
here, his mother had watched and prayed There
it was—visible, palpable, solitary, unaltered. In
the recess, the homely bed ; on the walls, the
shelves filled with holy books; the very easel on
which he had first sought to call the ideal to the
mnvass, dust/covered, broken, in the corner. Be-
low the window lay the old churchyard; he saw
l
A crowd had gathered round the Rue St.
Honoré—a oung man was just arrested b the
order of R0 espierre. He was known to in
the service of Tallien, that hostile leader in the
Convention whom the tyrant had hitherto trom-
bled toattaek. This incident had therefore pro-
duced agreater excitement than a circumstance
so customary as an arrest in the Reign of Terror


1 26 ZANONI.
'might be supposed to create. Among the crowd ; the very sound of his voice went straight to the
Were many ends of Tallien, many foes to the heart, “ your servant. is arrested in the streets. I
tyrant, many weary of beholding the tiger drag- have saved our life, and that of your wife who
' victim nfier Victim to its den. Hearse, fore- will be. I ring to you this letter fiom Teresa
g murmurs were heard; fierce eyes glared do Fontenai."
upon the oflicers as they seized their prisoner-,1 Tammy with a tmmblin “mod. 0 ed the
and though they dld “ht yet dare opehly wrehh‘h ‘ letter, and read, “ Am I evegr 'to implilii'een you in
those "1 lhe Tea-r Oh those heml'fh and eh‘ vuini A in and again I say, Lose not an hour,
chmhere‘l the P"-t Of the mphve and hm mpwm if you vs. no my life and your own. My trial
The mm: m“ struggled hard for we?» and, ‘and death are fixed the third day from this, the
by a violent efi'ort, at last wrenched himself from 10th Thermidon Sirike while it is yet time_
the grasp The c'PWd made why, and closed strike the monster! you have two days yet. If
round to protect him, as he dived and darted ivou [iii]. if you pmiinaw’ Ree me fur we inst
through the" Yank-‘1 ; hut Bhd‘hmly the mphhg I time as I pass your windows to the guillotine l"
of horses was heard at hand; the savage Hennot] t-Hei. trial will give iii-mi" against “,qu said
hhd h“ tr“"P were bah-“mm “ h 'he_m°h ithe stranger. “ Her death is the herald of your
The cm‘lvd gave “my m the Pnsoher lown. Fear not the populace; the po ulace would
was again seized by one of the. partisans of the i have rewmdyourwth Feu- not bespiem;
Dictator. At that moment avoiee whispered the lie gives hinweif to your hmdl Tamormw be
Prisoner} “Thou 1111-“ "- letter, h'hitfh, if found (3" comes to the Convention; to-morrow you must
thee, {mm “W h!“ 110% Give 1‘ me! _I cast the last throw for his head or your own.”
bear n m Thlhc'L", ‘9 Prisoner» tumth {h I “ To-niorrow he oomesto the Convention! And
hhlhzev Tend somethlhg that e‘m‘h'hged hhh_ 1“ i who are you that knows so well what is concealed
the eyes of the stranger who thus accosted him. [mm meg"
The tmop Fem MW ,0" the BP0t i the Jmhh‘ “ A man like you, who would save the woman
who had seized the prisoner released hold of him ‘ he loves),
for a moment, to escape the boots of the horses; Before Tunic" could recover his surprise the
in that moment the op rtunity was found, the visit“ was “(ma
Stranger had ‘hshPPeal' Back went the Avenger to his conclave, an
- - ~ - ialhtirod man. “I have heard tithe]:ng no matter
~ - - g - ; _ - - w t,” he cried, “that have chan m ' iii-pose.
Ah the house or Talheh the Pnhuphl foes 0f the On the 10th we are destined for Elie guilldline. I
"Wt were assembled- C‘mhhhh fhmgFl' mad}? ‘ revoke my counsel for delay. Robespierre comes
common {911°me who?” hud “Shh? lhe" to the Convention to-morrow; there we must eon-
fwds for the hour, wymte against W_f°m1ldubl_c ifront and crush him. me utt- Mountain shall
hmh Who was mmth over "11 thhom m hls ,frown against him the grim shade of Danton;
gory throne There was hold Lcwmtre, the de- 1 from the Plain shall in their bloodv cere~
clued enemy; them-creeplhg Bmerciwho “hum lmeuts, the spectres of Vergninud and Coridoroet.
reconcile all extremes, the hero of the cowards; ‘ e Frappe,” I"
gmaiaihmgngogeemei; 021111“); “Fr-appom I" cried even Barrere, startled into
on: the crimes of Robensgpierrcz’ alone shudlgtered 1"“? “""gy hf the "e" ""‘hg "f hitwheag.“
his'lsliwn. l d d pfzgppons! L rig a que la: mom qm no review!
ie counci was 'tate an irresolute. The '
“we which the “Dig”, “6005!, and the It was observable (mid the fact me be found
gious energy of Robespierre excited, still he d the i h; mad“ the (ihemolilm ‘(ththeqfiiihe t “hélhrihg
eater under its control. Tnllie whom the “at a “h "lg t t e l em‘i 0'1 ‘
gum; m feared, and who alone n’wuid give strangerle llll the previous events of that stormy
head, and substance, and direction to 80 mm, ltime was seen in various parts of the city, in the
contradictory passions, was “,0 “med b the me_ cafes, the clubs, the haunts of the various fac-
mm-yof his own “cities, not in feel em med tions; that, to the astonishment and disnia of
by his position as a champion of mercy n It iB ‘his hearers, he talked aloud of the crimes 0 R0-
me," be M after an animating imngue from bespierre, and predicted his coming full; and as
Lecoindre‘ttthat the Usurpei. marines us an But i110 spoke he stirred n the henrts of men, he
he is still no beloved by his mobs, Sim so a“? loosed the bonds of their fear, he inflamed them
POM bi bi,‘ Jwbins; bemu- deiay op’en him i with unwonted rage and daring. But what sur-
iiliiiies ii the how. i;z more ripe To attempt and rised them most wns, that. no voice replied, no
not succeed, i,3 to give us, hand and foot, to the i mm] was lifted against him, no minion, even of
guillotiim Every day his power must deciina 1 the tyrant, cried, “ Arrest the traitor." In that
“some it“ be“ or" it“? is“ 12212121"5222nfiiifnli.f‘§°8h5m W"-
s , an w - 1c ' -
wpiiterudhthofire,itltinese1ilniili’undlecdntghnt(ii:trhiiggrl Once "My a fierce horny mein own up
demanded in see him instanfly on business that from the table at dhich he sat, drinking eep,
brooked no delay. and, approaching the stranger, said, “ I seize thee
“I am not at leisure." said the orator, impa- in the name or the Republic-"
tiently. The servant placed a note on the table. ‘ “ Citizen Aristides,” answered the stranger, in
Tallieu opened it, ant} found theise words inpencil: n whis er, “go to th; lodgfiings of Rolliespierre',
“From the rison 0 Teresa e Fontenai. He he is rom home, an in e left 'et of the
turned pale, lstarted u , and hastened to the ante- \ vest, which be cast 05' not an beginsime, thou
room, where he behel a fiiee entirely strange to i wilt find a paper; when thou hast read that. re—
him. ]turn. I wil await thee: and, if thou wouldst
“Hope of France!” said the visitor tohiin, and Y then noise me, I will go without a struggle.


ZANONI.
127
Look round on those lowering brows! touch me levill To punish the traitors; to purify this Com:
now, and thou wilt be turn to pieces.” lmittee; to crush all factions by the weight of
The Jacobin felt as if compelled to obey ‘ the National Authority; to raise upon their ruins
against his will. He went forth, muttering: he - the power of Liberty and Justice. Such are the
returned: the stranger was still there: “ .llille principles of that Reform. Must I be ambitious,
lonnerres,” he said to him, “I thank thee; the 1 to rofess them? then the principles are pro-
poltroon had my name in his list for the guil- > scri d, and Tyranny reigns amongus! For what
otine.” can you object to a man who is in the right, and
With that the Jacobin Aristides sprung upon
the table, and shouted, “ Death to the Tyrant Z"

CHAPTER XI.
"Le lendemnln, 8 Thermldor, Robesplerre so decide s
pononcer son fuuieux discours."—Tulzas, Hist. do In
Revolution.
Tm: morning rose—the 8th'of Thermidor (July
26th.) Robespierrc has gone to the Convention.
He has gone with with his laboured s eech; he
has gone with his phrases of philanthropy and
virtue; he has gone to single out his prey. All
his agents are prepared for his reception; the
fierce St. Just has arrived from the armies, to
second his courage and inflame his wrath. His
ominous a parition prepares the audience for the
crisis. “ itizens!" screeched the shrill voice of
Robespierre, “ others have placed before you flat-
tering pictures; I come to announce to you use-
ful truths.

And they attribute to me, to me alone! what-\
ever of harsh or evil is committed: it is Robes-
pierre who wishes it. it is Robcspicrre who or-,
dains it. Is there a new tax? it is Robespierre ,
who ruins you. They call me tyrant! and why i ?
Because I have acquired some influence; but ;
how? in speaking truth; and who pretends that =
truth is to be without force in the mouths of the
Representatives of the French people? Doubt-
less, Truth has its power, its rage, its despotism,
its accents, touching, terrible—which resound in
the pure heart as in the guilty conscience; and
which Falsehood can no more imitate than Sul-
moneus could forge the thunderbolts of Heaven.
What am I whom they accuse? A slave of lib- '
erty; a living martyr of the Republic; the vie-I
tim, as the enemy, of crime! All rufiianism


has at least this knowledge: he knows how to
die for his native land! I am made to combat
crime, and not to govern it. The time, alas! is
not yet arrived when men of worth can serve
with impunit their countr . So long as the
knaves rule, e defenders o liberty will be only
the proscribed."
For two hours, through that cold and gloomy
audience, shrilled the death‘speech. In silence
vit began, in silence closed. The enemies of the
orator were afraid to express resentment; the
knew not yet the exact balance of power. His
partisans were afraid to a prove; they knew not
whom of their own frien s and relations the ac-
cusations were designed to single forth. “ Take
care l" whispered each to each, "it is thou whom
he threatens." But silent though the audience,
it was, at the first, wellnigh subdued. There
was still about this terrible man the spell of an
over-mastering will. Always—though not what
is called a great orator—resolute, and sovereign
in the use of words, words seemed as things
when uttered by one who with a nod moved the
troops of Henriot, and influenced the judgment
of Réné Dumas, grim President of the Tribunal.
Lecointre of Versailles rose, and there was an
anxious movement of attention; for Lecointre
was one of the fiercest foes of the tyrant. What
was the dismay of the Tallien faction—what the
complacent smile of Couthon, when Lecointre de-
manded only that the oration should be printed?
All seemed paralyzed. At length, Bourdon de
l’Oise, whose name was doubly marked in the
block list of the Dictator, stalked to the tribune,
and moved the bold counter-resolution, that the
speech should be referred to the two committees
whom that very speech accused. Still no ap-
plause from the conspirators: they sat still as
frozen men. The shrinking Barrére, ever on the
prudent side, looked round before he rose. He
rises, and sides with Lecointre! Then Couthon
afi‘ronts me; and actions, legitimate in Others, are l seized the occasion, and from his seat (a privi-
crimes in me. It is enough to know me to be]
calumniated. In my very zeal they arraign my
guilt. Take from me my conscience, and I should
be the most miserable of men l“
He paused, and Couthon wiped his eyes, and
St. Just murmured ap loose as with stem looks
he gazed on the rebel ions Mountain, and there


loge permitted alone to the paralytic philan-
thropist,)* and with his melodious voice, sought
to convert the crisis into a triumph. He demand-
ed, not only that the harangue should be rint-
ed, but sent to all the communes and a l the
armies. ‘- It was necessary to sooth a wronged
and ulcerated heart. Deputies the most faithnt
was a dead, moumful, and chilling silence through had been accused of shedding blood. All ! if he
the audience. The touching sentiment woke no‘had contributed to the death of one innocent
echo.
man, he should immolate himself with grief."
The orator cast his eyes around. H0! he will Beautiful tenderness! and while he spoke he
soon arouse that apathy. He
praises, he pities himself no more.
—-he accuses. Over-flooded with his venom, he
vomits it forth on all. At home, abroad. finances,
war—on all! Shriller and sharper rose his‘
voice:
“ A conspiracy exists against the Public Liber-
ty. It owes its strength to a criminal coalition
in the very bosom of the Convention; it has ac-
complices in the bosom of the Committee of Pub-
lic Safety. What is the remedy to this

roceeds : he fondled the spaniel in his bosom. Bravo, Couth-
edenounces on! Robespierre triumphs! The Reign of Ter-
ror shall endure! the old submission settles
dove-like hack in the assembly ! They vote the
printing of the death-s eech, and its transmission
to all the municipalities. From the benches of
' M.Thlers in his History, vol. lv.. p. 79, makes a curl;
ous blunder: he says. "Couthon Il'rlancc a la tribune.
\ Poor Couthon! whose half body was dead. and who was
lalwnys wheeled in his chair into the Convenuon, and
1 spoke slttlng.


128 ZANONI.
the Mountain, Tallien, alarmed, dismayed, impa- I “ St. Just,” said he. “ when this peril is passed,
tient, and indignant, cast his gaze where sat the 1 we will found the Reign of Peace There shall
strangers admitted to hear the debates; and sud- ! be homes and gardens set apart for the old.
denly he met the eyes of the Unknown who had ' David is already designing the portions. Virtuous
brought to him the letter from Teresa de Fon~
tenai the preceding day. The e es fascinated
him as he gazed. in after times, ie often said,
that their regard, fiXed, earnest, half reproachful,
and yet cheering and triumphant, filled him with
new life and courage. They spoke to his heart
as the trumpet‘ speaks to the war-horse. He
moved from his seat; he whispered with his,
allies; the spirit he had drawn in was conta-
gious; the men whom Robespierre especially
had denounced, and who saw the sword over
their heads, WOhe from their torpid trance. Va-
dier, Cambon, Billaud-Varennes, Panis, Amar,
rose at once-all at once demanded s eech. Va-
dier is first heard, the rest succec . 1t burst
forth, the Mountain, with its fires and consuming
lava! flood 11 n flood they rush, a legion of
Ciceros upon t e startled Cataline. Robespierre
falters—hesitates—would ualify, retract. They
gather new courage from his new fears; they in-
terrupt him ; they drown his voice; they demand
the reversal of the motion. Amar moves again
that the speech he referred to the committees—
to the committees—to his enemies! Confusion.
and noise, and clamour! Robes ierre wra s
himself in silent and superb disdain. Pale, e-
feated, but not yet destroyed, he stands, a storm
in the midst of a storm!
The motion is carried. All men foresee in that
defeat the Dictator‘s downfall. A solitary cry
rose from the galleries ; it was caught up; it cir-
cled through the hall—the audience. “A bus 10
lyran! Vive la Républiqw 1"
CHAPTER ’ XIL
"Anprés rl‘un corps Ill]!!! evil! que la Convention ll
restalt des chances pour qua Rnhesplcrre sorlit valnquour
do cette lune—Lacuna“, vol. xii.
As Robespicrre left the hall there was a dead
and ominous silence in the crowd without. The
herd in every country side with success, and the
rats run from the falling tower. But Robespierre,
who wanted courage, never wanted ride, and the
last often sup lied the place of the rst : thought-
fully, and W: an impenetrable brow, he used
through the throng, leaning on St. Just, ayan
and his brother following him.
As thev got into the open space, Robespierre
abru tly broke the silence.
“ ow many heads were to fall upon the
tenth !”
“ Eighty," replied Payan.
“ Ah, we must not tarry so long; a day may
lose an empire; terrorism must serve us ygt !"
He was silent a few moments, and eyes
“St. Just," he said, abruptly, “they have not
men shall be appointed to instruct the young.
All vice and disorder shall be, not extenninated;
no, no! only banished! We must not die yet.
Posterity cannot judge us till our work is done.
We have recalled L'Etre Supreme; we must
now remodelthis corrupted World. All shall he
love and brotherhood: and ho! Simon! Simon!
—ho!d! Your pencil, St. Just l" And Robes-
ierre wrote hastily. “ This to Citizen President
umas. Go with it quick, Simon. These eighty
heads must fall tomwrraw—to-morrmc, Simon.
Dumas will advance their trial 2. (Lay. I will
write to Fou'guier Tinville, the public accuser.
We meet at e Jacobins to-night, Simon: there
we will denounce the Convention itself; there we
will rally round us the last friends of liberty and
Ih'ance.” ‘
A about was heard in the distance behind—-
“ Viva la Rf'publiquc I”
The tyrant’s eye shot a vindictive gleam. “ The
republic ! faugh ! We did not destroy the throne
of a thousand years for that canaille !"
The trial, the execution of the victim is ad-
vanced a day! B the aid of the mysterious in-
telligence that ha guided and animated him hi-
therto, Zanoni learned that his arts had been in
vain. He knew that Viola was safe if she could
but survive an hour the life of the tyrant. He
knew that Robespierre's hours were numbered;
that the tenth Thermidor, on which he had origi-
ynally designed the execution of his last victims,
=would see himself at the scaffold. Zanoni had
toiled, had schemed for the fall bf the Butcher
-and his reign. To what end! A single word
from the tyrant had baffled the result of all. The
execution of Viola is advanced a day. Vain seer,
who wouldst make thyself the instrument of the
Eternal; the ve dangers that now beset the
tyrant but expetite the doom of his victims!
To-mnrrow, eig ty heads, and hers whose illow
has been thy heart! ' '
lien is safe tonight!

To-mormw ! and mm

CHAPTER XIII.
‘ Erde mna znriick ln Ente stlinhen
Fl!th der Gem doch nus dcm morschon Hans!
Seine Asche mag iler Slnrmwlnd trelben
Selnc Liebe dauert ewlg ans 2"
ELIGII.
To-Moaaow! and it is already twilight. One
after one the gentle stars come smiling through
the heavens. The Seine, in its slow waters, yet
trembles with the last kiss of the my da ; and
still in the blue sky, gleams the spire 0 Notre
Dame; and still, in the blue sky, looms the guil-
lotine by the Barriere o‘u Tro‘ne. Turn to that
> time-worn building, once the Church and the Con-

roved suspiciously through the street.
found this Englishman. whose revelations or whose ! vent of the Freres-préeheurs, known by the then
trial would have crushed the Amara and the Tal- holy name of Jacohins; there the new Jacobim
liens. No,nol m Jacobins themselves are grow- hold their club. There, in that oblong hall, once
ing dull and blin . But they have seized a WO- 1 the library of the peaceful monks assemble the
man, only awomau!" idolators of Saint Robespierro. Two immense
“ A woman's hand stabbed Marat," said St. ! tribunes, raised at either end, contain the lees and
Just. ltubespien'e stopped short, and breathed 1 dregs of the atrocious porpulace, the majority of
hard. that audience consisting o the furies of the guil-


ZANONI.
129
lub'ne (furics do guillotine). In the midst of the
lull are the bureau and chair of the president—
'qthe chair long preserved by the piety of the
monks as the relic of St. Thomas A uinus!
Above this seat scowls the harsh bust of rutus.
An iron lamp, and tWo branches, scattered over
{the vast room a murky fuliginous ray, beneath
‘ the light of which the fierce faces of that Pan-
dmmonium seem more and haggard There,
from the orator's tribune, shrieks the shrill wrath
of Robes ierrel
,J. Mcanw ilc, all is chaos, disorder, half daring
", and half cowardice, in the committee of his foes.
Rumours fly from street to street, from haunt to
haunt, from house to house. The swallows flit
low, and the cattle group together before the
storm. And above this roar of the lives and
things of the little hour, alone in his chamber
“0011 He on whose starry youth—symbol of the
'imperishablc bloom of the calm Ideal amid the
- Inouldering Actual—the clouds of ages had rolled
in vain.
All those exertions which ordinary wit and
courage could suggest had been tried in vain. All
,nach exertions were in vain, where, in that satur-
nalia of death, a life was the object. Nothing
but the [all of Robespierrc could have saved his
victims; now, too late, that fall would only serve
vto avenge.
lOnce more, in that last agony of excitement
'I, and despair, the Seer had plunged into solitude,
to invoke again the aid or cohnsel of those mys-
intcrmedistes between earth and heaven
who had renounced the intercourse of the spirit
_when subjected to the conunon bondage of the
ilhortal. In the intense desire and anguish of his
, heart, perhaps, lay a power not yet called forth;
" 'iir who has not felt that the sharpness of extreme
' f cuts and grides many of those strongest
~ ; as; of infirmity and doubt which bind down
' flicsouls of men to the cabined darkness of the
,hour; and that from the cloud and thunder-storm
; swoops the Olympian eagle that can ravish
,fmaloft.
And the invocation was heard—the bondage of
sense was rent away from the visual mind. He
looked and saw—no, not the being he had called,
with its limbs of light, and unutterably tranquil
mile—not his familiar, Adon-Ai, the Son of Glory
and the Star—but the evil Omen, the dark Chl-
Pzra, the implacable Foc, with exultation and
isfiahce burning in its hell-lit eyes. The Spectre,
’no longer cowering and retreating into shadow,
rose before him, gigantic and erect; the face,
“’1’ rwhom veil no mortal hand had ever raised, still
'conccalcd, but the form more distinct, corporeal,
and casting from it, as an atmosphere, horror, and
Q‘ We, and awe. As an iceberg, the breath of that
presence froze the air; as a cloud, it filled
the chamber, and blackened the stars from
1
l
ven.
“ Lol" said its voice, “I am here once more.
Thou hast robbed mo of u mcanerqglmy. Now
exorcise thyself from my powerl y life has
i}; left thee, to live in the heart of a daughter of the
< ' chamcl and the worm. In that life I come to
thee with my inexorable tread. Thou art returned
gto the Threshold—thou whose steps have trod
the verges of the Infinite! And as the goblin of
, vu in; phantasy seizes on a child in the dark, mighty
1"“ rue, who would conquer Death, I seize on thee l"
whack to thy fluildom, slave] if thou art.

come 'to the voice that called thee not, it is again
not to command, but to obey! Thou, from whose
whis r I gained the boons of the lives lovelier
and earer than my own—thou, I command thee,
not by spell and charm, but b the force of a soul
mightier than the malice of t y being. thou serve
me yet, and speak again the secret that can res-
cue the lives thou hast, by permission of the uni-
versal Master, ermitted me to retain a while in
the temple of e clay I"
Brighter and more devourineg burned the
glare from those lurid eyes ; more visible and
colossal yet rose the diluting shape ; a yet fierce!
and more disdainnt hate is oke in the voice that
answered, “ Didst thou thiz that my boon would
be other than thy curse! Happy for thee hadst
thou mourned over the deaths which come by the
gentle hand of Nature: hadst thou never known
how the name of Mother consecmtes the face of
Beauty, and never, bending over thy first-born,
felt the imperishable sweetness of a father‘s loyel
The are saved, for whatl the mother, for the
dent of violence, and shame, and blood—for the
doomsmau’s hand to put aside that shining hair
which has entangled thy bridegroom kisses- the
child, first and last of thine offspring, in W cm
thou didst hope to found a race that should bear
with thee the music of celestial harps, and float,
by the side of thy familiar, Adon-Ai, through the
azure rivers of Joy—the child, to live on a few
days, as a fungus in a burial vault, a thing of the
loathsome dungeon, dying of cruelty, and neglect,
and famine. Ha! ha! thou who wouldst buflle
Death, learn how the dcathless die if they dare to
love the mortal. Now, Chaldzean, behold my
boons l Now I seize and wrap thee with the
pestilence of my presence; now, evermorc, till
thy long race is run, mine eyes shall glow into
thy brain, and mine arms shall clas thee, when
thou wouldst take the wings of the Kloniing, and
flee from the embrace of N ight l"
“ I tell thee nol And again I compel thee,
s k and answer the lord who can command his
sixth. I know, though in lore fails me, and the
reeds I clasp ierce mysi e, I know yet that it is
written that t 10 life of which I question can be
saved from the hendsman. 'I‘hou wrap st their
future in the darkness of thy shadow, ut thou
canst not shape it. Thou mayest foreshow the
antidote; thou canst not effect the bane. From
thee I wring the secret, thou h it torture thee to
name. I approach thee; I ook dauntless into
thine eyes. The soul that loves can dare all
things. Shadow, I defy thee, and com 1!”
The spectre waned and reooiled. 'ke a va»
our that lessens as the sun pierces and >rvades
it, the form shrunk cowering and dwarfedJinto the
dimer distance, and through the casement again
rushed the stars.
“ Yes," said the voice, with a faint and hollow
accent, “ thou cans! save her from the hcadsman;
for it is written that sacrifice can save. Hal ha !"
And the shape again suddenly diluted into the
gloom of its giant stature, and its ghastly laugh
cxulted, as if the fee, 9. moment bnflied, had re-
gained its might. “ Hal ha! thou canst save
her life, if thou wilt sacrifice thine own i Is it for
this thou hast lived on through crumbling empirafl
and countless generations of thy race? At last
shall Death reclaim thee? Wouldst thou save
her? die for her! Fall, 0 state] column, over
which stars yet unformed may 5 cam—fall, that


130
ZANONI.
the herb at thy base may drink a few hours longer
the sunlight and the dewsl Silent! Art thou
ready for the sacrifice 3 See, the moon moves up 7
through heaven. Beautiful and wise one, wilt
thou bid her smile to-morrow on thy headless
cla i”
“yBack! for my soul, in answering thee from
depths where then must not hear it, has regained
its glory; and I hear the wings of Adou-Ai, gli-
ding musical through the aii'.”
He spoke; and, with a low shriek of hafied
rage and hate, the thing was gone, and through
the room rushed, luminous and sudden, the Pres-
ence of silvery light
As the Heavenly Visiter stood in the atmos-
phere of his own lustre, and looked upon the face
of the 'I‘heurgist with an aspect of incfi'able ten—
derness and love, all s ace seemed lighted from
his smile. Along the blhe air without, from that
chamber in which his wings had halted, to the
farthest star in the azure distance, it seemed as if
the track of his flight were visible, by a length-
ened splendour in the air, like the column of
moonlight on the sea. Like the flower that dif-
fuses perfume as the very breath of his life, so
the emanation of that presence was joy. Over
the world, as a million times swifter than light,
than electricit , the Son of Glory had sped his
way to the si e of Love, his wings had scattered
delight as the morning scatters dews. For that
brief moment, Poverty had ceased to mourn, Dis-
ease fled from its prev, and Hope breathed a
dream of Heaven into the darkness of Despair.
“Thou art ' h " said the melodious Voice.
“Thy c0 restored thy power. Once
more, in the ts of earth, th soul charms me
to thy side. Wiser now, in t- e moment when
thou comprehendest Death, than when thy un-
fettered spirit learned the solemn myster of life;
the human affections that thralled and umbled
thee a while, bring "to thee, in these last hours of
thy mortality, the sublimest heritage of thy race
—-the eternity that commences fiom the grave."
“O, Adon-Ai," said the Chaldaean, as, circum-
fused in the splendour of the visitnnt, a glo
8
more radiant than hmnan beauty settled round his
form, and seemed already to belong to the eter-
nity of which the Bright One spoke, “ as.men, be-
fore they die, see and compre end the enigmas
hidden from them before,* so in this hour, when
the sacrifice of self to another brings the course
of ages to its goal, I see the littleness of life, corn-
ed to the majesty of Death; butch, Divine
amulet; even here, even in thy presence, the
affections that inspire me, sadden. To leave he-
hind me in this bad world, unprotected, those for
whom I die l the wifol the child! oh, speak
comfort to me in this!"
“ And what,” said the visitor, with a. slight no
‘ cent of reproof in the tone of celestial pity, “ what,
with all t yw'isdom, and thy starry secrets; with
all thy em ire of the past, and thv visions of the
future—w 1st art thou to the All-Directing and
Omuiscieritl Caust thou yet imagine that thy
presence on earth can give to the hearts thou
ovest the shelter which the humblest take from
the wings of the Presence that lives in Heaven?
Fear not thou for their future. Whether thou live

or die, their future is the care of the Most Highl
In the dungeon and on the scaffold looks even
lastingly the Eye of Hm, tenderer than thou to
love, wiser than thou to guide, mightier than than
to save !"
Zanoni bowed his head, and, when he looked
up again, the last shadow had left his brow. The
Visitor was one; but still the glory of his pres
ence seem to shine upon the spot, still the soli-
air seemed to murmur with tremulous de-
light. And thus ever shall it be with those who
have once, detaching themselves utterly from life,
received the visit of the Angel FAITH. Solitude
and space retain the splendour, and it settles like
a halo round their graves

CHAPTER XIV.
" Donn zur Blumenfur der Sterne
Aufgcschauci. Iicbewsrm
Fass' ihn freuudlich arm in arm
'l'rag' lhn in die blaue Ferric."
UHLAND, An dr'n Tod.
Hi: stood upon that loity balcony that over-
looked the qiuet city. Though afar the fiercest
passions of men were at work on the web of strife
and doom, all that gave itself to his view was
calm and still in the rays of the summer moon,
for his soul was rapt from man and man's narrow
sphere, and only the serener glories of creation
were present to the vision of the seer. There he
stood, alone and thou htful. to take the last fire-
well of the wondrous To that he had known.
Coursing through the fields of space, he beheld
the gossamar shapes whose coral joys his spirit
had so often shared. There, group upon group,
they circled in the starry silence, multiform in
the unimaginable beauty of a being fed by am-
brosial dews and serenest ' ht. In his trance all
the universe stretched visible beyond: in the
green valleys afar he saw the dances of the fai-
ries; in the bowels of the mountains he beheld
the race that breathe the lurid air of the volat-
7,7 noes, and hide from the light of heaven; on every
leaf in the numberless forests, in every drop of the
umneasured seas, he surveyed its separate and
swarming world for u in the farthest blue he
saw orb u or ripening into sha , and lanets
starting hid: the central fire to rap: their Iday of
ten thousand years. For everywhere in Creation
is the breath of the Creator, and eve where in
which the breath breathes is life ! Am alone in
the distance the lonely man beheld his Magian
brother. There, at work with his numbers and
his cabala, amid the wrecks of Rome, passioan
and calm, sat in his cell the mystic Mejnour ; living
on, living ever while the world lasts, indifferent
whether his lmowledge produces weal or we ; a me-
chanical agent of a more tender and a wiser Will,
that guides every spring to its inscrutable designs.
Liv-ing on—living ever—as Science that cares
alone for knowledge, and halts not to consider
how knowlede advances hap incss; how Human
Improvement, rushing througli civilization, mishes
in its march all who cannot grapple to its wheels ;*
" The greatest poet. and one of the nobles! thinkers, of
the last age, said, on his deathbed. “ Many ihlngs obscure
to me before, now clear up. and become vhlble."—Ses
the life of Schiller.
' “ You colonize the lands of the suvn e with the An-
gloBaron: you clvlllze that portion of l e earth; bath
the savage civilized ‘! He is exterminaled! You accumu-
lnm machinery; you increase the total of wealth: but
what becomes of the labour you displace ’! One genera-
tion is sacrificed to the lien You dlfl‘use knowledge. and
l


ZANONI.
131
ever, with its mbala and its numbers, lives on’
to change in its bloodless movements the faocl
of the habitable worldl ,
And, “ Oh, farewell to life i" murmured the
glorious dreamer. “ Sweet, 0 life, hast thou been
to me. How fathomless thy joys; how raptur-
ously has my soul bounded forth upon the up-
ward paths! To him who forever renews his,
oath in the clear fount of nature, how ex uisite
is the mere happiness to be! Farewe 1, ye i
lamps of heaven, and ye million tribes, the Pop- ‘
ulace of Air. Not a mote in the beam, not an 1
herb on the mountain, not a pebble on the shore,
not a seed far blown into the wildemess, but con- i
tributed to the lore that sought in all the true,
rinciple of life, the Beautiful, the Joyous, the,
mmortal. To others, a land, a city, a hearth,
has been a home ; my home, wherever the intel- i
lect could pierce, or the spirit could breathe the '
air." ,
He paused, and through the immeasurable
his eyes and his heart, penetrating thei
3' mal dungeon, rested on his child. He saw it .
slumbering in the arms of the pale mother, and
his soul spoke to the sleeping soul. “ Forgive
me, if my desire was sin; I dreamed to have
reared and nurtured thee to the divinest destinies
my visions could foresee; betimes, as the mortal
part was strengthened against disease, to have
purified the spiritual from every sin; to have
ed thee, heaven upon heaven, through the holy
ecstasies which ma e up the existence of the or-
ders that dwell on high; to have formed from
thy sublime afl‘ections the pure and everliving
communication between thy mother and myself.
The dream was but a dream; it is no more!
In sight myself of the grave, I feel, at last, that
through the portals of the grave lies the true
initiation into the holy and the wise. Beyond
those portals I await ye both, beloved pilgrims i"
From his numbers and his cabala in his cell,
amid the- wrecks of Rome, Mejnour, startled,
looked u , and, through the s irit, felt that the
spirit of iis distant friend ad ressed him.
“ Fare thee well forever upon this earth l Thy
last companion for-sakes thy side. Thine age
survives the youth of all; and the Final Day
shall find thee still the contemplator of our
tombs. I go with my free will into the land of
darkness; but new suns and systems blaze around
us from the grave. I go where the souls of those
for whom I resign the clay shall be my co-mates
through eternal youth. At last, I recognise the
true ordeal and the real victory. Mejuour, cast
down thy elixir; lay by thy load of years!
Wherever the soul can wander, the Eternal
Soul of all things protects it still i"


CHAPTER XV.

"ll: no vculent plus perdre un momentd‘un nuit sl pre-
eleuso."—Lacl.l1'lr.r.:, tom. xll.
IT was late that night, and Réné-Frangois Du-
mas, President of the Revolutioary Tribunal, had
re-entered his cabinet, on his return from the
the world seems to grow brighter; but Discontent at Pov-
erty replaces Ignorance happy with its crust. Every im-
provemont, every advancement in civilization, injures
lorne to benefit others, and either cherishes the want of
today or prepares the revolution of tomorrow."—Srrl-
nlx Ion-nous.
Jacobin club. With him were two, men, who
might be said to represent, the one the moralI
the other the physical force of the Reign of Ter-
ror: Fouquier-Tinville, the Public Accuser, and
F rancois Henriot, the General of the Parisian
National Guard. This formidable triumvirate
were assembled to debate on the proceedings of
the next day ; and the three sister-witches, over
their hellish caldron, were scarcely animated by
n more fiend-like spirit or engaged in more exe-
crable designs than these three heroes of the re-
volution in their premeditated massacre of the
morrow.
Dumas was but little altered in appearance
since, in the earlier part of this narrative, he was
presented to the reader, except that his manner
was somewhat more short and severe, and his
eye yet more restless. But he seemed almost a
superior being by the side of his associates.
Rene Dumas, borne of res ctable parents, and
well educated, despite his crocity, was not with-
out a certain refinement, which perhaps rendered
him the more acceptable to the precise and formal
Robes ierre.* But Henriot had been a lackey,
a thiei? a spy of the police; he had drank the
blood of Madame de Lamballe, and had risen to
his present rank for no quality but his rufianisrn;
and Fouquier Tinville, the son of a provincial agri-
culturist, and afterwards a clerk at the Bureau
of the Police, was little less base in his manners,
and yet more, from a certain loathsome bufl'oon-
ery, revolting in his speech; bull-headed, with
black, sleek hair, with a narrow and livid fore-
head, with small eyes, that twinkled with a
sinister malice; strongly and coarsely built, he
looked what he was, the audacious Bully of a
lawless and relentless Bar. '
Dumas trimmed the candles, and bent over the
list of the victims for the morrow.
“It is a long catalogue,” said the resident;
“ eighty trials for one day! And Ru espierre's
orders to despatch the whole fournée are une-
quivocal."
“Pooh!” said Fouquier. with a coarse, loud
laugh, “ we must try them en masse. I know
how to deal with our jury. ‘ Je pense, Citoyens,
que vous étes convaincua du crime li€8 accuses i"
Ha! ha i the longer the list the shorter the
work."
“ Oh, yes,” growled out Henriot, with an oath
—as usual, half drunk, and lolling on his chair,
with his spurred heels on the table—“ little Tin-
ville is the man for des atch."
“ Citizen Henriot," smd Dumas, gravely, “ per-
mit me to request thee to select another footstool ;
and, for the rest, let me warn thee that to-mor-
row is a critical and important day; one that will
decide the fate of France.”
“ A fig for little France l Viva la Verlum
Robespierre, la Colonne de la Républi uel
Plague on this talking! it is dry work. gut
thou no eau de vie in that little cu board i"
Dumas and Fouquier exchange looks of dis-
gust. Dumas shrugged his shoulders, and replied,
“ It is to guard thee against eau de vie, Citizen
General Henriot, that I have requested thee to
meet me here. Listen, if thou canst !”
“ Oh, talk awayl thy métier is to talk, mine
to fight and to drink.”
° Dumas was abosu in his way. His gala dress was
a blood-red wet, with the finest ruflles.


132
ZANONI.
“Tomorrow, I tell thee, then, the populace
will be abroad ; all factions will be a astir. It
is probable enough that they will even seek to
arrest our tumbrils on their way to the guillotine.
Have thy men armed and ready ; keep the
streets clear; cut down without mercy whom-
soever ma obstruct the ways."
“ I on erstand," said Henriot, striking his
sword so loudly that Dumas half started at the
dank; “ Black Henriot is no ‘ Indulgent.’ "
“ Look to it, then, citizen! look to it‘. And
hark thee," he added, with a grave and sombre
brow, “ if thou wouldst keep thine own head on
thy shoulders, beware of the eau de vie."
“ My own head ! were mille tonnerres! Dost
thou threaten the General of the Parisian army 3"
vDumas, like Robespierre, a precise, atrobilious,
and arrogant man, was about to retort, when the
cl'aftier 'l'inville laid his hand on his arm, and,
taming to the general, said, “ M dear IIenriot.
thy dauntless republicanism, which is too ready
to give ofierice, must learn to take a reprimand
from the representative of Republican Law.
Seriously, mon clmr, thou must be sober for the
next three or four days ; after the crisis is over,
thou and I will drink a bottle together. Como,
Dumas, relax thine austerity, and shake hands
with our friend. No quarrels among ourselves !"
Dumas hesitated, and extended his hand,
which the rufiian clasped ; and, maudlin tears
succeeding his ferocity, he half sobbed, half hi0-
eoughed forth his protestations of civism and his
promises of sobriety.
“ Well, we depend on thee, mon général," said
Dumas; “ and now, since we shall all have need
of vi our for to-morrow, go home and sleep
soun ly."
“ Yes, I forgive thee, Dumas, I forgive thee.
I am not vindictive—I! but still, if a man threa-
tens mc—if a man insults me"—and, with the
quick changes of intoxication, again his eyes
gleamed fire through their foul tears. With
some difiiculty Fouquier succeeded at last in
soothing the brute, and leading him from the
chamber. But still, as some wild beast disap-
pointed of a rey, he growled and snarled as his
eavy tread eseended the stairs. A tall trooper,
mounted, was leading Henriot’s horse to and fro
the streets; and, as the general waited at the
porch till his attendant turned, a stranger sta-
tioned by thewall accosted him :
“ General Henriot, I have desired to speak
with thee. Next to Robespierrc, thou art, or
shouldst be, the most powerful man in France.”
“Hem 1 yes, I ought to be. What then i every
man has not his deserts l"
“ Histl' said the stranger; “ thy pay is scarce-
ly suitable to thy rank and thy wants.”
“ That is true."
“ Even in a Revolution, 0. man takes care of
his fortunes l"
“ Diablel speak out, citizen."
“ I have a thousand pieces of gold with me—
they are thine, if thou wilt grant me one small
favour."
“ Citizen, I grant it!" said Henriot, waving his .
hand majestically. " Is it to denounce some ras-
cal who has offended thee i"
“No; it is simply this: write these words to
President Dumas : ‘ Admit the bearer to thy pre-
some, and, if thou caust ant him the r nest he
will make to thee, it wil be an inestims le obli-

gallon to Francois Henriot’" The stranger, so
he s he, placed pencil and tablets in the shak-
ing Ends of the soldier.”
“ And where is the gold l”
“Here.”
With some difliculty Henriot scrawled the
words dictated to him, clutched the gold, mount-
ed his horse, and was gone.
Meanwhile, Fonquier, when he had closed the
door upon Henriot, said, sharply, “ How canst
thou be so mad as to incense that brigand I
Knowest thou not that our laws are nothin
without the physical force of the National Guari
and that he is their leader ?"
“ I know this, that Robespierre must havebeen
mad to place that drunkard at their head; and
mark my words, Fouquier, if the struggle come,
it is that man’s incapacity and cowardice that
will destroy us. Yes, thou mayst live thyself to
accuse thy beloved Robespierre, and to perish in
his fall.”
“ For all that, we must keep well with him
till we can find the occasion to seize and behead
him. To be safe, we must fawn on those who
are still in wer; and fawn the more, the more
we would epose them. Do not think this Hen-
riot, when he wakes tomorrow, will forget thy
threats. He is the most revengeful of human be—
ings. Thou must send and sooth him in the mom-
ing !"
“ Right,” said Dumas, convinced. “ I was too
hasty ; and now I think we have nothing farther
to do, since we have arranged to make short work
with our fmtrnée of tomorrow. I see in the list
a knave l have long marked out, though his crime
once procured me a legacy : Nicot, the Hebér-
tist."
“ And young André Chenier, the poet! Ah,
I forgot ; we beheaded him to-day l Revolu~
tionary virtue is at its acmé. His own brother
abandoned him l”*
“ There is s foreigner—an Italian woman—in
the list ; but I can find no charge made out
against her."
“ All the same; we must execute her for the
sake of the round number: eighty sounds better
than seventynine !"
Here a hui-rsier brought a paper, on which was
written the request of Henriot.
“ Ah! this is fortunate,“ said Tiuville, to whom
Dumas chucked the scroll ; “ grant the prayer by
all means, so at least that it does not lessen our
bead-roll. But I will do Henriot the justice to say
that he never asks to let off, but to put on. Good
night! I am worn out; my escort waits below.
Only on such an occasion would I venture forth
in the streets at night."1- And Fouquier, with a
long yawn, uitted the room.
“ Admit e bearer i" said Dumas, who, with-
ered and dried, as lawyers in practice mostly are,
seemed to require as little sleep as his parch-
merits.
' Ilia brother is said, indeed, to have contributed to the
condemnation oflbis virtuous and illustrious person. He
was heard to cry aloud, “ Si men from est coupahle, qn‘ll
pcrisse." This brother. Marie—Joseph. also n poet, and
the nulhor of “Charles lX." so celebrated in the earlier
days of the Revolution. enjoyed, of course, according to
tho wnnled justlec of the world,r	riurnphnnt career; and
was proclaimed in the Chump de Man, " lo premierdot
poetes Fran nil," a title due to his murdered brother.
t During l 0 law" part or the Reign of Tenor, l-‘ouqnler
rarel stirred out at night, and never without an escort.
It? the Reign of Terror, those Ines! terrified were its
all.


13 4
ZANONI. ,_
According as thou dost satisfy me tomorrow, she
lives or dies. I am frank, citizen; thy ghost shall ‘
not haunt me for wzuit of faith.”
“ It is but a day that I have asked ; the rest I
leave to justice and to Heaven. Your huissiers
wait below."

CHAPTER. XVI.
"Unrl den Mordstwhl ssh 'ich blinken;
Und dun Mordcrnnge gluhn !"
Kassuwru.
VIOLA was in the prison, that o ned not but
for those already condemned bcorc adju ed.
Since her exile from Zanoni, her very intel ect
had seemed paralyzed All that beautiful exu-
berance of fancy, which, if not the fruit of genius,
seemed its blossoms; all that gush of ex uisite
thought, which Zauoni had justly told her owed
with mysteries and subtleties evar newtohirn,
the wise one; all were gone, amihilated; the
blossoms withered, the fount dried up. From
something almost above womanhood, she seemed
listlessl to sink into something below childhood.
With e inspirer the inspirations had ceased;
' and, in descrting love, genius also was left behind.
Y She scarcely comprehended why she had been
thus torn from her home and the mechanism of
her dull tasks. She scarcely knew what meant
those kindly groups, that, struck with her exceed-
' lovaliness, had athcred round her in the
prison, with mournfu looks, but with words of
comfort. She, who had hitherto been taught to
abhor those whom Law condemns for crime, was
amazed to hear that beings thus compassionate
and tender, with cloudlcss and lofty brows, with
gallant and gentle mien, were criminals, for whom
Law had no punishment short of death. But they,
the savages, gaunt and menacing, who had dragged
her from her home, who had attempted to snatch
from her the infant, while she clasped it in her
arms, and laughed fierce scorn at her mute, qui-
vering lips-mm' were the chosen citizens, the
men of Virtue, the fm’ourites of Power, the 1ninis~
tors of Law! Such thy black on rices, O thou,
the eyer-shifting and calumnious— uman Judg-
ment-
A squalid and yet a gay world did the prison-
hcuses of that day present. There, as in the se-
pulchre to which they led, all ranks were cast,
with an even-handed scorn. And yet there, the
reverence that comes from great emotions restored
Nature’s first and imperishable, and most lovely,
and most noble Law—Tn: INEQUALITY nnwnsu
ms AND MANl There, lace was given by the
prisoners, whether royahsts or sans-culottes, to
Age, to Learning, to Renown, to Beauty; and,
Strength, with its own inborn chivalry, raised into
rank the helpless and the weak. The iron sinews
and the Herculean shoulders ‘made way for the
woman and the child; and the graces of Hu-
manity, lost elsewhere, sought their refuge in the
abode of Terror.
“ And wherefore, my child, do they bring thee
hither l” asked an old gray-haired priest.
“ I cannot guess."
“Ah! if you know not your offence, fear the
Worst"
" And my child 2” (for the infant was still suf-
fered to rest upon her bosom.)

“Alas, young motherl they will sufi'er thy
child to live."
“And for this—an o ban in the dungeon l"
murmured the accusingrheart of Viola, “have I
reserved his offspring l Zanoni, even in thought,
ask not—ask not, what I the done with the child
I bore thee 1"
Night came; the crowd rushed to the grate to
hear the muster-roll? Her name was with the
doomed. And the old priest, better pre ared to
die, but reserved from the death-list, laid his
hands on her head, and blessed her, while he
wept. She heard, and wondered; but she did
not weep. With downcnst eyes, with arms fold-
ed on her bosom, she bent submissiver to the
call. But now, another name was uttered; and
a man, who had pushed rudely past her, to game
or to listen, shricked out a how of despair and
rage. She turned, and their eyes met Through
the distance of time, she recognised that hideous
aspect N icot's face settled back into its devilid'l
sneer. “At least, gentle Neapolitan, the guillo-
tine will unite us. __ Oh, we shall sleep well our'
wedding night l'I And, with a laugh, he strode
may through the crowd, and vanished into his
She was laced in her gloomy cell to await the
marrow. ut the child was still spared her, and
she thought it seemed as if conscious of the ow-
ful Present In their way to the prison, it had
not moaned or wept; it had looked with its clear
eyes, unshrinlcing, on the gleamin pikcs and sa-
vage brows of the huiu-iers. An now, alone in
the dungeon, it ut its arms round her neck, and
murmured its indistinct sounds, low and sweet as
some unknown lanmage of consolation and of
heaven. And of eavcu it was! For, at the
murmur, the tenor melted from her soul: up-
ward, from the dungeon and the death—upward,
where the happy cherubim chant the mercy of
the All-loving, whispered that cherub’s voice.
She fell u 11 her knees, and rayed. The des-
poilers of that beautifies and hollows life had
desecrated the altar, and denied the God! they
had rcmovod from the last hour of their victims
the Priest, the Scripture, and the Cross! But
Faith builds in-the dungeon and the lunar-house
its sublimest shflnes; and up, through roofs of
stone, that shut out the eye of Heaven, ascends
the ladder where the angels glide to and fro—
Pnnrza. _
And there, in the very cell beside her own, the
atheist, Nicot, sits stolid amid the darkness, and
hugs the thought of Danton, that death is nothing-
ness.f His, no spectacle of an appalled and per
turbed consciencel Remorse is the echo of a
lost virtue, and virtue he neVer knew. Had he
to live again, he would live the same. But more
terrible than the death-bed of n believing and
despairing sinner, that blank gloom of apathy;
that contemplation of the worm and the rat of
the chamel—house; that grim and loathsome N0-
Tumoivms, which, for his eye, falls like a pull over
the universe of life. Still, staring into space
gnawing his livid lip, he looks upon the darkness,
convinced that darkness is forever and ever!
° Called, In the mocking jargon of the day, “The Ere-
nlng Gazelle."
_ t“Mu demeurn sora bienlllt LI MT," said Danton
betbre his judges.
“‘4” _.__.-_|\_—


ZANON L
' 135
'Plaee there! lace l Room yet in your crowded
cells. Another come to the slaughter-house.
As the jailer, lamp in hand, ushered in the
stranger, the latter touched him and whispered.
The stranger drew a jewel from his finger. Di-
antre! how the diamond flmhed in the ray of the
lamp! Value each head of your eight ata
thousand francs, and the jewel is more wo than
all ! The jailer paused, and the diamond laughed
in his dazzled eyes. 0 than Cerberus, thou hast
con uered all else that seems human in that fell
emp 0y. Thou hast no pity, no love, and no re-
morse. But avarice survives the rust, and the
foul heart‘s masteryserpent swallows up the tribe.
Ha! ha! crafty stranger, thou hast conquered!
They tread the gloomy corridor; they arrive at.
the door where the jailer has placed the fatal
mark, now to be erased, for the prisoner within
is to be reprieved for a day. The key grates in
the lock—the door yawns—thc stranger takes the
lamp, and enters ‘

CHAPTEI THE SEVENTEENTH AND
LAST.
‘Cosi vlncc Gotl‘redo ! "
Gm. Lin, cant. xx.. xllv.
Aim Viola was in prayer. She heard not the
ing door; she saw not the dark shadow that
fell along the fluor. His wer, his arts were
fire; but the mystery as the spell known to
simple heart did not desert her in the hours
of trial and despair. When science falls as a
firework from the sky it would invade, when ge-
nius withers as a flower in the breath of the icy
chamel, the ho e of a childlike soul wraps the
air in light, an the innocence of unquestionable
belief covers the grave with blossoms.
In the farthest corner of the cell she knelt; and
the infant as if to imitate what it could not com-
prehend, bent its little limbs, and bowed its smil-
ing face, and knelt with her also by her side.
He stood, and gazed upon them, as the light of
the lamp fell calmly on their forms. It fell over
those clouds of golden hair, dishevelled, parted,
thrown back from the ra it, candid brow; the dark
eyes raised on high, where, through the human
tears, a light as from above was mirrored ; the hands
clasped; the lips apart; the form all animate
and holy with the sad serenity of innocence and
the touching humility of woman. And he heard
her voice, though it scan:er left her lips; the
low voice that the heart speaks, loud enough for
God to hear!
“And if never more to see him, 0 Father!
canst thou not make the love that will not die,
minister, even beyond the grave, to his earthly
fate?
spirit, to hover over him; a spirit fairer than all
his science can conjurel Oh, whatever lot be or-
dained to either, grant—even though a thousand
ages may roll between us—grant, when at last
purified and regenerate. and fit‘ed for the trans-
port of such reunion, grant that we may meet
once more l And for his child—it lmeels to thee
from the dungeon floor! Tomorrow, and whose
breast shall cradle it! whose hand shall feed!
whose lips shall pray for its weal below and its
soul hereafter!"
clwked with Bobs.
Cans-t thou not yet permit it, as a living;

“Thou, Viola! thou thyself. He whom thou
hast deserted is here to preserve the mother to
the child ! ”
She started! those accents, tremulous as her
own! She started to her feet! He was there,
in all the pride of his unwaning youth and super-
human beauty! there in the house of dread, and
in the hour of travail ! there, image and personar
tion of the love that can pierce the Valley of the
Shadow, and can glide, the uriscatlied wanderer
from the heaven, through the roaring abyss
0f hell.
With a cry, never, perhaps, heard before in
that gloomy vault—a cry of delight and rapture,
she sprang forward, and fell at his feet.
He beat down to raise her, but she slid from
his arms. He called her by the familiar epithets
of the old indearment, and she only answered
him by sobs. Wildly, passionately, she kissed
his hands, the hem of his garment, but voice was
gone.
“Lookup,loolr up! Iamhere; Iamhereto
save thee! Wilt thou deny to me thy sweet
face i Truant, wouldst thou fly me still l "
“ Fly thee l” she said, at last, and in a broken
voice; “oh, if my thoughts wron d thee—oh, if
my dream, that awful dream, eceived—kneel
down with me, and pray for our child l” Then,
springing to her feet with a sudden impulse, she
caught up the infant, and placing it in his arms,
sobbed forth, with deprecnting and humble tones,
“Not for my sake—not for mine, did I abandon
thee, but—"
“Hush!” said Zauoni; “I know all the
thoughts that thy confused and struggling senses
mu scarcely analyze themselves. And see how,
with a look, th child answers them!”
And, in tru the face of that strange inlimt
seemed radiant with its silent and unfathomable
joy. It seemed as if it recognised the father; it
clung—it forced itself to his- breast, and there
nes ' , turned its bright clear eyes upon Viola,
and smiled. -
“ Pray for my child !" said Zanoni, moumfully.
“ The thoughts of souls that would aspire as mine,
are all rayer I” And, seating himself b her
side, he to reveal to her some of the
secrets of his lofty being. He s he of the sub-
lime and intense faith from wrich alone the di-
viner knowledge can arise; the faith which, seeing
the immortal ever here, purifies and exalts the
mortal thatbehol —-the glorious ambition that
dwells not in the cabals and crimes of earth, but
amid those solemn wonders that sfiak not of men,
butofGod;ofthat ertoa tractthe soul
from the clay which gives to the eye of the soul
its subtle vision, and to the soul's wing the unli-
mited realm; of that pure, severe, and daring
initiation, from which the mind emerges, as from
death, into clear perceptions of its kindred with
the Father-Princi les of life and light, so that, in
its own sense of is Beautiful, it finds its joy; in
the serenity of its Will, its power; in its sym thy
with the youthfulness of the Infinite Creation, of
which itself is an essence and a part, the secrets
that embalm the very clay which the consecrata,
and renew the strength of life with tie amme
of mysterious and celestial sleep. And While he
spoke, Viola listened, breathless If she_ could
not comprehend, she no longer dared to distrust.
She paused—her voice was She felt that in that enthusiasm, selfdeceiving or
not, no fiend could lurk; and by an intuition, mi


136
ZANONI.
ther than an effort of the reason, she saw before
her, like a starry ocean, the de th and mysterious
beauty of the soul which her ears had wronged.
Yet when he said concluding his strange confes-
sions) that to this life within. life and above life he
had dreamed to raise her own, the fear of humanity
crept over her, and he read in her silence how
vain, with all his science, would the dream have
been
But now, as he closed, and, leaning on his
breast, she felt the clasp of his proteetiug arms-—
when, in one holy kiss, the past was forgiven and
the present lost, then there returned toher the
sweet and warm hopes of the natural life, of the
loving woman. He was come to save her! She
asked not how—she believed it without a ques-
tion. They should be at last again united. They
would fly for from those scenes of violence and
blood. Their happy Ionian isle, their fearless
solitudcs, would once more receive them. She
laughed, with a child's 'oy, as this picture rose 11
amid the gloom of e dungeon! Her mind?
faithful to its sweet, sim le instincts, refused to
receive the lofty images tliat flitted confusedly by
it, and settled back to its human visions, yet more
baseless, of the earthly happiness and the tranquil
home.
“ Talk not now to me, beloved—talk not more
now to me of the past! Thou art here—thou
wilt save me; we shall live yet the common
happy life; that life with thee is happiness and
glory enough to me. Traverse, if thou wilt, in
thy pride of soul, the universe; thy heart again
is the universe to mine. I thought but now that
I was prepared to die : I see thee, touch thee, and
again I know how beautiful a thing is life! See
through the grate the stars are fading from the
sky; the morrow will soon be hare—Irma uoanow
which will open the rison door! Thou sayest
thou canst save me; will not doubt it now.
Oh, let us dWell no more in cities! I never
doubted thee in our lovel isle ; no dreams
haunted me there, except dli'eams of joy and
beauty; and thine 0 cs made yet more beautiful
and jovous the worl in waking. To-morrow !—
why do you not smile? To-morrow, love! is not
tomorrow a blessed word! Cruel! you would
punish me still, that youwill not share my joy.
Aha! see to our little one, how it laughs to my
eyes! I will talk to that. Child, thy father ls
come back I”
And taking the infant in her arms, and sea '
herself at a little distance, she rocked it to an
fro on her boson; and prattled to it, and kissed it
between every word; and laughed and wept by
fits, as ever and anon she cost over her shoulder
her playful, mirtht'ul glance, upon the father to
whom those fading stars smiled sadly their last
farewell. How beautiful she seemed as she thus
sat, unconscious of the future. Still half a child
herself, her child laughing to her laughter, two
soft triflers on the brink of the ve ! Over her
throat, as she bent, fell, like a golden cloud, her
redundant hair; it covered her treasure like a
veil of light; and the child's little hands ut it
aside from time to time, to smile throug the
parted tressm, and then to cover its face, and peep
and smile again. It were cruel to damp that joy,
more cruel still to share it
“Viola,” said Zanoni, at last, “dost thou re-
member that, seated by the cave on the moonlit
bitch, in our bridal isle, then once didst ask me

for this amulet! the charm of a superstition
vanished from the world, with the creed to whi
it belonged It is the last relic of my nnfiveimd,
and my mother, on her death-bed, laced it round
my neck I told thee, then, I we (1 give it than
on that day when the laws of our being should be-
come the same."
“I remember it well."
“ To-morrow it shall be thino l”
“ Ah, that dear to-morrow !" And, gently lay-
ing down her child, for it dept now, she
herself on his breast, and pointed to the dawn
that began grany to creep along the skies.
There, in those honor-breathing walls, the day-
star looked through the dismal bars upon those
three beings, in whom were concentred whatever
is most tender in human ties, whatever is most
in sterious in the combinations of the human
nund; the sleeping Innocence; the trustful Affec-
tion, that, contented with a touch, a breath, can
foresee no sorrow; the weary Science, that, trav-
ersing all the secrets of creation, comes at last to
Death for their solution, and still clings, as it nears
the threshold, to the breast of Love. Thus, within,
the within—a dungeon ; without, the without——
statel with marts and balls, with aluces and
temp es—revenge and terror, at their rk schemes
and counter-schemes—to and fro, upon the tide of
the shifting passions, reeled the destinies of men
and nations; and hard at hand that day-star, wa-
ning into space, looked with impartial eye on the
church tower and the guillotine. Up springs the
blithesome morn. In yon gardens the birds re-
new their familiar song. The fishes are sporting
through the freshening waters of the Seine. The
gladness of divine nature, the roar and dissonance
of mortal life awake again; the trader unbars his
windows; the flower-girls troop gaily to their
haunts; busy feet are tramping to the daily
drudgeries that revolutions, which strike down
kings and kaisers, leave the same Cain’s heri e
to the beer; the wagons groan and reel to e
mart; Tyranny, up bctimes, holds its pallid levee;
Conspiracy, that hath not slept, hears the clock,
andth rstoits own heart, “The hour draws
near." Xe group gather, eager-eyed, round the
purlieus of the Convention Hall; to-day decide!
the sovereign of France—about the courts of
the Tribunal eir customary hum and stir. No
matter what the hazard of the die, or who the
ruler, this day eighty heads shall fall!
And she slept so sweetly. Wearied out with
joy, secure in the presence of the eyes regained,
she had laughed and wept herself to sleep; and
still, in that slumber, there seemed a ha py cun-
sciousness that the loved was by, the 0st was
found. For she smiled and murmured to herself,
and breathed his name often, and stretched out
her ms, and sighed if they touched him not.
lie gazed upon her as he stood a art, with what
emotions it were vain to say. S 0 would wake
no more to him, she could not know how dearly
the safety of that sleep was purchased That
morrow she had so 'enmed for—it had come at
last. How would a greet the eve? Amid all
the exquisite hopes with which love and outh
contemplate the future,hcr e as had closed. as:
hopes still lent their iris-co ours to her dream
She would wake to live! Tomorrow, and the
reignof terror wasnomore,the would


ZANONI.
18-7
be opened, she would go forth with her child into
that summer-world of light And he I he turned,
and his eye fell upon the child; it was broad
awake, and that clear, serious, thoughtful look
which it mostly wore watched him with a solemn
steadiness. He bent over and kissed its li
“ Never more," he murmured, “ O hentor of
love and grief, never more wilt thou see me in
thy visions; never more will the light of those
syes be fed by celestial commune; never more
canmy soul guard from thy pillow the trouble
and the disease. Not such as I would have vainly
shaped it must be thy lot In common with thy
race, it must be thine to suffer, to struggle, and to
err. But mild be thy human trials, and strong be
thy spirit, to love and to believe ! And thus, as
I gaze upon thee, thus may my nature breathe
into thine its last and most intense desire; may
my love for thy mother pass to thee, and in thy
looks may she hear my spirit comfort and console
her. Hark! they come! Yes! Iawait yevboth
be nd the grave l"
0 door slowly opened; the jailer appeared,
and through the ierture rushed at the same in-
stant a my of sun ight; it streamed over the fair,
hushed face of the happy sleeper; it played like.
a smile u the ii is o the child, that still, mute
and stea first, watched the movements of its fa,-
ther. At that moment Viola muttered in her
sleep, “ The day is come, the gates are open!
Give me thy hand; we will go forth! To sea, to
sea! How the sunshine plays upon the waters !
to home, beloved one ! to home again."
" Citizen, thine hour is come l"
I'l;l.ist! she sleeps! A moment! There! it
isdonel thank Heaven! and still she sleeps !"
He would not kiss, lest he should awaken her,
to the roar of voices ! Room there, ye dead [—
room in hell for Robespierre and his crew l"
They hurry into the court, the hasty and pnle
!, messengers; there is confusion, and fear, and die
imayl “Off with the cons irator! and to—mor-
f Howi” the woman thou woul st have saved, shall
1e
“ To-morrow, president—and the steel falls
on 'raaa !"


On, through the crowded and rearing streets,
on moves the Procession of Death! Ha, brave
People, thou art aroused at last! They shall
not die! Death is dethroned l Robespierre has
fallen ! they rush to the rescue. Hideous in the
! tumbril, by the side of Zanoni, raved and gesticu-
{lated that form, which in his rophetic dreams
he had seen his companion at t is place of death.
"Save us !--save as l" howled the atheist Nicot;
“ on, brave populace ! we shall be saved !" And
! through the crowd, her dark hair streaming wild,
her eyes flashing fire, pressed a female form :—
| “ My Clarence !” she shrieked, in the soft South-
! em language, native to the ears of Viola; “ hut-
, cher! what hast then done with Clarence l” Her
‘ e es roved over the eager faces of the prisoners;
s to saw not the one she sought. “ Thank Hea-
ven—thank Heaven, I am not thy murdercss !"
! Nearer and nearer press the populace ; another
1moment, and the deathsmnn is defrauded. Oh,
Zanoni, why still upon thy brow the resignation
i that speaks no hopel Tramp! tramp ! through
the streets dash the armed troop: faithful to his
orders, black Henriot leads them on. Tramp !
tramp ! over the craven and scattered crowd l
' Here flying in disorder, there trampled in the
l mire, the shrieking rescuers! And amid them,
, stricken by the sabres of the guard, her long hair

but gently placed round her neck the amulet ' blmnl-hcdnhhled, lies the Italian woman; and
that would speak to her, hereafter, the farewell, - still upon her writhing lips sits joy, as they mur-
and promise, in that farewell, re-unionl He is ! mur, “ Clarence ! I have not destroyed thee !"
at the threshold; he turns again and again. The | On to the Barriére du Tréne. lt frowns dark
door closes! He is gone—forever l
She woke at last; she gazed round. “ Zano-
ai, it is day I" No answer but the low wail of
herchild. Merciful Heaven! was it then all a
dream? She tossed back the long tresses that
must veil her sight; she felt the amulet on her ‘
bosom: it was no dream! “Oh, God! and he
is gone i” She s rang to the door; she shricked
aloud. The jai er comes I “ My husband !—
my child’s father l"
“He is gone before thee, woman
“Whither! Speak! speak!”
l‘To the guillotine!" and the black door closed
in.
It closed upon the senseless! As a lightning
flash, Zanoni's words. his sadness, the true mean-
ing of his mystic gift, the very sacrifice he made
for her, all heeamc distinct for a moment to her
mind, and then darkness swept on it like a storm,
yet darkness which had its light. And, while
she sat there, mute, igid, voiceless, as congealed
to stone, A vrsros, like a wind, glided over the
deeps within l—the grim court, the judge, the
jury, the accuser; and amid the victims, the one
dauntless and radiant form.
“Thou knowest. the danger to the State—cou-
fsss l"
“ I know, and I kee my promise. Judge, I
reveal thy doom! I w that the Anarchy
thou callest a State, expires with the setting of
the sun. Hark! to the tramp without l—hark!
r'
l in the air—the giant instrument of murder! One
after one to the glaive; another—and another—
and another! Mercv! oh, mercy ! Is the bridge
, between the sun and the shades so brief l—brief
[as a sight There ! there l—his turn has come!
" Die not yet! leave me not behind ! Hear me—
henr me i" shrieked the inspired sleeper. " What !
and thou smilest still !" They smiled—those
pole lips; and with the smile, the lace of doom,
the headsman, the horror vanishe ! With that
smile, all space seemed suffused in eternal sun-
shine. Up from the earth he rose; he hovered
over her—a thing not of matter—an 1mm of by
and light! Behind, Heaven opened, deep after
deep; and the Host of Beauty were seen, rank
upon rank, afar; and “ Welcome," in a myriad
melodies, broke from your choral multitude, e
People of the Skies—“ Welcome ! O purified hy
sacrifice, and immortal on! through the grave—
this it is to die." And radiant amid the radiant,
the hues stretched forth its arms, and murmur-
ed to the sleeper, “ Companion of Eternity ! this
it is to die 2"
“Ho! wherefore do they make us signs from
the housetopsl Wherefore gather the crowds
through the streetl Wh sounds the hell i Why
shrieks the tocsinl Har tothe guns! the armed
Lbshl Fellow-captives, is there hope for us at
'1’


138
ZANONL
Sogaspoutthe ' eraeach to each. Day
mew-evening coses; still they press their
white faces to the bars; and still from window
and from housetop they see the smiles of friends
—the waving signals! “ Hurrah !" at last—“ Hur-
rah! Robespierre is fallen! The Reign of Terror
is no more! God hath permitted us to live!”
Yes; cast thine eyes into the hall, where the
tyrant and his conclave hearkened to the roar
without! Fulfilling the rophecy of Dumas,
Henriot, drunk with blood) and alcohol, reels
within, and chucks his gory sabre on the floor.
“ All is lost !”
“Wreteh! thy cowardice has destroyed us !"
yelled the fierce Cofiinhal as he hurled the coward
from the window.
Calm as despair stands the stern St. Just; the
palsied Couthon crawls, grovelling beneath the
table; ashot—-an ex losion! Robespierre would
destroy himself! '1‘ e tremb' hand has man-
gled, and failed to kill ! The c ock of the Hotel
de Ville strikes the third hour. Through the bat-
tered door, along the gloomy passages, into the
Death-hall, burst the crowd. Mangled, livid,
blood-stained, speechlem, but not unconscious, sits
haughty yet, in his seat erect, the Master-Mur'~
derer! Around him they throng—they hoot—
they execrate! their faces gleaming in the tossing
torches! He, and not the starry Magian, the real
Sorcerer! And round his last hours gather the
fiends he raised!
They drag him forth! Open thy gates, inex-
orable rison! The Conciergerie receives its
. re ! ever a word again on earth spoke Max~
' 'en Robes ierre! Pour forth thy thousands,
and tens of t ousands, emanci ated Paris! To
the Place de La Revolution ro s the tumbril of
the King of Terror, St. Just, Dumas, Couthon, by
his side. A woman, a childless woman, with
hoary hair, springs to his side—“ Thy death
makes me dnmk with joy 1” He opened his

bloodshot eyes: “ Descend to hell, with the curses
of wives and mothers !"
The hcadsmen wrenched the rag from the shat-
tered jaw ! A shriek, and the crowd laugh ; and
the axe descends amid the shout of the counties
thousands ! And blackness rushes on thy
a‘fanmih' ' 'en Robespierre ! So ended the Reign'
error. -
Daylight in the prison. From cell to cell they
hurry with the news: crowd upon crowd, the
joyous captives mingled with the very jailers,
who, for fear, would seem joyous too; they
stream through the done and alloys of the
house they will shortly leave. They burst into a
cell, forgotten since the previous morning. They
found there a young female, sitting upon her
wretched bed; her arms crossed upon her bosom,
her face raised upward, the eyes unclosed, and a
smile of more than serenity—of bliss upon her
lips. Even in the riot of their joy, they drew
back in astonishment and awe. Never had they
seen life so beautiful; and as they crept nearer,
and with noiseless feet, they saw that the lips
breathed not; that the repose was of marble;
that the beauty and the ecstasy were of death;
they gathered round in silence; and 10, at her
feet there was a oung infant, who, wakened b
their tread, looked at them steadfastly, and wi
its rosy fingers played with its dead mother‘s
robe. An orphan there in the dungeon vault!
“ Poor one !" said a female herself a parent),
“and they saw the father f 1 yesterday; and
now, the mother! Alone in the world, what can
be its fate i”
The infant smiled fearlessly on the crowd a!
the woman spoke thus. And the old priest, who,
stood among them, said gently, “ Woman, see,
the orphan smiles! Tm: Farmuss ABE rm:
cm or Gen !"
END.


LUCRETIAJ
on,
THE CHILDREN OF NIGHT.
BY
THE AUTHOR OF “PELHAM,” “POMPEII,” “ZANONI,”
“RIENZI,” ETC., ETC.
0 HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS
an CLIFF STREET, NEW YORK.





rREFAOa
IT is somewhere about four years since I
appeared before the public as the writer ofa
fiction, which I then intimated would prob-
ably be my last; but bad habits are strong-
er than good intentions. Gil Blas leaves
Fabricio, in his hospital, duly convinced
ofthe miseries his poetical faculty has en-
tailed on him, and solemnly promising to
have done with 'so thankless a calling,—-to
find him the next morning in the full vein
of inspiration, and recommencing his des-
perate career by a Farewell to the Muses :
-I need not apply the allusion.
I must own, however, that there had
long been a desire in my mind to trace, in
some work or other, the stange and secret
ways through which that arch-ruler of
civilization, familiarly called “ Money,”
insinuates itself into our thoughts and mo-
tives, our hearts and actions; affecting
those who undervalue as those who over-
estimate its importance; ruining virtues
in the spendthrift no less than engendering
vices in the miser. But when 1 half im-
plied my farewell to the character of a
novelist, I had imagined that this concep-
tion might be best worked out upon the
stage. After some unpublished and im-
perfect attempts toward so realizing my
design)“ I found either that the subject was
too wide for the limits of the drama, or
that I wanted that faculty of concentration
which alone enables the dramatist to com-
press multiform varieties into a very lim-
ited compass. With this design, I desired
to unite some exhibition of what seems to
me a principal vice in the hot and emulous
chase for happiness or fame, fortune or
knowledge, which is almost synonymous
with the cant phrase of “ the March of In-
tellect,” in that crisis of society to which
we have arrived. The vice I allude to is

' The design was formed after the publication of the
comedy called “Money,” which, in spite of its name,
was not, therefore, an attempt toward the-illustration of
the more comprehensive object 1 here allude to.

Impatience. That eager desire to press
forward, not so much to conquer obstacles,
as to elude them ; that gambling with the
solemn destinies of life, seeking ever to
set success upon the chance of a die ; that
hastening from the wish conceived to the
end accomplished ; that thirst after quick
returns to ingenious toil, and breathless
spurrings along short cuts to the geal,
which we see everywhere around us,-
from the Mechanics’ Institute to the StOCk
Market,—beginning in education with the
primers of infancy,—deluging us with
“ Philosophies for the Millions,” and “ Sci-
ences made easy ;" characterizing the
books of our writers, the speeches of our
statesmen, no less than the dealings of
our speculators, seem, I confess, to me, to
constitute a very diseased and very gen-
eral symptom of the times. I hold that
the greatest friend to man is labor; that
knowledge without toil, if possible, were
worthless; that toil in pursuit of knowl-
edge is the best knowledge we can attain;
that the continuous effort for fame is
nobler than fame itself; that it is not
wealth suddenly acquired which is deserv-
ing of homage, but the virtues which a
man exercises in the slow pursuit of
wealth,—-the abilities so called forth, the
self-denials so imposed: in a word, that
Labor and Patience are the true school-
masters on earth. While occupied with
these ideas and this belief, whether right
or wrong, and slowly convinced that it
was only in that species of composition
to which Iwas most familiar, that I could
work out some portion of the plan that I
began to contemplate, I became acquainted
with the histories of two criminals, exist-
ing in our own age;-—s0 remarkable,
whether from the extent and darkness of
the guilt committed—whether from the
glittering accomplishments and lively tem-
per of the one, the profound knowledge
and intellectual capacities of the other—


8 PREFACE.
that the examination and analysis of char-
acters so perverted, became a study full of
intense, if gloomy interest.
In these persons there appear to have
been as few redeemable points as can be
found in human nature, so far as such
points may be traced in the kindly in-
stincts and generous passions which do
sometimes accompany the perpetration of
great crimes, and without excusing the
individual, vindicate the species. 'Yet, on
the other hand, their sanguinary wicked-
ness was not the dull ferocity of brutes;
—it was accompanied with instruction and
culture. Nay, it seemed to me, on study-
ing their lives, and pondering over their
own letters, that through their cultivation
itself we could arrive at the secret of the
ruthless and atrocious preéminence in evil
these Children of Night had attained—that
here the monster vanished into the mortal,
and the phenomena that seemed aberra-
tions from nature were explained.
I could not resist the temptation of re4
ducing to a tale the materials which had
so engrossed my interest and tasked my
inquiries. And in this attempt, various
incidental opportunities have occurred, if
not of completely carrying out, still of in-
cidentally illustrating, my earlier design;
-—of showing the influence of Mammon
upon our most secret selves, and of re-
proving the impatience which is engen-
dered by a civilization—that with much of
the good, brings all the evils of competi-
tion: In such incidental bearings the mo-
ral may doubtless be more obvious than in
the delineation of the darker and rarer
crime which forms the staple of my narra-
tive. For, in extraordinary guilt we are
slow to recognize ordinary warnings—
we say to the peaceful conscience, “ This
concerns thee not i”-—whereas at each
instance of familiar fault and common-
place error we own a direct and sensible
admonition. Yet, in the portraiture of
gigantic crime, poets have rightly found
their sphere, and fulfilled their destiny of

teachers. Those terrible truths which ap-
pal us in the guilt of Macbeth, or the vil-
lainy of Iago, have their moral uses not
less than the popular infirmities of Tom
Jones, or the everyday hypocrisy of Blifil.
Incredible as it may' seem, the crimes
herein related took place within the last
seventeen years. There has been no ex-
aggeration as to their extent, no great
departure from their details—the means
employedueven that which seems most
far-fetched (the instrument of the poisoned
ring) have their foundation in literal facts.
Nor have I much altered the social posi-
tion of the criminals, nor in the least over-
rated their attainments and intelligence.
In those more salient essentials, which
will most, perhaps, provoke the reader’s
incredulous wonder, I narrate a history,
not invent a fiction.‘ All that romance
which our own time affords is not more
the romance than the philosophy of the
time. Tragedy never quits the world—it
surrounds us everywhere. We have but
to look, wakeful and vigilant, abroad; and
from the age of Pelops to that of Borgia,
the same crimes, though under different
garbs, will stalk on our paths. Each ago
comprehends in itself specimens of every
virtue and every vice which has ever in-
spired our love or moved our horror.
Lennon, November 1, 1846.

" These criminals were not, however, in actual life. as
in the novel. intimates and accomplices. Their crimes
were of similar chumcter, efl‘ected by similar agencies,
and committed at dates which embrace their several ca-
reers ofguiit within the some period; but] have no au-
thority to suppose that the one was known to the other.
In such portions of the plot as weave together two seplb
ute records, the reader will, therefore, distinguish between
the truth of isolated facts and the invention of the con-
necting links necessary to narrative.
Norm—The passage in last nineteen lines of page 75
to end of first paragraph on page 76. has been freely pis-
giarized from n powe ui description of some picture which
occurs in one of M. de Balzac's striking novels.
The passage in page 96. lines 2! to 3i in last column. is,
in much. a repetition of an illustration in “ Zanani." The
repetition was purposely made, in order to apply the illus-
tration in a totally difl‘crent sense.


LUCRETIA.
PROLOGUE TO PART THE FIRST.
is an apartment at Paris, one morning, dur-
ing the Reign of Terror, a man, whose age
might be somewhat under thirty, sat before a
table covered with papers, arranged and label-
ed with the methodical precision of a mind
fond of order and habituated to business Be-
hind him rose a tall bookcase, surmounta! with
a bust of Robespierre, and the shelves were
filled chiefly with works of a scientific charac-
ter; among which the greater number were
on chemistry and medicine. There were to be
seen also many rare books on alchemy, the
greatltalian historians, some English philosoph-
ical treatises, and a few MSS. in Arabic. The
absence, from this collection, of the stormy lit-
erature of the day, seemed to denote that the
owner was a quiet student, living apart from
the strife and passions of the Revolution. This
supposition was, however, disproved by certain
papers on the table, which were formally and
laconically labeled “ Reports on Lyons," and by
packets of letters in the handwritings of Robes-
pierre and Couthon. At one of the windows, a
young boy was earnestly engaged in some occu-
pation,wbich appeared to excite the curiosity of
the person just described; for this last,after ex-
amining the child‘s movements, for a few mo-
ments, with a silent scrutiny, which betrayed but
little of the half-complacent, half-melancholy af-
fection with which busy man is apt to regard idle
childhood, rose noiselesst from his seat, ap-
proached the boy, and looked over his shoulder
unobserved. In a crevice of the wood by the win-
dow, a huge black spider had formed his web;
the child had just discovered another spider, and
placed it in the meshes; he was watching the
result of his operations. The intrusive spider
stood motionless in the midst of the web, as if
fascinated. The rightful possessor was also qui-
escent ; but a very fine ear might have caught a
low, humming sound, which probably augured
no hospitable intentions to the invader. Anon,
the stranger insect seemed suddenly to awake
from its amaze; it evinced alarm, and turned
to fly ; the huge spider darted forward—the
boy uttered a chuckle of delight. The man’s
pale lip curled into a sinister sneer, and he
glided ba to his seat. There, leaning his
face on hi hand, he continued to contemplate
the child. That child might have furnished to
an artist a fitting subject for fair and bloom-
ing infancy. His light hair, tinged deeply, it is
true, with red, hung in sleek and glittering
abundance down his neck and shoulders. His
features, seen in profile, were delicately and
almost femininely proportioned; health glowed
on his cheek, and his form, slight though it was,
gave promise of singular activity and vigor. His

dress was fantastic, and betrayed the taste of
some fondly foolish mother; but the fine linen,
trimmed with lace, was rumpled and stained,
the velvet jacket unbrushed, the shoes soiled
with dust ; slight tokens these of neglect—but
serving to show that the foolish fondness which
had invented the dress, had not of late presided
over the toilet.
“ Child," said the man, first in French; and
observing that the boy heeded him not—“ child,"
he repeated in English, which he spoke well,
though with a foreign accent—“ child !"
The boy turned quickly.
“ Has the great spider devoured the small
one '4"
“ No, sir,” said the boy, coloring; “ the
small one has had the best of it.” The tone
and heightened complexion of the child seemed
to give meaning to his words—at least, so the
man thought—for a slight frown passed over
his high, thoughtful brow.
“ Spiders, then," he said, after a short pause,
“ are different from men : with us the small do
not get the better of the great. Hum! do you
still miss your mother!"
“ Oh, yes l" and the boy‘advanced eagerly to
the table.
“ Well, you will see her once again."
“ When 'l"
The man looked toward a clock on the man-
tel-piece—“Before that clock strikes. Now,
go back to your spiders.” The child looked
irresolute and disinclined to obey; but a stern
and terrible expression gathered slowly over
the man‘s face; and the boy, growing pale as
he remarked it, crept back to the window.
The father, for such was the relation the
owner of the room bore to the child, drew
paper and ink toward him, and wrote for some
minutes rapidly. Then starting up, he glanced
at the clock, took his hat_and cloak, which lay on
a chair beside, drew up the collar of the man-
tle till it almost' concealed his countenance, and
said—“ Now, boy, come with me ; [have prom-
ised to show you an execution. I am going to
keep my promise. Come 1"
The boy clapped his hands with joy; and you
might see then, child as he was, that those fair
features were capable of a cruel and ferocious
expression. The character of the whole face
changed. He caught up his gay cap and plume,
and followed his father into the streets.
Silently the two took their way toward the
Barrier: du Tram. At a distance they saw the
crowd growing thick and dense, as throng after
throng hurried past them, and the dreadful guil-
lotine rose high in the light blue air. As they
came into the skirts of the mob, the father, for


PART THE FIRST.
CHAPTER I.
A FAMILY GROVE
Om: July evening, at the commencement of
the present century, several persons were some-
what picturesquer grouped along an old-fash-
ioned terrace, which skirted the garden side of
a manor-house that had considerable preten-
sions to baronial dignity. The architecture
was of the most enriched and elaborate style
belonging to the reign of James I. : the porch,
opening on the terrace, with its mullion window
above, was'encased with pilasters and reliefs,
at once ornamental and massive ; and the large
square tower in which it was placed, was sur-
mounted by a stone falcon, whose talons griped
fiercely a scutcheon blazoned with the five-
pointed stars which heralds recognize as the
arms of St. John. On either side this tower
extended long wings, the dark brickwork of
which was relieved with noble stone easements
and carved pediments; the high roof was par-
tially concealed by a balustrade, perforated not
inelegantly into arabesque designs; and what
architects call “the sky line” was broken with
imposing effect by tall chimney shafts of various
form and fashion. These wings terminated in
angular towers, similar to the center, though
kept duly subordinate to it both in size and
decoration, and crowned with stone cupolas.
A low-balustradc, oflater date than that which
adorned the roof, relieved by vases and statues,
bordered the terrace, from which a double flight
of steps descended to a smooth lawn, inter-
sected by broad gravel walks, shadowed by
vast and stately cedars, and gently and grad-
ually mingling with the wilder scenery of the
park, from which it was only divided by a
ha-ha.
Upon the terrace, and under cover of a tem-
porary aWning, sat the owner, Sir Miles St.
John, of Laughton, a comely old man, dressed
with faithful precision to the costume which he
had been taught to consider appropriate to his
rank of gentleman, and which was not yet
wholly obsolete and eccentric. His hair, still
thick and luxuriant, was carefully powdered.
and collected into a club behind. His nether
man, attired in gray breeches and pearl-colored
silk stockings; his vest of silk, opening wide
at the breast, and showing a profusion of fril],
slightly sprinkled with the pulvilio of his favor-
ite martinique; his three-cornered hat, placed
on a stool at his side, with a gold-headed
crutch-eane—hat, made rather to he carried in
the hand than worn on the head—the-diamond
in his shirt-breast, the diamond on his finger,
the ruflles at his wrist, all bespoke the gallant,
who had chatted with Lord Chesterfield, and.
supped with Mrs. Clive. On a table before him,
Were placed two or three decanters of wine,
the fruits of the season,an enameled snuff-box,
in which was set the portrait of a female—per-
haps the Chloe or Phillis of _his early love-

ditties; a lighted taper, a small china jar
containing tobacco, and three or four pipes of
homely clay, for cherry-sticks and meerschaums
were not then in fashion; and Sir Miles St.
John, once a gay and sparkling beau, now a
popular country gentleman, great at county
meetings and sheep-shearing festivals, had
taken to smoking, as in harmony with his bu-
colic transformation; an old setter lay dozing
at his feet; a small spaniel—01d, too—was
sauntering lazily in the immediate neighbor-
hood, looking gravely out for such stray bits of
biscuit as had been thrown forth to provoke
him to exercise, and which hitherto had es-
caped his attention. Half-seated, half-reclined
on the balustrade, apart from the baronet, but
within reach of his conversation, lolled a man
in the prime oflife, with an air of unmistakable
and sovereign elegance and distinction. Mr.
Vernon was a guest from London: and the
London man, the man of clubs, and dinners,
and routs—of noon loungings through Bond-
strect, and nights spent with the Prince of
\Vales, seemed stamped not more upon the
careful carelessness of his dress, and upon the
worn expression of his delicate features, than
upon the listless ennui, which, characterizing
both his face and attitude, appeared to take
pity on himself for having been entrapped into
the country.
Yet we should convey an erroneous impres-
sion of Mr. Vernon, if we designed, by the
words “ listless ennui," to depict the slumber-
-ous insipidity of more modern affectation—it
was not the ennui of a man to whom ennui is
habitual; it was rather the indolent prostration
that fills up the intervals of excitement. At
that day, the word “ blesé" was unknown; men
had not enough sentiment for satiety. There
was a kind of Bacchanalian fury in the life led
by those leaders of fashion among whom Mr.
Vernon was not the least distinguished: it was
a day of deep drinking, of high play, of jovial,
reckless dissipation—of strong appetite for fun
and riot—of four-in-hand coachmanship—ot
prize-fighting—of a strange sort of barbarous
manliness, that strained every nerve of the
constitution; a race of life, in which three
fourths of the competitors died half-way in the
hippodromc. What is now the dandy was then
the buck; and something of the buck, though
subdued by a chaster taste than fell to the
ordinary members of his class, was apparent in
Mr. Vernon’s costume as well as air. Intricate
folds of muslin, arranged in prodigious bows
and ends, formed the cravat, which Brummcll
had not yet arisen to reform ; his hat, ofa very
peculiar shape, low at the crown and broad at
the brim, was worn with an air of devil-mc- '
care defiance ; his watch-chain, garnished with
a prof sion of rings and seals, hung low from
his white waistcoat; and the adaptation of his
nankin inexpressibles to his well shaped limbs,
was a masterpiece of art. His whole dress


12
A FAMILY GROUP.
and air was not what could properly be called
foppish—it was rather what at that time was
called “rakish.” Few could so closely ap-
proach vulgarity without being vulgar: of that
privileged few, Mr. Vernon was one of the
elect. Further on, and near the steps descend-
ing into the garden, stood a man in an attitude
of profound abstraction; his arms folded, his
eyes bent on the ground, his broWs slightly
contracted; his dress was a plain black sur-
tout, and pantaloons of the same color : some-
thing both in the fashion of the dress, and still
more in the face of the man, bespoke the for-
eigner.
Sir Miles St. John was an accomplished per-
son for that time of day: he had made the
grand tour ; he had bought pictures and statues;
he spoke and wrote well in the modern lan-
guages ; and being rich, hospitable, and social,
and not averse from the reputation of a patron,
he had opened his house freely to the hosts of
emigrants whom the French revolution had
driven to our coasts. Olivier Dalibard, a man
of considerable learning and rare scientific at-
tainments, had been a tutor in the house of the
Marquis de G—, a French nobleman, known
many years before to the old baronet. The
marquis and his family had been among the
first emigre'a at the outbreak of the Revolution.
The tutor had remained behind; for at that
time no danger appeared to threaten those who
pretended to no other aristocracy than that of
letters. Contrary, as he said, with repentant
modesty, to his own inclinations, he had been
compelled, not only for his own safety, but for
that of his friends, to take some part in the
_ subsequent events of the Revolution—a part
far from sincere, though so well had he simu-
lated the patriot, that he had Won the personal
favor andzprotection of Robespierre; nor till
the fall of that virtuous exterminator had be
withdrawn from the game of politics, and ef-
fected, in disguise, his escape to England. As,
whether from kindly or other motives, he had
employed the power of his position in the
esteem of Robespiei're, to save certain noble
heads from the guillotine—among others, the
two brothers of the Marquis de G—, he was
received with grateful welcome by his former
patrons, who readin pardoned his career of
Jacobinism, from their belief in his excuses,
and their obligations to the services which that
Very career had enabled him to render to their
kindred. Olivier Dalibard had accompanied
the marquis and his family in one of the fre-
quent visits they paid to Laughton; and when
the marquis finally quilted England, and fixed
his refuge at Vienna, with some connections
of his wife's, he felt a lively satisfaction at the
thought of leaving his friend honorably, if
unambiliously provided for, as secretary and
librarian to Sir Miles St. John. In fact, the
scholar, who possessed considerable powers of
fascination, had won no less favor with the
English baronet than he had with the French
dictator. He played well both at chess and
backgammon; be was an extraordinary ac,
countant ; he had a variety of information upon
all points, that rendered him more convenient
than any cyclopsdia in Sir Miles's library; and,
as he spoke both English and Italian with a

correctness and fluency extremely rare in a.
Frenchman, he was of considerable service in
teaching languages to (as Well as directing the
general literary education of) Sir Miles’s favor-
ite niece—whom we shall take an early oppor-
tunity to describe at length.
Nevertheless, there had been one serious ob~
stacle to Dalibard‘s acceptance of the appoint-
ment offered to him by Sir Miles. Dalibard
had under his charge a young orphan boy of
some ten or twelve years old—a boy whom Sir
Miles was not long in suspecting to be the
scholar‘s son. This child had come from
France with Dalibard, and (while the marquis's
family were in London) remained under the eye
and care of his guardian or father, whichever
was the true connection between the two. But
this superintendence became impossible if
Dalibard settled in Hampshire with Sir Miles
St. John and the boy remained in London ;
nor, though the generous old gentleman offered.
to pay for the child’s schooling, would Dali-
bard consent to part with him. At last, the
matter was arranged: the boy was invited to
Laughton on a visit, and was so lively, yet
so well mannered, that he became a favorite,
and was now fairly quartered in the house with
his reputed father: and, not to make an unne-
cessary mystery of this connection, such was,
in truth, the relationship between Olivier Dali-
bard and Honoré Gabriel Varney—a name sig-
nificant of the double and illegitimate origin—
a French father, and an English mother. Half‘
way down the steps stood the lad, pencil and
tablet in hand, sketching. Let us look over his
shoulder—it is his father‘s likeness—a counte-
nance in itself not very remarkable at the first
glance, for the features were small, but when
examined, it was one that most persons, women
especially, would have pronounced handsome,
and to which none could deny the higher praise
of thought and intellect. A native of Provence,
with some Italian blood in his veins—for his
grandfather, a merchant of Marseilles. had mar-
ried into a Florentine family settled at Leghorn
—the dark complexion, common with those in
the south, had been subdued, probably by the
habits oflhe student, into a bronzed and stead-
fast paleness, which seemed almost fair, by the
contrast of the dark hair which he wore unpow-
dered, and the still darker browa which hung
thick and prominent over clear gray eyes.
Compared with the features, the skull was dis-
proportionally large, both behind and before;
and a physiognomist would have drawn conclu-
sions more favorable to the power, than the
tenderness of the Provencal‘s character, from
the compact closeness of the lips and the
breadth and massiveness of the iron jaw. But
the son’s sketch exaggerated every feature,
and gave to the expression a malignant and
terrible irony, not now, at least, apparent in the
quiet and meditative aspect. Gabriel himself,
as he stood, would have been a more tempting
study to many an artist. It is true that he was
small for his years; but his frame had a vigor
in its light proportions, which came from a pre—
mature and almost adolescent symmetry of
shape and muscular development. The coun-
tenance, however, had much of effeminata
beauty; the long hair reached the shoulders


A FAMILY GROUP.
13
but did not curl ; straight, fine, and glossy as a
girl’s, and, in color, of the pale auburn, tinged
with red, which rarely alters in hue as childhood
matures to man, the complexion was dazzlingly
clear and fair: nevertheless, there was some-
thing so hard in the lip, so bold, though not
open, in the brow, that the girlishness of com-
plexion, and even of outline, could not leave,
on the whole, an impression of efl'eminacy. All
the hereditary keenness and intelligence were
stamped upon his face at that moment; but the
expression had also a large share of the very
irony and malice which he had conveyed to his
caricature. The drawing itself was wonder-
fully vigorous and distinct, showing great ar-
tistic promise, and done with the rapidity and
ease which betrayed practice. Suddenly his
father turned, and with as sudden a quickness,
the boy concealed his tablet in his vest; and
the sinister expression of his face smoothed
into a timorous smile, as his eyes encountered
Dalibard's. The father beckoned to the boy,
who approached with alacrity. " Gabriel,"
whispered the Frenchman, in his own tongue,
“ where are they at this moment 1"
The boy pointed silently toward one of the
cedars. Dalibard mused an instant, and then
slowly descending the steps, took his noiseless
way over the smooth turf toward the tree. Its
boughs drooped low and spread wide ; and not
till he was within a few paces of the spot, could
his eye perceive two forms, seated on a bench
under the dark green canopy, He then paused
and contemplated them.
The one was a young man, whose simple
dress and subdued air strongly contrasted the
artificial graces and the modish langnor of Mr.
Vernon ; but though wholly without that name-
less distinction which sometimes characterizes
those conscious of pure race and habituated to
the atmosphere of courts, he had at least na-
ture's stamp of aristocracy in a form eminently
noble, and features of manly, but surpassing
beauty, which were not rendered less engaging
by an expression of modest timidity. He seem-
ed to be listening with thoughtful respect to his
companion, a young female by his side, who
was speaking to him with an earnestness visi-
ble in her gestures and her animated counte-
nance. And though there was much to notice
in the various persons scattered over the scene,
not one, perhaps—not the graceful Vernon-
not the thoughtful scholar, nor his fair-haired,
hard-tipped son—not even the handsome list-
ener she addressed—no, not one there would
so have arrested the eye, whether of a physiog-
nomist or a casual observer, as that young girl
—Sir Miles St. John’s favorite niece and pre-
sumptive heiress.
But as at that moment, the expression of her
face differed from that habitual to it, we defer
its description.
“ Do not”—such were her words to her com-
panion—“do not alarm yourself by exaggera-
ting the ditficulties; do not even contemplate
them—those be my care. Mainwaring. when
Iloved you, when, seeing that your ditfidence
or your pride forbade you to be the first to
speak, I overstepped the modesty or the dis-
simulation of my sex; when I said, ‘Forget
that ‘I am the reputed heiress of Laughton;
see mme but the faults and merits of the hu-

fl_~ ___-_
man bein , of the wild, unregulated girl; see in
me but ucretia Clavering (here her cheeks
blushed, and her voice sunk into a lower and
more tremulous whisper), and love her if you
can!’ When I went thus far. do not think I
had not measured all the difficulties in the way
of our union, and felt that I could surmount
them.”
"But," answered Mainwaring, hesitatingly,
“ can you conceive it possible that your uncle
ever will consent! Is not pride—the pride of
family—almost the leading attribute of his char_
actert Did he not discard your mother—his
own sister—from his house and heart, for no
other offense but a second marriage, which he
deemed beneath her'! Has he ever even con-
sented to see, much less to receive, your half-
sister—the child of that marriage”! Is not his
very affection for you interwoven with his pride
in you, with his belief in your ambition! Has
he not summoned your cousin, Mr. Vernon, for
the obvious purpose of favoring a suit which he
considers worthy of you, and which, if success-
ful, will unite the two branches of his ancient
house? How is it possible that he can ever
hear, without a scorn and indignation which
would be fatal to your fortunes, that your heart
has presumed to choose, in William Mainwar-
ing, a man without ancestry or career!"
" Not without career," interrupted Lucretia,
proudly. “Do you think, if you were master
of Laughton, that your career would not be
more brilliant than that of yon indolent, luxuri-
ous coxcombl. Do you think that I could have
been poor‘hearted enough to love you, ifI had
not recognized in you energies and talents that
correspond with my own ambition! For I am
ambitious, as you know, and therefore my
mind, as well as my heart, went with my love
for you.”
“ Ah, Lucretia! but can Sir Miles St. John
see my future rise in my present ohscurityl"
“ I do not say that he can, or will; but if you
love me, we can wait. Do not fear the rivalry
of Mr. Vernon. I shall know how to free my-
self from so tame a peril. We can wait—my
uncle is old—his habits preclude the chance or
a much longer life—he has already had severe
attacks. We are young, dear Mainwaring:
what is a year or two to those who hope'!”
Mainwaring‘s face fell, and a displeasing chill
passed through his veins. Could this young
creature. her uncle‘s petted and trusted darling,
she who should be the soother of his infirmities,
the prop of his age, the sincerest mourner at
his grave, weigh coldly thus the chances of his
death, and point at once to the altar and the
tomb!
He was saved from the embarrassment or
reply by Dalibard’s approach.
“More than half an hour absent,” said the
scholar in his own language, with a smile, and
drawing out his watch, he placed it before their
eyes; “do you not think that all will miss you!
Do you suppose, Miss Clavering, that your un-
cle has not, ere this, asked for his fair niece!
Come, and forestall him.” He offered his arm
to Lucretia as he spoke. She hesitated a mo-
ment, and then, turning to Mainwaring. held-
out her band: he pressed it, though scarcely
with a lover’s warmth; and as she Walked
back to the terrace With Dahbard, "I? YWBK


14
A FAMILY GROUP. .
man struck slowly into the opposite direction, 1 it to him. If his temper is gentle, Ican prompt
and passing by a gate, over a foot-bridge, that
led from the ha-ha into the park, bent his way
toward a lake which gleamed below at some
distance, half-concealed by groves of venerable
trees, rich with the prodigal boughs of summer.
Meanwhile, as they passed toward the house,
Dalibard, still using his native tongue, thus ac-
costed his pupil :-—~ -
"You must pardon me ifI think more of
your interests than you do; and pardon me no
less if I encroach on your secrets and alarm
your pride. This young man—can you be
guilty of the folly of more than a passing ca-
price for his society; of more than the amuse-
ment of playing with his vanity’.l Even if that
be all, beware of entangling yourself in your
own meshes.”
“You do, in truth, offend me," said Lucretia,
with calm haughtiness, “ and you have not the
right thus to speak to me."
" Not the right," repeated the Provencal,
mournfully; “ not the right !--then, indeed, I
am mistaken in my pupil. Do you conceive
that I would have lowered my pride to remain
here as a dependent ; that, conscious of attain-
ments, and perhaps of abilities, that should win
their way, even in exile, to distinction, [would
have frittered away my life in these rustic
shades, ifI had not formed in you a deep and
absorbing interest l—in that interest I ground
my right to warn and counsel you. I saw, or
fancied I saw in you a mind congenial to my
own—a mind above the frivolities of your sex
—a mind, in short, with the grasp and energy
of a man’s. You were then but a child; you
are scarcely yet a woman ; yet, haveI not giv-
en to your intellect the strong food on which
the statesmen of Florence fed their pupil prin-
ces; or the noble Jesuits, the noble men who
Were destined to extend the secret empire of
the imperishable Loyolal”
“ You gave me the taste for a knowledge rare
in my sex, I own," answered Lucretia, with a
slight tone of regret in her voice ; “ and in the
knowledge you have communicated I felt a
charm that, at times, seems to me to be only fa-
tal. You have confounded in my mind evil and
good, or, rather, you have left both good and evil
as dead ashes, as the dust and cinder of a cru-
cible. You have made intellect the onl con-
science. Of late, I wish that my tutor ha been
a village priest!"
“ Of late ! since you have listened to the
pastorals of that meek Corydon l"
“Dare you despise him, and for what? that
he is good and honest?"
“I despise him not because he is good and
honest, but because he is ofthe common herd
of men, without aim or character. And is it
for this youth that you will sacrifice your for-
tunes, your ambition, the station you were born
to fill and have been reared to improve—this
youth in whom there is nothing but the lap-
dog's merit—sleekness and beauty! Ay, frown
-the frown betrays you—you love him!”
“ And if! do I" said Lucretia, raising her tall
form to its utmost height, and haughtily facing
her inquisitcr. "-And if I do, what then! Is
he unworthy of me? Converse with him, and
you will find that the noble form conceals as
high a spirit. He wants but wealth—l can give

and guide it to fame and power. He, at least,
has education, and eloquence, and mind. W'hat
has Mr. Vernonl”
“ Mr. Vernon—I did not speak of him !"
Lucretia gazed hard upon the Provencal’s
countenance—gazed with that unpitying air of
triumph with which a woman, who detects a
power over the heart she does not desire to
conquer, exults in defeating the reasons that
heart appears to her to prompt. " No," she said
in a calm voice, to which the venom of secret
irony gave stingingsigniticance—“ no, you spoke
not of Mr. Vernon; you tlioughtthat if I looked
round—if I lookednearer—I might have a fairer
choice." v
“ You are cruel—you are unjust," said Dali-
bard, falteringly. "If I once presumed for a
moment, have I repeated my offense? But,"
he added, hurriedly, “ in me—much as you ap-
pear to despise me—in me, at least, you would
have risked none of the dangers that beset you
if you seriously set your heart on Mainwaring."
“ You think my uncle would be proud to give
my hand to Monsieur Olivier Dalibard l"
“I think and I know," answered the Proven-
cal, gravely, and disregarding the taunt, " that
if you had deigned to render me-poor exile
that I am !-the most enviable of men, you had
still been the heiress of Laughton."
“ So you have said and urged," said Lucre-
tia, with evident curiosity in her voice; “yet
how, and by what art—wise and subtile as you
are—could you have won my uncle‘s consent 1”
“That is my secret," returned Dalibard gloom-
ily; “ and since the madness I indulged is for-
ever'over—since I have so schooled my heart,
that nothing. despite your sarcasm, save an af-
fectionate interest which I may call paternal,
rests there—let us pass from this painful sub-
ject. Oh, my dear pupil, be warned in time!
know love for what it really is, in the dark and
complicated history of actual life, a brief en-
ehantment, not to be disdained, but not to be
considered the all in all. Look round the world,
contemplate all those who have married from
passion—ten years afterward, whither has the
passion flown! With a few, indeed, where
there is community of object and character,
new excitements, new aims, and hopes spring
up; and, having first taken root in passion, the
passion continues to shoot out in their fresh
stems and fibers. But deceive yourself not;
there is no such community between you and
Mainwaring. What you call his goodness, you
will learn hereafter to despise as feeble; and
what in reality is your mental power, he soon,
too soon, will shudder at as unwomanly and
hateful.”
“ Hold !” cried Lucretia, tremulously. “ Hold,
and if he does, I shall one his hate to you—t0
your lessons—to your deadly influence !”
" Lucretia, no ! —the seeds were in you.
Can cultivation force from the soil that which
it is against the nature of the soil to bear?"
“1 will pluck out the weeds. 1 will trans-
form myself!”
"Child, I defy you i” said the scholar, with
a smile, that gave to his face the expression his
son had conveyed to it. “I have warned you,
and my task is done." With that he bowed,
and leaving her, was soon by the side of Sir


A FAMILY GROUP.
15
Miles St. John, and the baronet, and his libra-
rian a few moments after, entered the house,
and sat down to chess.
But during the dialogues we have sketched,
we must not suppose that Sir Miles himself
had been so wholly absorbed in the sensual
gratification bestowed upon Europe by the im-
mortal Raleigh, as to neglect his guest and
kinsman.
“ And so, Charley Vernon, it is not the fash-
ion to smoke in Lunnon” (so Sir Miles pro-
nounced the word, according to the euphemism
of his youth, and which, even at that day, still
lingered in courtlyjargon).
“No, sir. However, to console us, we have
most other vices in full force."
“I don't doubt it: they say the prince‘s set
exhaust life pretty quickly."
“It certainly requires the fortune of an earl
and the constitution of a prize-fighter, to live
with him."
“Yet methinks. Master Charley, you have
neither one nor the other."
“And therefore I see before me, and at no
very great distance, the Bencli,—and a con-
sumption !" answered Vernon, suppressing a
slight yawn.
“ "Pie a pity; for you had a fine estate prop-
erly manqed ; and, in spite of your faults, you
have the heart of a true gentleman. Come,
come !"-and the old man spoke with tender-
ness—“ you are young enough yet to reform.
A prudent marriage, and a good wife, will save
both your health and your acres."
“ If you think so highly of marriage, my
dear Sir Miles, it is a Wonder you did not add
to your precepts the value of your example.”
“Jackanapes! I had not your infirmities. I
never was a spendthrift, and I have a constitu-
tion of iron i” There was a pause. "Charles,"
continued Sir Miles, musingly, “ there is many
an earl with a less fortune than the conjoined
estates of Vernon Grange and Laughton Hall.
You must already have understood me—it is
my intention to leave my estates to Lucretia—-
it is my wish, nevertheless, to think you will
not be the worse for my will. Frankly, if you
can like my niece, win her ; settle here while I
live, put the Grange to nurse, and recruit your-
self by fresh air and field-sports. Zounds,
Charles, I love you, and that’s the truth. Give
me your hand i"
“ And a grateful heart with it, sir," said
Vernon, warmly, evidently afl‘ected, as he start-
ed from his indolent position, and took the
hand extended to him. “Believe me, I do not
covet your wealth, nor do I envy my cousin
any thing so much as the first place in your re-
gard."
“ Prettily said, my boy; and I don’t suspect
you of insincerity. What think you, then, of
my plan?"
Mr. Vernon seemed embarrassed ; but recov-
ering himself with his usual case, he replied
archiy, “Perhaps, sir, it will be of little use to
know what [think ofyour plan ; my fair cousin
may have upset it already."
_ " llu, sir, let me look at you—so—so !—you
.are not jestingv What the dense do you mean!
Gad, man, speak out."
"Do, you not think that Mr. Monderling—
Mandolins-what’s his pame—eh'l—do you not

think that he is a very handsome young fellow 2"
said Mr.Vernon, drawing out his snuff-box, and
offering it tohis kinsman.
“D-_ your snuff," quoth Sir-Miles, in great~
choler, as he rejected the proffered courtesy
with a vehemence that sent half the contents
of the box upon the joint eyes and noses of the
two canine favorites dozing at his feet. The
setter started up in an agony—the spaniel
wheezed and snifiled, and ran ofl‘, stopping
every moment to take his head between his
paws. The old gentleman continued, without
heeding the sufl‘erings of his dumb friends
—a symptom of rare discomposure on his
part :—
“ Do you mean to insinuate, Mr.Vernon, that
my niece—my elder niece, Lucretia Clavering'
—condescends to notice the looks, good or bad,
of Mr. Mainwaring'l ’Sdeath, sir, he is the son
of a land-agent. Sir, he is intended for trade.
Sir, his highest ambition is to be partner in
some fifth-rate mercantile house."
“ My dear Sir Miles," replied Mr. Vernon, as
he continued to brush away, with his scented
handkerchief, such portions of the prince‘s-
mixture, as his nankiu inexpressihles had di-
verted from the sensual organs of Dash and
Ponto—“ my dear Sir Miles, pa n‘zmpéclic pal Zc
sentiment !"
“Empéclte the fiddlestick! You don’t know
Lucretia. There are many girls, indeed, who
might not be trusted near any handsome flute-
playing spark, with black eyes and white teeth;
but Lucretia is not one of those ; she has spirit
and ambition that would never stoop to a mis-
alliance; she has the mind and will of a queen
—old Queen Bess, I believe."
"That is saying much for her talents. sir;
but if so, heaven help her intended. I am
duly grateful for the blessings you propose
me I”
Despite his anger, the old gentleman could
not help smiling.
“ Why, to confess the truth, she is hard to
manage; but we, men ofthe world, know how
to govern women, I hope—much less to break
in a girl scarce out of her teens. As for this
fancy of yours, it is sheer folly—Lucretia knows
my mind. She has seen her mother's fate; she
has seen her sister an exile from my house-
why? for no fault of hers, poor thing! but be-
cause she is the child of disgrace, and the
mother’s sin is visited on the daughter’s head.
I am a good-natured man, I fancy, as men go;
but I am old-fashioned enough to care for my
race. If Lucretia demeaned herself to love, to
encourage that lad—why, I would strike her
from my will, and put your name where I have
placed hers.”
“Sir,” said Vernon, gravely, and throwing
aside all afl‘ectation of manner, “this becomes
serious ; and I have no right even to whisper a
doubt by which it now seems I might benefit.
I think it imprudent, if you wish Miss Claver-
ing to regard me impartially as a suitor to her
hand, to throw her, at her age, in the way ofa
man for superior to myself, and to most men,
in personal advantages—a man more of her
own years, well educated, well mannered, With
no evidence of his inferior birth in his appear-
ance or his breeding. I have not the least ground
for supposing that be has made the slightest


16
A FAMILY GROUP.
Impression on Miss Clavering, and if he has, it
would be, perhaps, but a girl's innocent and
thoughtless fancy, easily shaken off by time
and Worldly reflection; but pardon me, ifI say
bluntly, that should that be so, you would be
wholly unjustified in punishing, even in blaming
her—it is yourself you must blame for your
own carelessness, and that forgetful blindness
to human nature and youthful emotions, which,
I must say, is the less pardonable in one who
has known the world so intimately.”
“ Charles Vernon," said the old baronet,
“ give me your hand, again! I was right, at
least, when I said you had the heart of a true
gentleman. Drop this subject for the present.
Who has just left Lucretia, yonder l"
“ Your protcgé—the Frenchman."
“ Ah, he, at least, is not blind—go, and join
Lucretia !"
Vernon bowed, emptied the remains of the
madeira into a tumbler, drank the contents at a
draught, and sauntered toward Lucretia; but
she, perceiving his approach, crossed abruptly
into one of the alleys that led to the other side
ofthe house; and he was either too indifferent,
or too well-bred, to force upon her the com-
panionship which she so evidently shunned.
He threw himself at length upon one of the
benches in the lawn, and, leaning his head
upon his hand, fell into reflections, which, had
be spoken, would have shaped themselves
somewhat thus into words :—
“ If I must take that girl as the price of this
fair heritage, shall I gain or lose? I grant that
she has the finest neck and shoulders I ever
saw out of marble; but far from being in love
with her, she gives me a feeling like fear and
aversion. Add to this, that she has evidently
no kinder sentiment for me than I for her ; and
if she once had a heart, that young gentleman
has long since coaxed it away. Pleasant aus-
pices, these, for matrimony, to a poor invalid,
who wishes at least to decline and to die in
peace! Moreover, if I were rich enough to
marry as I pleased—if I were what, perhaps, I
ought to be, heir to Laughton—why, there is a
certain sweet Mary in the world, whose eyes
are softer than Lucretia Clavering's; but that
is a dream! On the other hand, ifI do not win
this girl, and my poor kinsman give her all or
nearly all his pmsessions, Vernon Grange goes
to the usurers, and the king will find a lodging
for myself. What does it matter! I can not
live above two or three years at the most, and
can only hope, therefore, that dear stout old Sir
Miles may outlive me. At thirty-three, Ihave
worn out fortune and life; little pleasure could
Laughton give me; brief pain the Bench. Fore
Gad, the philosophy of the thing is on the whole
against sour looks and the noose !” Thus de-
ciding in the progress of his reverie, he smiled,
and changed his position. The sun had set-—
the twilight was over—the moon rose in splen-
dor from amid a thick copse of mingled beech
and oak; the beams fell full on the face of the
muser, and the face seemed yet paler, and the
exhaustion of premature decay yet more evi-
dent by that still and mclancholy light—all
ruins gain dignity by the moon. This was a
ruin nobler than that which painters place on
their canvas—the ruin, not of stone and brick,
but of humanity and spirit; the wreck of man,

prematurely old, not stricken by great sorrow,
not bowed by great toil, but fretted and mined
away by small pleasures and poor excitement:
—small and poor, but daily, hourly, momently
at their gnome-like work. Something of the
gravity and the true lesson of the hour and
scene, perhaps, forced itself upon a mind little
given to sentiment, for Vernon rose languidlv,
and muttered—
“My poor mother hoped better things from
me. It is well, after all, that it is broken off
with Mary! Why should there be any one to
weep for me! I can the better die smiling, as
I have lived.”
Meanwhile, as it is necessary we should fol-
low each of the principal characters we have
introduced through the course of an evening
more or less eventful in the destiny of all, we
return to Mainwaring, and accompany him to
the lake at the bottom of the park, which he
reached as its smooth surface glistened in the
last beams of the sun. He saw, as he neared
the water, the fish sporting in the pellucid tide;
the dragon-fly darted and hovered in the air;
the tedded grass beneath his feet gave forth
the fragrance of crushed thyme and clover; the
swan paused, as if slumbering on the wave;
the linnet and finch sang still from the neigh-
boring copses; and the heavy bees were wing-
ing their way home with a drowsy murmur; all
around were images of that unspeakable peace
which Nature whispers to those attuned to her
music; all fitted to lull, but not to deject the
spirit ; images dear to the holyday of the world-
worn man, to the contemplation of serene and
retired age; to the boyhood of poets; to the
youth of lovers. But Mainwaring's step was
heavy, and his brow clouded ; and Nature that
evening was dumb to him. At the margin of
the lake stood a solitary angler, who now (his
evening's task done) was employed in leisurely
disjointing his rod, and Whistling with much
sweetness an air from one of Isaac Walton’s
songs. Mainwaring reached the _angler, and
laid his hand on his shoulder—
“ What sport, Ardwortli ’4”
“ A few large roach with the fly, and one pike
with a gudgeon—a noble fellow !-look at him !
He was lying under the reeds yonder; Isaw
his green back, and teased him into biting. A
heavenly evening. Iwonder you did not fol-
low my example, and escape from a set, where
neither you nor I can feel very much at home,
to this green banquet of nature,in which at
least no man sits below the salt-cellar. The
birds are an older family than the St. Johns;
but they don't throw their pedigrees in our
teeth, Mainwaring."
“Nay, nay, my good friend, you wrong old
Sir Miles; proud he is, no doubt, but neither
you nor I have had to complain of his inso-
lence."
" Of his insolence I certainly not—of his con-
descension, yes! Hang it, William, it is his
very politeness that galls me. Don‘t you ob-
serve, that with Vernon, or Lord A——, or
Lord B»-—, or Mr. 0—, he is easy and ed"-
hand, calls them by their names, pats them on
the shoulder, rates them, and swears at them
if they vex him; but with you and me and his
French parasite, it is all stately decorum and
punctilious courtesy :1-‘ Mr. Mainwaring, I am


A FAMILY GROUP.
17
delighted to see you ;’ ‘ Mr. Ardworth, as you
are so near, dare I ask you to ring the bell l’
' Monsieur Dalihard, with the utmost deference,
I venture to disagree with you.’ However,
don’t let my foolish susceptibility rufl-le your
pride. And you, too, have a worthy object in
view, which might well detain you from roach
and jack-fish. Have you stolen your interview
with the superb Lucretia!"
“ Yes, stolen, as you say: and, like all thieves
not thoroughly hardened, I am ashamed of my
gains.”
“Sit down, my boy, this is a bank in ten
thousand; there—that old root to lean your
elbow on, this soft moss for your cushion: sit
down and confess. You have something on
your mind that preys on you; we are old col-
lege friends—out with it."
“ There is no resisting you, Ardworth," said
Mainwaring, smiling, and drawn from his re-
serve and his gloom by the frank good-humor
of his companion. “I should like, I own, to
make a clean breast of it; and perhaps I may
profit by your advice. You know, in the first
place, that after I left college,my father seeing
me indisposed for the church, to which he had
always destined me in his own heart, and for
which, indeed, he had gone out of his way to
maintain me at the university, gave me the
choice of his own business as a surveyor and
land agent, or of entering into the mercantile
profession. I chose the latter, and went to
Southampton, where we have a relation in busi-
ness, to he initiated into the elementary mys- 3
teries. There Ibecame acquainted with a good
clergyman and his wife, and in that house I
passed a great part of my time.”
“ With the hope, I trust, on better consider-
ation, of gratifying your father’s ambition, and
learning how to starve with gentility on a
cure."
“ Not much ofthat, I fear."
“ Then the clergyman had a daughter 1"
“ You are nearer the mark now," said Main-
waring, coloring, " though it was not his daugh-
ter; a young lady lived in his family, not even
related to him, she was placed there with a
certain allowance by a rich relation. In a word,
I admired, perhaps I loved, this young person ;
but she was without an independence, and I
not yet provided even with the substitute of
money, a profession. I fancied (do not laugh
at my vanity) that my feelings might be re
turned. I was in alarm for her as well as my-
self; I sounded the clergyman as to the chance
of obtaining the consent of her rich relation,
and was informed that he thought it hopeless.
I felt I had no right to invite her to poverty and
ruin, and still less to entangle further (ifI had
chanced to touch at all) her affection. I made
an excuse to my father to leave the town, and
returned home."
“ Prudent and honorable enough, so far; un-
like me, I should have run off with the girl, if
she loved me, and old Plutus, the rascal, might
have done his worst against Cupid. But I in-
terrupt you."
“ I came back when the country was greatly
agitated: public meetings, speeches, mobs—a
sharp election going on. My father had always
taken keen interest in politics; he was of the
same party as Sir Miles, who, you know, is red-
B

hot upon politics. I was easily led—partly by
ambition, partly by the effect of example, partly
by the hope to give a new turn to.my thoughts
-—to make an appearance in public."
“ And a devilish creditable one, too. Why,
man, your speeches have been quoted with rap-
ture by the London papers. Horridly aristo-
cratic and Pittish, it is true; Ithink difl'er-
ently; but every man to his taste. \Vell—"
“My attempts, such as they were. procured
me the favor of Sir Miles. He had long been
acquainted with my father, who had helped
him in his own elections years ago. He seemed
cordially delighted to patronize the son : he in-
vited me to visit him at Laughton, and hinted
to my father that I was formed for something
better than a counting-house: my poor father
was intoxicated. In a word, here I am—here,
often for days, almost weeks together, have I
been—a guest, always welcomed.”
“ You pause. This is the primordium—now
comes the confession, eh?"
"Why one half the confession is over. It
was my most unmerited fortune to attract the
notice of Miss Clavering. Do not fancy me so
self-conceited as to imagine that I should ever
have presumed so high, but for—”
“ But for encouragement—I understand !
Well, she is a magnificent creature in her way;
and I do not wonder that she drove the poor
little girl at Southampton out ofyour thoughts.”
“Ah! but there is the sore—I am not sure
that she has done so. Ardworth, I may trust
.ou 1" ‘
“ With every thing but half-a-guinea. I would
not promise to be rock against so great a temp-
tation ;" and Ardworth turned his empty peck.
ets inside out.
“ Tush—be serious l—or I go."
“Serious! With pockets like those, the
devil‘s in it if I am not serious. Pcrgqp’rccor."
“Ardworth, then," said Mainwaring, with
great emotion, “I confide to you the secret
trouble of my heart. This girl at Southampton
is Lucretia’s sister—her half-sister; the rich
relation on whose allowance she lives is Sir
Miles St. John."
“ Whew l—my own poor dear little cousin, by
the father’s side. Mainwaring, I trust you have
not deceived me, you have not amused your-
self with breaking Susan’s heart—for a heart,
and an honest simple English girl‘s heart, she
has."
“Heaven forbid !—I tell you I have never
even declared my love—and if love it were, I
trust it is over. But when Sir Miles was first
kind to me, first invited me, IOWn I had the
hope to win his esteem, and since he had al-
ways made so strong and cruel a distinction
between Lucretia and Susan, I thought it not
impossible that he might consent at last to my
union with the niece he had refused to receive
and acknowledge. But even while the hope was
in me, I was drawn on—I was entangled—I was
spell-bound—I know not how or why; but, to
close my confidence, while still doubtful wheth-
er my own heart is free from the remembrance
of the one sister, I am pledged to the other."
Ardworth looked down gravely and remained
silent. He was a joyous, careless, reckless
youth, with unsteady character and pursuits-
and with something of vague poetry, much °I


18
A FAMILY GROUP.
unaccommodating pride about his nature—one
of those youths little likely to do what is called
Well in the world—not persevering enough for
an independent career—too blunt and honest
for a servile one. But it was in the very dis-
position of such aperson to judge somewhat
harshly of Mainwaring‘s disclosure, and not
easily to comprehend what, after all, was very
natural—how a young man, new to life, timid
by character, and of an extreme susceptibility
to the fear of giving pain, had in the surprise,
the gratitude, the emotion, of an avowed attach-
ment from a girl, far above him in worldly po-
sition, been forced by receiving, to seem, at
least, to return her affection. And indeed
though not wholly insensible to the brilliant
prospects opened to him in sucha connection;
yet, to do him justice, Mainwaring Would have
been equally entangled, by a similar avewal
from a girl more his equal in the world. It was
rather from an amiability bordering upon weak-
ness, than from any more degrading moral im-
perfections that he had been betrayed into a po-
sition which neither contented his heart, nor
satisfied his conscience.
With far less ability than his friend, Ard-
worth had more force and steadiness in his na-
ture, and was wholly free from that morbid del-
icacy of temperament to which susceptible and
shy persons owe much of their errors and mis-
fortunes. He, therefore, after a long pause,
said, "My good follow, to be plain with you, I
can not say that your confession has improved
you in my estimation; but that is, perhaps, be-
cause of the bluntness of my understanding. I
could quite comprehend your forgetting Susan
(and, after all, I am left in doubt as to the ex-
tent of her conquest over you), for the very
different charms of her sister. On the other
hand, I could still better understand that having
once fancied Susan, you could not be com-
manded into love for Lucretia. But I do not
comprehend your feeling love for one, and
making love to the other—which is the long
and short of the business."
“ That is not exactly the true statement,"
answered Mainwaring, with a powerful effort at
composure. “ There are moments when, lis-
tening to Lucretia, when charmed by that soft-
ness which, contrasting the rest of her charac-
ter, she exhibits to none but me, struck by her
great mental powers, proud of an unsought tri-
umph over such a being, I feel as if I could
love none but her; then, suddenly, her mood
changes—she utters sentiments that chill and
revolt me—the very beauty seems vanished
from her face. I recall with a sigh, the simple
sweetness of Susan, and I feel as if I deceived
both my mistress and myself. Perhaps, how-
ever, all the circumstances of this connection
tend to remove my doubts. It is humiliating to
me to know that I woo clandestinely and upon
sufferance ; thatI am stealing, as it were, into
a fortune ; that I am eating Sir Miles’ bread,and
yet counting upon his death; and this shame
in myself may make me unconsciously unjust
to Lucretia. But it is useless to reprove me
for what is past ; and though I at first imagined
you could advise me for the future, I now see,
too clearly, that no advice could avail."
“I grant that, too, for all you require, is to
make up your mind to be fairly ofl‘ with the old

love, or fairly on with the new. However, now
you have stated your case thus frankly, if you
permit me, I will take advantage of the strange
chance of finding myself here, and watch, pon-
der, and counsel, ifI can. This Lucretia, I
own it, puzzles and perplexes me; but, though
no (Edipus, I will not take fright at the Sphynx.
I suppose noW it is time to return. They ex-
pect some of the neighbors to drink tea, and I
must dofi' my fishing-jacket. Come !"
As they strolled toward the house, Ardu'orth
broke a silence which had lasted for some mo-
merits:
“And how is that dear good Fielden'i I
ought to have guessed him at once, when you
spoke of your clergyman and his young charge:
but I did not know he was at Southampton."
“He has exchanged his living for a year, on
account of his wife‘s health, and rather, I think
also, with the wish to bring poor Susan nearer
to Laughton, in the chance of her uncle seeing
her. But you are, then, acquainted with Fiel-
dehl"
“ Acquainted !—my best friend. He was my
tutor, and prepared me for Caius College. I
owe him not only the little learning I have, but
the little good that is left in me. I owe to him
apparently, also, whatever chance of bettering
my prospects may arise from my visit at Laugh-
ton.”
“Notwithstanding our intimacy, we hava,
like most young men not related, spoken so
little of our family matters, that I do not now
understand how you are cousin to Susan; nor
what, to my surprise and delight, brought you
hither three days ago.”
“Faith, my story is easier to explain than
your own, \Villiam. Here goes !"
But as Ardworth's recital partially involves
references to family matters, not yet sufficiently
known to the reader, we must be pardoned it
we assume to ourselves his task of narrator,
and necessarily enlarge on his details.
The branch of the illustrious family of St.
John, represented by Sir Miles, diverged from
the parent stem of the Lords of Bletshoe.
With them it placed at the summit of its pedi-
gree, the name of William de St. John, the
Conqueror’s favorite and trusted warrior, and
Oliva de Filgiers. With them it blazoned the
latter alliance, which gave to Sir Oliver St.
John the lands of Bletshoe by the hand of Mar-
garet Beauchamp (by her second marriage with
the Duke of Somerset, grandmother to Henry
VII.). In the following generation, the younger
son of a younger son had founded, partly by
offices of state, partly by marriage with a
wealthy heiress, a house of his own; and in
the reign of James 1., the St. Johns of Laugh-
ton ranked among the chicfgentlemen ofHamp-
shire. From that time till the accession 0t
George IlI., the family, though it remained un-
titled, had added to its consequence by inter-
marriages of considerable dignity, chosen, in-
deed, with a disregard for money uncommon
among the English aristocracy, so that the es-
tate was but little enlarged since the reign or
James, though profiting, of course, by improved
cultivation and the different value of money.
On the other hand, perhaps there were scarcely
ten families in the country, who could boast o
a similar directness of descent on all sides,


A FAMILY GROUP.
10
from the proudest and noblest aristocracy of
the soil; and Sir Miles St. John, by blood, was,
almost at the distance of eight centuries, as
pure a Norman as his ancestral William. His
grandfather, nevertheless, had deviated from
me usual disinterested practice of the family,
and had married an heiress, who brought the
quarterings of Vernon to the crowded escutch-
con, and with these quarterings an estate of
some 4000!. a-year, popularly known by the
namoof Vernon Grange. This rare occurrence
did not add to the domestic happiness of the
contracting parties, nor did it lead to the ulti-
mate increase of the Laughton possessions.
Two sons were born. To the elder was des-
tined the father’s inheritance—to the younger
the maternal property. One house is not large
enough for two heirs. Nothing could exceed
the pride of the father as a St. John, except the
pride of the mother as a Vernon. Jealousies
between the two sons began early, and rankled
deep ; nor was there peace at Laughton till the
younger had carried away from its rental the
lands of Vernon Grange; and the elder re-
mained just where his predecessors stood in
point of possessions—sole lord of Laughton,
solo. The eldest son, Sir Miles’s father, had
been, indeed, so chafed by the rivalry with his
brother, that in disgust he had run away, and
thrown himself, at the age of fourteen, into the
navy. By accident or by merit he rose high in
that profession, acquired name and fame, and
lost an eye and an arm, for which he was ga-
zetted, at the same time, an admiral and a
baronet.
Thus mutilated and dignified, Sir George St.
John retired from the profession; and finding
himself unmarried, and haunted by the appre-
hension that if he died childless, Laughton
would pass to his brother’s heirs, he resolved
upon cunsigning his remains to the nuptial
couch,previous to the surer peace of the family
vault. At the age of fifty-six, the grim old
veteran succeeded in finding a young lady of
unblemished descent, and much marked with
the small-pox, who consented to accept the
only hand which Sir George had to offer.
From this marriage sprung a numerous family;
but all died in early childhood, frightened to
death, said the neighbors, by their tender pa-
rents (considered the ugliest couple in the
county), except one boy (the present Sir Miles)
and one daughter, many years younger, destined
to become Lucretia's mother. Sir Miles came
early into his property ; and although the soft-
ening advance of civilization, with the liberal
effects of travel, and a long residence in cities,
took from him that provincial austerity of pride,
which is only seen in stanch perfection among
the lords of a village, he was yet little less
susceptible to the duties of maintaining his line-
age pure as its representation had descended
to him, than the most superb of his predeces-
sors. But owing, it was said, to an early dis-
appointment, he led, during youth and man-
hood, 8 roving and desultory life, and so put off
from year to year the grand experiment matri-
monial, until he arrived at old age, with the
philosophical determination to select from the
other branches of his house the successor to
the heritage of St. John. In thus arrogating to
himself a right to neglect his proper duties as

head ofa family, he found his excuse in adopt-
ing his niece Lucretia. His sister had chosen
for her first husband a friend and neighbor of
his own, a younger son, of unexeeptionable
birth, and of very agreeable manners in soci-
ety. But this gentleman contrived to render
her life so miserable, that, though he died fif-
teen months after their marriage, his widow
could scarcely be expected to mourn long for
him. A year after Mr. Clavering's death, Mrs.
Clavering married again, under the mistaken
notion that she had the right to choose for her-
self. Shc married Dr. Mivers, the provincial
physician who had attended her husband in his
last illness—a gentleman by education, man-
ners, and profession, but unhappin the son ofa
silk-mercer. Sir Miles never forgave this con-
nection. By her first marriage, Sir Miles’s sis-
ter had one daughter, Lucretia ; by her second
marriage, another daughter, named Susan. She
survived somewhat more than a year the birth
of the latter: on her death, Sir Miles formally
(through his agent) applied to Dr. Mivcrs for
his eldest niece, Lucretia Clavering, and the
physician did not think himself justified in
withholding from her the probable advantages
ofa transfer from his own roof to that of her
wealthy uncle. He himself had been no Worldly
gainer by his connection ; his practice had suf-
fered materially from the sympathy which was
felt by the county families for the supposed
wrongs of Sir Miles St. John, who was person-
ally not only popular, but esteemed, nor less so
on account of his pride; too dignified to refer
even to his domestic annoyances, except to his
most familiar associates—to them, indeed, Sir
Miles had said briefly, that he considered a phy-
sician who abused his entrance into a noble
family by stealing into its alliance, was a char-
acter in whose punishment all society had an
interest. The words were repeated—they
were thought just. Those who ventured to
suggest that Mrs. Clavering, as a widow, was
a free agent, were regarded with suspicion.
It was the time when French principles were
just beginning to be held in horror, especially
in the provinces, and when every thing that en-
croached upon the rights and prejudices of the
high-born, was called “a French principle."
Dr. Mivers was as much scouted as if he had
been a sans culolte. Obliged to quit the county,
he settled at a distance; but he had a career
to commence again; his wife‘s death enfeebled
his spirits, and damped his exertions. He did
little more than earn a bare subsistence, and
died, at last, when his only daughter was four~
teen, poor and embarrassed. On his death-
bed he wrote a letter to Sir Miles, reminding
him that, after all, Susan was his sister’s child,
gently vindicating himself from the unmerited
charge of treachery which had blasted his for-
tunes, and left his orphan penniless; and clos-
ing with a touching, yet a manly appeal, to the
sole rclative left to befriend her. The clergy-
man who had attended him in his dying mo-
ments, took charge of this letter; he brought
it in person to Laughton, and delivered it to
Sir Miles. Whatever his errors, the old baronet
was no common man. He was not vindictive,
though he could not be called forgiving. He
had considered his conduct to his sister a duty
owed to his name and ancestors; she had


20
A FAMILY GROUP.
placed herself and her youngest child out of the
pale of his family. He would not receive as
his niece the granddaughter of a silk-mercer.
The relationship was extinct, as, in certain
countries, nobility is forfeited by a union with
an inferior class. But, niece or not, here was
a claim to humanity and benevolence; and
never yet had appeal been made by sufl'ering to
his heart and purse in vain.
He bowed his head over the letter as his eye
came to the last line, and remained silent so
long, that the clergyman, at last, moved and
hopeful, approached and took his hand. It was
the impulse of a good man and a good priest.
Sir Miles looked up in surprise; but the calm,
pitying face bent on him repelled all return of
pride.
“ Sir," he said, tremulously, and he pressed
the hand that grasped his own, “ I thank you.
I am not fit at this moment to decide what to
do; to-morrow you shall knowv And the man
died poor‘l not in want, not in want!"
" Comfort yourself, worthy sir; he had, at
the last, all that sickness and death require, ex-
cept one assurance, which I ventured to whis-
per to him—I trust not too rashly—that his
daughter would not be left unprotectedv And
I pray you to reflect, my dear sir, that-"
Sir Miles did not wait for the conclusion of
the sentence; he rose abruptly, and left the
room. Mr. Fielden (so the good priest was
named) felt confident of the success of his mis-
sion ; but, to win it the more support, he sought
Lucretia. She was then seventeen: it is an
age when the heart is peculiarly open to the
household ties—to the memory of a mother—
to the sweet name of sister. He sought this
girl; he told his tale, and pleaded the sister’s
cause. Lucretia heard in silence ; neither eye
nor lip betrayed emotion; but her color went
and came. This was the only sign that she
was moved—moved, but howi. Fielden’s ex-
perience in the human heart could not guess.
“’hen he had done, she went quietly to her
desk (it was in her own room that the confer-
ence took place)—she unlocked it with a delib-
erate hand—she took from it apocket-book and
a case ofjewels, which Sir Miles had given her
on her last birthday. " Let my sister have
these ; while I live she shall not want !"
“ My dear young lady, it is not these things
that she asks from you; it is your afi‘ection,
your sisterly heart, your intercession with her
natural protector; these, in her name, I ask
for—mm gemmi: we in purpurd venale, ricc aura !”
Lucretia then, still without apparent emotion,
raised to the good man’s face, deep, penetrating,
but unrevealing eyes, and said, slowly :—
“ Is my sister like my mother, who, they say,
was handsome ‘4"
Much startled by this question, Fielden an-
swered—~" I never saw your mother, my dear;
but your sister gives promise of more than com-
mon comeliness." '
Lucretia‘s brows grew slightly compressed.
“And her education has been, of course, neg-
lected 1"
“ Certainly,in some points—mathematics, for
instance, and theology. But she knows what
ladies generally know—French and Italian, and
such like. Dr. Mivers was not unlearned in the
polite letters. Oh, trust me, my dear young

lady, she will not disgrace your family; she
will justify your uncle’s favor. Plead for her!"
and the good man clasped his hands.
Lucretia‘s eyes fell musingly on the ground ,'
but she resumed, after a short pause,
“ What does my uncle himself say?"
" Only that he will decide to-morrow."
“I will see him ;" and Lucretia left the room
as for that object. But when she had gained
the stairs, she paused at the large embayed
casement, which formed a niche in the landing-
place, and gazed over the broad domains be-
yond; a stern smile settled then upon her
lips; the smile seemed to say—“ In this inherit-
ance I will have no rival."
Lucretia's influence with Sir Miles was great;
but here it was not needed. Before she saw
him he had decided on his course. Her pre-
cocious, and apparently intuitive knowledge of
character, detected, at a glance, the safety with
which she might intercede. She did so, and
was ehid into silence.
The next morning, Sir Miles took the priest's
arm, and walked with him into the gardens.
“ Mr. Fielden," he said, with the air of a man
who had chosen his course, and deprecates all
attempt to make him swerve from it, “ ifI fol-
lowed my own selfish wishes, I should take
home this poor child. Stay, sir, and hear me;
I am no hypocrite, and I speak honestly; I like
young faces; I have no family of my own; I
love Lucretia, and I am proud of her; but a
girl brought up in adversity might be a better
nurse and a more docile companion—let that
pass. I have reflected, and I feel that I can not
set to Lucretia—set to children unborn—the
example of indifference to a name degraded and
a race adulterated : you may call this pride, or
prejudice—I view it differently. There are du-
ties due from an individual, duties due from a
nation, duties due from a family; as my ances-
tors thought, so think I. They left me the
charge of their name, as the fief-rent by which
I hold their lands. S‘death, sir! pardon me
the expletive ! I was about to say, that if] am
now a childless old man, it is because I have
myselfknown temptation, and resisted. I loved,
and denied myself what I believed my best
chance of happiness, because the object of my
attachment was not my equal ; that was a bit-
ter struggle; I triumphed, and I rejoice at it,
though the result was to leave all thoughts
of wedlock elsewhere odious and repugnant.
These principles of action have made a part 0!
my creed as gentleman, if not as Christian.
Now, to the point. I beseech you to find a fit-
ting and reputable home for Miss—Miss Mivers
(the lip slightly curled as the name was said);
I shall provide suitany for her maintenance.
When she marries, I will dower her, provided
only, and always, that her choice fall upon one
who will not still further degrade her lineage
on her mother‘s side—in a word, if she select
a gentleman. Mr. Fielden, on this subject 1
have no more to say."
In~vain the good clergyman, whose very con
science, as well as'reason, was shocked by
the deliberate and argumentative manner with
which the baronet had treated the abandon-
ment of his sister’s child as an absolutely
moral, almost religious duty—in vain he exert
ed himself to repel such sophisms, and put the


92
LUCRETIA.
at last, the baronet, coloring as if ashamed of
his curiosity, said—
“ Is your sister like your mother 1”
“ You forget, sir, I can have no recollection
of my mother."
“ Your mother had a strong family likeness
to myself."
" She is not like you; they say she is like
Dr. Mivers."
“Oh!” said the baronet, and he asked no
more. The sisters did not meet again; a few
letters passed between them, but the corres-
pondence gradually ceased.
Young Ardworth went to college, prepared
by Mr. Fielden, who was no ordinary scholar,
and an accurate and profound mathematician—
a more important requisite than classical learn-
ing in a tutor for Cambridge. But Ardworth
was idle, and, perhaps, even dissipated. He
took a common degree, and made some debts,
which were paid by Sir Miles, without a mur-
mur. A few letters then passed between the
baronet and 'the clergyman as to Ardworth‘s
future destiny; the latter owned that his pupil
was not perse'vcring enough for the bar, nor
steady enough for the church. These were no
great faults in Sir Miles‘s eyes. He resolved,
after an effort, to judge himself of the capaci-
ties of the young man, and so came the invi-
tation to Laughton. Ardworth was greatly
surprised when Fielden communicated to him
this invitation, for hitherto he had not con-
ceived the slightest suspicion ofhis benefactor
—he had rather and naturally supposed that
some relation of his father‘s had paid for his
maintenance at the university; and he knew
enough of the family history to look upon Sir
Miles as the proudest of men. How was it,
then, that he who Would not receive the daugh-
ter of Dr. Mivers, his own niece, would invite
the nephew of Dr. Mivers, who was no relation
to him'! However, his curiosity was excited,
and Fielden was urgent that he should go. To
Laughton, therefore, had he gone.
We have now brought down, to the opening
of our narrative, the general records of the fam-
ily it concerns ; we have reserved our account
of the rearing and the character of the person-
age most important, perhaps, in the develop-
ment of its events—Lucretia Clavering; in
order to place singly before the reader the
portrlait of her dark, misguided, and ill-boding
yout .
_-+_
CHAPTER II.
LUCRETIA.
Wnsu Lucretia first came to the house ofSir
Miles St. John, she was an infant about four
years old. The baronet then lived principally
in London, with occasional visits rather to the
Continent, or a watering-place, than to his own
family mansion. He did not pay any minute
attention to his little ward, satisfied that her
nurse was sedulous, and her nursery airy and
commodious. When at the age of seven, she
began to interest him, and he himself, approach-
ing old age, began seriously to consider whether
he should select her as his heiress ; for hitherto
he had not formed any decided or definite no-
tions on the matter—he was startled by a

temper so vehement, so self-willed and sternly
imperious, so obstinately bent upon attaining
its object, so indifl'erently contemptuous of
warning, reproof, coaxing, 0r punishment, that
her governess honestly came to him in despair.
The management ofthis unmanageable child
interested Sir Miles. It caused him to think of
Lucretia seriously; it caused him to have her
much in his society, and always in his thoughts;
the result was, that by amusing and occupying
him, she forced a stronger hold on his atTee-
tions than she might have done had she been
more like the ordinary run of commonplace
children. Of all dogs there is no dog that so
attaches a master as a dog that snarls at every
body else-that no other hand can venture to
pat with impunity; of all horses there is none
which so flutters the rider, from Alexander
downward, as a horse that nobody else can
ride. Extend this principle to the human spe-
ciesI and you may understand why Lucretia
became so dear to Sir Miles St. John—she got
at his heart through his vanity. For though,
at times, her brow darkened, and her eye flash-
ed even at his remonstrance, she was yet no
sooner in his society than she made a marked
distinction between him and the subordinates,
who had hitherto sought to control her. Was
this affectionl—he thought so. Alas, what
parent can trace the workings ofa child's mind
—springs moved by an idle word from a nurse
--a whispered conference between hirelings!
Was it possible that Lucretia had not often
been menaced, as the direst evil that could be-
fall her, with her uncle’s displeasure ; that. long
before she could be sensible of mere Worldly
loss or profit, she was not impressed with a
vague sense of Sir Miles‘s power over her fate;
nay, when trampling in childish wrath and
scorn, upon some menial’s irritable feelings,
was it possible that she had not been told that,
but for Sir Miles, she would be little better than
a servant herself! Be this as it may, all weak-
ness is prone to dissimulate; and rare and
happy is the child whose feelings are as pure
and transparent as the fund parent deems them.
There is something in children, too, which
seems like an instinctive deference to the aris-
tocratic appearances which sway the world.
Sir Miles's stately person—his imposing dress,
the respect with which he was surrounded—all
tended to beget notions of superiority and pow-
er, to which it was no shame to succumb, as it
was to Miss Black, the governess, whom the
maids answered pcrtly, or Martha, the nurse,
whom Miss Black snubbed, if Lucretia tore her
frock. .
Sir Miles's afl‘ection once won—his penetra-
tion not, perhaps, blinded to her more evident
faults, but his self-love soothed toward regard-
ing them leniently—there was much in Lucre-
tia's external gifts which justified the predilec
tion of the haughty man. As a Chlld she was
beautiful, and, perhaps, from her very imperfec-
tions of temper, her beauty had that air of dis-
tinction which the love of command is apt to
confer. lf Sir Miles was with his friends when
Lucretia sWept into the room, he was pleased
to hear them call her their little '- princess," and
pleased yet more at a certain dignified tranquil-
lity with which she received their caresses or
their toy, and which he regarded as the sign


LUCRE'I‘IA.’
of a superior mind; nor was it long, indeed,
before what we call a superior mind developed
itself in the young Lucretia. All children are
quick till they are set methodically to study;
but Lucretia's quickness defied even that numb-
ing ordeal by which half of us are rendered
duuces. Rapidity and precision in all the tasks
set to her—in the comprehension of all the ex-
planations given to her questions, evinced sing-
ular powers ofreadiness and reasoning.
As she grew older, she became more reserved
and thoughtful. Seeing but few children of her
own age, and mixing intimately with none, her
mind was debarred from the usual objects
which distract the vivacity, the restless and
wondrous observation of childhood. She came
in and out of Sir Miles‘s library ofa morning,
or his drawing-room of an evening, till her hour
for rest, with unquestioned and sometimes on-
noticed freedom; she listened to the conversa-
tion around her, and formed herown conclusions
unchecked. It has a great influence upon a
child, whether for good or for evil, to mix
early and habitually with those grown up—for
good to the mere intellect always—the evil
depends upon the character and discretion of
those the child sees and hears—“ Maximo reac-
rmu'a dcbct libcris,"—“ The greatest reverence
is due to children !" exclaims the wisest of the
Romans; that is to say, that we must revere
the candor, and inexperience, and innocence of
their minds.
New, Sir Miles’s habitual associates were
persons of the world ; Well-bred and decorous,
indeed, before children, as the best of the old
school were—avoiding all anecdotes, all allu-
sions for which the prudent matron would
send her girls out of the room; but, with that
reserve, speaking of the world as the world
goes; if talking of young A—, calculating
carelessly what he would have when old A ,
his father, died—naturally giving to wealth, and
station, and ability, their fixed importance in
life—not over-apt to single out for eulogium
some quiet goodness, rather inclined to speak
with irony of pretensions to virtue—rarely
speaking but with respect of the worldly seem-
ings which rule mankind; all these had their
inevitable effect upon that keen, quick, yet
moody and reflective intellect.
Sir Miles removed at last to Laughton. He
gave up London —-why, he acknowledged not
to himself; but it was because he had outlived
his age—most of his old set were gone—new
hours, new habits had stolen in. He had
ceased to he ofimportance as a marrying man,
as a personage of fashion; his health was im-
paired; he shrank from the fatigues of a con-
tested election ; he resigned his seat in parlia-
ment for his native county, and, once settled at
Laughton, the life there soothed and flattered
him—there, all his former claims to distinction
were still fresh. He amused himself by collect-
ing, in his old halls and chambers, his statues
and pictures, and felt that, without fatigue or
trouble, he was a greater man at Laughton in
his old age, than be had been in London during
his youth.
Lucretia was then thirteen. Three years
afterward, Olivier Daiibard was established in
the house, and from that time a great change
became noticeable in her. The irregular ve-


hemence of her temper gradually subsided, and
was replaced by an habitual self-command,
which rendered the rare deviations from it
more effective and imposing. Her pride chan-
ged its character wholly and permanently; no
word, no look of scorn to the low-born and the
poor escaped her. The masculine studies which
her erudite tutor opened to a grasping and in-
quisitive mind elevated her very errors above
the petty distinctions of class. She imbibed
earnestly what Dahbard assumed or felt—the
more dangerous pride of the fallen angel—and
set up the intellect as a deity. All belonging
to the mere study of mind charmed and en-
chained her; but active and practical in her
very reveries, if she brooded, it was to scheme,
to plot, to weave web and mesh, and to smile
in haughty triumph at her own ingenuity and
daring. The first lesson of mere worldly wis-
dom teaches us to command temper; it was
worldly wisdom that made the once impetuous
girl calm, tranquil, and serene. Sir Miles was
pleased by a change that removed from Lucre-
tia‘s outward character its chief blot; perhaps,
as his frame declined, he sighed sometimes to
think that with so much majesty there appeared
but little tenderness; he took, however, the
merits with the faults, and was content upon
the whole.
If the Provencal had taken more than com-
mon pains with his young pupil, the pains were
not solely disinterested. In plunging her mind
amid that profound corruption which belongs
only to intellect cultivated in scorn of good,
and in suppression of heart, he had his own
views to serve. He watched the age when the
passions ripen; and he grasped at the fruit
which his training sought to mature. in the
human heart ill regulated there is a dark desire
for the forbidden. This Lucretia felt—this her
studies cherished, and her thoughts hrooded
over. She detected, with the quickness of her
sex, the preceptor’s stealthy aim. ' She started
not at the danger. Proud of her mastery over
herself, she rather triumphed in luring on into
weakness this master-intelligence, which had
lighted up her oWn—to see her slave in her
teacher—to despise or to pity him whom she
had first contemplated with awe. And with
this more pride of the understanding might be
connected that of the sex; she had attained
the years when woman is curious to know a..
to sound her power. To inflame Dalibard
cupidity or ambition was easy; but to touch his
heart—that marble heart !—this had its dignity
and its charm. Strange to say, she succeeded.
The passion, as Well as interests, of this dan-
gerous and able man became enlisted in his
hopes; and now the game played between them
had a terror in its suspense; for if Dalibard
penetrated not into the recesses of his pupil‘s
complicated nature, she was far from having
yet sounded the hell that lay black and devour-
ing beneath his own. Not through her affec-
tions—those he scarce hoped for—but through
her inexperience, her vanity, her passions, he
contemplated the path to his victory over her
soul and her fate. And so resolute, so wily, so
unscrupulous was this person who had played
upon all the subtilest keys and chords in the
scale of turbulent life, that, despite the lofty
smile with which Lucretia at length heard and


24
LUCRETIA.
repelled his suit, he had no fear of the ultimate
issue—when all his projects were traversed,
all his mines and stratagems abruptly brought
to a close, by an event which he had wholly
unforeseen—the appearance ofa rival ; the ar-
dent and almost purifying love, which, escaping
awhile from all the demons he had evoked, she
had, with a girl‘s frank heart and impulse, con-
ceived for Mainwaring. And here, indeed, was
the great crisis in Lucretia's life and destiny.
So intervvoven with her nature had become the
hard calculations of the understanding; so ha-
bitual to her now was the zest for scheming,
which revels in the play and vivacity of intrigue
and plot, and which Shakspeare has,'perhaps,
intended chiefly to depict in the villainy of Iago,
that it is probable Lucretia could never become
a character thoroughly amiable and honest.
But with a happy and well placed love, her
ambition might have had legitimate vents ; her
restless energies, the woman's natural field in
sympathies for another. The heart once open-
ed softens by use : gradually and unconsciously
the interchange of affection, the companionship
with an upright and ingenuous mind (for virtue
is not only beautiful, it is contagious) might
have had their redeeming and hallowing influ-
ence. Happier, indeed, had it been, if her
choice had fallen upon a more commanding
and lofty nature. But, perhaps, it was the
very meekness and susceptibility of Mainwar-
ing's temper, relieved from feebleness by his
talents, which, once in play, were undeniably
great, that pleased her by contrast with her
own hardiness ofspirit and despotism of will.
That Sir Miles should have been blind to the
position of the lovers, is less disparaging to his
penetration than it may appear; for the very
imprudenco with which Lucretia abandoned
herself to the society of Mainwaring during his
visits at Laughton took a resemblance to can-
dor. Sir Miles knew his niece to be more than
commonly clever and well informed ; that she,
like him, should feel that the conversation ofa
superior young man was areliefto the ordinary
babble of their country neighbors, was natural
enough; and if now and then a doubt, a fear,
had crossed his mind, and rendered him more
touched than he liked to otvn by Vernon's re-
marks, it had vanished upon perceiving that
Lucretia never seemed a shade more pensive
in Mainwaring's absence, The listlessness and
the_ melancholy which are apt to accompany
love, especially where uupropitiously placed,
were not visible on the surface of this strong
nature. In truth, once assured that Mainwar-
ing returned her afl‘ection, Lucretia reposed on
the future with acalm and resolute confidence ;
and her customary dissimulation closed like an
unrutllcd sea over all the under-currents that
met and played below. Still Sir Miles’s atten-
tion once, however slightly, aroused t0 the rec-
ollection that Lucretia was at the age when
woman naturally meditates upon love and mar-
riage, had suggested, afresh and more vividly,
a'project which had before been indistinctly con-
ceived, via, the union of the divided branches
of his house, by the marriage of the last male
of the Vernons with the heiress of the St.
Johns. Sir Miles had seen much of Vernon
himself, at various intervals ; he had been pres-
ent at his christening, though he had refused to

be his godfather, for fear of raising undue ex-
pectations; he had visited and munificently
“ tipped ” him at Eton; he had accompanied
him to his quarters when he joined the prince’s
regiment; he had come often in contact with
him, when, at the death of his father, Vernon
retired from the army and blazed in the front
ranks of metropolitan fashion; he had given
him counsel, and had even lent him money.
Vernon’s spendthrift habits, and dissipated, if
not dissolute life, had certainly confirmed the
old baronet in his intentions to trust the lands
of Laughton to the lesser risk which property
incurs in the hands ofafcinale, if tightly settled
on her, than in the more colossal and multiform
luxuries of an expensive man ; and to do him
justice, during the flush of Vernon's riotous ca-
reer, he had shrunk from the thought of confid-
ing the happiness of his niece to so unstable a
partner. But oflate, whether from his impaired
health, or his broken fortunes, Vernon‘s follies
had been less glaring. He had now arrived at
the mature age of thirty-three, when wild oats
may reasonably be sewn. The composed and
steadfast character of Lucretia might serve to
guide and direct him; and Sir Miles was one
0fthose who hold the doctrine that a reformed
rake makes the best husband; add to this, there
was nothing in Vernon’s reputation (once allow-
ing that his thirst for pleasure was slaked)
which could excite serious apprehensions.
Through all his difficulties, he had maintained
his honor unblemished, a thousand traits of
amiability and kindness ofheart made him pop-
ular and beloved. He was nobody‘s enemy but
his own. His very distresses—the prospect of
his ruin, ifleft unassisted by Sir Miles‘s testa-
mentary dispositions—were arguments in his
favor. And, after all, though Lucretia was a
nearer relation, Vernon was in truth the direct
male heir, and, according to the usual preju-
dices of family, therefore the fitter representa-
tive of the ancient line. With these feelings
and views, he had invited Vernon to his house,
and we have seen already that his favorable
impressions had been confirmed by the visit.
And here, we must say, that Vernon himself
had been brought up in boyhood and youth to
regard himself the presumptive inheritor of
Laughton. It had been, from time immemorial,
the custom of the St. Johns to pass by the
claims of females in the settlement of the en-
tails: from male to male the estate had gone
—furnishing warriors to the armyand senators
to the state. And if, when Lucretia first came
to Sir Miles’s house, the bright prospect seemed
somewhat obscured, still the mesalliame of the
mother, and Sir Miles’s obstinate resentment
thereat, seemed to warrant the supposition that
he would probably only leave to the orphan the
usual portion of a daughter of the house, and
that' the lands would go in their ordinary des-
tination. This belief, adopted passively, and
as a thing of course, had had a very preju-
dicial effect upon Vernon’s career. What mat-
tered that he over-enjoyed his youth, that the
subordinate property of the Vernons, a paltry
four or five thousand pounds a-year, went a
little too fast—the splendid estates of Laughton
would recover all. From this dream he had
only been awakened two or three years before,
by an attachment he had formed to the portion-


LUCRETIA.
25
less daughter of an eari; and the Grange being
too far encumbered to allow him the proper set-
tlements which the lady's faniily required, it
became a matter of importance to ascertain Sir
Miles's intentions. Too delicate himself to
sound theui, he had prevailed upon the earl,
who was well acquainted with Sir Miles, to
take Laughton in his way to his own seat in
Dorsetshire, and, without betraying the grounds
of his interest in the question, learn carelessly,
as it were, the views of the Wealthy man. The
result had been a severe and terrible disappoint-
ment. Sir Miles had then fully determined
upon constituting Lucretia his heiress, and,
with the usual openness of his character, he had
plainly said so, upon the very first covert and
polished allusion to the subject which the earl
slyly made. This discovery, in breaking off
all hopes of a union with Lady Mary Stan-
ville, had crushed more than mercenary expec-
tations. It affected, through his heart, Ver-
non’s health and spirits; it ranklcd deep, and
was resented at first as a fatal injury. But
Vernon's native nobility of disposition gradu-
ally softened an indignation which his reason
convinced him was groundless and unjust. Sir
Miles had never encouraged the expectations
which Vernon’s family and himself had unthink-
lngly formed. The baronet was master of his
own fortune; and, after all, was it not more nat-
ural that he should prefer the child he had
brought up and reared, to a distant relation—
little more than an acquaintance—simply be-
cause man succeeded to man in the moldy
pedigree of the St. Johns?_ And Mary fairly
lost to him, his constitutional indifference to
money, a certain French levity of temper, a
persuasion that his life was nearing its wasted
close, had left him without regret, as without
resentment, at his kinsman’s decision. His boy-
ish affection for the hearty, generous old gentle-
man returned; and though he abhorred the
country, he had, without a single interested
thought or calculation, cordially accepted the
baronet’s hospitable overtures, and deserted, for
the wilds of Hampshire, “ the sweet shady side
of Pall Mall."
We may now enter the drawing-room at
Laughton, in which were already assembled
several of the families residing in the more im-
mediate neighborhood, and who socialin drop-
ped in to chat around the national tea-table,
play a rubber at whist, or make up, by the help
of two or three children and two or three grand-
papas, a merry country dance. For, in that
happy day, people were much more sociable
than they are now, in the houses of our rural
tlianes. Our country-seats became bustling
and animated afterthe Birthday; many even
of the more important families resided indeed
all the year round on their estates; the Conti-
nent was closed to us. The fastidious exclu-
siveness which comes from habitual residence
in cities had not made that demarkation in
castes and in talk, between neighbor and neigh-
bor, which exists now. Our squires were less
educated, less refined, but more hospitable and
unassuming. In a word, there was what does
not exist now, except in some districts remote
from London—a rural society for those who
Bought it.
'Ihe party, as we enter, is grouped somewhat

thus—but first, we must cast a glance at the
room itself, which rarely failed to be the first
object to attract a stranger‘s notice. it was
a long. and not particularly well proportioned
apartment, according, at least, to modern no-
tions, for it had rather the appearance of two
rooms thrown into one. At the distance oi
about thirty-five feet, the walls, before some-
what narrow, were met hy an arch, supported
by carved pilasters, which opened into a space
nearly double the width of the previous part or
the room, with a domed ceiling, and an einhay-
ed window ofsuch depth, that the recess almost
formed a chamber in itself. But both these
divisions ofthe apartment corresponded exactly
in point of decoration ; they had the same small
paneling, painted a very light green, which
seemed almost white by candle-light, each eoln-
partment wrought with an arabesque, the same
enriched frieze and cornice; they had the
same high mantel-pieces, ascending to the ceil-
ing, with the arms of St. John in bold relief.
They had, too, the same old-fashioned and
venerable furniture, draperies of thick, figured
velvet, with immense chairs and sofas to cor-
respond, interspersed, it is true, with more mod-
ern and cotnmodious inventions of the uphol-
sterer‘s art, in grave, stuffed leather, or lively
chintz. Two windows, nearly as deep as that
in the farther division, broke the outline of the
former one, and helped to give that irregular
and molt-y appearance to the apartment, which
took all discomfort from its extent, and furnish-
ed all convenience for solitary study.'or de-
tached flirtation. With little respect for the
carved work of the panels, the walls were cov-
ered with pictures, brought by Sir Miles from
Italy; here and there marble busts and statues
gave lightness to the character of the room,
and harmonized well with that half-Italian
mode of decoration which belongs to the period
of James I. The shape of the chamber, in its
divisions, lent itself admirably to that friendly
and sociable intermixture of amusements which
reconciles the tastes of young and old. In the
first division, near the fireplace, Sir Miles,
seated in his easy chair, and sheltered from the
opening door by a sevenfold tapestry screen,
was still at chess with his librarian. At a little
distance, a middle-aged gentleman, and three
turbaned matrons, were cutting in at whist—
shilling points—with a half'crown bet, optional,
and not much ventured on. On tables, drawn
into the recesses ofthe windows, were the day’s
newspapers, Gilray's caricatures, the last new
publications, and such other ingenious sugges-
tions to chit-chat. And round these tables
grouped those who had not yet found elsewhere
their evening's amusement; two or three shy
young clergymen, the parish doctor, four or five
squires, who felt great interest in politics, but
never dreamed of the extravagance of taking
in a daily paper, and who now, monopolizing
all the journals they could find, began fairly
with the heroic resolution to skip nothing. from
the first advertisement to the printer‘s name.
Amid one of these groups, Mainwaring had
bashfully ensconced himself. In the farther
division, the chandelier, suspended from the
domed ceiling, threw its cheerful light over a
large circular table below, on which gleanred
the ponderous tea‘urn of massive silver, with


‘26
LUCRETIA.
its usual accompaniments. Nor were wanting
there, in addition to those airy nothings, sliced
i
coax toward him Dash or Ponto—trying in
vain, for both the dogs abhorrcd him ; yet std],
infinitesimally, from a French roll, the more through all this general movement, had any one
substantial, and now exiled cheer, of cakes-—
plum and seed, Yorkshire and saffron—attest-
ing the light hand of the housekeeper, and the
strong digestion of the guests.
ble were seated, in full gossip, the maids and
the matrons, with a slight sprinkling of the
bolder young gentlemen who had been taught
to please the fair. The warmth of the evening
allowed the upper casement to be opened and
the curtains drawn aside, and the July moon-
light fecbly struggled against the blaze of the
lights within. At this table it was Miss Clav-
ering's obvious duty to preside; but that was
a complaisance to which she rarely conde-
sceudcd. Nevertheless, she had her OWn way
of doing the honors of her uncle's house, which
was not without courtesy and grace—to glide
from one to the other, exchange a few friendly
words, see that each set had its well known
amusements, and, finally, sit quietly down to
converse with some who, from gravity or age,
appeared most to neglect, or be neglected by
the rest, was her ordinary, and not unpopular
mode of welcoming the guests at Laughton-—
not unpopular, for she thus avoided all interfe-
rence with the flirtations and conquests of hum-
bler damsels, whom her station and her endow-
ments might otherwise have crossed or hum-
bled, while she insured the good word of the
old, to whom the young are seldom so atten-
tive. But ifa stranger of more than provincial
repute chanced to be present, if some stray
member of parliament, or barrister on the cir-
cuit, or wandering artist, accompanied any of
the neighbors, to him Lucretia gave more earn-
est and undivided attention. Him she sought
to draw into a conversation deeper than the
usual babble, and with her calm, searching
eyes, bent on him while he spoke, seemed to
fathom the intellect she set in play. But as
yet, this evening, she had not made her appear-
ance-a sin against etiquet very unusual in
her. Perhaps her recent conversation with
Dalihard had absorbed her thoughts to forget-
fulness of the less important demands on her
attention. Her absence had not interfered
with the gayety at the tea-table, which was
frank even to noisiness; as it centred round
the laughing face of Ardworth, who, though un-
known to most or all of the ladies present, be-
yond a brief introduction to one or tWo of the
first comers from Sir Miles (as the host had
risen from his chess to bid them welcome), had
already contrived to make himself perfectly at
home, and outrageously popular. Niched be-
tween two bouncing lasscs, he had commenced
acquaintance with them in a strain of familiar
drollery and fun, which had soon broadened its
circle, and now embraced the whole group in
the happy contagion of good-humor and young
animal spirits. Gabriel, allowed to sit up later
than his usual hour, had not, as might have
been expected, attached himself to this circle,
nor indeed to any; he might be seen rnoviug
quietly about—now contemplating the pictures
on the wall with a curious eye—now pausing
at the whist-tabie, and noting the game with
the interest of an embryo gamester—now
throwing himself on an ottoman, and trying to
Round this ta- '


i
taken the pains to observe him closely, it might
have been sufiiciently apparent that his keen,
bright, restless eye, from the corner of its long
sly lids, roved chiefly toward the three persons
whom he approached the least—his father,
Mainwaring, and Mr. Vernon. This last had
ensconced himself apart from all, in the angle
formed by one of the pilasters of the arch that
divided the room, so that he was in command,
as it were, of both sections. Reclined, with
the careless grace that seemed inseparable
from every attitude and motion of his person,
in one of the great velvet chairs, with a book
in his hand, which, to say truth, was turned
upside down, but in the lecture of which he
seemed absorbed—he heard at one hand the
mirthful laughter that circled round young Ard-
worth, or, in its pauses, caught, on the other
side, muttered exclamations from the grave
whist-players—“If you had but trumped that
diamond, ma‘am!"—“Bless me, sir, it was the
best heart!" And, somehow or other, both the
laughter and the exclamations affected him
alike, with what then was called “ the spleen"
—for the one reminded him of his own young
days of joyless, careless mirth, of which his
mechanical gayety now was but a mocking
ghost, and the other seemed a satire, a parody,
on the fierce but noiseless rapture of gaming,
through which his passions had passed—when
thousands had slipped away with a bland smile,
provoking not one of those natural ebullitions
of emotion which there accompanied the loss
of a shilling point. And beside this, Vernon
had been so accustomed to the success of tho
drawing-room, to be a somebody and a some-
thing in the company of wits and princes, that
he felt, for the first time, a sense of insignifi-
cance in this provincial circle. Those fat
squires had heard nothing of Mr. Vernon, ex-
cept that he would not have Laughton—he had
no acres, no vote in their county—he was a
nobody to them. Those ruddy maidens, though
now and then, indeed, one or two might steal
an admiring glance at a figure of elegance so
unusual, regarded him not with the female in-
terest he had been accustomed to inspire.
They felt instinctively that he could be nothing
to them, nor they to him—a mere London fop,
and not half so handsome as Squires Blufi‘and
Chuff.
Rousing himself from this little vexation to
his vanity, with a conscious smile at his own
weakness, Vernon turned his looks toward the
door, waiting for Lucretia’s entrance, and since
her uncle's address to him, feeling that new and
indescribable interest in her appearance, which
is apt to steal into every breast, when what was
before but an indifferent acquaintance, is sud-
denly enhaloed with the light ofa possible wife.
At length the door opened, and Lucretia en-
tered. Mr. Vernon lowared his book, and gazed
with an earnestness that partuok both of doubt
and admiration.
Lucretia Clavering was tall, tall beyond what
is admitted to be tail in woman; but in her
height there was nothing either awkward or
masculine—a figure more perfect never served
for model to a sculptor. The dress at that day,


LUCRETIA.
27
unbecoming as we now deem it, was not to
her, at least, on the whole, disadvantageous.
The short waist gave greater sweep to her
majestic length of limb, while the classic thin-
ness of the drapery betrayed the exact propor-
tion and the exquisite contour. The arms
then were worn bare almost to the shoulder,
and Lucretia’s arms were not more faultless in
shape than dazzling in their snowy color—the
stately neck, the falling shoulders, the firm,
slight yet rounded bust—all would have chann-
ed equally the artist and the sensualist. For-
tunately, the sole defect of her form was not
apparent at a distance: that defect was in the
hand; it had not the usual faults of female
youthfulness—the superfluity of flesh, the too
rosy healthfulness of color; on the contrary,
it was small and thin, but it. was, nevertheless,
more the hand ofa man than a woman; the
shape had a man‘s nervous distinctness, the
veins swelled like sinews, the joints of the
fingers were marked and prominent. In that
hand. it almost seemed as if the iron force of
the character betrayed itself. But, as we have
said, this slight defect, which few, ifseen, would
hypercritically notice, could not of course be
perceptible as she moved slowly up the room ;
and Vernon‘s eye, glancing over the noble
figure, rested upon the face. Was it hand-
somel—was it repelling? Strange, that in fea-
ture, it had pretensions to the highest order
of beauty, and yet, even that experienced con-
noisseur in female charms was almost puzzled
what sentence to pronounce. The hair, as was
the fashion of the day, clustered in profuse
curls over the forehead, but could not conceal
a slight line or wrinkle between the brows; and
this line, rare in women at any age, rare even
in men at hers, gave an expression at once
of thought and sternness to the whole face.
The eyebrows themselves were straight, and
not strongly marked—a shade or two perhaps
too light, a fault still more apparent in the
lashes; the eyes Were large, full, and, though
bright, astonishingly calm and deep, at least in
ordinarymoments; yet withal, they wanted the
charm of that steadfast and open look, which
goes at once to the heart, and invites its trust ;
their expression was rather vague and abstract-
ed. She usually looked aslant while she
spoke;andthis, which with some appears but
shyness, in one so self-collected, had an air of
falsehood. But When, at times, if earnest, and
bent rather on examining those she address-
ed than guarding herself from penetration, she
fixed those eyes upon you with sudden and di~
rect scrutiny, the gaze impressed you power-
fully, and haunted you with a strange spell.
The eye itself was of a peculiar and displeas-
ing color—not blue, nor gray, nor blackmor ha-
zel, but rather of that cat-like green, which is
drowsy in the light, and vivid in the shade.
The profile was purely Greek, and so seen, Lu-
cretia's beauty seemed incontestable; but in
front face, and still more when inclined between
the two, all the features took a sharpness, that,
however regular, had something chilling and
severe; the mouth was small, but the lips
were thin and pale, and had an expression of
effort and contraction, which added to the dis-
trust that her sidelong glance was calculated to

sharp and thin, and the eye-teeth were much
longer than the rest. The complexion was
pale, but without much delicacy; the paleness
seemed not natural to it, but rather that hue
which study and late vigils give to men; so
that she wanted the freshness and bloom of
youth, and looked older than she was—an
effect confirmed by an absence of roundness
in the cheek, not noticeable in the profile, but
rendering the front face somewhat harsh as
well as sharp. In a word, the face and the figure
were not in harmony ; the figure prevented you
from pronouncing her to be masculine—the face
took from the figure the charm of tcminacy.
It was the head of the young Augustus upon
the form of Agrippina. One touch more, and
we close a description which already, perhaps,
the reader may consider frivoloust minute. If
you had placed before the mouth and lower part
of the face a mask or bandage, the whole char-
acter of the upper face Would have changed at
once ; the eye lost its glittering falseness, the
brow its sinister contraction; you would at
once have pronounced the face 'not only beauti-
ful, but sweet and womanly. Take that band-
age suddenly away, and the change Would have
startled you, and startled you the more, because
you could detect no sufiicient defect or dispro-
portion in the lower part ofthe countenance to
explain it. It was as if the mouth was the key
to the whole: the key nothing without the text,
the text uncomprehended without the key.
Such, then, was Lucretia Clavering, in out-
ward appearance, at the age oftwenty—striking
to the most careless eye—interesting and per-
plexing the student in that dark language, never
yet deciphered—the human countenance. The
reader must have observed, that the effect
every face that he remarks for the first time
produces is different from the impression it
leaves upon him when habitually seen. Per
haps, no two per50ns differ more from each
other than does the same countenance in our
earliest recollection of it from the countenance
regarded in the familiarity of repeated inter-
course. And this was especially the case with
Lucretia Clavering‘s; the first impulse ofnearly
all who beheld it was distrust that partook of
fear; it almost inspired you with a sense of
danger. The judgment rose up against it ; the
heart set itself on its guard. But this uneasy
sentiment soon died away with most observers,
in admiration at the chiseled outline, which,
like the Grecian sculpture, gained the more, the
more it was examined ; in respect for the intel-
lectual power of the expression; and in fasci-
nated pleasure at the charm of a smile, rarely
employed it is true, but the more attractive,
both for that reason and for its sudden effect in
giving brightness and persuasion to an aspect
that needed them so much. It was literally
like the abrupt breaking out of a sunbeam: and
the repellent expression of the face thus famil-
iarized away, the matchless form took its nat-
ural influence ; so that, while one who but saw
Lucretia for a moment might have pronounced
her almost plain, and certainly not prepossessing
in appearance, those with whom she lived,
those whom she sought to please, those who
saw her daily, united in acknowledgment 0t
her beauty; and it they still felt ae.fl1mbumd
inspire. The teeth were dazzlineg white, but it only to the force of her understanding.


98
LUCRETIA.
i
._'As she now came midway up the room,
Gabriel started from his seat, and ran to her
caressingly. Lucretia bent down, and placed
her hand upon his fair locks. As she did so,
he whispered—
“ Mr. Vernon has been watching for you.”
“ Hush ! Where is your father!"
“Behind the screen, at chess with Sir
Miles." -
“ With Sir Miles !" and Lucretia‘s eye fell
with the direct gaze we have before referred
to, upon the boy‘s face.
“I have been looking over them pretty
often,” said he, meaningly: “ they have talked
of nothing but the game.” .'
Lucretia lifted up her head, and glanced
round with her furtive eye; the boy divined
the search, and with a scarce perceptible gest-
ure, pointed her attention to Mainwaring‘s re-
treat. Her vivid smile passed over her lips,
as she bowed slightly to her lover, and then,
withdrawing the hand which Gabriel had taken
in his own, she moved on, passed Vernon with
a commonplace word or two, and was soon
exchanging greetings with the gay merry-
makers in the farther part of the room. A few
minutes afterward, the servants entered, the
tea-table was removed, chairs thrust back—a
single lady of a certain age volunteered her
services at the piano, and dancing began within
the ample space which the arch fenced off
from the whist-playcrs. Vernon had watched
his opportunity, and at the first sound of the
piano had gained Lucretia's side, and with grave
politeness, preengaged her hand for the opening
dance.
At that day, though it is not so very long
ago, gentlemen were not ashamed to dance,
and to dance well; it was no languid saunter
through a quadrille; it was fair, deliberate, skill-
ful dancing, among the courtly; free, bounding
movement, among the gay.
Vernon, as might be expected, was the most
admired performer of the evening ; but he was
thinking very little of the notice he at last
exeited; he was employing such ingenuity as
his experience of life supplied to the deficiencies
of a very imperfect education, limited to the
little flogged into him at Eton, in deciphering
the character, and getting at the heart of his
fair partner.
“ I wonder you do not make Sir Miles take you
to'London, my cousin, if you will allow me to
call you so. You ought to have been presented."
“I have no wish to go to London yet."
“Yet!” said Mr. Vernon, with the some-
what fnde gallantry of his day, “ beauty even
like yours has little time to spare.”
"Hands across, hands across !” cried Mr.
Ardworth.
“ And," continued Mr. Vernon, as soon as a
pause was permitted to him, “ there is a song
which the prince sings, written by some sen-
sible old-fashioned fellow, which says—
‘ Gather your rosehuds whlle you may,
For time is still n-flying.’ "
“ You have obeyed the moral of the song
yourself, I believe, Mr. Vernon."
“Call me cousin, or Charles—Charley, if
you like, as most of my friends do: nobody
ever calls me Mr. Vernon; I don't know myself
by that name."
‘ the knowledge might give her.

“ Down the middle, we are all waiting for
you,” shouted Ardworth.
Down the middle with wondrous grace glided
the exquisite nankins of Charley Vernon.
The dance now, thanks to Ardwnrth, became
too animated and riotous to allow more than a
few broken monosyllables till Vernon and his
partner gained the end of the set, and then,
flirting his partner's fan, he recommenced—
" Seriously, my cousin, you must sometimes
feel very much moped here.”
“ Never l” answered Lucretia. Not once yet
had her eye rested on Mr. Vernon. She felt
that she was sounded.
“Yet I am sure you have a taste for the
pumps and vanities. Aha! there is ambition
under those careless curls," said Mr. Vernon,
with his easy, adorable impertinence.
Lucretia winced.
“ But if I were ambitious, what field for rum
bition could I find in London 2"
“The same as Alexander—empire, my
cousin."
“ You forget that I am not a man. Man,
indeed, may hope for an empire. It is some-
thing to be a Pitt, or even a Warren Hastings."
Mr. Vernon stared. Was this stupidity, or
what 1
“A woman has an empire more undisputed
than Mr. Pitt’s, and more pitiless than that 01
Governor Hastings.”
“ Oh, pardon me, Mr. Vernon—"
“ Charles, if you please.”
Lucretia's brow darkened.
“ Pardon me,” she repeated; “but these
compliments, if such they are meant to be,
meet a very ungrateful return. A woman’s
empire over gauzes and ribbons, over tea-tables
and drums, over fops and coquets, is not worth
a journey from Laughton to London."
“ You think you can despise admiration '4"
“ \Vhat you mean by admiration—yes."
“ And love, too!" said Vernon, in a whisper.
Now Lucretia at once and abruptly raised
her eyes to her partner. Was he aiming at
her secret l—was he hinting at intentions of
his own! The look chilled Vernon, and he
turned away his head.
Suddenly, then, in pursuance of a new train
of ideas, Lucretia altered her manner to him.
She had detected what before she had sur-
mised. This sudden familiarity on his part
arose from notions her uncle had instilled—the
visitor had been incited to become the suitor.
Her penetration into character, which from
childhood had been her passionate study, told
her that on that light, polished, fearless nature,
scorn Would have slight efl‘ect—to meet the
familiarity would be the best means to secure
a friend, to disarm a wooer. She changed. then,
her manner: she summoned up her extraor-
dinary craft; she accepted the intimacy held
out to her, not to unguard herself, but to lay
open her opponent. It became necessary to
her to know this man, to have such power as
lnscnsibly and
gradually she led her companion away. from
his design of approaching her own secrets or
character, into frank talk about himself. All
unconsciously he began to lay bare to his lis-
tener the infirmities of his erring, open heart.
Silently she looked down, and plumbed them


I LUCRETIA.
29
all: the frivolity, the recklessness, the half-gay,
half-mournful sense of waste and ruin. There,
blooming atnong the wrecks, she saw the fair-
est flowers of noble manhood, profuse and fra-
grant still—generosity and courage, and disre-
gard for self. Spendthrilt and gambler on one
side the medal; gentleman and soldier on the
other. Beside this maimed and imperfect na-
ture, she measured her own prepared and pro-
found intellect, and as she listened, her smile
became more bland and frequent. She could
afford to be gracious ; she felt superiority, scorn,
and safety.
As this seeming intimacy had matured, Ver-
non and his partner had quitted the dance, and
were conversing apart in the recess of one of
the windows, which the newspaper readers had
deserted, in the part of the room where Sir
Miles and Dalibard, still seated, were about to
commence their third game at chess. The
baronet’s hand ceased from the task ofarranging
his pawns, his eye was upon the pair, and then,
after a long and complacent gaze, it looked
round without discovering the object it sought.
“I am about to task your kindness most im-
properly, Monsieur Dalibard,” said the baronet,
with that politeness so displeasing to Ardworth;
“ but will you do me the favor to move aside
that fold of the screen. Iwish for a better
view of our young people. Thank you very
much."
Sir Miles now discovered Mainwaring, and
observed, that far from regarding with .self-be-
traying jealousy the apparent flirtation going
on between Lucretia and her kinsman, he was
engaged in animated conversation with the
chairman of the quarter-sessions. Sir Miles
was satisfied, and ranged his pawns. All this
time, and, indeed, ever since they had sat down
to play, the Provencal had been waiting with
the patience that belonged to his character, for
some observation from Sir Miles on the sub-
ject which his sagacity perceived was engross-
ing his thoughts. There had been about the
old gentleman a fidgety restlessness, which
showed that something was on his mind. His
eyes had been frequently turned toward his
niece since her entrance; once or twice he
had cleared his throat and hemmed, his usual
prelude to some more important communica-
tion ; and Dalibard had heard him muttering to
himself, and fancied he caught the name of
‘Mainwaring." And, indeed, the baronet had
been repeatedly on the verge of sounding his
secretary, and as often had been checked, both
by pride in himself and pride for Lucretia. It
seemed to him beneath his own dignity and
hers even to hint to an inferior—a fear, a doubt
of the heiress of Laughton. Olivier Dalibard
could easily have led on his patron, he could
easily, if be pleased it, have dropped Words to
instill suspicion and prompt question ; but that
was not his object: be rather shunned than
courted any reference to himselfupon the mat-
ter; for he knew that Lucretia, if she could
suppose that he, however indirectly, had be-
trayed her to her uncle, would at once declare
his own suit to her, and so procure his imme-
diate dismissal; while aware of her powers of
dissimulation, and her influence over her uncle,
he feared that a single word from her wnuld
suffice to remove all suspicion in Sir Miles,

however ingeniously implanted, and however
truthfully grounded. But all the while, under
his apparent calm, his mind was busy, and his
passions burning.
“Pshaw, your old play—the bishop again l"
said Sir Miles, laughing, as he moved a knight
to frustrate his adversary's supposed plan; and
then turning back, he once more contemplated
the growing familiarity between Vernon and his
niece. This time he could not contain his
pleasure : " Dalibard, my dear sir." he said,
rubbing his hands, “ look yonder; they would
make a handsome couple."
“ Who, sir'l" said the Provencal, looking
another way, with dogged stupidity.
"Who! d--— it, man l—nay, pray forgive my
ill-manners—but I felt glad, sir, and proud, sir.
Who! Charley Vernon and Lucretia Claver-
ing l"
“ Assuredly, yes. Do you think that there is
a chance of so happy an event?”
“ Why, it depends only on Lucretia. I shall
never force her.” Here Sir Miles stopped, for
Gabriel, unperceived before, picked up his pa-
tron‘s pocket-handkerchief.
Olivier Dalibard’s gray eyes rested coldly on
his son. “ You are not dancing to-night, my
boy. Go; I like to see you amused."
The boy obeyed at once, as he always did,
the paternal commands. He found a partner,
and joined a dancejust begun ; and in the midst
of the dance, Honqré Gabriel Varney seemed a
new being: not Ardworth himself so thorough-
ly entered into the enjoyment of thqexercise,
the lights, the music. With brilliant eyes and
dilated nostrils, he seemed prematurely to feel
all that is exciting and voluptuous in that ex-
hilaration, which to childhood is usually so naive
and innocent. His glances followed the fairest
form; his clasp lingered in the softest hand;
his voice trembled as the warm breath of his
partner came on his cheeks.
Meanwhile, the conversation betWeen tho
chess-players continued.
“ Yes," said the baronet, “ it depends only
on Lucretia—and she seems pleased with Ver-
non; who would not be 1"
“ Your penetration rarely deceives you, sir.
I own I think with you. Does Mr. Vernon
know that you would permit the alliance t"
“ Yes; but—" the baronet stopped short.
" You were saying, but—but what, Sir
Miles?"
“ Why, the dog affected difiiilence; he had
some fear lest he should not win her affections;
but luckily, at least, they are disengaged."
Dalibard looked grave, and his eye, as if in-
voluntarily, glauced toward Mainwaring. As
ill-luck Would have it, the young man had then
ceased his conversation with the chairman of
the quarter-sessions, and with arms folded,
brow contracted, and looks earnest, anxious,
and intent, was contemplating th'whispered.
conference between Lucretia and Vernon.
Sir Miles‘s eye had followed his secretary's,
and his face changed. His hand fell on tho
chess-board, and upset halfthe men; he uttered
a very audible “ Zounds l" _
“ I think, Sir Miles," said the Provencal, ns-
ing, as if conscious that Sir Miles wished to
play no more—“I think that if you spoke soon
to Miss Clavering, as to your viewswrth regard_


30
LUCRETIA. \
to Mr. Vernon, it might ripen matters; for I
have heard it said by French mothers—and our
French Women understand the female heart,
sir— that a girl having no other afl'ection is
often prcpossesscd at once in favor of a man
whom she knows beforehand is prepared to
Woo and to win her, whereas without that
knowledge he would have seemed but an or-
dinary acquaintance.”
“ It is shrewdly said, my dear Monsieur
Dalibard ; and, for more reasons than one, the
sooner I speak to her the better. Lend me
your arm —- it is time for supper—I see the
dance is over.”
i Passing by the place where Mainwaring still
.eant, the haronet louked at him fixedly. The
young man did not notice the gaze. Sir Miles
touched him gently. He started as from a
reverie.
“ You have not danced, Mr. Mainwaring."
“I dance so seldom, Sir Miles," said Main-
waring, coloring.
“ Ah ! you employ your head more than your
heels, young gentleman; very right-_I must
speak to you to-morrow. “'ell, ladies, I hope
you have enjoyed yourselves. My dear Mrs.
Vesey, you and I are old friends, you know—
many a minuet we have danced together, eh!
\Ve can‘t dance now; but we can walk arm-
in-arm together still. Honor me. And your
little grandson -- vaccinated, eh! Wonderful
invention ! To supper, ladies—to supper !"
The company were gone.‘ The lights were
out, all save the lights ofheaven, and they came
bright and still through the easements: Moon-
beam and Starbeam, they seemed now to have
the old house to themselves. In came the
rays, brighter, and longer, and bolder—like fai-
ries that march, rank upon rank, into their king-
dom of solitude. Down the oak stairs, from
the easements, blazoned with heraldry, moved
the rays, creepingly, fearfully. On the armor
in the hall clustered the rays, boldly and bright-
ly, till the steel shone out like a mirror. In the
library, long and low, theyjust entered, stopped
short —it was no-place for their play. In the
drawing-room, now deserted, they were more
curious and adventurous. Through the large
window, still open, they came in freely and
archly, as if to spy what had caused such dis-
order; the stiff chairs out of place, the smooth
floor despoiled of itscarpet—that flower dropped
on the ground—that scarf forgotten on the table
—the rays lingered upon them all. Up and
dovvn, through the house, from the base to the
root', rovcd the children of the air, and found
but two spirits awake amid the slumber of the
rest.
In that tower to the east—in the tapestry
chamber— with the large gilded bed in the re-
cess, came the rays, tamed and wan, as if
scared by the grosser light on the table. By
that table s? a girl, her brow leaning on one
hand; in tli other she held a rose—it is a love-
token—exchanged with its sister rose, by stealth
—in mute sign of reproach for doubt excited——
an assurance and a reconciliation. A love-
token !- shrink not, yo rays—there is some-
thing a'tin to ye in love. But, see, the hand
closes convulsiver on the flower—it hides it
not in the breast-~it lifts it not to.the lip—it
throws it passionately aside. “ How long!"

muttered the girl, impetuously—"how long!
and to think that will here can not shorten an
hour!" Then she rose, and walked to and fro,
and each time she gained a certain niche in the
chamber, she paused, and then irresolutely
passed on again. What is in that niche!
Only books. What can books teach thee, pale
girl! The step treads firmer; this time it
halts more resolved. The hand that clasped
the flower takes down a volume. The girl sits
again before the light. See, ob rays, what is
the volume! Moon and Starbeam, ye love what
lovers read by the lamp in the loneliness. No
love-ditty this; no yet holler lesson to patience,
and moral to hope. What hast thou, young
girl, strong in health and rich in years, with
the lore of the leech—with prognostics, and
symptoms, and diseases! She is tracing with
hard eyes the signs that precede the grim
enemy, in his most sudden approach—the liab-
its that invite him, the warnings that he gives.
He whose wealth shall make her free has twice
had the visiting shock—he starves not—he lives
free! She closes the volume, and, musing,
metes him out the hours and days he has to
live. Shrink back, ye rays! The love is dis-
enhallowed: while the hand was on the rose
the thought was on the charnel.
Yonder, in the opposite tower, in the small
casement near the roof, came the rays ; Child-
hood is asleep. Moon and Starbeam, ye love
the slumbers of the child! The door opens—
a dark figure steals noiselessly in. The father
comes to look on the sleep of his son. Holy
tenderness, if this be all!
“Gabriel, wake!" said a low, stern voice,
and a rough hand shook the sleeper.
The sharpest test of those nerves, upon
which depends the mere animal courage, is to
be reused suddenly, in the depth of night, by a
violent hand. The impulse of Gabriel, thus
startled, was neither of timidity nor surprise.
It was that of some boy Spartan, not new to
danger: with a slight cry, and a fierce spring,
the son‘s hand clutched at the father‘s throat.
Dalibard shook him off with an effort, and a
smile, half in approval, halfin irony, played by
the moonlight over his lips. ._
“ Blood will out, young tiger,” said he.
"Hush, and hear me !"
“ Is it you, father!" said Gabriel; “ I thought
—I dreamed—" .
“ No matter; think—dream always, that man
should be prepared for defense from peril !
" Gabriel (and the pale scholar seated him-
self on the bed), turn your face to mine—near-
er; let the moon fall on it ; lift your eyes—look
at me—so! Are you not playing false to me!
Are you not Lucretia‘s spy, while you are pre-
tending to be mine! It is so; your eye betrays
you. Now, heed me; you have a mind beyond
your years. Do you love best the miserable
garret in London, the hard fare and squalid
dress—or your lodgmcnt here, the sense of
luxury, the sight of splendor, the atmosphere at
wealth! You have the choice before you."
“I choose as you would have me, then,"
said the boy—“ the last."
"I believe you. Attend! you do not love
mc—that is natural—you are the son of Clara
Varney! You have suppOsed that in loving
Lucretia Clavering, you might vex or thwart


‘- CONFERENCES.
31
me, you scarce knew how; and Lucretia Clav-
ering has gold and gifts, and soft words, and
promises, to bribe withal. Inow tell you open-
ly my plan with regard to this girl: it is my
aim to marry her -— to be master of this house
and these lands. lfl succeed, you share them
with me. By betraying me, Word or look, to
Lucretia, you frustrate this aim; you plot
against our rise and to our ruin. Deem not
that you could escape my fall; ifI am driven
hence—as you might drive me-you share my
fate; and, mark me, you are delivered up to my
revenge ! You cease to be my son—you are my
foe. Child! you know me."
The 'boy, bold as he was, shuddered; but
after a pause, so brief that a breath scarce
passed between his silence and his words, he
replied, with emphasis :
“Father, you have read my heart. I have
been persuaded by Lucretia (for she bewitches
me) to watch you—at least, when you are
with Sir Miles. I knew that this was mixed
up with Mr. Mainwaring. Now that you have
made me understand your own views, I will be
true to you—true without threats."
The father looked hard on him, and seemed
satisfied with the gaze. “ Remember, at least,
that your future rests upon your truth: that is
no threat—that is a thought of hope. Now
sleep or muse on it.” He dropped the 'curtain
which his hand had drawn aside, and stole
from the room as noiselesst as he had entered.
The boy slept no more. Deceit, and cupidity,
and corrupt ambition, were at work in his
brain. Shrink back, Moon and Starbeam ! On
that child‘s brow play the demons who had fol-
lowed the fathcr’s step to his bed of sleep.
Back to his own room, close at hand, crept
Olivier Dalibard. The walls were lined with
books—many in language and deep in lore.
Moon and Starbeam, ye love the midnight sol-
itude of the scholar! The Provencal stole to
the casement and looked forth. All was serene;
breathless trees, and gleaming sculpture, and
whitened sward, girdled by the mass ofshadow.
Of what thought the man! not of the present
loveliness which the scene gave to his eye, nor
of the future mysteries which the stars should
whisper to the soul. Gloomin over a stormy
and a hideous past, roved the memory, stored
with fraud and foul with crime; plan upon plan,
schemed with ruthless wisdom, followed up by
remorseless daring, and yet all now a ruin and
a blank ! —an intellect at war with good, and
the good had conquered! But the conviction
neither touched the conscience, nor enlightened
the reason; he felt, it is true, a moody sense
of impotence; but it brought rage, not despond-
ency: it was not that he submitted to Good, as
too powerful to oppose, but that be deemed he
had not yet gained all the mastery over the
arsenal of Evil. And evil he called it not.
Good or Evil to him were but subordinate genii,
at the command of Mind; they were the slaves
of the lamp. But had he got at the true secret
of the lamp itself! “How is it," he thought,
as he turned impatiently from the casement,
" that I am bafiled here, where my fortunes
seemed most assured! Here the mind has
been of my own training, and prepared by na-
ture to my hand; here all opportunity has
smiled. And suddenly the merest common-
\

place, in the vulgar lives of mortals—an un_
looked—for rival—rival, too, of the mold I had
taught her to despise—one of the stock gallaan
ofa comedy—no character, but youth and fair
looks; yea, the lover of the stage starts up, and
the fabric of years is overthrown." Ashe thus
mused he placed his hand upon a smallbox on
one of the tables. “ Yet, within this," resumed
his soliloquy, and he struck the lid that gave
back a dull sound—“within this I hold the
keys of life and death! Fool, the power does
not reach to the heart, except to still it. Verily
and indeed were the old heathens mistaken!
Are there no philters to change the current ot
desire l—but touch one chord in a girl‘s afi‘ec- -
tion, and all the rest is mine—all—all, lands,
station, power—all the rest are in the opening
of this lid !"
Hide in the cloud, 0 Moon l—shrink back, ye
Stars! send not your holy, pure, and trouble-
lulling light to the countenance blanched and
livid with the thoughts of murder.
.-_§._
CHAPTER III.
CONFERENCES.
Tux next day Sir Miles did not appear at
breakfast—not that he was unwell, but that he
meditated holding certain audiences—and on
such occasions the good old gentleman liked to
prepare himself. He belonged to a school in
which, amid much that was hearty and con-
vivial, there was much also that, now-a-days,
would seem still' and formal, contrasting the
other school immediately succeeding him, which
Mr. Vernon represented, and of which the
Charles Surface of Sheridan is a faithful and
admirable type. The room that Sir Miles ap-
propriated to himself was, properly speaking,
the state apartment, called, in the old invento-
ries, “ King James’s chamber;" it was on the
first floor, communicating with the picture-gal-
lery, which, at the farther end, opened upon a
corridor, admitting to the principal bedrooms.
As Sir Miles cared nothing for holyday state, he
had unscrupuloust taken his culn'culum in this
chamber, which was really the handsomest in
the house, except the banquet-hall; placed his
bed in one angle, with a ho e screen before it,
filled up the space with his talian antiques and
curiosities, and fixed his favorite pictures on
the faded gilt leather paneled on the walls.
His main motive in this was the communica-
tion with the adjoining gallery, which, when
the weather was unfavorable, furnished ample
room for his habitual walk. He knew how
many strides, by the help of his crutch, made a
mile, and this was convenient. Moreover, he
liked to look, when alone, on those old portraits
of his ancestors, which he had religiously con—
served in their places, preferring to thrust his
Florentine and Venetian masterpieces into bed-
rooms and parlors rather than to dislodge from
the gallery the stiff rufl‘s, doublets, and farthin-
gales of his predecessors. It was whispered
in the house, that the baronet, whenever he had
to reprove a tenant, or lecture a dependent,
took care to have him brought to his sanctum,
through the full length of this gallery. 5° "13‘
the victim might be duly prepared and awed


39
CONFERENCES.
by the imposing effect of so stately a journey,
and the grave faces of all the generations of St.
John, which could not fail to impress him with
Um lllHnlly of the family, and alarm him at the
prospect of the frown of its injured representa-
tive. Across this gallery, now, following the
steps of the powdered valet, strode young Ard-
worth ; staring now and then at some portrait
more than usually grim, more often wondering
why his boots, that never creaked before, should
crcak on those particular boards, and feeling a
quiet curiosity without the least mixture of lear
or awe as to what old Square-toes intended to
_ say to him. But all feeling of irreverence
ceased when, shOWn into the baronet’s room,
and the door closed, Sir Miles rose with a smile,
and cordially shaking his hand, said, dropping
the puncttlious courtesy ofMister—“ Ard worth,
air, if I had a little prejudice against you, be-
fore you came, you have conquered it. You
are a fine, manly, spirited fellow, sir ; and you
have an old man's good wishes, which are no
bad beginning to a young man’s good fortunes."
The color rushed over Artlworth's forehead,
and a tear sprang to his eyes. He felt a rising
at his throat, as he stamtnered out some not
very audible reply.
“ I wished to see you, young gentleman, that
I might judge myself whatyou would like best,
and whatwonld bestbefityou—your father is in
the army. What say you to a pair of colors?"
“ Oh, Sir Miles, that is my utmost ambition.
Any thing but law, except the church ; any
thing but the church, except a. desk and a coun-
ter l”
The baronet, much pleased, gave him a gen-
tle pat on the shoulder. “ Ha, ha! we gentle-
men, you see (for the Ardworths are very well
born—very) we, gentlemen, understand each
other. Between you and me, I never liked the
law—never thought a man of birth should be-
long to it—take money for lying—shabby -
shocking! Don’t let that go any further. The
church—mother church—I honor her ! Church
and state go together! But one ought to be
very good to preach to others—better than you
and l are—eh, eh! ha, ha! Well, then, you
like the army—there‘s a letter for you to the
Horse Guards—go up to town—your business
is done; and, as for your outfit, read this little
book at your leisure." And Sir Miles thrust a
pocket-book into Ardworth‘s hand.
“ But pardon me,” said the young man, much
bewildered. " What claim have I, Sir Miles,
to such generosity; Iknow that my uncle of-
fended you.”
“ Sir, that‘s the claim 2" said Sir Miles, grave-
ly. "I can not live long," he added, with a
touch of melancholy in his voice; “let me die
in peace with all l—perhaps I injured your
uncle! Who knoWs but, if so, he hears and
pardons me nowl"
“ Oh, Sir Miles !" exclaimed the thoughtless,
generous-hearted young man, “ and my little
playfellow, Susan—your 0tvn niece 1"
Sir Miles drew back haughtily; but the burst
that offended him rose so evidently from the
heart, was so excusable from its motive, and
the youth’s ignorance of the world, that his
frown soon vanished, as he said, calmly and
gravely-
"No man, my good sir, can allow to others
the right to touch on his family afl'airs; I trust
I shall be just to the poor young lady ; and so,
if we never meet again, let us think well of
each other. Go, my boy, serve your king and
your country !"
“I will do my best, Sir Miles, if only to merit
your kindness.”
“ Stay a moment: you are intimate, I find,
with young Mainwaringl"
“ An old college friendship, Sir Miles."
“ The army won‘t do for him, ehl”
“ He is too clever for it, sir."
“Ah, he‘d make a lawyer, I suppose—glib
tongue enough! and can talk well, and lie, if
he‘s paid for it?”
“I don‘t know how lawyers regard those
matters, Sir Miles; but if you don't make him
a lawyer, I am sure you must leave him an hon-
est man."
“ Really and truly—"
“ Upon my honor I think so.”
“ Good-day to you, and good luck. You must
catch the coach at the lodge; for, I see by the
papers, that, in spite of all the talk about peace,
they are raising regiments like wildfire."
With very different feelings from those with
which he had entered the room, Ardworth quit-
ted it. He hurried into his own chamber to
thrust his clothes into his portmanteau, and,
while thus employed, Mainwaring entered.
“Joy, my dear fellow, wish me joy! I am
going to town—into the army—abroad—to be
shot at, thank heaven! That dear old gentle-
man l—just throw me that coat, will you!”
A very few more words sufficed to explain
what had passed to Mainwaring; he sighed
when his friend had finished: “I wish I were
going with you."
“Do you? Sir Miles has only got to write
another letter to the Horse Guards; but no, you
are meant to be something better than food for
powder; and, beside, your Lucretia! Hang it,
I am sorry I can not stay to examine her as I
had promised ; but I have seen enough to know
that she certainly loves you. Ah, when she
changed flowers with you, you did not think!
saw you—sly, was not It Pshaw, she was
only playing with Vernon. But still do you
know, \Vill, now that Sir Miles has spoken to
me so, that I could haVe sobbed ‘ God bless you,
my old boy !‘-’pon my life, I could !—now, do
you know that I feel enraged with you for
abetting that girl to deceive him."
“I am enraged with myself; and—" Here
a servant entered,and informed Mainwaring that
he had been searching for him—Sir Miles re-
quested to see him in his room. Mainwaring
started like a culprit. “Never fear," whispered
Ardworth, “he has no suspicion ofyou, I‘m sure.
Shake hands; when shall we meet again‘l Is
it not odd, I, who am a republican by theory,
taking King George’s pay to fight against the
French! No use stopping now to moralize on
such contradictions. John—Tom, what's your
name—here, my man, here, throw that port-
manteau on your shoulder, and come to the
lodge." And so, full of health, hope, vivacity,
and spirit, John Walter Ardworth departed on
his career.
Meanwhile, Mainwaring slowly took his way
to Sir Miles. As he approached the gallery, he
met Lucretia, who was coming from her own


CONFERENCES.
33
‘oom. " Sir Miles has sent for me," he said, i
meaningly. He had time for no more, for the
valet was at the door of the gallery, waiting to
.nsber him to his host.
“ Ha, you will say not a word that can betray
is; guard your looks, too i” Whispered Lucretia,
urriedly; “ atterward,join me by the cedars.”
lihc passed on toward the stair-case, and glanced
at the large clock that was placed there. “ Past
eleven; Vernon is never up before twelve. I
must see him before my uncle sends for me, as
he will send if he suspects—" She paused,
went back to her room, rang for her maid,
dressed as for walking, and said, carelessly, “ If
Sir Miles wants me, I am gone to the rectory,
and shall probably return by the village, so that
[shall be back about one." Toward the rec-
tory, indeed, Lucretia bent her way; but hall'-
way there, turned back, and passing through the
plantation at the roar of the house, awaited
Mainwaring on the bench beneath the cedars.
He was not long before he joined her. His
face was sad and thoughtful, and when he seat-
ed himself by her side, it was with a weariness
of spirit that alarmed her.
“Well,” said she, fearfully, and she placed
her hand on his.
“ Oh, Lucretia !" he exclaimed, as he pressed
that hand, with an emotion that came from
other passions than love, “ we, or rather, I,
have done great wrong. I have been leading
you to betray your uncle's trust, to convert
your gratitude to him into hypocrisy. Ihave
been unworthy of myself. I am poor—I am
humbly born; but, till I came here, I was rich
and proud in honor. I am not so now. Lu-
cretia, pardon rue—pardon me! let the dream
be over—we ruust not sin thus ; for it is sin, and
the worst of sin—treachery. We must part:
forget me i” '
“ Forget you! never, never, never!" cried
Lucretia, with suppressed, but most earnest
vchemence—her breast heaving, her hands, as
he dropped the one he held, clasped together,
her eyes full of tears—transformed at once into
softness, mcekness, even while racked by pas-
sion and despair.
" Oh, William, say any thing—reproach,
chide, despise me, for mine is all the fault;
ay any thing but that W0t‘d—‘ part.’ I have
chosen you, I have sought you out, I have
wooed you, if you will; be it so. I cling to you
-you are my all—all that saves me from—
from myself,” she added falteringly, and in a
hollow voice. "Your love—you know not
what it is to me! I scarcely knew it myself
before. I feel what it is now, when you say
‘part.’ "
Agitated and tortured, Mainwaring writhed
at these burning words, bent his face low, and
covered it with his hands.
He felt her clasp struggling to withdraw them,
yielded, and saw her kneeling at his feet. His
manhood, and his gratitude, and his heart, all
moved by that sight in one so haughty, he
opened his arms, and she fell on his breast.
“You will never say ‘part' again, William !”
she gasped convulsively.
" But what are we to do 1" ,
“ Say, first, what has passed between you and
my uncle."
" Little to relate; for I can repeat words, not
C

tones and looks. Sir Miles spoke to me, at
first kindly and cucouragingly, about my pros-
pects; said it was time that I should fix myself;
added a few Words with menacing emphasis
against what he called “idle dreams and des-
ultory ambition," and observing that I changed
countenance—for I felt that I did—his manner
became more cold and severe. Lucretia, if he
has not detected our secret, he more than sus-
pects my—my presumption. Finally, he said,
dryly, that I had better return home, consult
with my father, and that, ifI preferred entering
into the sefvice of the government to any mer-
cantile profession, he thought he had sufficient
interest to promote my views. But, clearly
and distinctly, he left on my mind one im-
pression—that my visits here are over.”
“ Did he allude to rue—to Mr.Vcrnon 1."
“Ah, Lucretia, do you know him so little—
his delicacy, his pride ’2"
Lucretia was silent, and Mainwaring con-
tinued:
“ I felt that I was dismissed; I took my leave
of your uncle; I came hither with the intention
to say farewell forever."
“Hush, hush! that thought is over! And
you return to your father‘s. Perhaps better
so: it is but hope deferred; and in your ab-
sence I can the more easily allay all suspicion,
if suspicion exist; but I must write to you—
we must correspond. William, dcar William,
write often—write kindly; tell me, in every
letter, that you love nic~that you love only
me-that you will be patient, and confide."
“ Dear Lucretia," said Mainwaring, tenderly,
and moved by the pathos of her earnest and
imploririg voice; “ but you forget: the bag is
always brought first to Sir Miles; he will rec-
ognize my hand; and to whom can you trust
your own letters 1"
“ True,” replied Lucretia, despondingly, and
there was a pause. Suddenly she lifted her
head, and cried, “ But your father's house is not
far from this—not ten miles : we can find a spot
at the remote end of the park, near the path
through the great wood; there I can leave my
letters—there I can find yours."
“ But it must be seldom. If any of Sir Miles’l
serVants see me, if—”
“ Oh, \Villiam, \Villiam, this is not the lan-
guage oflove l"
“Forgive me—I think ofyou !"
“Love thinks of nothing but itself; it is
tyrannical, absorbing—it forgets even the ob-
ject loved—it feeds on danger—it strengthens
by obstacles,” said Lucretia, tossing her hair
from her forehead, and with an expression of
dark and wild power on her brow and in her
eyes: “ fear not for me—l am sufficient guard
upon myself; even while I speak, I think—yes,
l have thought of the very spot. You remem-
ber that hollow oak at the bottom of the doll,
in which Guy St. John, the cavalier, is said
to have hid himself from Fairfax's soldiers.
Every Monday I will leave a letter in that hol-
low ; every Tuesday you can search for it, and
leave your own. This is but once a week—
thcre is no risk here.” '
Mainwaring‘s conscience still smote him;
but he had not the strength to resist the energy
of Lucretia. The force of her character seized
upon the weak part of his own—its gentleness,


34
CONFERENCES.
its fear of inflicting pain, its reluctance to say
" no"-that simplc cause of misery to the over-
timid. A few sentences more, full of courage,
confidence, and passion, on the part of the
woman—of constraint, and yet of soothed and
grateful all‘ection,on that of the man, and the
aflianced parted.
Mainwaring had already given orders to have
his trunks sent to him at his father’s; and, a
hardy pedestrian by habit, he now struck across
the park, passed the dell and the hollow trce,
commonly called “Guy’s Oak," and across
woodland and fields golden with ripening corn,
took his way to the town, in the center of
which, square, solid, and imposing. stood the
respectable residence of his bustling, active,
electioneering father.
Lucretia’s eye followed a form as fair as ever
captivated rnaiden’s glance, till it was out,of
sight; and then, as she emerged from the
shade of the cedars into the more open space
of the garden, her usual thoughtful composure
was restored to her steadfast countenance. On
the terrace, she caught sight of Vernon, who
had just quitted his own room, where he always
breakfasted alone, and who was now languidly
stretched on a bench, and basking in the sun.
Like all who have abused life, Vcrnon was not
the same man in the early part of the day.
The spirits that rose to temperate heat the
third hour alter noon, and expanded into glow
when the lights shone over gay carousers, at
morning were flat and exhausted. \Vith hol-
low eyes, and that weary fall of the muscles
of the checks, which betrays the votary of
Bacchus, the convivial three-bottle man, Char-
ley Vernon forced a smile, meant to be airy
and impcrtinent, to his pale lips, as he rose
with effort, and extended three fingers to his
cousin.
“ Where have you been hiding'l—catching
bloom from the roses! You have the prettiest
shade of color—just enough—not a hue too
much. And there is Sir Miles‘s valet gone to
the rectory, and the fat footman pulling away
toward the village, and I, like a faithful warden,
from my post at the castle, all looking out for
the truant.”
l‘But who wants me, cousin '2" said Lucre-
tia, with the full blaze of her rare and captivat-
ing smilc. -
“ The knight of Laughton confessedly wants
thee, O damsel! The knight of the Bleeding
Heart may want thee more. Dare he own
it. ’ '
And with a hand that trembled a little, not
with love—at least it trembled always a little
before the Madeira at luncheon—he lifted hers
to his lips.
“ Compliments again—words—idle words i”
said Lucretia, looking down hashfully.
“How can I convince thee of my sincerity,
unless thou takest my life as its pledge, maid
of Laughton ’5”
And, very much tired of standing, Charley
Vernon drew her gently to the bench, and seat-
ed himself by her side. Lucretia’s eyes were
still downcast; and, as she remained silent,
Vernon, suppressing a yawn, felt that he was
bound to continue. There was nothing very
formidable in Lucretia’s manner.
“ Fore Gad !" thought he, "I suppose I must

take the heiress, after all ; the soonerit's over,
the sooner I can get back to Brook-street."
“It is premature, my fair cousin,” said he,
aloud—“ premature, after less than a week‘s
visit, and only some fourteen or fifteen hours'
permitted friendship and intimacy, to say what
is uppermost in my thoughts; but we spend-
thrifts are slow at nothing, not even at wooing.
By sweet Venus, then, fair cousin, you look
provokingly handsome! Sir Miles, your good
uncle, is pleased to forgive all my follies and
faults upon one condition, that you will take
on yourself the easy task to reform me. Will
you, my fair cousin'l Such as I am, you be-
hold me! I am no sinner in the disguise of a
saint! My fortune is spent—my health is not
strong; but a young widow‘s is no mournful
position. I am gay when I am well; good-
tempered when ailing. I never betrayed a trust
—can you trust me with yourself 1"
This was a long speech, and Charley Vernon
felt pleased that it was oVer. There was much
in it that would have touched a heart even
closed to him, and a little genuine emotion had
given light to his eyes and color to his cheek.
Amid all the ravages of dissipation, there was
something interesting in his countenance,
and manly in his tone and his gesture. But
Lucretia was only sensible to one part of his
confession—her uncle had consented to his suit.
This was all of which she desired to be assured,
and against this she now sought to screen
herself.
“ Your under, Mr. Vernon,” she said, avoid
ing his eye, “ deserves candor in me. Ican not
affect to misunderstand you ; but you take me
by surprise—I was so unprepared for this. Give
me time—l must reflect."
“ Reflection is dull work in the country; you
can reflect more amusineg in town, my fair
cousin."
“ 1 will wait, thenI till I find myself in town."
“Ah, you make me the happiest, the most
grateful of men,” cried Mr. Vernon, rising with
a semi-genuflexion, which seemed to imply,
“ Consider yourself knelt to," just as a courts-
ous assailer, with the motion of the hand, im-
plies, “ Consider yourself horsewhipped."
Lucretia, who, with all her intellect, had no
capacity for humor, recoiled and looked up in
positive surprise.
“ I do not understand you, Mr. Vernon,” she
said, with austere gravity.
“ Allow me the bliss of flattering myself that
you, at least, are understood,” replied Charley
Vernon, with imperturbable assurance. “ You
will wait to reflect till you are in town—that is
to say, the day after our honeymoon, when you
awake in May Fair."
Bclore Lucretia could reply, she saw the inde-
fatigable valet formally approaching, with the
anticipated message that Sir Miles requested to
see her. She replied, hurriedly, to this last,
that she would be with her uncle immediately,
and when he had again disappeared within the
porch, she said, with a constrained efl'ort at
frankness,
“ Mr. Vernon, if I have misunderstood your
words, I think 1 do not mistake your character.
You can not wish to take advantage of my afl'ec-
tion for my uncle, and the passive obedience l
owe to him, to force me into a step—-of which


CONFERENCES.
35
-—of which—I have not yet sufficiently con-
sidered the results. If you really desire that
my feelings should be consulted, that I should
not—pardon me—consider myself sacrificed to
the family pride of my guardian, and the inter-
ests of my suitor—"
“Madam!” exclaimed Vernon, reddening.
Pleased with the irritating efi’ect her words
had produced, Lucretia contiriued calmly, “ If,
in a word, I am to be a free agent in a choice
on which my happiness depends, forbear to urge
Sir Miles further at present—forbear to press
your suit upon me. Give me the‘delay ofafew
months; lshall know how to appreciate your
delicacy."
uMiss Clavering," answered Vernon,with a
touch of the St. John liaughtincss, “I am in
despair that you should even think so grave an
appeal to my honor necessary. Iam well aware
of your expectations and my poverty. And be-
lieve me, I would rather rot in a prison than
enrich myself by forcing your inclinations. You
have but to say the word, and I will (as becomes
me as man and gentleman) screen you from all
chance of Sir Miles’s displeasure, by taking it
on myself to decline an honor of which I feel,
indeed, very undeserving.”
“ But I have ofi'endcd you," said Lucretia,
softly, while she turned aside to conceal the
glad light of her eyes—“pardon me; and, to
prove that you do so, give me your arm to my
uncle’s room.”
Vernon, with rather more of Sir Miles’s anti-
quated stiffness, than his own rakisb ease, offer-
ed his arm, with a profound reverence, to his
cousin ; and they took their way to the house.
Not till they had passed up the stairs, mm were
even in the gallery, did further words pass be-
tween them. Then Vernon said, “ But what is
your wish, Miss Clavering! On what footing
shall I remain here!" ‘
" Will you suffer me to dictate," replied Lu-
cretia, stopping short, with well feigned confu-
sion, as if suddenly aware that the right to die-
tate gives the right to hope.
“Ah, consider me at least as your slave!”
whispered Vernon, as his eye resting on the
contour of that matchlcss neck, partially and
advantageously turned from him, he began,
with his constitutional admiration of the sex,
to feel interested in a pursuit, that now seemed,
after piquing, to flatter, his self-love.
" Then I will use the privilege when we
meet again," answered Lucretia; and draw-
ing her arm gently from his, she passed on
to her uncle, leaving Vernon midway in the
gallery.
'Those faded portraits looked down on her
with that melancholy gloom, which the efligies
of our dead ancestors seem mysteriously to ac~
quire. .To noble and aspiring spirits, no homily
to truth, and honor, and fair ambition is more
eloquent, than the mute and melancholy canvas,
from which our fathers, made, by death, our
household gods, contemplate us still. They ap-
pear to confide to us the charge of their unblem-
ished names. They speak to us from the grave,
and, heard aright, the pride of family is the
guardian angel of its heirs. But Lucretia,with
her hard and scholastic mind, despised, as the
vcricst weakness, all the poetry that belongs to
the sense of a pure descent. It was because she
' never force her inclinations.

was proud as the proudest in herself, that she
had nothing but contempt for the virtue, the
valor, or the wisdom of those that had gone
before. So, with a brain busy with guile and
stratagem, she trod on beneath the eyes of the
simple and spotless dead.
Vernon, thus left alone, mused a few mo-
mentson what had passed between himself and
the heiress, and then slowly retracing his steps,
his eye roved along the stately series of his line.
"Faith!" he muttered, “if my boyhood had
been passed in this old gallery, his royal high-
ness would have lost a good fellow and hard
drinker; and his majesty would have had, per-
haps, a more distinguished soldier--certainly, a.
worthier subject. IfI marry this lady, and we
are blessed with a son, he shall walk through
this gallery, once a day, before he is flogged
into Latin .'" _
Lucretia's interview with her uncle was a
master-piece of art. What pity that such craft
and subtiity were wasted in our little day, and
on such petty objects; under the Medici, that
spirit had gone far to the shaping of history.
Sure, from her uncle‘s openness, that he would
plunge at once into the subject for which she
deemed she was summoned, she evinced no
repugnance, when, tenderly kissing her, he
asked, " IfCharles Vernon had a chance of win-
ning favor in her eyes!" She knew that she
was safe in saying “ No ;" that her uncle would
Safe so far as
Vernon was concerned ; but she desired more :
she desired thoroughly to quench all suspicion
that her heart was preoccupied ; entirely to re-
move from Sir Miles‘s thoughts the image or
Mainwaring; and a denial of one suitor might
quicken the baronet’s eyes to the concealment
of the other. Nor, was this all: if Sir Miles
was seriously bent upon seeing her settled in
marriage before his death, the dismissal of Ver-
non might only exposc her to the importunity of
new candidates, more difficult to deal with. Ver-
non himself she could use as the shield against
the arrows ofa host. Therefore, when Sir Miles
repeated his question, she answered, with much
gentleness, and seeming modest sense, "that
Mr.Vernon had much that must prepossessin his
favor; that in addition to his own advantages he
had one, the highest in her eyes, her uncle's sanc-
tion and approval. Bot," and she hesitated with
becoming and natural diflidence, “ were not his
habits untixed and roving? So it was said;
she knew not herself—she would trust her hap-
piness to her uncle. But if so, and if Mr. Ver-
non were really disposed to change, would it not
be prudent to try him—try him where there was
temptation ; not in the repose of Laughton, but
amid his own haunts of London! Sir Miles had
friends who would honestly inform him of the
result. She did but suggest this ; she was too
ready to leave all to her dear guardian’s acute-
ncss and experience.”
Melted by her docility, and in high approval
ofthe prudence which betokened a more rational
judgment than he himselfhad evinced, the good
old man clasped her to his breast, and shed tears
as be praised and thanked her; she had decided,
as she always did, for the best; heaven forbid
that she should be wasted on an incorrigible
man of pleasure! “ And," said the frank-heart-
ed gentleman, unable long to keep any thought


36
GUY’S OAK.
concealed, “ and to think that I could have
wronged you, for a. moment, my own noble
child! that I could have been dolt enough to
suppose that the good looks of that boy Main-
waring might have caused you to forget what’-
but you change color!" for, with all her dis
simulation, Lucretia loved too ardently not to
shrink at that name thus suddenly pronounced.
“ 0h,” continued the baronet, drawing her
toward him still more closely, while with one
hand he put back her face, that he might read
its expression the more closely—“ oh, if it had
been so—if it he so, I will pity, not blame
you, for my neglect was the fault: pity you,
forI have known_a similar struggle; admire
you in pity, for you have the spirit of your
ancestors. and you will conquer the weakness.
Speak! have I touched on the truth! Speak
without fear, child! you have no mother;
but in age a man sometimes gets a mother’s
heart.”
Startled and alarmed, as the lark when the
step nears its nest, Lucretia summoned all the
dark wile of her nature to mislead the intruder.
“ No, uncle, no ; I am not so unworthy. You
misconceived my emotion."
“ Ah, you know that he has had the presump-
tion to love you—the puppy! and you feel the
compassion you women always feel for such
otl‘endersl Is that it!"
Rapidly Lucretia considered if it would be
wise to leave that impression on his mind ; on
one hand, it might account for a moment’s agi-
tation, and if Mainwaring were detected hover-
ing near the domain, in the exchange of their
correspondence, it might appear but the idle,
if hopeless, romance of youth, which haunts
the mere home of its object—but no; on the
other hand, it left his banishment absolute and
confirmed. Her resolution was taken with
a promptitude that made her pause not per-
ceptible.
" No, my dear uncle,” she said, so cheerfully
that it removed all doubt from the mind of her
listener; “but Monsieur Dalibard has rallied me
on the subject, and I was so angry with him,
that when you touched on it, I thought more of
my quarrel with him than of poor timid Mr.
Mainwaring himself. Come now, own it, dear
sir! Monsieur Dalibard has instilled this strange
fancy into'your head."
“ No, 'shfe: if he had taken such a liberty,I
should have lost my librarian. No, [assure you,
it was rather Vernon; you know true love is
jealous."
" Vernon !" thought Lucretia, “ he must go,
and at once.” Sliding from her uncle‘s arms
to the stool at his feet, she then led the conver-
sation more familiarly back into the channel it
had lost, and when, at last, she escaped, it was
with the understanding that, without promise
or compromise, Mr. Vernon should return to
London at once, and be put upon the ordeal
through which she felt assured it was little
likely he should pass with success.
____-._—
CHAPTER 1V.
ouv‘s our.
Tunes weeks'afterward, the life at Laughton
seemed restored to the cheerful and somewhat

monotonous tranquillity of its course, before
chaft'tl and disturbed by the recent interruptions
to the stream. Vernon had departed, satisfied
with the justieeofthc trial imposed on him, and
far too high-spirited to seek to extort from niece
or uncle any engagement beyond that which, to
a nice sense of honor, the trial itself imposed.
His memory and-his heart Were still faithful to
Mary; but his senses, his fancy, his vanity,
were a little involved in his success with the
heiress. Though so free from all mercenary
meanness, Mr. Vernon was still enough man 01
the World to be sensible of the advantages of
the alliance which had first been pressed on
him by Sir Miles, and from which Lucretia her-
self appeared. not to be averse. The season of
London was over; but there was always a set,
and that set the one in which Charley Vernon
principally moved, who found town fuller than
the country. Beside, he went occasionally to
Brighton, which was then to England vthat
Baits was to Rome. The prince was holding
gay court at the Pavilion, and that was the
atmosphere which Vernon was habituated to
breathe. He was no parasite of royalty; he
had that strong personal affection to the prince
which it is often the good fortune of royalty to
attract. Nothing is less founded than the com-
plaint, which poets put into the lips of princes,
that they have no friends; it is, at least, their
own perverse fault if that he the case—a little
amiahility, a little offrank kindness goes so fat
when it emanates from the rays of a crown!
But Vernon was stronger than Lucretia deemed
him; once contemplating the prospect of a
union which was to consign to his charge the
happinas of another, and feeling all that he
should owe in such a marriage to the confidence
both of niece and uncle, he evinced steadier
principles than he had ever made manifest,
when he had only his own fortune to mar, and ‘
his own happiness to trifle with. He joined his
old companions; but he kept aloof from their
more dissipated pursuits. Beyond what was
then thought the venial error of too devout liba-
tions to Bacchus, Charley Vernon seamed rc-
fortned.
Ardworth had joined a regiment which had
departed for the field of action. Mainwaring
was still with his father, and had not yet an-
nounced to Sir Miles any wish or project for the
future.
Olivier Dalibard, as before, passed his morn-
ings alone in his chamber—his noon and his
evenings with Sir Miles. He avoided all pri-
vate conferences with Lucretia. She did not
provoke them. Young Gabriel amused himself,
as before, in copying Sir Miles’s pictures,
sketching from nature ; scribbling in his room,
prose or verse, no matter which (he never
showed his lucubrations); pinching the dog:
when he could catch them alone, shooting the
cats, if they appeared in the plantation, on pre-
tense of love for the young pheasants; saun~
tering into the cottages, where he was a favo-
rite, because of his good looks, but where he
always contrived to leave the trace of his visits
in disorder and mischief, upsetting the tea-ket-
tle and scalding the children, or, what he loved
dearly, setting two gossips by the cars. But
these occupations were over by the hour Lucre-
tia left her apartment. From that time he


G UY‘S OAK. 3'!
never left her out of view; and, when encour-
aged to join her at his usual privileged times,
whether in the gardens at sunset, or in her eve-
ning niche in the drawing-room, he was sleek,
silken, and caressing as Cupid, after plaguing
the Nymphs, at the feet of Psyche. These two
strange persons had, indeed, apparently that
sort of sentimental familiarity which is some-
times seen between a fair boy and a girl much
older than himself; but the attraction that
drew them together was an indefinable instinct
of their similarity in many traits of their sever-
al characters—the whelp leopard sported fear-
lessly round the she-panther. Before Olivier‘s
midnight conference with his son, Gabriel had
drawn close and closer to Lucretia, as an ally
against his father; for that father be cherished
feelings which, beneath the most docile obedi-
ence, concealed horror and hate, and something
of the ferocity of revenge. And if young Var-
ney loved any one on earth except himself, it
was Lucretia Clavering. She had administered
to his ruling passions, which were for effect
and display; she had devised the dress which
set off to the utmost his exterior, and gave it
that picturesque and artistic appearance, which
he had sighed for in his study ofthe portraits of
Titian and Vandykc. She supplied him (for in
money she was generous) with enough to grat-
ify and forestall every boyish caprico, and this
liberality now turned against her. for it had in-
creased into a settled vice his natural taste for
extravagance, and made all other considerations
subordinate to that of feeding his cuptdity.
She praised ltis drawings, which, though self-
taught, were indeed extraordinary, predicted his
fame as an artist, lifted him into consequence
among the guests by her notice and eulogics;
and what, perhaps, won him more than all, he
felt that it was to her—40 Dttlibard‘s desire to
conceal before her his more cruel propensities,
that he owed his father‘s change from the most
refined severity to the most paternal gentle-
ness.
And thus he had repaid her, as she expected.
by a devotion which she trusted to employ
against her tutor himself. should the bathed as-
pirant become the scheming rtval and the secret
foe. But now, thoroughly-aware of the gravity
of his father's objects, seeing before him the
chance of a settled establishment at Laughton,
a positive and influential connection with Lu-
cretia; and, on the other hand. a rctttrn to the
poverty he recalled with disgust, and the ter-
rors of his father’s solitary malice and revenge,
he entered fully into Dalibard’s somber plans,
and, without scruple or remorse. Would have
abetted any harm to his bcnefactress. Thus
craft, doomed to have accomplices in craft,
resembles the spider, whose web, spread
indeed for the fly, attracts the spider that
shall thrust it forth, and profit by the meshes
it has woven for a victim, to surrender to a
master.
Already young Varney, set quietly and cease-
lesst to spy every movement of Lucretia‘s,
had reported to his father two visits to the
most retired part of the park; but he had not
yet ventured near enough to discover the
exact spot, and his very watch on Lucretia
had prevented the detection of Mainwaring
himself in his stealthy exchange of correspond-
ence. Dalibard bade him continue his watch,
without hinting at his ulterior intentions, for,
indeed, in these he was not decided. Even
should he discover any communication between
Lucretia and Mainwaring, how reveal it to Sir
Miles without forever precluding himself from.
the chance of profiting by the betrayal? Could
Lucretia ever forgive the injury, and could she
fail to detect the hand that inflicted it'! His
only hope was in the removal of Mainwaring
from his path by other agencies than his own,
and (by an appearance of generosity and self-
abandonment, in keeping her secret and sub-
mitting to his fate) be trusted to regain the
confidence she now withheld from him, and use
it to his advantage when the time came. to de-
fend himself from Vernon. For he had learned
frotn Sir Miles the passive understanding with
respect to that candidate for her hand; and he
felt assured that, had Mainwaring never existed,
could he cease to exist for her hopes, Lucretia,
despite her dissimulation, vvould succumb to one
she feared but respected, rather than to one she
evidently trillcd with and despised.
" But the course to be taken must be adopted
after the evidence is collected," thought the
subtile schemer, and he tranqttilly continued his
chess with the baronet.
Before, however, Gabriel could make any
further discoveries, an event occurred which
excited very different emotions among those
it more immediately interested.
Sir Miles had, during the last twelvemonth,
been visited by two seizures, seemingly of an
apoplectic character. Whether they were apo-
plexy, or the less alarming attacks that arise
from some more gentle congestion, occasioned
by free living and indolent habits, was matter
of doubt with his physician—not a very skillful,
though a very formal man. Country doctors
were not then the same able, educated, and
scientific class that' they are now rapidly be-
coming. Sir Miles himself so stoutly and so
eagerly repudiated the least hint of the more
unfavorable interpretation, that the doctor, if
not convinced by his patient, was awed from
eXpressing plainly a contrary opinion. There
are certain persons who will dismiss their phy-
sician if he tells them the truth: Sir Miles
was one of them.
In his character there was a weakness not
uncommon to the proud. He did not fear death ;
but he shrank from the thought that others
should calculate on his dying. He was fond ot
his power, though be exercised it gently; he
knew that the power of wealth and station is
enfeebled' in proportion as its dependents can
foresee the date of its transfer. He dreaded,
too, the comments which are always made on
those visited by his peculiar disease: “ Poor
Sir Miles! an apoplectic fit! his intellect must
be very much shaken—he revoked at whist
last night—memory sadly impaired!" This
may be a pitiable foible; but heroes and states-
men have had it most: pardon it in the proud
old man. He enjoined the physician to state,
throughout the house and the neighborhood,
that the attacks were wholly innocent and un-
important. The physician did so, and was
generally believed; for Sir Miles seemed as
livon and as vigorous after them as before.

Two persons alone were not deceived—Dali-


35
GUY’S OAK.
bard and Lucretia. The first, at an earlier
part of his life, had studied the art of medicine
with the profound research and ingenious ap-
plication, which he brought to bear upon all
he undertook. He whispered, from the first, to
Lucretia—
“ Unless your uncle changes his habits, takes
exercise, and forbears wine and the table, his
days are numbered.”
And when this intelligence was first convey-
ed to her, before she had become acquainted
with Mainwaring, Lucretia felt the shock of a
grief sudden and sincere. We haveseen how
these better sentiments changed as a human
life became an obstacle in her way. In her
character, what phrenologists call “ destructive-
ness," in the comprehensive sense of the word,
was superlatively developed. She had not act-
ual cruelty; she was not blood-thirsty: those
vices belong to a. different cast of character.
She was rather deliberately and intellectually
unsparing—a goal was before her; she must
march to it; all in the way were but hostile
impediments. At first, howaver, Sir Miles
was not in the way, except to fortune, and for
that, as avarice was not her leading vice, she
could well wait; therefore, at this hint of the
Provencal‘s, she ventured to urge her uncle to
abstinence and exercise; but Sir Miles was
touchy on the subject: he feared the interpre-
tations which great change of habits might
suggest, the memory of the fearful warning
died away, and he felt as well as before, for,
save an old rheumatic gout (which had long
since left him, with no other apparent evil but
a lameness in the joints that rendered exercise
unwelcome and painful), he possessed one of
those comfortable, and often treacherous con-
stitutions, which evince no displeasure at
irJ'egularities, and bear all liberties with philo-
sophical composure. Accordingly, he Would
have his own way; and he contrived to coax
or to force his doctor into an authority on his
side : wine was necessary to his constitution;
much exercise was a dangerous fatigue. The
second attack, following four months after the
first, was less alarming, and Sir Miles fancied
1t concealed even from his niece; but three
nights after his recovery, the old baronet sat
musing alone for some time in his own room,
before he retired to rest. Then he rose, opened
his desk, and read his will attentively, locked
it up with a slight sigh, and took down his
Bible. The next morning be dispatched the
letters which summoned Ardworth and Vernon
to his house; and as he quitted his room, his
look lingered with melancholy fondness upon
the portraits in the gallery. No one was by the
old man to interpret these slight signs, in which
lay a world of meaning.
A few weeks after Vernon had left the
house, and in the midst of the restored tran-
quillity we have described, it so happened that
Sir Miles's physician, after dining at the hall, had
been summoned to attend one of the children at
the neighboring rectory, and there he spent the
night. A little before daybreak his slumbcrs
were disturbed ; he was recalled in all haste to
Laughton Hall. For the third time, he found
Sir Miles speechless. Dalibard was by his bed-
side. Lucretia liad not been made aware of
the seizure; for Sir Miles had previously told
his valet (who of late slept in the same room)
never to alarm Miss Clavering if he was taken
ill. The doctor was about to apply his usual
remedies; but when he drew forth his lancet,
Dalibard placed his hand on the physician's
arm—-
"Not this time," he said, slowly, and with
emphasis: “ it will be his death."
“ Pooh, sir !” said the doctor, disdainfully.
“Do so, then! bleed him, and take the re-
sponsibility. l have studied medicine—I know
these symptoms. In this case the apoplexy
may spare—the lancet kills.”
The physician drew back dismayed and
doubtful.
“ What would you do, then i"
“\Vait three minutes longer the efi'ect of the
cataplasms I have applied. If they fail—"
“Ay, then ’4’ .
“ A chill bath, and vigorous friction."
“ Sir, I will never permit it.”
“Then murder your patient your own way.”
All this while Sir Miles lay senseless, his
eyes wide open, his teeth locked. The doctor
drew near, looked at the lancet, and said, irres-
olutely—
" Your practice is new to me; but if you
have studied medicine, that‘s another matter.
Will you guaranty the success of your plan!" -
“Yes.” ‘
“Mind, I wash my hands of it; I take Mr.
Jones to witness ;" and be appealed to the valet.
“ Call up the footmen, and lift your master,"
said Dalibard ; and the doctor, glancing round,
saw that a bath, filled some seven or eight
inches deep with water, stood already prepared
in the room. Perplexed and irresolote, he
offered no obstacle to Dalibard‘s movements
The body, seemingly lifeless, was placed in the
bath, and the servants, under Dalibard's direc-
tions, applied vigorous and incessant friction.
Several minutes elapsed before any favorable
symptom took place; at length, Sir Miles
heaved a deep sigh, and the eyes moved—a
minute or We more, and the teeth chartered;
the blood, set in motion, appeared on the sur-
face of the skin; life ebbed back; the danger
was past; the dark foe driven from the citadel.
Sir Miles spoke audibly, though incoherently,
as he was taken back to his bed, warmly cov-
ered up, the lights removed, noise forbidden,
and Dalibard and the doctor remained in silence
by the bedside.
“ Rich man," thought Dalibard, “ thine hour
is not yet come; thy wealth must not pass to
the boy Mainwaring.”
Sir Miles's recovery, under the care of Dali-
bard, who now had his own way, was as rapid
and complete as before. Lucretia, when she
heard, the next morning, of the attack, felt, we
dare not say a guilty joy, but a terrible and
feverish agitation. Sir Miles himself, informed
by his valet, of Dalibard's wrestle with the
doctor, felt a profound gratitude and reverent
Wonder for the simple means to which he prob-
ably owed his restoration; and he listened
with a docility, which Dalibard was not prepared
to expect, to his learned secretary‘s urgent
admonitions as to the life he must lead, if he
desired to live at all. Convinced. at last, that
wine and good cheer had not blockadcd out
0

the enemy, and having to do, in Olivier Dali-


GU_Y’S OAK.
39
bard, with a very different temper from the
doctor’s he assented with a tolerable grace to
the trial of a strict regimen and to daily exer-
cise in the open air. Dalibard now became
constantly with him—the increase of his influ-
ence was as natural as it was apparent. Lu-
cretia trembled; she divihed a danger in his
power, now separate from her own, and which
threatened to be independent ofit. She became
abstracted and uneasy—jealousy of the Pro-
vencal possessed her. She began to meditate
schemes to his doanall. At this time, Sir Miles
received the following letterfrom Mr. Ficlden :—
“ Southampton, August 201b, 18)].
“ DEAR Sta MILES :—You will remember that
l informed you when I arrived at Southampton,
with my dear young charge; and Susan has
twice written to her sister, implying the request
which she lacked the courage, seeing that she
is timid, expressly to urge, that Miss Clavering
might again be permitted to visit her. Miss
Clavering has answered, as might be expected
from the propinquity of the relationship; but
she has perhaps the same fears of otfending you
that actuate her sister. But now, since the
worthy clergyman, a ho had undertaken my pa-
rochial duties, has found the air insalubrious,
and prays me not to enforce the engagement by
which we had exchanged our several charges
for the space of a calendar year, I am reluct-
antly compelled to return home—my dear wife,
thank heaven, being already restored to health,
which is an unspeakable mercy ; and Iam sure
I can not be sufficiently grateful to Providence,
which has not only provided me with a lib-
eral independence of more than £200 a-year,
but the best of wives and the most dutiful of
children—possessions that I venture to call ‘ the
riches of the heart.’ New, I pray you, my dear
Sir Miles, to gratify these two deserving young
persons, and to suffer Miss Lucretia, inconti-
nently, to visit her sister. Counting on your
consent, thus boldly demanded, I have already
prepared an apartment for Miss Clavering, and
Susan is busy in what, though I do not know
much of such feminine matters, the whole
house declares to he a most beautiful and fanciful
toilet-cover, with roses and forget-me-nots, cut
out of muslin, and two large silk tassels, which
cost her three shillings and fourpenee. I can not
conclude without thanking you from my heart for
your noble kindness to young Ardworth. He
is so full of ardor and spirit, that I remember,
poor lad, when I left him, as I thought, hard at
work on that well known problem of Euclid.
vulgarly called the Asses‘ Bridge—I found him
describing a figure of 8 on the village pond,
which was only just frozen over! Poor lad!
heaven will take care of liim,l know, as it does
of all who take no care of themselves. Ah,
Sir Miles, if you could but see Susan—such a
nurse, too, in illness!
“I have the honor to he,
“ Sir Miles,
“ Your most humble, poor servant, to command,
“ Marruew FIELDEN."
Sir Miles put this letter into his niece‘s hand,
and said, kindly, “ Why not have gone to see
your sister before l—I should not have been an-
gry. Go, my child, as soon as you like : to-mur-
row is Sunday~no traveling that day—hut the
next, the carriage shall be at your order."

Lucretia hesitated a moment. To leave
Dalibnrd in sole possession of the field, even for
a few days, was a thought of alarm; but What
evil could he do in that time! And her pulse
beat quickly! —Mainaring could come to
Southampton l—she should see him again, after
more than six weeks' absence! She had so
much to relate and to hear—she fancied his last
letter had been colder and shorter—she yearned
to hearhim say with his OWn lips, that “ he loved
her still !" This idea banished or prevailed over
all others. She thanked her uncle cheerfully
and gayly, an the journey was settled.
“ Be at w ch early on Monday," said Uli-
vier, to his son.
Monday came—the baronet had ordered the
carriage to be at the door at ten. A little be-
fore eight, Lucretia stole out, and took her way
to Buys Oak. Gabriel had placed himself in
readiness; he had climbed a tree at the bot-
tom of the park (near the place where hitherto
he had lost sight of her); she passed under
it—on through a dark grove of pollard oaks.
When she was at a sufficient distance, the boy
dropped from his porch, with the stealth of an
Indian; in: crept on her trace, following from
tree to tree, always sheltered, always watch-
ful; he saw her pause at the doll and look
round—she descended into the hollow; he
slunk through the fern—he gained the marge ot'
the dell, and looked down—she was lost to his
sight. At length, to his surprise, he saw the
gleam of her robe emerge from the hollow of a
tree—her head stooped as she came through
the aperture ; he had time to shrink back among
.the fern; she passed on, hurriedly, the same
way she had taken, back to the house: then
into the dell crept the boy. Guy's Oak, vast
and venerable, with gnarled green boughs be-
low, and sore branches above, that told that its
day of fall was doomed at last, rose high from
the abyss of the hollow—high and far seen
amid the trees that stood on the vantage-ground
above—even as a great name soars the lottier
when it springs from the grave. 'A dark and '
irregular fissure gave entrance to the heart of
the oak—the boy glided in and looked round—-
he saw nothing—yet something there must be.
The rays of the early sun did not penetrate
into the hollow—it was as dim as a cave. He
felt slowly in every crevice, and a startled moth
or two flew out. It was not for moths that
the girl had come to Guy's Oak! He drew
back, at last, in despair; as he did so, he heard
a low sound close at hand—a low, murmur-
ing, angry sound, like a hiss; he looked back,
and through the dark, two burning eyes fixed
his own—he had startled a snake from its
bed. He drew out in time, as the reptile
sprang; but now his task, search, and object
were forgotten. “’ith the versatility ofa child,
his thoughts were all on the enemy he had pro-
voked. That zest of prey, which is inherent
in man‘s breast, which makes him love the
sport and the chase, and maddens boyhood and
age with the passion for slaughter, leapt up
within him; any thing of danger, and contest,
and excitement, gave Gabriel Varrwy a strange
fever of pleasure. He sprang up the sides at
the dell, climbed the park pales on Which it
bordered, was in the wood where the young
shoots rose green and strong from the under-


40
HOUSEHOLD TREASON.
wood—to cut a staff for the strife, to descend
again into the dell, creep again through the fis-
sure, look round for those vengeful eyes, was
quick done as the joyous play of the impulse.
The poor snake had slid down in content and
fancied security; its young, perhaps, were not
far off; its wrath had been the instinct Nature
gives to the mother. It hath done thee no harm
yet, boy : leave it in peace! The young hunter
had no car to such whisper of prudence or mer-
cy. Dim and blind in the fissure, he struck the
ound and the tree with his stick, shouted out,
ade the eyes gleam, and defied them ; whether
or not the reptile had spent its ire in the first
fruitless spring, and this unlooked-for return of
the intruder rather daunted than exasperated,
we leave those better versed in natural history
to conjecture ; but, instead of obeying the chal-
lenge and courting the contest, it glided by the
sides of the oak, close to the very feet of its
foo, and, emerging into the light, dragged its
gray coils through the grass; but its hiss still
betrayed it. Gabriel sprang through the fis-
sure, and struck at the craven, insulting it with
a laugh of scorn as he struck. Suddenly it
halted, suddenly reared its crest; the throat
sWelled with venom, the tongue darted out, and
again, green as emeralds, glared the spite of its
eyes. No fear felt Gabriel Varney; his arm
was averted ; he gazed, spelled and admiringly,
with the eye of an artist. Had he had pencil
and tablet at that moment, he would have drop-
ped his weapon for the sketch, though the
snake had been as deadly as the viper of Suma-
tra. The sight sunk into his memory, to be re-
produced often by the wild, morbid fancies of
his hand. Scarce a moment, however, had be
for the game; the reptile sprang and fell. battled
and bruised by the involuntary blow ofits ene-
my. As it writhed on the grass, how its colors
came out—how graceful were the movements
of its pain! And still the boy gazed, till the
eye was sated, and the cruelty returned. A
blow—a second—a third—all the beauty is gone
—~shapeloss', and clotted with gore, that elegant
head ; mangled and dissevered the airy
spires of that delicate shape, which had glanced
in its circling involutions, free and winding as
a poet’s thought through his verse. The boy
trampled the quivering relics into the sod, with
a fierce animal joy of conquest, and turned once
more toward the hollow, for last, almost
hopeless survey. Lo, his object was found!
In his search for the snake, either his staff, or
his foot, had disturbed a layer of moss in the
corner; the faint ray, ere he entered the ho]-
low, gleamed upon something while. He emer-
ged from the cavity with a letter in his hand :
he read the address, thrust it into his bosom,
and as stealthily, but more rapidly than he had
come, took his way to his father. -
-_+__
CHAPTER V.
HOUSEHOLD TREA SON.
THE Provencal took the letter from his son's
hand, and looked at him with an approbation
half-complacent, half-ironical. “ Man fils !”
said he, patting the boy's head gently, “ why
should we not be friends! Vl’e want each oth-
er; We have the strong world to fight against.”

3
“Not if you are master of this place.”
uWell answered: no; then we shall have
the strong World on our side, and shall have
only rogues and the poor to make war upon."
Then, with a quiet gesture, he dismissed his
son, and gazed slowly on the letter. His pulse,
which was usually low, quiekened, and his lips
were tightly compressed; he shrank from the
contents with a jealous pang; as a light quiv-
ers strugglineg in a noxious vault, love dc-
sceuded into that hideous breast, glgamed upon
dreary horrors, and warred with the noxious
atmosphere; but it shone still. To this dan-
gerous man, every art that gives power to
the household traitor was familiar ;—he had
no fear that the violated seal should betray
the fraud which gave the contents to the eye
that, at length, steadily fell upon the following
lines ;-—
“ Dunes-r, AND urn Dunes-r :—
“ \Vhere art thou at this moment? what are
thy thoughts! are they upon me? I write this
at the dead of night. I picture you to myself
as my hand glides over the paper. I think I
see you, as you look on these words. and envy
them the gaze of those dark eyes. Press your
lips to the. paper. Do you feel the kiss that'l
leave there! Well, well! it will not be for
long now that we shall be divided. Oh, what
joy, when I think that I am about to see you.
Two days more, at most three, and we shall
meet—shall we not'.’ I am going to see my
sister. I subjoin my address. Come, come,
come; I thirst to see you once more. And I
did well to say, ‘Wait, and be patient ;’ we
shall not wait long: before the year is out, I
shall be free. My uncle has had another and
more deadly attack. Isee its trace in his face,
in his step, in his whole form and hearing. The
only obstacle between us is fading away. Can
I grieve when I think itT—grieve when life
with you spreads smiling beyond the old man’s
grave? And why should age, that has survived
all passion, stand with its chilling frown, and
the miserable prejudices the world has not con-
quered, but strengthened into a creed—why
should age stand between youth and youth? I
feel your mild eyes rebuke me as I write. But
chide me not that on earth I see only you : And
it will be mine to give you wealth and rank !—
mine to see the homage of my own heart re-
flected from the crowd who how not to the
statue, but the pedestal. Oh, how I shall en-
joy your rcvenge upon the proud l—for I have
drawn no pastoral scenes in my picture of the
future. No; I see you leading senates, and
duping fools. I shall be by your side, your
partner, step after step, as you mount the
height, for I am ambitious, you know, William;
and not less, because Ilove: rather ten thou-
sand times more so. I would not have you
born great and noble, for what then could we
look to! what use all my schemes, and my
plans, and aspiringsl Fortune, accident, would
have taken from us the great zest oflife, which
is desire.
“ When I see you, I shall tell you that I have
some fears of Olivier Dalihard : he has evidently
some wily project in view. He, who never in-
terfered before with the hlundcring physician,
now thrusts him aside, affects to have saved
the old man, attends him always. Dares he


HOUS‘EHOLD TREASON.
41
think to win an influence, to turn against me i t pictures and the armor, and the hall and the
—against us! Happily, when I shall come
back, my uncle will probably be restored to the
false strength which dcceives him; he will
have less need of Dalibard, and then—then let
the Frenchman llf'wal'ci I have already a plot
to turn his schemes to his own banishment.
Come to Southampton, then, as soon as you
can—perhaps the day you receive this-0n
Vi’ednesday, at furthest. Your last letter im-
plies blame of my policy with respect to Ver-
non. Againl say, it is necessary to amuse my
uncle to the last. Before Vernon can advance
a claim, there will be weeping at Laughton. I
shall weep, too, perhaps; but there will be joy
in those tears, as well as sorrow: for then,
when I clasp thy hand, I can murmur, ‘It is
mine at last, and forever!’
“ Adieu! no, not adieu—to our meeting, my
lover, my beloved l—thy Lucn'ru !"
An hour alter Miss Clavering had departed
on her visit, Dalibard returned the letter to his
son, the seal seemingly unbroken, and bade him
replace it in the hollow of the tree, but suffi-
ciently in si ht, to betray itself to the first that
entered. c then communicated the plan he
had formed for its detection—a plan which
would prevent Lucretia ever suspecting the
agency of his son or himself; and this done, he
joined Sir Miles in the gallery. Hitherto, in
addition to his other apprehensions in revealing
to the baronet Lucretia’s clandestine intimacy
with Mainwaring, Daiibard had shrunk from
the thought, that the disclosure would lose her
the heritage which had first tempted his avarice
or ambition; but now his jealous and his vin-
dictive passions were aroused, and his whole
plan of strategy was changed. He ust crush
Lucretia, or she would crush him, as her threats
declared. To ruin her in Sir Miles’s eyes, to
expel her from his house, might not, after all,
weaken his own position, even with regard to
power over herself. If he remained firmly
established at Laughton, he could affect inter-
cession, he could delay at least any precipitate
union with Mainwaring, by practicing on the
ambition which he still saw at work beneath
her love ; he might become a necessary ally, and
then,--why then—his ironical smile glanced
across his lips. But beyond this his quick eye
saw fair prospects to self-interest—Lucretia
banished; the heritage not hers; the will to be
altered; Dalihard esteemed indispensable to
the life of the haronet! Come, there was hope
here, not for the heritage, indeed, but at least
for a mnniticent bequest.
At noon, some visitors, bringing strangers
from London, whom Sir Miles had invited to
see the house (which was one of the lions of
the neighborhood, though not professedly a
show place), were expected. Aware of this,
Dalibard prayed the baronet to rest quiet till
his company arrived, and then he said, care-
lessly— -
"it will be a healthful diversion to your
spirits to accompany them a little in the park
-—you can go in your garden-chair—you will
have new companions to talk with by the way;
and it is always warm and sunny at the slope
of the hill, toward the bottom of the park."
Sir Miles assented cheerfully: the guests
came; strolled over the house, admired the

stair-case; paid due respect to the substantial,
old-fashioned luncheon; and then, refreshed,
and in great good—humor, acquiesced in Sir
Miles‘s proposition to saunter through the park.
The poor baronet was more lively than usual.
The younger people clustered gayly round his
chair (which was wheeled by his valet), smiling
at his jests, and charmed with his courteous
high breeding. A little in the rear, walked
Gabriel, paying special attention to the pret-
tiest and merriest girl of the company, who
was a great favorite with Sir Miles, perhaps
for those reasons.
“What a delightful old gentleman!" said
the young lady. “How I envy Miss Clavering
such an uncle l"
“Ah! but you are a little out of favor to-
day, I can tell you,” said Gabriel, laughineg ;
“you were close by Sir Miles when he went
through the picture-gallery, and you never asde
him the history of the old knight in the buff
doublet and blue sash."
“ Dear me, what of that l”
“ Why, that was brave Colonel'Guy St. John,
the cavalier; the pride and boast of Sir Miles :
you know his weakness. He looked so dis-
pleased when you said, ‘what a droll-looking
figure!’ I was on thorns for you l"
“ W'hat a pity ! I would not offend dear Sir
Miles for the world.”
“Well, it's easy to make it up with him.
Go, and tell him that he must take you to see
Guy’s Oak, in the dell,-you have heard so
much about it; and when you'got him on his
hobby, it is hard if you can‘t make your peace.”
“ Oh! I‘ll certainly do it, Master \'arney;"
and the young lady lost no time in obeying the
hint. Gabriel had set other tongues on the
same cry, so that there was a general exclama-
tion, when the girl named the subject—" Oh,
Guy’s Oak, by all means !"
Much pleased with the enthusiasm this me-
morial of his pet ancestor produced. Sir Miles
led the way to the dell, and, pausing as he
reached the verge, said—-
“I fear I can not do you the honors: it is too
steep for my chair to descend safely.”
Gabriel whispered the fair companion whose
side he still kept to.
“Now, my dear Sir Milps,” cried the girl,
“I positively won’t stir without you; I am
sure we could get down the chair Without a
jolt. Look there, how nicely the ground slopes!
Jane, Lucy, my dears, let us take charge of Sir
Miles. Now, then."
The gallant old gentleman would have
marched to the breach in such guidance: he
kissed the fair hands that lay so temptineg on
his chair, and then, rising with some difficulty,
said-
“ No, my dears, you have made me so young
again, that I think I can walk down the steep
with the best ofyou."
So, leaning partly on his valet, and by the
help of the hands extended to him, step after
step, Sir Miles, with well disguised effort,“
reached the huge roots of the oak.
“ The hollow then was much smaller,“ said
he, “ so he was not so easily detected as a man
would be now : the d—- crop-cars—-I beg
pardon, my dears—the rascally rebels, poked


49
HOUSEHOLD TREASON.
their swords through the fissure, and two went,
one through his jerkin, one through his arm;
but he took care not to swear at the liberty,
and they went away, not suspecting him."
While thus speaking, the young people were
already playfully struggling which should first
enter the oak. Two got precedence, and went
in and out, one after the other. Gabriel breathed
hard—“The blind owlets l” thought he, “and
I put the letter where a mole would have seen
it !"
“You know the spell when you enter an oak-
trcc where the fairies have been," he whis-
pered to the fair object of his notice. “You
must turn round three times, look carefully on
the ground, and you will see the face you love
best. If I was but a. little older, how I should
pray—II
“ Nonsense !” said the girl, blushing, as she
now slid through the crowd, and went timidly
in ; presently she uttered a little exclamation.
The gallant Sir Miles stooped down to see
what was the matter, and offering his hand as
she came out, was startled to see her holding a
letter.
“ Only think what I have found !" said the
girl. “ What a strange place for a post-office !
Bless me ! it is directed to Mr. Mainwaring !”
" Mr. Mainwaring!" cried three or fourvoices;
but the baronet‘s was mute. His eye recognized
Lucretia‘s hand ; his tongue clavc to the roof
of his mouth; the blood surged, like a sea, in
his temples; his face became purple. Suddenly
Gabriel, peeping over the girl‘s shoulder, snatch-
ed away the letter.
“ It is my letter—it is mine! What a shame
in Mainwaring not to have come for it as he
promised !"
Sir Miles looked round, and breathed more
freely.
“ Yours, Master Varney!" said the young
lady, astonished. “ What can make your lot-
ters to Mr. Mainwaring such a secret !” '
“ Oh ! you‘ll laugh at me; but—but—I
wrote a poem on Guy‘s Oak, and Mr. Main-
waring promised to get it into the county
paper for me; and as he was to pass close by
the park pales, through the wood yonder, on
his way to D——- last Saturday, we agreed that
I should leave it here; but he has forgotten
his promise, I see."
Sir Miles grasped the boy's arm with a con-
vulsive pressure of gratitude. There was a
general cry for Gabriel to read his poem on the
spot; but the boy looked sheepish, and hung
down his head, and seemed rather more dis-
posed to cry than to recite. Sir Miles, with
an effort at simulation that all his long prac-
tree of the World never could have nerved him
to, unexeited by a motive less strong than the
honor of his blood and house, came to the re-
lief of the young wit that had just come to his
own.
"Nay," he said, almost calmly, “I know
our young poet is too shy to oblige you. I will
take charge of your verses, Master Gabriel ;“
and, with a grave air of command, he took the
letter from the boy. and placed it in his pocket.
The return to the house was less gay than
the visit to the oak. The baronet himself made
a feverish effort to appear blithe and dcbonnair
as before; but it was not successful. Fortu-

nately, the carriages were all at the door as they
reached the house, and luncheon being over,
nothing delayed the parting compliments of the
guests. As the last carriage drove away, Sir
Miles beckoned to Gabriel, and bade him follow
him into his room.
\Vhen there, he dismissed his valet, and said,
“You know, then, who wrote this letter.
Have you been in the secret of the correspond-
once! Speak the truth, my dear buy, it shall
cost you nothing."
“ Oh, Sir Miles!” cried Gabriel, earnestly,
“ I know nothing whatever beyond this—thatI
saw the hand of my dear, kind Miss Lucretia;
that I felt, I hardly knew why, that both you
and she would not have those people discover
it, which they would if the letter had been cir-
culated from one to the other, for some one
would have known the hand as well as myself;
and therefore I spoke, without thinking, the first
thing that came into my head.”
“ You - you have obliged me and my niece,
sir," said the baronet, tremulously; and then
with a forced and sickly smile, he added—
“ some foolish vagary of Lucretia’s, I suppose;
I must scold her for it. Say nothing about it,
however, to any one.”
“ Oh no, sir !"
“ Good-by, my dear Gabriel !”
“ And that boy saved the honor of my niece's
name—my mother‘s grandchild ! Oh, God! this
is bitter !—in my old age, too !"
He bowed his head over his hands, and tears
forced themselves through his fingers. He was
long before he had courage to read the letter,
though be little foreboded all the shock that it
would give him. It Was the first letter, not
~ destined to himself, of which he had ever
broken the seal. Even that recollection made
the honorable old man pause; but ;his duty
was plain and evident, as head of the house,
and guardian to his niece. Thrice he wiped
his spectacles; still they were dim, still the
tears would come. He rose tremblingly, walk-
ed to the window, and saw the stately deer
grouped in the distance, saw the church-spire,
that rose above the burial-vault of his ances-
tors, and his heart sunk deeper and deeper, as
he muttered—“Vain pride! pride !” Then he
crept to the door, and locked it, and at last,
seating himself firmly, as a wounded man to
some terrible operation, he read the letter.
Heaven support thee, old man! thou hast to
pass through the bitterest trial which honor and
affection can undergo;-—-household treason!
When the wife lifts high the blushless front,
and browns out her guilt; when the child,
with loud voice, throws ofl‘ all control, and
makes boast of disobedience, man revolts at the
audacity; his spirit arms against his wrong;
its face, at least, is bare; the blow, if sacrile-
gious, is direct. But, when mild words and suit
kisses conceal the Worst foe Fate can arm-—
when amid the confidence of the heart starts
up the form of Perfidy—when out from the rep-
tile swells the fiend in its terror— when the
breast on which man leaned for comfort, has
taken counsel to deceive him—when he learns,
that, day after day, the life entwined with his
own has been a lie and a stage-mime, he feels
not the softness of grief, nor the absorption of
rage : it is mightier than grief, and more with


THE WILL. 43
ering than rage; it is a horror that appals.
The heart does not bleed; the tears do not
flow, as in Woes to which humanity is com-
monly subjected; it is as if something out of
the course of nature had taken place; some-
thing monstrous'and out of all thought and
forewarning; for the domestic traitor is a be—
ing apart from the orbit of criminals; the felon
has no fear of his innocent children; with a
rice on his head, he lays it in safety on the
Eosom of his wife. In his home, the ablest
man, the most subiile and suspecting, can be as
much a dupe as the simplest. Were it not so
as the rule, and the exceptions most rare, this
world were the riot of a hell!
And therefore it is that to the household per-
fidy, in all lands, in all ages, God's curse seems
to cleave, and to God’s curse man abandons it:
he does not honor it by hate, still less will he
lighten and share the guilt by descending to
revenge. He turns aside with a sickness and
loathing, and leaves nature to purify from the
earth the ghastly phenomenon she abhors.
Old man, that she willfully deceived thee-—
that she abused thy belief— and denied to thy
question—and profaned maidenhood to stealth,
all this might have galled thee, — but [0 these
wrongs old men are subjected—they give mirth
to our farces—maid and lover are privileged
impostors. But to have counted the sands in
thine hour-glass, to have sat by thy side,
marveling when the worms should have thee
—-and looked smiling on thy face for the signs
of the death-writ—die quick, old man, the exe-
cutioner hungcrs for the fee !
There were no tears in those eyes when
they came to the close—the letter fell noise-
lesst to the floor; and the head sank on the
breast, and the hands drooped upon the poor
crippled limbs, whose crawl in the sunshine
hard youth had grudged. He felt humbled,
stunned — crushed; the pride was clean gone
from him, the cruel words struck home-worse
than a cipher, did he then but cumber the earth'l
At that moment, old Ponto, the setter, shook
himself, looked up. and laid his head in his
master’s lap; and Dash,jealous, rose also, and
sprang, not actively, for Dash was old, too,
'upon his knees, and licked the numbed, droop-
ing hands. Now, people praise the fidelity of
dogs till the theme is Worn out, but nobody
knows what a dog is, unless he has been de-
ceived by men: then, that honest face; then,
that sincere caress; then, that coaxing whine
that never lied! Well,-thm—what then? A
dog is long lived if be live to ten years —small
career this to truth and friendship! Now, when
Sir Miles felt that he was not deserted, and his
look met those four fond eyes, fixed with that
strange wistfulness, which, in our hours of
trouble, the eyes of a dog sympathizingly as-
sume—an odd thought for a sensible man
passed into him—showing, more than pages of
somber elegy, how deep was the sudden mis-
anthropy that blackened the world around.
“ When I am dead," ran that thought, “is
there one human being whom I can trust to
take charge ofthe old man’s dogs 2"
So—let the scene close !
-_.__.

CHAPTER VI.
was WILL.
THE next day, or rather the next evening,
Sir Miles St. John was seated before his on-
shared chicken; seatcd alone, and vaguely
surprised at himself, in a large, comfortable
room in his old hotel, I-Ianover-square: yes,
he had escaped. Has! thou, 0 Reader, tasted
the luxury of escape from a home where the
charm is broken—where Distrust looks askant
from the Lares! In vain had Dalibard remon-
strated, conjured up dangers, and asked atleast
to accompany him. Excepting his dogs and
his old valet, who was too like a dog in his
fond fidelity to rank among bipeds, Sir Miles
did not wish to have about him a single face,
familiar at Laughton—Dalibard especially. Lu-
cretia‘s letter had hinted at plans and designs
in Dalibard. It might be unjust, it might be
ungrateful, but he grew sick at the thought that
he was the center-stone of sti'atagems and
plots. The smooth face of the Provencal took
a wily expression in his eyes; nay, he thought
his very footinen watched his steps as if to
count how long before they followed his bier!
So, breaking from all roughly, with a‘sbake
of his head, and a laconic assertion of business
in London, he got into his carriage—his own
old bachelor’s lumbering traveling carriage-
and bade the postboys drive fastyfast. Then,
when he felt alone—quite alone—and the gates
of the lodge swung behind him, he rubbed his
hands with a school-boy‘s glee, and chuckled
loud, as if-he enjoyed not only the sense, but
the fun of his safety, as if he had done some-
thing prudigiously cunning and clever.
So when he saw himselfsnug in his old well
remembered hotel, in the same room as of yore
—when returned, brisk and gay, from the
breezes of Weymouth, or the brouillards of
Paris, he thought he shook hands again With
his youth. Age and lameness, apoplexy and
treason, all were forgotten for the moment.
And when, as the excitement died, those grim
specters came back again to his thoughts, they
found their victim braced and prepared, stand—
ing erect on that hearth, for whose hospitality
he paid his guinea aday—his front, proud and
defying. He felt yet that he had fortune and
power, that a movement of his hand could raise
and strike down, that, at the verge of the tomb,
he was armed, to punish or reward, with the
balance and the sword. Tripped in the smug
waiter, and announced “Mr. Parchmount.”
" Set a chair, and show him in.”
The lawyer entered.
“My dear Sir Miles, this is indeed a sur~
prise. What has brought you to town i"
“ The common whim of the old, sir. I would
alter my will."
Three days did lawyer and client devote to
the task, for Sir Miles was minute, and Mr.
Parchmount was precise; and little difficulties
arose, and changes in the first outline were
made; and Sir Miles, from the very depth of .
his disgust, desired not to act only from pas-
sion. In that last deed ofhis life, the old man
was sublime. He sought to rise out oftbe mor~
tal, fix his eyes on the Great Judge, weigh cir-
cumstances and excuses, and keep justice even
and serene.


44
THE WILL.
Meanwhile, unconscious ofthe train laid afar,
Lucretia reposcd on the mine—reposcd. indeed,
is not the word, for she was agitated and rest-
less, that Mainwaring had not obeyed her sum-
mons. She wrote to him again from South-
ampton the third day of her arrival; but before
his answer came, she received this short epis-
tle from London :—
“Mr. Parchmount presents his compliments
to Miss Clavering, and, by desire of Sir Miles
St. John, requests her not to return to Laugh-
ton. Miss Clavering will hear further in a few
days, when Sir Miles has concluded the busi-
ness that has broughthim to London."
This letter, if it eXcited much curiosity, did
not produce alarm. It was natural that Sir
Miles should be busy in winding up his affairs;
his journey to London for that purpose was ho
ill omen to her prospects, and her thoughts flew
back to the one subject that tyrannized over
them. Mainwaring’s reply, which came two
days afterward, disquieted her much more.‘
He had not found the letter she had left for
him in the tree. He was full of apprehensions;
he condemned the improdence of calling on her
at Mr. Fielden's; he begged her to renounce
the idea of such a risk. He Would return again
to Guy‘s Oak, and search more narrowly—had
she changed the spot where the former letters
were placed! Yet now, not even the non~re-
ceipt of her letter, which she ascribed to the
care with which she had concealed it amid the
dry leaves and moss, disturbed her so much as
the evident constraint with which Mainwaring
wrote— the cautious and 'lukewarm remon-
strance which answered her passionate appeal.
It may be, that her very doubts, at times, of
biainwaring's afi‘ection had increased the ardor
of her own attachment; for in some natures,
the excitement of fear deepens love more than
the calmness of trust. Now with the doubt for
the first time dashed the resentment, and her
answer to Mainwaring was vehement and im-
perious. But the next day came a messenger
express from London, with a letter from Mr.
Parchmount, that arrested, for the moment,
even the fierce current of love.
When the task had been completed—the
will signed, sealed, and delivered—the old man
had felt a load lifted from his heart. Three or
four of his old friends, bum vivans like him-
self, had seen his arrival duly proclaimed'in
the newspapers, and had hastened to wel-
come him. VVarmed by the genial sight of
faces associated with the frank joys ofhis youth,
Sir Miles. if he did not forget the prudent coun-
sels of Dalibard, conceived a proud bitterness
ofjoy in despising them. Why take such care
of the Worn-out carcass’. His will was made.
What was left to life so peculiarly attractive!
He invited his friends to a feast worthy of old :
seasoned revelers were they, with a free gout
for a vent to all indulgence. So they came;
and they drank, and they laughed, and they
talked back their young days: they saw not
the nervous irritation, the strain on the spirits.
the heated membrane oftbe brain, which made
Sir Miles the most jovial of all. I It was a night
of nights—the old fellows were lifted back into
their chariots or sedans. Sir Miles alone seem-
ed as steady and sober as if he had suppcd
with Diogenes. His servant, whose respectful.

admonitions had been awed into silence, lent
him his arm to bed, but Sir Miles scarcely
touched it. The next morning, when the ser-
vant (who slept in the same room) awoke, to
his surprise, the glare of a candle streamed on
his eyes; he rubbed them : could he see right“!
Sir Miles was seated at the table—he must
have got up and lighted a candle to Write,
noiselessly, indeed. The servant looked and
looked, and the stillness of Sir Miles awed him :
he was seated on an arm-chair, leaning back.
As awe succeeded to suspicion, he sprang up,
approached his master, took his band: it was
cold, and fell heavily from his clasp—Sir Miles
must have been dead for hours.
The pen lay on the ground, where it had
dropped from the hand; the letter on the ta-
blc was scarcely commenced; the Words ran
thus—
“ Leeann,—
“ You will return no more to my house.
You are free as if I were dead; but I shall be
just. Would that I had been so to your mother
—to your sister! But I am old now, as you
say, and—”
To one who could have seen into that poor,
proud heart, at the moment the hand paused
forever, what remained unwritten would have
been clear. There was first the sharp struggle
to conquer loathing repugnance, and address, at
all, the false and degraded one; then came the
sharp sting of ingratitude-then the idea of the
life grudged, and the grave desired—then the
stout victory over scorn—the resolution to be
just—then the reproach of the conscience, that
for so far less an offense, the sister had been
thrown aside—the comfort, perhaps. found in
her gentle and neglected child, obstinatcly re-
pelled—then the conviction of all earthly van-
ity and nothingness—the look on into life, with
the chilling sentiment that affection was gone
—that he could never trust agaiu—-tbat he was
too old to open his arms to new ties; and then,
before felt singly, all these thoughts united,
and snapped the chord!
In announcing his mournful intelligence,
with more feeling than might have been ex-
pected from a lawyer (but even his lawyer
loved Sir Miles), Mr. Parchmount observed,
"that as the deceased lay at an hotel, and as
Miss Clavering‘s presence would not be needed
in the performance of the last rites, she would
probably forbear the journey to town. Never-
theless, as it was Sir Miles‘s wish that the will
should be opened as soon as possible after his
death, and it would, doubtless, contain instruc-
tions as to his funeral, it would be well that
Miss Clavering and her sister should immedi-
ately depute some one to attend the reading of
the testament, on their behalf. Perhaps Mr.
Fielden would kindly undertake that melan-
choly office.”
To do justice to Lucretia, it must be said,
that her first emotions, on the receipt of this
letter, were those ofa poignant and remorseful
grief, for which she was unprepared. But how
different it is to count on what shall follow
death, and know thandcath has come! Susan‘s
sobbing sympathy availed not, nor Mr. Fit-ideas
pious and tearful exhortations; her own sinful
thoughts and hopes came back to her. haunting
and stem as furies. .Shc insisted at first upon


THE
WILL. 45
going to London—gazing once more on the
clay: nay, the carriage was at the door, for all
yielded to her vehemence; but then her heart
misgave her: she did not dare to face the
dead! Conscience waved her back from the
solemn olfices of nature; she hid her face with
her hands, shrunk again into her room; and '
Mr. Fieldcn, assuming unbidden the responsi-
bility, want alone.
Only Vernon (summoned from Brighton), the
good clergyman, and the lawyer, to whom, as
sole executor, the will was addressed, and in
whose custody it had been left, were present
when the seal of the testament was broken.
The will was long, as is common when the dust
that it disposes of covers some fourteen or fif-
teen thousand acres. But out of the mass of
technicalities and repetitions, these points of
interest rose salient z—To Charles Vernon, of
Vernon Grange, Esq., and his heirs by him
lawfully begotten, were left all the lands, and
woods, and mauors that covered that space in
the Hampshire map, known by the name of the
“ Laughton property," on condition that he and
his heirs assumed the name and arms of St.
John; and on the failure of Mr. Vernon's issue,
the estate passed, first (with the same condi-
tions) to the issue of Susan Mivers; next, to
that of Lucretia Clavoring. There the entail
ceased, and the contingency fell to the rival
ingenuity oflawyers in hunting out, among the
remote and forgotten descendants of some an-
cient St. John, the heir-at-law. To Lucretia
Clavering, without a word of endearment, was
bequeathed £10,000, the usual portion which
the house of St. John had allotted to its daugh-
ters ; to Susan Mivers the same sum, but with
the addition of these words, withheld’from her
sister—“and my blessing I" To Olivier Dali-
bard, an annuity of £200 a-year; to Honoré
Gabriel Varuey, £3000; to the Rev. Matthew
Fielden, £4000; and the same sum to John
Walter Ardworth. To his favorite servant,
Henry Jones,an ample provision, and the charge
of his dogs Dash and Ponto, with an allowance
therefor, to be paid Weekly, and cease at their
deaths. Poor old man ! he made it the interest
of their guardian not to grudge their lees of life.
To his other attendants, suitable and tnuuificent
bequests, proportioned to the length of their-
services. For his body, he desired it buried in
the vault of his ancestors, without pomp, but
without a pretense to a humility which he had
not. manifested in life; and he requested that
a small miniature in his writing-desk should be
placed in his coffin. That last injunction was
more than a sentiment: it bespoke the moral
conviction of the happiness the original might
have conferred on his life. Of that happiness
his pride had deprived him ; nor did he repent,
for he had deemed pride a duty; but the mute
likeness buried in his grave—that told the might
of the sacrifice he had made l Death removes
all distinctions, and in the coffin the Lord of
Laughton might choose his partner.
When the will had been read, Mr. Parch-
mount produced two letters—one addressed, in
the hand of the deceased, to Mr. Vernon; the
other, in the lawyer’s own hand, to Miss Clav-
ering. The last inclosed the fragment found
on Sir Miles’s table, and her own letter to
Mainwariug, re-directed to her in Sir Miles’s
o
l boldest and stateliest autograph. He had, no
doubt, meant to return it in the letter left on.
completed.
The letter to Vernon contained a copy of
Lucretia's fatal epistle, and the fohowing lines
to Vernon himself:—
"Mv DEAR CHARLES,
“ With much deliberation, and with natural
reluctance to reveal to you my niece’s shame,
I feel it my duty to transmit to you the accom-
panying inclosure, copied front the original with
my own hand, which the task sullicd. I do so,
first, because otherwise you might, as I should
have done in your place, feel bound in honor
to persist in the offer ofyour hand—feel bound
the more, because Miss Clavering is not my
heiress; secondly, because, had her attachment
been stronger than her interest, and she had
refused your offer, you might still have deemed
her hardly and capriciously dealt with by me,
and not only sought to augment her portion,
but have profaned the house of my ancestors
by receiving her there, as an honored and
welcome relative and guest. Now, Charles
Vernon, I believe, to the utmost of my poor
judgment, I have done what is right and just.
I have taken into consideration that this young
person has been brought up as a daughter of
my house, and what the daughters of my house
have received I bequeath her; I put aside, as
far as I can, all resentment of mere family
pride; I show that I do so, when l repair my
harshness to my poor sister, and leave both her
children the same provision. And if you ex-
ceed what I have done to Lucretia, unless, on
more dispassionate consideration than I can
give, you conscientiously think me wrong, you
insult my memory and impugn my justice. Be
it in this as your conscience dictates; but I
entreat, I adjure, I command, at least that you
never knowingly admit by a hearth, hitherto
sacred to unblemished truth and honor, a per-
son who has desecrated it with treason. As
gentleman to gentleman, I impose on you this
solemn injunction. I could have wished to
leave that young Woman's children barred from
the entail; but our old tree has so few branche!
You are unweddcd—Susan, too. Imust take
my chance that Miss Clavering's children, if
ever they inherit, do not imitate the mother.
I conclude she will wed that Mainwaring; her
children will have a low-horn father. Well, her
race, at least, is pure. Clavering and St. John
are names to guaranty faith and honor; yet
you see what she is ! Charles Vernon, if her is
sue inherit the soul of gentleman, it must come,
alter all, not from the well born mother! I
have lived to say this; I, who—but perhaps il
we had looked more closely into the pedigree
of those Claverings—
" Marry yourself—marry soon, Charles Ver-
non, my dear kinsman—keep the old house in
the old line, and true to its old fame. Be kind
and good to my poor—don't strain on the ten-
ants. By the way, Farmer Strongbow owes
three years' rent—I forgive him-~pension him
otT—he can do no good to the land; but he was
born on it, and must not fall on the parish.
But, to be kind and good to the poor, not to
strain on the tenants, you must learn not to
waste, my dear Charles. A needy man can
heifer be generous without being unjust. Ilow


46
THE ENGAGEMENT
give, if you are in debt! You will think of this I Richmond—the row up the river—the fishing:
——n0W—n0w—While your good heart is soft—-
while your feelings are moved. Charley Ver-
non, I think you will shed a tear when you see
my arm-chair still and empty. And I would
have left you the care of my dogs, but you are
thoughtless, and will go much to London, and
they are used to the country now. Old Jones
will have a cottage in the village; he has prom-
ised to live there; drop in now and then, and
see poor Ponto and Dash. It is late, and old
friends come to dine here. So, if any thing hap-
pens to me, and we don‘t meet again, good-by,
and God bless you.
“Your affectionate kinsman,
"Minus Sr. Joan.”
+
CHAPTER VII.
The anoaonusn'r.
[1' is somewhat less than three months after
thedeath ofSirMiles St. John—November reigns
in London. And “reigns” seems scarcely a
metaphysical expression as applied to the sullen,
absolute sway, which that dreary month (first
in the dynasty of winter) spreads over the pas-
sive, dejected city. Elsewhere, in England, No~
vember is no.such gloomy, grim fellow as he is
described. Over the brown glebes and changed
woods in the country, his still face looks con-
templative and mild; and he has soft smiles,
too, at times, lighting up his taxed vassals, the
groves; gleaming where the leaves still cling
to the boughs, and reflected in dimples from
the waves which still glide free from his chains.
But as a conqueror, who makes his home in
the capital, weighs down, with hard policy, the
mutinous citizens, long ere his iron influence is
felt in the province, so the first tyrant of win-
ter has only rigor and frowns for London. The
very aspect of the wayfarers has the look of
men newly enslaved ; cloaked and muffled, they
steal to and fro through the dismal fogs. Even
the children creep timidly through the streets;
the carriages go cautious and hearse-like along ;
daylight is dim and obscure; the town is not
filled, nor the brisk mirth of Christmas com-
‘menced; the unsocial shadows flit amid the
mist, like men on the eve of a fatal conspir-
acy. Each other month in London has its
charms for the experienced. Even from August
to October, when the season lies dormant, and
Fashion forbids her sons to be seen within hear-.
ing of How, the true lover of London finds pleas-
ure still at hand, if he search for her duly; the
early walks through vthe parks and green Ken-
sington gardens, which now change their char-
acter of resort, and seem rural and country-like,
but yet with more life than the country; for on
the benches beneath the trees, and along the
award and up the malls, are living beings enough
to interest the eye and divert the thoughts, if
you are a guesser into character, and amateur
of the human face; fresh nursery-maid and play-
ful children, and the old shabby-genteel button-
ed-up officer, musing on half-pay, as he sits
alone in some alcove of Kenna, or leans pen-
sive over the rail ofthe vacant ring; and early
tradesman, or clerk from the suburban lodging,
trudging brisk to his business, for business
never ceases in London: then at noon, what
delight to escape to the banks at Putuey or

punt—the ease at your inn till dark; or, ifthis
tcmpt not, still autumn shines clear and calm
over the roofs, where the smoke has a holyday;
and how clean gleam the vistas through the
tranquilized thoroughfares ; and as you saunter
along you have all London to yourself—Andrew
Selkirk, but with the mart of the world for your
desert! And when October comes on, it has
one characteristic of spring—life busily returns
to the city ; you see the shops bustling up, trade
flowing back; as birds scent the April, so the
children of commerce plume their wings, and
prepare for the first slack returns of the season.
But November! strange the taste, stout the
lungs, grief-defying the heart of the visitor who
finds charms and joy in a London November.
In a small lodging-house in Bulstrode-street,
Manchester-square, grouped a family in mourn-
ing, who had had the temerity to come to town
in November, for the purpose, no doubt, of rais-
ing their spirits. In the dull, small drawing-
room of the dull, small house, we introduce to
you, first, a middle-aged gentleman, whose dress
showed, what dress now fails to show, his pro-
fession; nobody could mistake the cut of the
cloth, and the shape of the hat, for he had just
come in from a walk, and not from discourtesy,
but abstraction, the broad brim still shadowed
his pleasant, placid face. Parson spoke out in
him from beaver to buckle. By the coal-fire,
where, through volumes of smoke, fussed and
flickered a pretension to flame, sat a middle-
aged lady, whom, without being a conjurer, you
would pronounce at once to be wife to the
parson, and sundry children sat on stools all
about her, with one book between them, and a
low whispered murmur from their two or three
parsed-up lips, announcing that that book was
superfluous. By the last of three dim-looking
windows, made dimmer by brown moreen dra-
peries, edged genteelly with black cotton velvet,
stood a girl, of very soft and pensive expres-
sion of features—pretty, unquestionably—ex-
cessively pretty; but there was something so,
delicate and elegant about her—the bond of her
head, the shape of her slight figure, the little
fair hands crossed one on each other, as the
face mournfully and listlessly turned to the win-
dow—that “ pretty" would have seemed a word
of praise, too often proffered to milliner and
serving-maid; nevertheless, it was, perhaps,
the right one; handsome would have implied
something statelier and more commanding—
beautif'ul, greater regularity of feature, or rich-
ness of coloring. The parson, who, since his
entrance, had been walking up and down the
small room, with his hands behind him, glan-
cing now and then at the young lady, but not
speaking, at length paused from that monoto-
nous exercise bythe chair of his wife, and touch-
ed her shoulder. She stopped from her work,
which, more engrossing than elegant, was noth-
ing less than what is technically called "the
taking in" of a certain blue jacket, which was
about to pass from Matthew, the eldest born,
to David, the second, and looked up at her hns~
band affectionately; her husband, hOWBVel',
spoke not, he only made a sign. partly with his
eyebrow, partly with a jerk of his thumb over
his right shoulder, in the direction ofthe young
lady we have described, and then completed


THE ENGAGEMENT. .
47
the pantomime with a melancholy shake of the
head. The wife turned round, and looked hard,
the scissors horizontally raised in one hand,
while the other rcposed on the cufi'of the jack-
et. At this moment, a low knock was heard at
the street door. The worthy pair saw the girl
shrink back, with a kind of tremulous move_
ment ; presently there came the sound of a
footstep below—the creak of a hinge on the
ground floor—and again all was silent.
“ That is Mr. Mainwaring‘s knock," said one
of the children.
The girl left the room abruptly, and, light as
was her step, they heard her steal up the stairs.
“ My dears," said the person, “it wants an
hour yet to dark ; you may go and walk in the
square."
“ ’Tis so dull in that ugly square, and they
won't let us into the green. I am sure we’d
rather stay here,” said one of the children, as
spokesman for the rest; and they all nestled
closer round the hearth.
“ But, my dears," said the parson, simply, " I
want to talk alone with your mother. However,
ifyou like best to go and keep quiet in your own
room, you may do so."
" Or we can go into Susan‘s I”
" No,” said the person ; " you must not dis-
turb Susan.”
“She never used to care about being dis-
turbed. I wonder what‘s come to her I"
The parson made no rejoinder to this half-
petulant question. The children consulted to-
gether a moment, and resolved that the square,
though so dull, was less dull than their own
little attic. That being decided, it was the
mother‘s turn to address them. And though
Mr. Fieldcn was as anxious and food as most
fathers, he grew a little impatient before com-
' forters, kerchicfs, and mufl‘atees were arran-
ged, and minute exordiums as to the danger of
crossing the street, and the risk of patting
strange dogs, dtc. &c., Were halfavay con-
cluded ; with 'a shrug and a smile, he at length
'fairly pushed out the children, shut the door,
and drew his chair close to his wife’s.
“ My dear,” he began at once, “I am ex-
tremely uneasy about that poor girl.”
H What I Miss Clavering! Indeed, she eats
almost nothing at all, and sits so moping alone;
but she sees Mr. Mflinwaring every day. What
can we do? She is so proud, I'm afraid of her.”
“ My dear, I was not thinking of Miss Claver-
ing, though I did not interrupt you, for it is very
true that she is much to be pitied."
“ And I am sure it was for her sake alone
that you agreed to Susan's request, and got
Blackman to do duty for you at the Vicarage,
while we all came up here, in hopes London
tcvm would divert her. We left all at sixes
and sevens; and I should not at all wonder if
John made away with the apples."
“ But, I say,” resumed the person, without
heeding that mournful foreboding, “ Isay, I was
then only thinking of Susan. You see how pale
and sad she is grown."
" Why, she is so very soft-hearted, and she
must feel for her sister."
" But her sister, though she thinks much, and
keeps aloof from us, is not sad herself; only
reserved. On the contrary, I believe she has
now got over even poor Sir Miles’s death.”

“And the loss of the great property I"
“ Fie, Mary !” said Mr. Ficldcn, almost aus-
terely.
Mary looked down rebuked, for she was not
one of the high-spirited wives who despise their
husbands for goodness.
"I beg pardon,” my dear, she said, mcckly;
“it was Very wrong in me; but I can not—th
what I will—I can not like that Miss Clavering.”
“ The more need to judge her with charity.
And if what I fear is the case, I‘m sure we
can‘t feel too much compassion for the poor
blinded young lady."
" Bless my heart, Mr. Ficlden, what is it you
mean i"
The parson looked round to be sure the door
was quite closed, and replied, in a whisper, "I
mean, that I fear William Mainwaring loves not
Lucretia, but Susan."
The scissors fell from the hand of Mrs.
Fielden; and though one point stuck in the
ground, and the other point threatened war upon
flounces and toes, strange to say, she did not
even stoop to remove the chemo: dc frisc.
“ Why, then, he's a most false-hearted young
man !"
“ To blame, certainly,” said Fielden; “I don't
say to the contrary, though I like the young man,
and am sure that he’s more timid than false. I
may now tell you—for I want your advice, Mary
—what I kept secret before. When Mainwaring
visited us, many months ago, at Southampton,
he confessed to me that he felt warmly for
Susan, and asked if I thought Sir Miles would
consent. I knew too well how proud the poor
old gentleman was, to give him any such hopes.
So he left very honorably. You remember, after
he went, that Susan‘s spirits were low—you re-
marked it.” t .
" Yes, indeed, I remember. But when the
first shock of Sir Miles’s death was over, she
got back her sweet color, and looked cheerful
enough."
“ Because, perhaps, then she felt that she
had a fortune to bestow on Mr. Mainwaring, and
thought all obstacle was over.”
“ Why, how clever you are !
get at her thoughts 1”
“ My own folly-my own rash folly,” almost
groaned Mr. Fielden. “ For, not guessing that
Mr. Mainwaring could have got engaged mean-
while to Lucretia, and suspecting how it was
with Susan’s poor little heart, I let out, in a
jest—Heaven forgive me l—what William had
said; and the dear child blushed, and kissed
me, and—why a day or two after, when it
was fixed we should come up to London, Lu-
cretia informed me, with her freezing polite~
uses, that she was to marry Mainwaring her-
self, as soon as her first mourning was over.”
“ Poor dear—dear Susan E”
" Susan behaved like an angel; and when I
broached it to her, I thought she was calm:
and I am sure she prayed with her whole heart
that both might be happy."
“I am sure she did. What is to be done'!
I understand it all now. Dear me, dear me !—
a sad piece of work, indeed." And Mrs. Fiel-
den abstractedly picked up the scissors.
“It was not till our coming to town, and
Mr. Mainwaring's visits to Lucretia, that her
strength gave way."
I
How did you


'rna ENGAGEMENT.
40
candle on the table, stirred the fire, and gave a
tug at the curtains. Her eye, glancing from
his, round the mean room, with its dingy,
horsehair furniture, involuntarily implied the
contrast between the past state and the pres-
ent, which his sight could scarcely help to im-
press on her. But she welcomed him with her
usual stately composure, and without reference
to what had been. Dalibard was secretly anx-
ious to discover if she suspected himself of any
agency in the detection of the eventful letter.
and, assured by her manner that no such thought
was yet harbored, he thought it best to imitate
her own rmrve. He assumed, however, a
manner that, far more respectful than he ever
before observed to his pupil, was nevertheless
sufficiently kind and familiar to restore them
gradually to their old footing; and that he suc-
ceeded was apparent, when, after a pause, Lu-
cretia said abruptly— “ How did Sir Miles St.
John discover my correspondence with Mr.
Mainwaring l"
“ Is it possible that you are ignorant! Ah,
bow—how should you know itl" And Dali-
bard so simply explained the occurrence, in
which, indeed, it was impossible to trace the
hand that had moved springs which seemed so
entirely set at work by an accident, that despite
the extreme suspiciousness of her nature, Lu-
cretia did not see a pretense for accusing him.
Indeed, when he related the little subterfuge of
' Gabriel, his attempt to save her by taking the
letter on himself, she felt thankful to the boy,
and deemed Gabriel‘s conduct quite in keeping
with his attachment to herself. And this ac-
counted satisfactorily for the only circumstance
that had ever troubled her with a doubt—via,
the legacy left to Gabriel. She knew enough
of Sir Miles to be aware that he would be
grateful to any one who had saved the name of
his niece, even while most imbittered against
her, from the shame attached to clandestine
correspondence.
“ It is strange, nevertheless,” said she,
thoughtfully, after a pause, " that the girl should
have detected the letter, concealed, as it was,
by the leaves that covered it."
“ But," answered Dalihard, readily, “ you see
two or three persons had entered before, and
their feet must have displaced the leaves.”
“ Possibly ; the evil is now past recall."
“And Mr. Mainwaring; do you still adhere
to one who has cost you so much, poor child l”
" In three months more I shall be his wife."
Dalibard sighed deeply, but offered no re-
monstrance.
“ Well," he said, taking her hand with min-
gled reverence and affection-“ well, I oppose
your inclinations no more, for now there is
nothing to risk, you are mistress of your own
fortune ; and since Mainwaring has talents,
that fortune will suffice for a career. Are you
at length convinccd that I have conquered my
folly! that I was disinterested when I incurred
your displeasure! 1f so, can you restore to
me your friendship! You will have some strug-
gle with the world, and, with my long experi-
ence of men and life, even I, the poor exile,
may assist you."
And so thought Lucretia ; for with some
dread of Dalibard‘s craft, she yet credited his
attachment to herself, and she felt profound ad-
D
miration for an intelligence more consummate
and accomplished than any ever yet submitted
to her comprehension. From that time Dali-
bard became an habitual visitor at the house;
he never interfered with Lucretia's interviews
with Mainwaring ; he took the union for grant-
cd, and conversed' with her cheerfully on the
prospects before her; he ingratiated himself
with the Fieldens, played with the children,
made himself at home, and in the evenings
when Mainwaring, as often as he could find the
excuse, absented himself from the family cir-
cle, he contrived to draw Lucretia into more
social intercourse with her homely companions
than she had before condescended to _admit.
Good M'r. Fielden rejoiced : here was the very
person, the old friend of Sir Miles, the precep-
tor of Lucretia herself, evidently most attached
to her, having influence over her—the very
person to whom to confide his embarrassment.
One day, therefore, when Dalibard had touched
his heart by noticing the paleness of Susan, he
took him aside, and told him all. “ And now,"
concluded the pastor, hoping he had found one
to relieve him of his dreaded and ungracious
task, “ don’t you think that I—or, rather, you-
as so old a friend, should speak frankly to Miss
Clavering herself!”
“No, indeed," said the Provencal quickly:
“if we spoke to her she would disbelieve us.
She would no doubt appeal to Mainwaring, and
Mainwaring would have no choice but to con-
tradict us. Once put on his guard, he would
control his very sadness. Lucretia, ofl‘ended,
might leave your house, and certainly she would
regard her sister as having influenced your con-
fession—a position unworthy Miss Mivers. But
do not fear; if the evil be so, it carries with it
its inevitable remedy. Let Lucretia discover
it herself; but pardon me, she must have seen,
at your first reception of Mainwaring, that he
had before been acquainted with you.”
“She was not in the room when we first re
ceived Mainwaring, and I have always been
distant to him, as you may suppose, for I felt
disappointed and displeased. Of course, how-
ever, she is aware that we knew him before
she did. “’hat ofthat 1"
“ Why, do you think then he told her at
Laughton of this acquaintance l—that he spoke
of Susan '='-I suspect not."
“ I can not say, I am sure," said Mr. Fielden.
“Ask her that question accidentally, and for
the rest, be discreet, my dear sir. I thank you
for your confidence. I will watch well over
my poor young pupil. She must not, indeed,
be sacrificed to a man whose affections are en~
gaged elsewhere."
Dalibard trod on air as he left the house; his
very countenance had changed ; he seemed ten
years younger. It was evening; and suddenly,
as he came into Oxford-street, he encountered
a knot of young men—noisy and laughing loud
—obstructing the pavement, breaking jests on
the more sober passengers, and attracting the
especial and admiring attention of sundry ladies
in plumed hats and scarlet pclisscs; for the
streets then enjoyed a gayliherty which has
vanished from London with the lanterns of the
watchmen. Noisiest and most conspicuous of
these descendants of the Mohawks, the sleek

and orderly scholar beheld the childish figure of


50
THE ENGAGEMENT.
his son. Nor did Gabriel shrink from his fa-
fher’s eye, stern and scornful as it was, but
rather braved the glance with an impudent leer.
Right, however, in the midst of the group.
strode the Provencal, and laying his hand very
gently on the boy’s shoulder, he said—“ My son,
come with me.”
Gabriel looked irresolute, and glanced at his
companions. Delighted at the prospect of a
scene they now gathered round, with counte-
nances and gestures that seemed little disposed
to acknowledge the parental authority.
“ Gentlemen," said Dalibard, turning a shade
more pale, for, though morally most resolute,
physically he was not brave—“gentlemen, I
muSt beg you to excuse me—this child is my
son."
"But Art is his mother,” replied a tall, raw-
boned young man, with long, tawny hair
streaming down from a hat very much bat-
tered. “ At the juvenile age, the child is con-
signed to the mother. Have I said it?” and
he turned round theatrically to his comrades.
“ Bravo !” cried the rest, clapping their hands.
“Down with all tyrants and fathers—hip,
hip, hurrah!" and the hideous diapason nearly
split the drum of the cars into which it re-
sounded.
uGabriel,” whispered the father, “you had
better follow me, hall you not? Reflect." So
saying, he bowed low to the unpropitious as-
sembly, and, as if yielding the victory, stepped
aside, and crossed over toward Bond-street.
Before the din of derision and triumph died
away, Dalibard looked back, and saw Gabriel
behind him.
“Approach, sir,” he said, and as the boy
stood still, he added, “ I promise peace if you
will accept it.”
“ Peace, then," answered Gabriel, and he
joined his father‘s side.
“So,” said Dalibard, “ when I consented to
your studying Art, as you call it, under your
mother’s most respectable brother, I ought to
have contemplated what would be the natural
and becoming companions of the rising Ralfaele
I have giVen to the world."
“ I own, sir,” replied Gabriel,demurely, " that
they are riotous fellows, but some of them are
clever, and—" -
“And excessively drunk," interrupted Dali-
bard, examining the gait of his son. “ Do you
learn that accomplishment also, by way of
steadying your hand for the ease] ’5"
“No, sir; I like wine well enough, but I
would not be drunk for the world. I see peo-
ple when they are drunk are mere fools—let
out their secrets, and show themselves up."
“Well said,” replied the father, almost ad-
miringly; " but a truce with this bantering, Ga-
briel. Can you imagine that I will permit you
~ any longer to remain with that vagabond Var-
ney, and you crew of Vauricns? You will come
home with me; and if you must be a painter, I
will look out for a more trustworthy master.”
"I shall stay where I am," answered Ga-
briel, firmly, and compressing his lips with a
force. that lelt them bloodless.
"What, boy! do I hear right!
disobey me I Dare you defy Z"
" Not in your house, so I will not enter it
again.”
Dare you

Dalibard laughed, mockingly.
“I’eslc! but this is modest! You are not
of age yet, Mr. Varney ;-—-you are not free from
a father's tyrannical control."
“The law does not own you as my father, I
am tohl, sir ; you have said my name rightly—
it is Varney, not Dalibard. We have no rights
over each other; so at least says Tom Pass-
more, and his father‘s a lawyer l”
Dalibard's hand griped his son’s arm fiercely.
Despite his pain, which was acute, the child
uttered no cry; but he growled beneath his
teeth, “ Beware ! beware !—or my mother‘s son
may avenge her death !"
Dalibard removed his hand, and staggered as
if struck. Gliding from his side, Gabriel seized
the occasion to escape; he paused, however,
midway in the dull, lamp-lit kennel, when he
saw himself out of reach, and then approaching
cautiously, said—“ I knowI am a boy, but you
have made me man enough to take care of my-
self. Mr. Varney, my uncle, will maintain me
--when of age, old Sir Miles has provided for
me. Leave me in peace—treat me as free;
and Iwill visit you, help you when you want
me—obey you still.—ycs, follow your instruc-
tions ; for I know you are”—-he paused—“ you
are wisc; but if you seek again to make me
your slave, you will only find me your foe.
Good night; and remember that a bastard has
no father !"
\Vith these words he moved on, and hurrying
down the street, turned the corner, and van-
ished.
Dalibard remained motionless for some min-
utes—at length, he muttered, “ Ay, let him go,
he is dangerous! What son evsr revolted even
from the worst father, and throve in lifo’.l Food
for the gibbet! What mattersl"
When next Dalibard visited Lucretia, his
manner was changed—the cheerfulness he had
before assumed gave place to a kind of melan-
choly compassion; he no longer entered into
her plans for the future, but wuuld look at her
mournfully, start up, and walk away. She
would have attributed the change to some re-
turn of his ancient passion, but she heard him
once murmur with unspeakable pity, “ Poor
child—poor child !" A vague apprehension
seized her—first, indeed, caught from some re-
marks dropped by Mr. Fielden, which were less
discreet than Dalibard had recommended. A
day or two afterward, she asked Mainwaring,
carelessly, “ why he had never spoken to her
at Laughton of his acquaintance with Fielden."
“ You asked me that before," he said, some-
what sullenly.
“Did I! Iforget!
me again.”
“I scarcely know," he replied, confusedly,
" we were always talking of each other, or poor
Sir Miles—our own hopes and fears."
This was true, and a lover’s natural excuse.
In the present of love all the past is forgotten.
“ Still,” said Lucretia, with her sidclong
glancc—“ still, as you must have seen much or
my own sister—"
Mainwaring, while she spoke, was at work
on a button on his gaiter—tgaiters were then
worn tight at the ankle)—the efi'ort brought the
blood to his forehead.
“ But,” he said, still stooping at his escape
But how was it! Tell


THE ENGAGEMENT. 51
1|
tion, “ you were so little intimate with your
sister,—-I feared to offend. Family differences
are so difficult to approach.”
Lucretia was satisfied at the moment. For
so vast was her stake in Mainwaring‘s heart,
so did her whole heart and-soul grapple to the
rock left serene amid the deluge, that she habit-
ually and resolutely thrust from her mind all
the doubts that at times invaded it.
" I know," she would often say to herself—-
"I know he does not love as I do—but. man
never can, never ought to love as woman!
Were l a man, I should scorn myselfifI could
be so absorbed in one emotion as I am proud
to be now—I, poor woman! I know,” again
she would think,-" I know how suspicious and
distrustful I am-I must not distrust him—I
shall only irritate—I may lose him: I dare not
distrust—it would be too dreadful."
Thus, as a system vigorously embraced by a
determined mind, she had schooled and forced
herself into reliance on her lover. His words
now, we say, satisfied her at the moment; but
afterward, in absence, they were recalled, in
spite of herself—in the midst of fears, shape-
less and undefined. Involuntarily she began to
examine the countenance, the movements, of
her sister—to court Susan’s society more than
she had done—for her previous indifference had
now deepened into bitterness. Susan, the neg-
lected and despised, had become her equal—nay,
more than her equal—Susan‘s children would
have precedence to her own in the heritage of
Laughton! Hitherto she had never deigncd to
talk to her in the sweet familiarity of sisters so
placed—never deigncd to confide to her those
feelings for her future husband, which burned
lone and ardent in the close vault of her guard-
ed heart. Now, however, she began to name
him, wind her arm into Susan’s, talk of love
and home, and the days to come; and as she
spoke she read the workings of her sister’s face.
That part of the secret grew clear almost at
the first glance. Susan loved—loved William
Mainwaring, but was it not a love hopeless
and unretorned! Might not this be the cause
that had made Mninwaring so reserved? He
might have seen, or conjectured, a conquest he
had not sought; and hence, with manly deli-
cacy, he had avoided naming Susan to Lucre-
tia ; and now, perhaps, sought the excuses
which at times had chafed and wounded her for
not joining the household circle. If one of
those who glance over these pages chance to
'be a person more than usually able and acute—
a person who has loved and been deceived—he
or she, no matter which, will perhaps recall
those first moments when the doubt, long put
off, insisted to be heard; a weak and foolish
heart gives way to the doubt at once, not so the
subtiler and more powerful; it rather, on the
contrary, recalls all the little circumstances that
justify trust and make head against suspicion ;
it will not render the citadel at the mere sound
of the trumpet; it arms all its forces, and bars
its gates on the foe. Hence it is, that the per-
sons most easy to dupe in matters of affection
are usually those most astute in the larger af-
fairs of life. Moliére, reading every riddle in
the vast complexities of human character, and
clinging. in self-imposed credulity, to his profii
gate wife, is a type of a striking truth. Still, a
foreboding, a warning instinct withheld Lacre
tia from plumbing farther into the deeps of her
own fears. So horrible was the thought that
she had been deceived, that rather than face
it, she Would have preferred to deceive herself.
This poor bad heart shrunk from inquiry—it
trembled at the idea of condemnation. She
hailed with a sentiment of release that partook
of rupture, Susan’s abrupt announcement, one
morning, that she had accepted an invitation
from some relations of her father, to spend
some time with them at their villa near Hamp-
stead; she was to go the end of the week.
Lucretia hailed it, though she saw the cause.
Susan shrank from the name of Mainwaring on
Lucretia‘s lips—shrank from the familiar inter-
course so ruthlessly forced on her! With a
bright eye, that day, Lucretia met her lover;
yet she would not tell him of Susan’s intended
departure—she had not the courage.
Dalibard was foiled. This contradiction in
Lucretia‘s temper—so suspicious—so determ-
ined—puzzled even his penetration. He saw
that bolder tactics were required. He waylaid.
Mainwaring on the young man’s way to his
lodgings, and, after talking to him on indifferent
matters, asked him carelessly, whether he did
not think Susan far gone in a decline. Affect-
ing not to notice the convulsive start with
which the question was received, he went on—
“ There is evidently something on her mind
-I observe that her eyes are often red as with
weeping—poor girl! perhaps some silly love
affair. However, we shall not see her again
before your marriage; she is going away in a
day or two; the change of air may possibly
yet restore her: I own, though, I fear the
worst. At this time of the year, and in your
climate, such complaints as I take hers to be
are rapid. Good day. We may meet this
evening."
Terror-stricken at these barbarous words,
Mainwaring no sooner reached his lodgings
than he wrote and dispatched a note to Field-
en, entreating him to call.
The vicar obeyed the summons, and found
Mainwaring in a state of mind bordering on
distraction; nor when Susan was named, did
Fielden‘s words take the shape of comfort; for
he himselfwas seriously alarmed for her health;
athe sound of her law cough rang in his ears,
and he rather heightened than removed the
picture which haunted Mainwaring—Susar,
stricken, dying, broken-hearted!
Tortured both in heart and conscience, Main-
waring felt as if he had but one wish left in the
world—to see Susan once more! What to
say, he scarce knew; but for her to depart—-
depart, perhaps, to her grave, believing him
coldly indifferent—for her not to know, at least,
his struggles, and pronounce his pardon, was a
thought beyond endurance. After such an in-
terview, both would have new fortitude—both
would unite in encouraging the other in the
only step left to honor. And this desire he
urged upon Fielden with all the eloquence of
passionate grief, as he entreated him to permit
and procure one last conference with Susan.
But this, the plain sense and straightforward
conscience of the good man long refused. Ir
Mainwaring had been left in the position to ex-
plain his heart to Lueretia,1t w0u1d not have


52
THE DISCOVERY.
been for Fielden to object; but to have a clan-
destine interview with one sister while betroth-
ed to the other, bore in itself a character too
equivocal to meet with the simple vicar’s ap-
proval.
“ What can you apprehend l” eXclaimed the
young man, almost fiercely—for, harassed and
tortured. his mild nature was driven to bay.
“Can you suppose that I shall encourage my
own misery by the guilty pleadings of unavail-
ing lovel All that I ask is the luxury—yes,
the luxury, long unknown to me, of candor—to
place fairly and manfully before Susan, the po-
sition in which fate has involved tne. Can you
suppose that we shall not both take comfort
and strength from each other! Our duty is
plain and obvious; but it grows less painful,
encouraged by the lips of a companion in suf-
fering. I tell you fairly, that see Susan, I will
and must. Iwill watch round her home where-
ever it be—hour after hour—come what may,
I will find my occasion. Is it not better that
the interview should be under your roof, within
the same walls which shelter her sister? There,
the place itself imposes restraint on despair.
Oh, sir, this is no time for formal scruples—be
merciful I beseech you, not to me, but to Su-
san. l judge of her by myself. I know that I
shall go to the altar more resigned to the future,
if for once I can give vent to what weighs upon
my heart. She will then see as I do, that the
path before me is inevitable, she will compose
herself to face the fate that compels us. we
shall swear tacitly to each other, not to love,
but to conquer love. Believe me, sir, I am not
selfish in this prayer: an instinct, the intuition
which human grief has into the secrets of hu-
man grief, assures me that that which I ask
is the best consolation you can afford to Susan,
You own she is ill—suffering. Are not your
fears for her very life—O Heaven, for her very
life—gravely awakened 1 And yet, you see, we
have been silent to each other! Can speech
be more fatal in its results than silence l Oh,
for her sake, hear me '4"
The good man’s tears fell fast—his scruples
were shaken; there was truth in what Main-
waring urged. He did not yet yield; but he
promised to reflect, and inform Mainwaring, by
a line, in the evening. Finding this was all he
could effect, the young man at last suffered him
to leave the house, and Fielden hastened to
take counsel of Dalibard; that wily persuader
soon reasoned away Mr. Fielden’s last faint
objection—it now only remained to procure
Susan's assent to the interview, and to arrange
that it should be undisturbed. Mr. Fielden
should take out the children the next morning.
Dalibard volunteered to contrive the absence
of Lucretia at the hour appointed. Mrs. Field-
en, alone, should remain within, and might. if
it. were judged proper, be present at the inter-
view, which was fixed for the forenoon in the
usual drawing-room, Nothing but Susan’s con-
sent was now necessary. and Mr. Fieldeu as-
cended to her room. He knocked twice—no
sweet voice bade him enter; he opened the
door gently—Susan was in prayer. At the op-
posite corner of, the rootn, by the side of her
bed, she knelt, her face buried in her hands,
and he heard, low and indistinct, the murmur
broken by the sob. But gradually, and, as be
‘stood unperceived, sob and murmur ceased—
prayer had its customary and blessed effect
with the pure and earnest. And when Susan
rose, though the tears yet rolled doWn her
cheeks, the face was serene as an angel‘s.
The pastor approached and took her haml—
a blush then broke over her countenance—she
trembled, and her eyes fell on the ground.
“My child," he said solemnly, “ God will hear
you!” And, after those wards, there was a
long silence. He then drew her passively to-
ward a seat, and sat dovvn by her, embarrass-
ed how to begin. At length, he Olid, looking
somewhat aside, “Mr. Mainwaring has made
me a request—a prayer which relates to you,
and which I refer to you. He asks you to
grant him an interview before you leave us—
tot'norrow, if you will. I refused at first—I
am in doubt still ; for, my dear, I have always
found that, when the feelings move us, our
duty becomes less clear to the human heart-
corrupt, we know—but still it is often a safer
guide than our reason; I never knew reason
unerring, except in mathematics; we have no
Euclid (and the good man smiled mournfully)
in the problems of real life; I won’t urge you
one way or the other—I put the case before
you. Would it, as the young man says, give
you comfort and-strength to see him once again
while, while—in short, before your sister is—I
mean before—that is, would it soothe you new,
to have an unreserved communication with
him? He implores it. What shall I answer!"
“This trial, too !" muttered Susan almost
inaudibly—u this trial which I once yearned
for"—and the hand clasped in Fielden's was as
cold as ice; then, turning her eyes to her
guardian somewhat wildly, she cried—“ But to
what end! what object '! why should he wish
to see me l”
“ To take greater courage to do his duty-to
feel less unhappy at—at—"
“ I will see him,” interrupted Susan, firmly—
“ he is right, it will strengthen both—I will see
him I"
“But human nature is weak, my child; it
my heart be so now, what will be yours!”
“ Fear me not," answered Susan, with a sad,
wandering smile; and she repeated, vacantly,
“I will see him i”
The good man looked at her—threw his arms
round her wasted form, and, lifting up his eyes,
his lips stirred with such half-syllabled words
as fathers breathe on high.
_+_
CHAPTER VIII.
'rus mscovsnv.
DALIBARD had undertaken to get Lucretia
from the house; in fact her approaching mar-
riage rendered necessary a communication with
Mr, Parchmount, as executor to her uncle's
will, relative to the transfer of her portion ; and
she had asked Dalibard to accompany her
thither, for her pride shrank from receiving the
lawyer in the shabby parlor of the shabby lodg-
ing-house; she therefore, that evening, fixed
the next day, before noon, for the visit. A car-
riage was hired for the occasion, and, when it
drove off, Mr. Fieldenrtook his children a walk


THE DISCOVERY.
53
to Primrose-hill, and called, as was agreed, on
Mainwaring by the way.
The carriage had scarcely rattled fifty yards
through the street when Dalibard fixed his eyes,
with deep and solemn commiscration, on Lu-
cretia. Hitherto, with masterly art, he had
kept aloof from direct explanations with his
pupil; he knew that she would distrust no one
like himself. ' The plot was now ripened, and it
was time for the main agent to conduct the ca-
tastrophe. The look was so expressive that
Lucretia felt a chill at her heart, and could not
help exclaiming, “What has happened! you
have some terrible tidings to communicate!"
"I have indeed to say that which may, per-
haps. cause you to hate me forever; as we
hate those who report our afflictions. I must
endure this ; I have struggled long between my
indignation and my compassion. Rouse up
your strong mind. and hear me. Mainwaring
loves your sister!”
Lucretia uttered a cry that seemed scarcely
to come from a human voice—
“No—n0!" she gasped out, “do not tell
me. I will hear no more —I will not believe
you!" _
\Vith an inexpressible pity and softness in
his tone, this man, whose career had given
him such profound experience in the frailties of
the human heart, continued: "I do not. ask
you to believe me, Lucretia, I would not now
speak, if you had not the opportunityto con-
vince yourself; even those with whom you live
are false to you ; at this moment, they have ar-
ranged all, for Mainwaring to steal, in your ab-
sence. to your sister; in a few moments more
he will he with her; if you yourselfwould learn
what passes between them you have the
wer."
“ I have—l have not—not—the courage ;—
drive on—faster—fastcr."
Dnlibard again was foiled. In this strange
cowardice, there was something so terrible,
yet so touching, that it became sublime—it
was the grasp of a drowning soul at the last
plank.
“ You are right, perhaps," he said after a
pause; and wisely forbeariug all taunt and re-
sistance, he left the heart to its own work-
in s.
gSuddenly, Lucretia caught at the check-string
.--‘~Stop," she exclaimed—“ stop ! I will not,
I can not endure this suspense, to last through
a life! I will learn the worst. Bid him drive
back.”
" \Ve must descend and walk ; you forget we
must enter unsuspected ;" and Dalibard, as the
carriage stopped, opened the door and let down
the steps.
Lucretia recoiled, then pressing one hand to
her heart, she descended without touching the
arm held out to her.
Dalihard bade the coachman wait, and they
walked back to the house.
“ Yes, he may see her," exclaimed Lucretia,
her face brightening. “ Ah, there you have not
deceived me ; I see your stratagem—I despise
it; I know she loves him; she has sought this
interview. He is so mild and gentle, so fear-
ful to give pain ; he has consented, from pity-—
that is all. Is he not pledged to me? He, so
candid, so ingenuous! There must be truth

If he is false, where
Dark man, must I look for it in
somewhere in the world.
find truth!
you 'Z—you .'"
“ It is not my truth I require you IO test; I
pretend not to truth universal ; Ican be true to
one as you may yet discover : But I own your
belief is not impossible; my interest in you
may have made me rash and unjust—what you
may overhear, far from destroying. may con-
firm forever your happiness. Would that it
may be so !"
_" It must be so,” returned Lucretia. With a
fearful gloom on her brow and in her accent;
“. I will interpret every word to my own salva'
tIOn.
Dalibard‘s countenance changed, despite his
usual control over it. He had set all his chances
upon this cast, and it was more hazardous
than he had deemed. He had counted too
much upon the jealousy of common natures.
After all, how little to the ear of one resolved
to deceive herself might pass between these
young persons, meeting not to avow attach-
ment, but to take courage from each other!
what restraint might they impose on their feel-
ings! Still the game must be played out.
As they now neared the house, Dnlihnrd
looked carefully round, lest they should en-
counter Mainwaring on his way to it. He had
counted on arriving before the young man could
get there.
“ But," said Lucretia, breaking silence, with
an ironical smile——“ but (for your tender
anxiety for me has, no doubt, provided all
means and contrivauce, all necessary aids to
bascness and eaves-dropping, that can assure
my happiness), how am I to be present at this
interview?"
"I have provided, as you say,” answered,
Dalibard, in the tone of a man deeply hurt,
" those means which I, who have found the
world one foe and one traitor, deemed the best,
to distinguish falsehood from truth. I have
arranged that we shall enter the house unsus-
pected. Mainwaring and your sister will he in
the drawing-room—the room next to it will be
vacant, as Mr. Fielden is from home; there is
but a glass door between the two chambers.”
"Enough, enough!” and Lucretia turned
round, and placed her hand lightly on the Pro-
vencal’s arm. “The next hour will decide
whether the means you suggest, to learn truth'
and defend safety, will be familiar or loathsome
to me for life—will decide whether trust is a
madness—whether you, my youth’s tcacher,
are the wisest of men, or only the most dan-
gerous."
“ Believe me, or not, when I say, I would
rather the decision should condemn me ; for I,
too, have need of confidence in men.“
Nothing further was said; the dull street
was quiet and desolate as usual. Dalibard had
taken with hinl the key of the house-door.
The door opened noiselessly~they were in
the house. Mainwaring’s cloak was in the
hall; he had arrived a few moments before
them.—Dalibard pointed silently to that evi-
dence in favor of his tale. Lucretia bowed
her head, but with a look that implied de-
fiance; and (still without a word) she ascended
the stairs, and entered the room appointed for
concealment. But as she entered, at the fur-


54
THE DISCOVERY.
ther corner of the chamber she saw Mrs.
Fielden seated—seated, remote and out of
hearing. The good-natured Woman had yielded
to Mainwaring's prayer and Susan‘s silent
100k that enforced it, to let their interview he
unwitnessed. She did not perceive Lucretia
till the last walked glidingly, but firmly, up to
her, placed a burning hand on her lips, and
whispered—“ Hush, betray me not; my happi-
ness for life—Susan's—his—are at‘stake! I
must hear what passes; it is my fate that is
deciding. Hush—I command l—for I have the
right!" '
Mrs. Fielden was awed and startled; and
before she could recover even breath, Lucretia
had quitted her side, and taken her pest at the
fatal door. She lifted the corner of the curtain
from the glass panel, and looked in.
Mainwaring was seated at a little distance
from Susan, whose face was turned from her.
Mainwaring‘s countenance was in full view.
But it was Susan's voice that met her ear;
and though sweet and low, it was distinct. and
even firm. It was evident from the words
that the conference had but just begun.
“ Indeed, Mr. Mainwaring, you have nothing
to explain—nothing of which to accuse your-
self. It was not for this, believe me"-and
here Susan turned her face, and its aspect of
heavenly innocence met the dry, lurid eye of
the unseen witness—“ not for this, believe me,
that I consented to see you. IfI did so, it
was only because I thought—because I feared
from your manner, when we met at times, still
more from your evident avoidance to meet me
at all, that you were unhappy (for I know you
kind and honest); unhappy at the thought that
you had wounded me, and my heart could not
bear that, nor, perhaps, my pride either. That
you should have forgotten me—"
“ Forgotten you I"
“That you should have been captivated”
(continued Susan, in a more hurried tone) “ by
one so superior to me in all things as Lucretia,
is very natural. I thought, then—thought only
—that nothing could cloud your happiness but
same reproach of a conscience too sensitive.
For this I have met you—met you without a
thought which Lucretia would have a right to
blame, could she read my heart; met you (and
the voice for the first time fa'tered), that i
might say, ‘ Be at peace: it is your sister that
addresses you. Requitc Lucretia‘s love—it is
deep and strong; give her as she gives to you
—a whole heart; and in your happiness, I,
your sister—sister to b0th——I shall be blest.’ "
With a smile inexpressibly touching and in-
genuous, she held out her hand as she ceased.
Mainwaring sprang forward, and, despite her
struggle, pressed it to his lips—his heart.
“ 0h,“ he exclaimed, in broken accents,
which gradually became more clear and loud,
" what—what have I lost l—lost forever! No,
no, I will be worthy of you! I do not—I dare
not say that I love you still! I feel what I
owe to Lucretia. How I became first ensnared,
infatuated; how, with your image graven so
deeply here—"
“ Mainwaring—Mr. Mainwaring—I must not
hear you. Is this your promise 1."
“Yes, you must hear me yet. How I be-
came engaged to your sister—so different, in-

deed, from you—I start in amaze and bewilder-
ment when I seek to conjecture. But so it
was. For me she has forfeited fortune, rank
—-all which that proud, stern heart so prized
and coveted. Heaven is my witness how I
have struggled to repay her affection with my
own; ifI can not succeed, at least, all that
faith and gratitude can give are hers. Yes;
when I leave you, comforted by your forgive-
ness, your prayers, I shall have strength to
tear you from my heart—it is my duty—my
fate. With a firm step I will go to these ab-
horred nuptials. Oh, shudder not; turn not
away! Forgive the word; but I must speak—-
my heart will out—yes, abhorred nuptials! Be-
tween my grave and the altar, would—would
that I had a choice !"
From' this burst, which in vain from time to
time Susan had sought to check, Mainwaring
was startled by an apparition which froze his
veins, as a ghost from the grave. The door
was thrown open, and Lucretia stood in the
aperture—stood, gazing on him, face to face;
and her own was so colorless, so rigid, so
locked in its livid and awful solemnity of as-
pect, that it was, indeed, as onevriscn from the
dead.
Dismayed by the abrupt cry, and the changed
face of her lover, Susan turned and beheld her
sister. With the impulse of the pierced and
loving heart, which divined all the agony in-
flicted,_she sprang to Lucretia‘s side—she fell
to the ground, and clasped her knees.
“ Do not heed—do not believe him : it is but
the frenzy ofa moment. He spoke but to de-
ceive me—mz, who loved him once! Mine
alone—mine is the crime. He knowa all your
worth; pity—pity—pity on yourself, on him-
on me I"
Lucretia’s eyes fell with the glare ofa fiend
upon the imploring face lifted to her own. Her
lips moved, but no sound was audible. At
length she drew herself from her sister's clasp,
and walked steadily up to Mainwaring. She
surveyed him with a calm and cruel gaze, as it
she enjoyed his shame and terror. Before,
however, she spoke, Mrs. Fielden, who had
watched, as one spell-bound, Lucretia's move
ments, and without hearing what had passed,
had the full foreboding of what would ensue,
but had not stirred till Lucretia herself termi-
nated the suspense, and broke the charm or
her awe—before she spoke, Mrs. Fielden
rushed in, and giving vent to her agitation in
loud subs, as she threw her arms round Susan,
who was still kneeling on the floor, brought
something of grotesque to the more tragic and
fearful character of the scene.
“ My uncle was right; there is neither
courage nor honor in the base-born. He, thc
schemer, too, is right. All hollow—all false I"
Thus said Lucretia, with a strange sort of mus-
ing accent, at first scornful, at last only quietly
abstracted. “ Rise, sir," she then added, with
her most imperious tone; “do you not heat
your Susan weep! do you fear in my presence
to console lier'! Coward to her, as forsWorn to
me. Go, sir, you are free !”
“ Hear me," faltered Mainwaring, attempt-
ing to seize her hand; "I do not ask you to
forgive; but—J’
" Forgive, sir!" interrupted Lucretia, rearing


A SOUL WITHOUT HOPE.
5
her head, and, with a look of freezing and un-
speakable mall-sly, “ there is only one person
here who needs a pardon ; but her fault is in-
expiable: it is the woman who stooped be-
neath her-—!”
With these words, hurled from her with a
scorn which crushed, while it galled. she me-
chanically drew round her form her black
mantle; her eye glanced on the deep mourn-
ing of the garment, and her memory recalled
all that that love had cost her; but she added
no other reproach. Slowly she turned away.
Passing Susan, who lay senseless in Mrs.
Fielden‘s arms, she paused, and kissed her
forehead.
“ When she recovers, madam,” she said, to
Mrs. Fielden, who was moved and astonished
by this softness, “ say, that Lucretia Clavering
uttered a vow, when she kissed the brow of
William Maiuwaring‘s future wife!"
Olivier Dalibard was still seated in the parlor
below when Lucretia entered. Her face yet
retained its almost unearthly rigidity and calm;
but a sort of darkness had come over its ashen
pallor—tbat shade so indescribable which is
seen in the human face, after long illness, a
day or two before death. Dalibard was ap-
palled, for be bad too often seen that hue in
the dying, not to recognize it now. His emo-
tion was sufficiently genuine to give more than
usual earnestness to his voice and gesture, as
be poured out every ward that spoke sympathy
and soothing. For a long time Lucretia did
not seem to hear him : at last her face softened
-the ice broke.
“ Motherlcss - friendless—lone—alone for-
ever—undone—undonc !" she murmured. Her
head sunk upon the shoulder of her fearful cou n-
selor, unconscious of its resting-place, and she
burst into tears—tears which, perhaps, saved
IBI‘ reason or her life.
_+__
CHAPTER IX.
1 SOUL WITHOUT HOPE.
‘Z'ncst Mr. Fielden returned home, Lucretia
bad quilted the house. She left a line for him
at her usual bold, clear handwriting, referring
him to his wife for explanation of the reasons
that forbade a further residence beneath his
roof. She had removed to an hotel, until she
had leisure to arrange her plans for the future.
In a few months, she should be of age; and in
the mean while, who now living claimed au-
thority over her! For the rest, she added—"I
repeat what I told Mr. Mainwaring, all engage-
ment between us is at an end—he will not
insult me either by letter or by visit. It is
natural that I should at present shrink from
seeing Susan illivers. Hereafter, if permitted,
I will visit Mrs. Mainwaring."
Though all bad chanced as Mr. Ficlden had
desired (if, as he once half-nieditated, he had
spoken to Lucretia liei‘sclO—tbough a marriage
that could have brought happiness to none, and
would have mode the misery of two, was at an
end, be yet felt a hitter pang, almost of remorse,
when he learned what had occurred. And Lu-
cretia, before secretly disliked (if any one he
could dislike), became dear to him at once, by
arrow and compassion. Forgetting every pet--

son, he hurried to the hotel Lucretia had chosen,
but her coldness deceived and her pride repelled
him. She listened dryly to all he said, and
merely replied—"I feel only gratitude at my
escape. Let this subject now close forever."
Mr. Fielden left her presence with less anx-
ious and commiserating feelings—perhaps all
had chanced for the best. And, on returning
home, his whole mind became absorbed in
alarm for Susan. She was delirious and in
great danger—it was many weeks before she
recovered. Meanwhile, Lucretia had removed
into private apartments, of which she withheld
the address. During this time, therefore, they
lost sight of her.
If, amid the punishments with which the
somber imagination of poets has diversified the
realm of the tortured shadows, it had depicted
some soul condemned to look evcrmore down
into an abyss—all change to its gaze forbidden
—chasm upon chasm, yaWning deeper and
deeper, darker and darker, endless and infinite
—-so that, eternally gazing, the soul became,
as it were, a part of the abyss, such an image
would symbol forth the state othtcretia’s mind.
It was not the more desolation of one whom
love has abandoned and betrayed. In the abyss,
were mingled inextricably together, the gloom
of the past and of the future—there, the broken
fortunes, the crushed ambition, the ruin of the
worldly expectations long inseparable from her
schemes; and amid them, the angry shade of
the more'than father, whose heart she had
wrung, whose old age she had speeded to the
grave. These sacrifices to love, while love
was left to her, might have haunted her at mo'
ments, but a smile, a word, a glance, banished
the regret and the remorse. Now, love being
razed out of life, the ruins of all else loomed
dismal amid the darkness; and a voice rose up,
whispering, “ Lo, Fool! what thou hast lost be-
cause thou didst believe and love‘." And this -
thought grasped together the two worlds of being
-—the what has been, and the what shall be. All
hope seemed stricken from the future as a man
strikes from the calculations of his income the
returns from a property irrevocably lost. At
her age, but few of her sex have parted with
religion, but even such mechanical faith as the
lessons of her childhood, and the constrained
conformities with Christian ceremonies had in-
stilled, had long since melted away in the hard
scholastic skepticism of her fatal tutor—a skep-
ticism which had won, with little effort, a rea-
son delighting in the maze of doubt, and easily
narrowed into the cramped and iron logic or
disbelief, by an intellect that scorned to submit
where it failed to comprehend. Nor bad faith
given place to those large moral truths from
which philosophy has sought to restore the
proud statue of pagan Virtue as a substitute
for the meek symbol of the Christian cross.
By temperament unsccial—nor readily. moved
to the genial and benevolent—that absolute
egotism in which Olivier Dalibard centered his
dreary ethics, seemed sanctioned to Lucretia
by her studies into the motives of man and the
history of the world. She had read the chron-
icles of states, and the memoirs of statesmen,
and seen how craft carries on the movements
of an age. Those Viscontis, Castruccios, and.
Medici—those Richelieus, and Mazarins, and


66
A SOUL WITHOUT HOPE.
De Retzs —those Loyolas, and Mohammeds,
and Cromwells—those Monks and Godolphins
-those Marlboroughs and Walpoles—those
founders of history, and dynasties. and sects—
those leaders and dupers of men, greater or
lesser, corruptcrs or corrupt—all standing out
prominent and renowned from the guiltless and
laureless obscure, seemed to win, by the hom-
age of posterity, the rewards that attend the
dcceivcrs of their time. By a superb arrogance
of generalization, she transferred into private
life, and the rule of commonphnce actions, the
policy, that, to the abasemout of honor, has so
often triumphed in the guidance of states.
Therefore, betimes, the whole frame of society
was changed to her eye, from the calm aspect
it wears to those who live united with their
kind—she viewed all seemings with suspicion;
and before she had entered the world, prepared
to live in it as a conspirator in a city convulsed,
spying and espied, schemed against and schem-
ing~hcre the crown for the crafty, there the
ax for the outwitted.
But her loVe, for love is trust, had led her
half-way forth from this maze of the intellect.
That fair youth of inexperience and candor,
which seemed to bloom out in the face of her
betrothed—his very shrinking from the schemes
so natural to her that to her they seemed even
innocent—his apparent reliance on mere mascu-
line ability, with the plain aids of perseverance
and honesty—all had an attraction that plucked
her back from herself. If she clung to him,
firmly, blindly, credulously, it was not as the
lover alone. In the lover, she beheld the good
angel. Had he only died to her—still the angel
smile would have survived and warned. But
the man had not died—the angel itself had de-
ceived ;-the wings could uphold her no more
—they had touched the mire and Were sullied
with the soil-,--with the stain, was forfeited
the strength, All was deceit, and hollowness,
and treachery. Lone again in the universe,
rose the eternal 1. So down into the abyss
she looked, depth upon depth, and the darkness
had no relief, and the deep had no end.
Olivier Dalibard alone, of all she knew, was
admitted to her seclusion. He played his part
as might be expected,from the singular patience
and penetration which belonged to the genius of
his character. He forbore the most distant al-
lusion to his attachment or his hopes. He
evinced sympathy, rather by imitating her si-
lence, than attempts to console. When he
spoke, he sought to interest her mind, more
than to heal directly the deep Wounds of her
heart. There is always, to the afllictcd, a
certain charm in the depth and bitterness of
eloquent misanthropy. And Dalibard, who pro-
fessed not to be a man-hater, but a World-scorn-
er, had powers of language and of reasoning
commensurate with his astute intellect and his
profound research. His society became not
only a relief, it grew almost a want, to that
stern sorrower. But, whether alarmed or not
by the influence she felt him gradually acquir-
ing, or whether, through some haughty desire
to rise once more aloft from the state of her
rival and her lover, she made one sudden effort
to grasp at the rank from which she had been
hurled. The only living person, whose con-
nection could reopen to her the great world,;

with its splendors and its scope to ambition,
was Charles Vernon. She scarcely admitted
to her OWn mind the idea that she would now
accept, if ofl'ercd, the suit she had before de-
spised—she did not even contemplate the re—
newal of that suit—though there was something
in the gallant and disinterested character of
Vernon which should have made her believe
he would regard their altered fortunes rather
as a claim on his honor than a release to his
engagements. But hitherto no communication
had passed between them, and this was strange
if he retained the same intentions which he
had announced at Laughton. Putting aside,
we say, however, all such considerations, Ver-
non had sought her friendship, called her“ cone-
in,” enforced the distant relationship between
them. Not as lover, but as kinsman, the only
kinsman of her own rank she possessed—hie
position in the world, his connections, his brilt
liant range of acquaintance, made his counsel
for her future plans, his aid in the reestablish-
ment of her consequence (if not as wealthy_
still as well born), and her admission among
her equals, of price and value. It was worth
sounding the depth of the friendship he had
offered, even if his love had passed away with
the fortune on which doubtless it had been
based.
She took a hold step --she wrote to Vernon
—not even to allude to what had passed be-
tween them: her pride forbade such uuwoman-
ly vulgarity. The baseness that was in her,
took at least a more delicate exterior. She
wrote to him simply and distantly, to state that
there were some books and trifles of hers left
at Laughton, which she prized beyond their
trivial value; and to request, as she believed
him to be absent from the Hall, permission to
take her old home in her way to a visit in a
neighboring county, and point out to whomso-
ever he might appoint to meet her, the effects
she deemed herself privileged to claim. The
letter was one merely of business, but it was a
sufficient test of the friendly feelings of her
former suitor.
She sent this letter to Vernon‘s house in
London, and the next day came the answer.
Vernon, we must own, entirely sympathized
with Sir Miles, in the solemn injunctions the
old man had bequeathed. Immediately after the
death of one to whom we owe gratitude and
love, all his desires take a sanctity irresistible
and inefl'able. We adopt his afl'ection, his dis-
likes, his obligations and his wrongs. And
after he had read the copy of Lucretia‘s letter,
inclosed to him by Sir Miles, the conquest the
poor baronet had made over resentment and
vindictive emotion, the evident effort at pas-
sionless justice with which he had provided
becomineg for his niece, while he canceled
her claims as his heiress, had filled Vernon
with a reverence for his wishes and decisions,
that silenced all those inclinations to over-
generosity which an unexpected inheritance is
apt to create toward the less fortunate expect-
ants; nevertheless, Lucretia‘s direct applica-
tion, her formal appeal to his common courtesy
as host and kinsinan, perplexed greatly a man
ever accustomed to a certain chivalry toward
the sex; the usual frankness of his disposition
suggested, however, plain dealing as the best


A. SOUL WITHOUT HOPE.
57
escape from his thlemma, and therefore he an-
swered thus :—
“hhnm:—Under other circumstances, it
would have given me no common pleasure to
place the house, that you so .ong inhabited,
again at your disposal. And I feel so painfully
the position which my refusal of your request
inflicts upon me, that rather than reeort to ex-
cuses and pretexts, which, while conveying an
impression of my sincerity, Would seem almost
like an insult to yourself, I venture frankly to
inform you, that it was the dying wish of my
lamented kinsman, in consequence of a letter
which came tnder his eye, that the welcome
you.had hitherto receivcd at Laughton. should
be withdrawn. .Pardon me, madam, if I ex-
press myself thus bluntly—it is somewhat ne-
cessary to the vindication of my character in
your eyes, both as regards the honor of your
request and my tacit resignation of hopes,
fervently, but too presumptuoust entertain-
ed. In this most painful candor, Heaven forbid
that I should add wantonly to your self-re-
proaches for the fault of youth and inexperi-
ence, which I should be the last person tojudge
rigidly, and which, had Sir Miles‘s life been
spared, you would doubtless have amply re-
paired. The feelings which actuated Sir Miles
in his latter days might have changed; but the
injunction those feelings prompted I am bound
to respect. '
" For the mere matter of business, on which
you have done me the honor to address me, I
have only to say, that any orders you may give
to the steward, or transmit through any person
you may send to the Hall, with regard to the
effects you so naturally desire to claim, shall
be implicitly obeyed.
“And believe me, madam (though I do not
presume to add those EXPI’BSSIUIIS, which might
rather heighten the offense I fear this letter
will give you), that the assurance of your hap-
piness in the choice you have made, and which
now no obstacle can oppose, will considerably
lighten the pain with which I shall long recall
my ungracious reply to your communication.
" I have the honor to be, the. 6m,
“ C. VERNON ST. JOHN.
“ Brook-street, Dec. 28, 18—." .
The receipt of such a letter could hardly add
to the profounder grief which preyed in the in-
nermost core of Lucretia's heart, but in repel-
ling the eti'ort she had made to distract that
grief by ambition, it blackened the sullen de-
spondency with which she regarded the future.
As the insect in the hollow snare of the ant-
lion, she felt that there was no footing up the
sides of the cave into which she had fallen—the
sand gave way to the step. But despondency,
in her, brought no met-kness-the cloud did not
descend in rain; resting over the horizun, its
darkness was tinged With the fires which it fed.
The heart, already so imbittered, was stung
and mortified intn intolerable shame and wrath.
From the home that should have been hers, in
which, as acknowledged heiress, she had smiled
doWn on the ruined Vernon, she was banished
by him who had supplanted her, as one worth-
less and polluted. 'l‘hough, from motives of
0t Tious delicacy, Vernon had not said express-
ly 1tat he had seen the letter to Mainwaring,

the unfamiliar and formal tone which he as~
sumed, indirectly declared it. and betrayed the
impression it had made, in spite of his reserve.
A living man then was in possession of a se-
cret which justified his disdain, and that man
was master of Laughton ! The suppressed rags
which embraced the lost lover. oxtcndcd dark-
ly over this witness to that baffled and misera-
ble love. But what availed rage against either?
Abandoned and despoiled, she was poWerless to
avenge. It was at this time, when her prose
pects seemed most dark, hcr pride was most
crushed, and her despair of the future at its
height, that she turned to Dalibard as the only
friend left to her under the sun. Even the
vices she perceived in him became merits, for
they forbade him to despise her. And now,
this man rose suddenly into another and higher
aspect of character: of late, though equally def-
erential to her, there had been something more
lofty in his mien, more assured on his brow;
gleams ofa secret satisfaction,evenofajoy,that
he appeared anxious to suppress, as ill in
harmony with her causes for dejcction, broke
out in his looks and words. At length, one
day, after some preparatory hesitation, he in-
formed her that he was free to return to France
—-that even without the peace between England
and France, which (known under the name of
the Peace of Amiens) had been just concluded,
he should have crossed the Channel. The ad-
vocacy and interest of friends, whom he had left
at Paris. had already brought him under the spe-
cial notice of the wonderful man who then gov-
erned Franco, and who sought to unite in its
service every description and varietyofintellect.
He should return to France, and thcn--why,
then, the ladder was on the walls of Fortune,
and the foot planted on the step! Ashe spoke,
confidently and sanguinr'ly, with the nerve and
assurance of an able man who sees clear the
path to his goal, as he sketched with rapid
precision the nature of his prospects and his
hopes, all that subtile wisdom which had before
often seemed but vague and general, took prac-
tical shape and interest, thus applied to the act-
ttal circumstances of men; the spirit of intrigue,
which seemed mean when employed on mean
things, swelled into statesmanship and master-
ly genius to the listener, when she saw it
linked with the'large objects of masculine am-
bition. Insensibly, therefore, her attention he-
came earnest—her mind aroused. The vision
of a field, afar from the scenes of her humilia-
tion and despair—a field for energy, stratagem,
and contest— invited her restless intelligence.
As Dalibard had profoundly calculated, there
was no new channel for her afiections—tha
source was dried up, and the parched sands
heaped over it; but while the heart lay dor-
mant, the mind rose, sleepless, chafed, and
perturbed. {Through the mind, he indirectly
addressed and subtilly wooed her.
“ Such"-—he said, as he rose to take leave—
“such is the career, to which I could depart
with joy ifI did not depart alone !"
“ Alone !" that word, more than once tha‘
day, Lucretia repeated to herself-—“alone!h
—-and what career was left to her—she, toq,
alone!
In certain stages of great grief, our nature.
yearn for excitement. This has made som‘


68
RECONCILIATION BETWEEN FATHER AND SON.
men gambl crs; it has made even women drunk-
ards—it had effect over the serene, calm, and
Would-be divinity of the poet-sage. When his
son dics, Goethe does not mourn—he plunges
into the absorption of a study, uncultivated be-
fore. But, in the great contest of life, in the
whirlpool of actual affairs, the stricken heart
finds all—the gambling, the inebriation, and the
study.
We pause here. We have pursued long
enough that patient analysis, with all the food
for reflection that it possibly affords, to which
we were insensiny led on by an interest, dark
and fascinating, that grew more and more upon
us, as we proceeded in our research into the
early history of a person fated to pervert no or-
dinary powers into no commonplace guilt.
The charm is concluded—the circle closed
round—the self-guided seeker after knowledge
has gained the fiend for the familiar.
-__.—
CHAPTER X.
ma RECONCILIATION nerwnarv FATHER mo sou.
We pass over an interval of some months.
A painter stood at work at the easel; his
human model before him. He was employed
on a nymph—the Nymph Galatca. The sub-
iect had' been taken before by Salvator, whose
genius found all its elements in the wild rocks,
gnarled, fantastic trees, and gushing waterfalls
of the landscape—in the huge ugliness of Poly-
phemus the lover—in the grace and suavity and
unconscious abandonment of the nymph, sleek-
ing her tresses dripping from the bath. The
painter, on a larger canvas (for Salvator’s pic-
ture, at least the one we have seen, is among
the small sketches ofthe great artistic creator
of the romantic and grotesque), had transferred
the subject of the master; but he had left sub-
Ordinato the landscape and the giant, to con-
centrate all his art on the person of the nymph.
Middle-aged was the painter, in truth; bttt he
looked old. His hair. though long, was gray
and thin; his face was bloated by intemper-
ance; and his hand trembled much, though
from habit no trace of the tremor was visible
in his work.
A boy, near at hand, was also employed on
the same subject, with a rough chalk and av
hold freedom of touch. He was sketching his
design of aGalatea and Polyphemus on the
wall: for the wall was only whitewashed, and
covered already with the multiform vagaries
whether of master or pupils; caricatures and
demi-gods, hands and feet, torsos and monsters,
and Venuses—the rude creations, all mutilated,
jarring, and mingled, gave a cynical, mocking,
devil-me-caro kind of aspect to the sanctum of
art. It was like the dissection-room of the
anatomist. The boy‘s sketch was more in
harmony with the walls of the studio than the
canvas of the master. His nymph. accurately
drawn from the undressed proportions of the
model down to the waist, terminated in the
scales of a fish. The forked branches of the
trees stretched weird and imp-like as the hands
of skeletons. Polyphcmus, peering over the
rocks, had the leer of a demon; and in his
gross features there was a certain distorted,
a

1
hideous likeness of the grave and symmetrical
lineaments of Olivier Daiihard. -
All around was slovenly, squalid, and pov-
erty-stricken; rickety, worn-out, rush-bottom
chairs; unsold unfinished pictures, pellmell in
the corner, covered with dust; broken casts of
plaster; a lay~figure battered in its basket-work
arms, with its doll-like face, all smudged and
besmeared : a pot of porter and a noggin of gin
on a stained deal table, accompanied by two or
three broken, smoke-blackened pipes, some tat-
tercd song-books, and old numbers of the Gov-
ent-garden Magazine, betrayed the tastes of
the artist, and accounted for the shaking hand
and the bloated form. A jovial, disorderly,
vagrant dog of a painter, was _Tom Varney !—
a bachelor, of course—humorous and droll—
a boon companion, and a terrible borrower:
clever enough in his calling, with pains and
some method, he had easily gained subsistence
and established a name; but he had one trick
that soon ruined him in the business-part ot .-
his profession. He took a fourth of his price
in advance; and, having once clutched the
money, the poor customer might go hang for
his picture! The only things Torn Varney
ever fairly completed were those for which no
order had been given; for in them, somehow
or other, his fancy became interested. and on
them he lavished the gusto which he really
possessed. But'thc subjects were rarely salea-
hle. Nymphs and deities undraperied have
few worshipers 'in England among the buyers
of “furniture pictures." And, to say truth,
nymph and deity had usually a very equivocal
look; and if they came from the gods, you
would swear it was the gods of the galleries of
Drury. His most profitable performances were
small paintings on ivory, which were caught at
by jewelers, and sold, in snutfhoxes, to elderly
gentlemen. When Tom Varney sold a picture,
he lived upon clover till the money was gone.
Gay time for his models; for he had the weak-
ness, unbecoming an artist, to fall in love with
his Fornarinas; and as he had not the personal
graces of Rafi'aelle, the Fornarinas were ex-
pensive bonnc: fortunes. But the poorer and
less steady alumni of the rising school, espe-
cially those at .war with the academy from
which Varney was excluded, pitied, despised,
yet liked and courted him withal. In addition
to his good qualities of blithc song-singer, droll
story-teller, and stanch Baochanalian, Tom
Varney was liberally good natured in commu-
nicating instruction really valuable to those
who knew how to a'vail themselves ofa knowl-
edge he had made almost worthless to himself.
He was a shrewd, though good-natured critic,
had many little secrets of coloring and compo-
sition, which an invitation to supper, or the loan
of ten shillings, was sufficient to bribe from
him. Ragged, out of elbows, unshaven, and
slipshod, he still had his set, among the gay
and the young—a precious master, a profitable
set, for his nephew, Master l‘lonoré Gabriel!
But the poor rapscallion had a heart larger
than many honest, painstaking men. As soon
as Gabriel had found him out, and cntreated.
refuge from his fear of his father, the painter
clasped him tight in his great slovenly arms,
sold a Venus half-price to buy him a bed and a
wash-stand, and swore a tremendous oath,


RECONCILIATION BETWEEN FATHER AND SON.
59
"that the son of his poor guillotined sister
should share the last shiihng in his pUCKet—tne
last drop in his can.” 4
Gabriel, fresh from the cheer of Laughton,
and spoiled by the prodigal gills of Lucretia,
had little gratitude for shillings and porter.
Nevertheless, he condescended to take what
he could get, while he sighed, from the depths
ofa heart in which cupidity and vanity had be-
come the predominant rulers, for a destiny
more worthy his genius, and more in keeping
with the sphere from which he had descended.
The boy finished his sketch, with an impu-
dent wink at the model, flung himself back on
his chair, folded his arms, cast a discontented
glance at the whitened seams of the sleeves,
and soon seemed lost in his own reflections.
The painter worked on in silence. The model,
whom Gabriel's wink had aroused. half-flatter-
ed, half-indignant for a moment, lapsed into a
doze. Outside the window you heard the song
ot'a canary—a dingy, smoke-colored canary—
that seemed shedding its plumes, for they were
as ragged as the garments of its master; still
it contrived to sing—trill-trill-trill-trill-trill, as
blithely as if free in its native Woods, or pam-
pered by fair hands in a gilded cage. The bird
was the only true artist there: it sang, as the
poet sings, to obey its nature and vent its heart.
Trill-trill-trillela-la-la-trill-trill, went the song—
louder, gayer than usual— for there was a
gleam of April sunshine struggling over the
roof-tops. The song at length roused up Ga-
briel; he turned his chair round, laid his head
on one side, listened, and looked curiously at
the bird.
At length an idea seemed to cross him; he
rose, opened the window, drew in the cage,
placed it on the chair, then took up one of his
uncle‘s pipes, walked to the fireplace, and
thrust the shank ofthe pipe into the bars. When
it was red-hot, he took it out by the bowl, hav-
ing first protected his hand from the heat by
wrapping round it his handkerchief; this done,
he returned to the cage. His movements had
wakened up the dozing model. She eyed them
at first with dull curiosity, then with lively sus-
picion ; and presently starting up with an excla-
mation, such as no novelist but Fielding dare
put into the mouth of a female—much less a
nymph of such renown as Galatea—she sprang
across the room, well nigh upsetting easel and
painter, and fastened firm hold on Gabriel’s
shoulders.
“ The varment!" she cried, vehemently;
" the good-for-nothing varment ! If it had been
a jay, or a nasty raven, well and good! but a
poor little canary l”
“ Hoity-toity ! what are you about, nephew?
What's the matter 1" said Tom Varney, coming
up to the strife. And, indeed, it was time, for
Gabriel's teeth were set in his cat-like jaws, and
with his weapon, equally fearful and simple,
raised menacineg in the hand which he had
wresled from the grasp of the model, he seemed
only pausing to consider to what part of that
,delicate form he should most effectually direct
the still glowing point of the pipe-shank.
"What‘s t e matter!” replied Gabriel, sul-
lenly; “why, was only going to try a little
experiment."
“An experiment! not on my canary, poor,

dear little thing! the hours and hours that
creature has strained its throat to say, 'srng
and be merry.‘ when I had not a rap in my
pocket. It would have made a stone feel to
hear it."
“ But I think I can make it sing much better
than ever—only just let me try! They say, that
ifyou put out the eyes of a canary, it—" Ga-
briel was not allowed to conclude his sentence;
for here rose that clamor of horror and indig-
nation, from both painter and model, which
usually greets the announcement of every philo-
sophical discovery—at least, when about to be
practically applied; and in the midst of the
huhhub, the poor little canary, who had been
fluttering about the cage to escape the hand of
the benevolent operator, set up no longer the
cheerful trill—trillela-la-trill, but a scared and
heart-breaking chirp—a shrill, terrified twit-
twit~twittcr-twit.
“ D— the bird ! hold your tongues !" cried
Gabriel Varney. reluctantly giving way; but
still cying the bird with the scientific regret
with which the illustrious Magcndie might con-
template a dog which some brute of a master
refused to disembowel for the good of the colics
of mankind.
The model seized on the cage, shut the door
of the wires, and carried it off. 'l‘om Varney
drained the rest of his porter, and wiped his
forehead with the sleeve of his coat.
“ And to use my pipe for such cruelty! Boy,
boy, I could not have believed it! But you were
not in earnest—oh, no, impossible! Sukey, my
love—Galatea, the divine—calm thy breast.
‘ Lull to sleep those snowy billows '.'
Cupid did but jest:
‘ Cupid is the God of Laughter,
Quip, and jest, and joke, sir.‘ "
“ If you don‘t whip the little wretch Within
an inch ofhis life, he'll have a gallows end on‘t,’l>
replied Galatea.
“ Go, Cupid, g0 and kiss Galatea, and make
your peace :
‘01:, leave it ki within the cup,
And I'll not ask for wine 1'
And it‘s no use asking for wine, or for gin either
—-not a drop in the noggin !"
All this while, Gabriel, disdaining the recom-
mendations held forth to him, was employed in
brushing his jacket with a very mangy‘loolr-
ing brush; and when he had completed that
operation, he approached his uncle, and coolly
thrust big hands into that gentleman’s waist
coat-pockets.
" Uncle, what have you done with those
(eleven shillings! I am going out to spend the
ay-il
“ [fyou give them to him, Tom, I‘ll scratch
your eyes out,” cried the model; “and then
we’ll see how you'll sing. Whip him, I say——
whip him 1"
But, strange to say, this liberty of the boy’s
quite reopened the heart of his uncle—it was a
pleasure to him, who put his hand so habitually
into other people‘s pockets, to be invested with
the novel grandeur of the man sponged upon.
“That’s right, Cupid, son of Cytherea; all_’s
common property among friends. Seven 8hll~
lings; I have ’em not! ‘They new are the
O


60
RECONCILIATION BETWEEN FATHER AND SON.
O
who once were seven ;’ but such as they are,
we‘ll share!
Let old Timothcus yield the prize,
Or both divide the crown.‘ "
“Crowas hear no division, my uncle," said
Gabriel, dryly—and he pocketed the five shil-
lings. Then, having first secured his escape,
by gaining the threshold, he suddenly seized
one of the rickety chairs by its leg, and regard-
less of the gallantries due to the sex, sent it
right against the model, who was shaking her
fist at him. A scream, and a fall, and a sharp
twit from the cage, which was hurled nearly
into the fireplace, told that the missive had
taken eflbct. Gabriel did not wait for the
probable reaction ; he was in the street in an
instant.
“ This won't do,” be muttered to himself;
“there‘s no getting on here. Foolish, drunken
vagabond! no good to be got from him. My
father is terrible, but will make his way in the
world. Umph! ifI were but his match—and
why not! i am brave, and he is not. There‘s
fun, too, in danger."
Thus musing, he took his way to Dalibard‘s
lodgings. His father was at home. Now, though
they were but lodgings, and the street not in
fashion, Olivier Dalibard's apartments had an
air ol'refinement, and even elegance, that con-
trasted both the wretched squalor of the abode
Gabriel had just left, and the meanness of Dali-
bard‘s former quarters in London. The change
seemed to imply, that the Provencal had already
made some way in the world. And, truth to say,
at all times, even in the lowest ebb of his for-
tunes, there was that indescribable neatness
and formality of precision about all the exterior
seemings of the ci-dcnant friend of the prim
Robespierre, which belong to those in whom
order and method are strongly developed—qual-
ities which give even to needincss a certain
dignity. As the room and its owner met the
eye of Gabriel, on whose senses all cxternals
had considerable influence, the ungrateful young
rufiian recalled the kind, tattered, sloveuly un-
cle, whose purse he had just emptied, without
one feeling milder than disgust. Olivier Dali-
bard, always careful, ifsimple, in his dress, with
his brow of grave intellectual power, and his
mien imposing, not only from its calm, but from
that nameless refinement which rarely fails to
give to the student the air of a gentleman—
Olivier Dalibard he might dread—he might even
detest; but he was not ashamed of him.
“I said I would visit you,‘ air, if you would
permit me," said Gabriel, in a tone of respect,
not unmingled with some defiance, as ifin doubt
of his reception.
The father‘s slow, full eye, so difi'erent from
the sidelong furtivc glance of Lucretia, rested
on the son, as if to penetrate his very heart.
“ You look pale and haggard, child : you are
fast losing your health and beauty. Good gifts
these, not to be wasted before they can be duly
employed. But you have taken your choice.
Be an artist—copy Tom Varney, and pros-
per."
fl Gabriel remained silent, with his eyes on the
001'.
“You come in time for my farewell,” re-
sumed Dalibard. “It is a comfort, at least,
that I. leave your youth so honorably protected.

I am about to return to my country—my career
is once more before me !"
“ Your country—to Paris l"
“ There are fine pictures in the Louvre—a
good place to inspire an artist l"
“ You go alone, father !"
“You forget, young gentleman, you disown
me as father ! Go alone ! I thought I told you,
in the times of ,our confidence, that I should
marry Lucretia Clavering. I rarely fail in my
plans. She has lost Laughton, it is true; but
ten thousand pounds will make a fair commence-
ment to fortune, even at Paris. \Vell, what do
you want with me, worthy godson of Honoré
Gabriel Mirabeau Z"
“ Sir, if you will let me, I will go with you.”
Dalibard shaded his brow with his hand, and
reflected on the filial proposal. 0n the one
hand, it might be convenient, and would cer-
tainly be economical to rid himself, evermore,
of the mutinous son who had already thrown
off his authority; on the other hand, there was
much in Gabriel—mutinous, and even menacing,
as he had lately become—that promised an un-
scrupulous tool or a sharp-witted accomplice,
with interests that every year the ready youth
would more and more discover were bound up
in his plotting father’s. This last consideration,
joined, if not to afi‘ection, still to habit—to the
link between blood and blood, which even the
hardest find it difl'icult to sever, prevailed. He
extended to Gabriel the pale, delicate, clear-
veined hand, which Lawrence (had be seen)
would have longed to copy for a cardinal's, and
said, gently,
“I will take you, if we rightly understand
each other. Once again in my power. I might
constrain you to my will, it is true ; but I rather
confer with you as man to man than as man to
boy.”
“It is the best way,” said Gabriel, firmly.
“ I will use no harshness—inflict no punish-
ment, unless, indeed, amply merited by stubborn
disobedience or willful deceit. But if] meet
with these, better rot on a dunghill than come
with me! I ask implicit confidence in all my
suggestions, prompt submission to all my re-
quests. Grant me but these, and I promise to
consult your fortune as my own—to gratify
your tastes as far as my means will allow-to
grudge not your pleasures ; and, when the age
for ambition comes, to aid your rise ifI rise
myself—nay, ifwell contented .with you, to re
move the blot from your birth, by acknowledging
and adopting you formally as my son."
“ Agreed! and 1 thank you," said Gabriel.
“And Lucretia is going. Oh, I so long to see
her!" -
“ See her—not yet; but next week.”
“ Do not fear that I should lot out about the
letter. I. should betray myself ifI did." said
the boy, bluntly betraying his guess at his fa-
ther‘s delay.
The evil scholar smiled.
“ You will do well to keep it secret for your
own sake; for mine, I should not fear. Gabriel,
go back now to your master—yon do right. like
the rats, to run from the falling house. Next
week I will send for you, Gabriel 1"
Not, however, back to the studio went the
boy. He sauntercd leisulcly through the gay-
est streets, eyed the shops, and the tquipageq,


EPILOGUE TO PART THE FIRST.
‘61
the fair women, and the well dressed men—
eyed with envy, and longings, and visions of
pomps and vanities to come; then, when the
day began to close, he-souglit out a young paint-
er, the wildest and maddest of the crew to
whom his uncle had presented their future
comrade and rival, and Went with this youth,
at half-price, to the theater—not to gaze on the
actors or study the play, but to stroll in the
saloon. A supper in the Finish completed the
void in his pockets, and concluded his day‘s
rank experience of life. By the gray dawn he
stole back to his bed; and, as he laid himself
down, he thought with avid pleasure of Paris,
its gay gardens, and brilliant shops, and crowd-
ed streets ; he thought, too, of his father's calm
confidence of success, of the triumph that al-
ready had attended his wiles-a confidence and
a triumph which, exciting his reverence and
rousing his emulation, had decided his resolu-
tion. He thought, too, of Lucretia, with some-
thing of afl'ection—recalled her praises and
bribes, her frequent mediation with his father,
and felt that they should have need of each
other. Oh, no! he never Woulll tell her of the
,snare laid agGuy’s Oak—never, not even if
incensed with his father! An instinct told him
that that offense could never be forgiven, and
that, henceforth, Lucretia’s was a destiny bound
up in his own. He thought, too, of Dalibard’s
warning and threat ; but, with fear itself came
a strange excitement of pleasure—to grapple, if
necessary, he a mere child, with such a man !—
his heart swelled at the thought. So, at last he
fell asleep, and dreamed that he saw his moth-
er‘s trunkless face dripping gore, and frowning
on him-dreamed that he heard her say, “ Goest
thou to the scene of my execution only to fawn
upon my murderer!" Then a nightmare of
horrors, ofscaffolds, and executioners, and grin-
ning mobs, and agonizcd faces came on him-
dark, confused, and indistinct. And he woke,
with his hair standing on end, and heard below,
in the rising sun, the merry song of the poor
canary—trill-lill-lill, trill-trill-Iill-lill-laI Did he
feel glad that his cruel hand had been stayed!


EPILOGUE TO PART THE FIRST.
11' is a year since the November day on
which Lucretia Clavering quitted the roof of
Mr. Fielden. And first, we must recall the eye
of the reader to the old-fashioned terrace at
Laughton—the jutting porch, the quaint balus-
trades, the broad, dark, changeless cedars on
the lawn beyond. The day is calm, clear. and
mild; for November in the country is often a
gentle month. On that terrace walked Charles
Vernon, now known by his new name of St.
John. Is it the change of name that has so
changed the person! Can the wand of the
herald‘s office have filled up the hollows of the
cheek, and replaced, by elastic vigor, the list-
less languor of the tread! No; there is an-
other and a better cause for that healthful
change. Mr. Vernon St. John is not alone—a
fair companion leans on his'arm. See, she
pauses to press 'closer to his side, gaze on his
face, and whisper, “ We did well to have hope
and faith !”
The husband’s faith had not been so unsha-
ken as his Mary's, and a slight blush passed
over his check as he thought of his concession
to Sir Miles’s wishes, and his overtures to Ln-
cretia Clavering. Still that fault had been fairly
acknowledged to his wife, and she felt, the
moment she had spoken, that she had commit-
ted an indiscretion ; nevertheless, with an arch
touch of wnmanly malice, she added, softly,
" And Miss Clavering, you persist in saying,
was not really handsome 'l"
“ My love," replied the husband, gravely,
“ you would oblige me by not recalling the
very painful recollections connected with that
name. Let it never be mentioned in this
house."
Lady Mary bowed her graceful head in sub-
mission—she understood Charles's feelings;
for, though he had not shown her Sir Miles’s
letter and its inclosure, he had communicated
enough to account for the unexpected heritage,
and to lessen his wife’s compassion for the dis-
appointed heiress. Nevertheless, she compre-
hended that her husband felt an uneasy twinge
at the idea that he was compelled to act hardly
to the one whose hopes he had supplanted.
Lucretia‘s banishment from Laughton was a
just humiliation; but it humbled a generous
heart to inflict the sentence. Thus, on all ac'
counts, the remembrance of Lucretia was pain-
fhl and unwelcome to the successor of Sir Miles.
There was a silence—Lady Mary pressed her
husband’s hand.
“It is strange," said be, giving vent to his
thoughts at that tender sign ofsyinpathy in his
feeling—“strange that, after all, she did not
marry Mainwaring, but fixed her choice on that
supple Frenchman. But she has settled abroad
now, perhaps for life—a great relief to my mind.
Yes, let us never recur to her."
"Fortunately," said Lady Mary, with some
hesitation, “ she does not seem to have created
much interest here. The poor seldom name
her to me, and our neighbors only with surprise
at her marriage. In another year she will be
forgotten l” I
Mr. St. John sighed. Perhaps he felt how
much more easily he had been forgt’tmn, were
he the banished one, Lucretia the possessor!
His light nature, however, soon escaped from
all thoughts and sources of annoyance. and he
listened with complacent attention to Lady

Mary’s gentle plans for the poor, and the chil-_


65
EPILOGUE TO PART THE FIRST.
dren‘s school, and the cottages that ought to be
repaired, and the laborers that ought to be em-
ployed; for, though it may seen; singular, Vere
non St. John, insensibly influenced by his wife‘s
meek superiority, and corrected by her pure
companionship, had begun to feel the charm of
innocent occupations—more, perhaps, than if
he had been accustomed to the larger and
Iot'tier cxcitetuents of life, and missed that stir
ofintellect which is the element of those who
have warred in the democracy of letters, or
contended for the leadership of states. He had
begun already to think that the country was no
such exile after all. Naturally benevolent, he
had taught himself to share the occupations his
Mary had already found in the busy "luxury of
doing good," and to conceive that brotherhood
of charity which usually unites the lord of the
village with its poor. ‘ _
“I think, what with hunting once a week (I
will not venture more till my pain in the side
is quite gone), and with the help of some old
friends at Christmas, we can get through the
winter very well, Mary."
“ Ah, those old friends!
than the hunting !”
“ But we‘ll have your grave father, and your
dear, precise, excellent mother, to keep us in
' order; and if] sit more than half-an-hour after
dinner, the old butler shall pull me out by the
ears. Mary, what do you say to thinning the
grove yonder! We shall get a better view of
the landscape beyond. No, hang it! dear old
Sir Miles loved his trees better than the pros-
pect—I won‘t lop a bough. But that avenue
we are planting will be certainly a noble im-
provement—"
“ Fifty years hence, Charles !”
“ It is our duty to think of posterity," an-
sWered the ci-devant spendlhrift, with a gravity
that was actually pompous. “But hark! Is
that two o‘clock? Three, by Jove! How time
flies! and my new bullocks that I was to see
at two! Come down to the farm, that’s my
own Mary. Ah, your fine ladies are not such
bad housewives after all !"
“ And your fine gentlemen—”
“ Capital farmers ! I had no idea till last week
that a prize ox was so interesting an animal.
One lives to learn. Put me in mind, by-the-by,
to write to Coke about his sheep."
" This way, dear Charles; we can go round
by the village, and see poor Ponto and Dash."
The tears rushed to Mr. St. John's eyes. “If
poor Sir Miles could have known you !" he said,
with a sigh; and, though the gardeners were
at work on the lawn, he bowed his head, and
kissed the blushing cheek of his wife as heartin
as if he had been really a farmer.
From the terrace at Laughton, turn to the
huinbler abode of our old friend the vicar—the
same day, the same hour. Here, also, the
scene is without doors—we are in the garden
of the Vicarage; the children are playing at
hide and seek among the espaliers, which
screen the winding gravel walks from the es-
culents more dear to Ceres than to Flora. The
vicar is seated in his little parlor, from which a
glazed door admits into the garden. The door
is now open, and the good man has paused from
his work (he had just discovered a new emen-
dation in the first chorus of the Medea), to look
I dread them more

out at the rosy faces that gleam to and fro
across the scene. His wife, with a basket in
her hand, is standing Without the door, but a
little aside, not to obstruct the view.
" It does one’s heart good to see them !" said
the vicar; " little dears!"
“Yes, they ought to he dear at this time of
the year," observed Mrs. Fielden, who was ab-
sorbed in the contents of the basket.
“ And so fresh !"
“Fresh, indeed! How different from Lon-
don ! In London they were not fit to be seen;
as old as—I am sure I can't guess how old they
were. But, you see, here they are new laid
every morning 1“
“ My dear !” said Mr. Fielden, opening his
eyes-“ new laid every morning !”
“Two dozen and four."
“ Twa dozen and four! What on earth are
you talking about, Mrs. Fielden ‘l”
“ Why, the eggs to be sure, my love!"
“ Oh !" said the vicar, “ two dozen and four!
You alarmed me a little; ’tis of no consequence
—only my foolish mistake. Always prudent
and saving, my dear Sarah—just as if poor Sir
Miles had not lett us that munificent fortune, I
may call it."
“ It will not go very far when we have our
young ones to settle. And—David is very ex-
travagant already: be has torn such a hole in
his jacket !"
At this moment, up the gravel walk, two
young persons came in sight. The children
darted across them, whooping and laughing,
and vanished in the farther recess of the gar-
den.
“ All is for the best, blind mortals that we
are—all is for the best !” said the vicar, mus-
ingly, and his eye rested upon the approaching
pair.
“ Certainly, my love—you are always right,
and it is wicked to grumble. Still, if you saw
what a hole it was—past patching, I fear !"
“ Leok round!” said Mr. Fielden. benevo-
lently. “ How we grieved for them both ; how
wroth we Were with William—how sad for
Susan ! And now see them—they will be the
better man and wife for their trial!"
“ Has Susan, then, consented '! I was almost
afraid she never would consent. How often
have I been almost angry with her, poor lamb!
when I have heard her accuse herself of cans-
ing her sister‘s hnhappiness, and declare, with
sobs. that she felt it a crime to think of Will-
iam Mainwaring as a husband.”
“ I trust I have reasoned her out of a morbid
sensibility, which, while it could not have ren-
dered Lucretia the happier, must have insured
the wretchedness of herself and William. But
if Lucretia had not married, and so forever
closed the door on William’s repentance (that
is, supposing he did repent), I believe poor
Susan would rather have died of a broken
heart than have given her hand to Mainwar-
ing."
“ It was an odd marriage of that proud young
lady's, after all," said Mrs. Fielden ; “ so much
older than her—a foreigner, too !"
“But he is a very pleasant man, and they
had known each other so long. I did not,
however, quite like a sort of cunning he show-
ed, when_I came to reflect on it, in bringing


EPILOGUE TO PART THE FIRST.
63
Lucretia hack to the house; it looks as if he
had laid a trap for her from the first.”
“Ten thousand pounds !—a great catch for
a foreigner!" observed Mrs. Fielden, with the
naive instinct of her sex ; and then she added,
in the spirit of a prudent sympathy equally
characteristic: "But I think you say Mr.
Parchinount persuaded her to allow half to be
settled on herself. That will be a hold on
im."
“A bad hold, if that be all, Sarah. There
is a better-hc is a learned man, and a scholar.
Scholars are naturally domestic, and make good
husbands." _
“ But you know he must be a papist !" said
Mrs. Fielden.
“ Humph !” muttered the vicar, irresolutely.
While the Worthy couple were thus con-
versing, Susan and her lover, not having fin-
ished their conference, had turned back through
the winding walk.
“Indeed,” said W'illiam, drawing her arm
closer to his side, “ these scruples—these fears
-—are cruel to me as well as to yourself. If
you were no longer existing, I could be noth—
ing to your sister. Nay, even were she not
married, you must know enough of her pride
to be assured that I can retain no place in her
afl'ections. What has chanced was not our
crime. Perhaps Heaven designed to save,
not only us, but herself, from the certain misery
of nuptials so inauspicious !"
"If she would but answer one of my let-
ters 1” sighed Susan; "or ifI could but know
that she were happy and contented !”
" Your letters must have miscarried—you
are not sure even of her address. Rely upon it
she is happy. Do you think that she would, a
second time, have stooped beneath her"-Main-
waring‘s lip writhed as he repeated that
phrase—~" if her feelings had not been involv-
ed! I would not wrong your sister—I shall
ever feel gratitude for the past, and remorse
for my own shameful weakness—still I must
think that the nature of her attachment to me,
was more ardent than lasting.”
"Ah, William! how can you know her
heart!"
“ By comparing it with yours. Oh, there,
indeed, I may anchor my faith! Susan, we
Were formed for each other! Our natures are
alike—save that yours, despite its surpassing
sweetness, has greater strength in its simple
candor. You will be my guide to good.
Without you, I should have no aim in life—no
courage to front the contest of this world.
Ah, this hand trembles still !"
“\Villiam, William, I can not repress a fare
boding—a superstition ‘. At night, I am haunt-
ed with that pale face, as I saw it last,—pale
with suppressed despair. Oh, if ever Lucre-
tia could have need of us—need of our ser-
vices, our affections—if we could but repair
the grief we have caused her !"
Susan‘s head sank on her lover‘s shoulder.
She had said “ need of us"——“ need of our ser-
vices." In those simple monosyllables the
union was pledged—the identity of their lots
in the dark urn was implied.
From this scene turn again—the slide shifts
in the lantern—we are at Paris. In the ante-
chamber at the Tuillen'es, a crowd of expect-
ant courtiers and adventurers gaze upon a fig-
ure who passes with modest and downcast
eyes through the throng; he has just left the
closet of the First Consul.
“ I'ar Dicu !" said B , " power, like mis-
ery, makes us acquainted with strange bed-
fellows. I should like to hear what the First
Consul can have to say to Olivier Dalibard."
Fouehé, who at that period was scheming
for the return to his old dignities as minister
of police, smiled slightly, and answered, “ In a
time when the air is filled with daggers, one
who was familiar with Robcspierre has his
uses. Olivier Dalibard is a remarkable man.
He is one of those children of the Revolution,
whom that great mother is bound to save."
“ By betraying his brethren!" said B—-,
dryly.
The simple

“ I do not allow the inference.
fact is that Dalibard has spent many years in
England—he has married an Englishwornan of
birth and connections —he knows well the
English language and English people—and just
now, when the First Consul is SO anxious to ap-
profomlir the popular feelings of that strange
nation, with whose government he is compell-
ed to go to war, he may naturally have much
to say to so acute an observer as Olivier Dali-
bard."
“Um !" said 13—; " with such patronage,
Robespierre‘s friend should hold his head
' somewhat higher!"
Meanwhile, Olivier Dalibard, crossing the
gardens of the palace, took his way to ;the
Faubourg St. Germain. There was no change
in the aspect of this man; the same medita-
tive tranquillity characterized his downward
eyes and bended brow; the same precise sim‘
plicity of dress which had pleased the prim
taste of Robespierre, gave decorum to his
slender, stooping form. No expression more
cheerful, no footstep more elastic, bespoke the
exile's return to his native land, or the san-
guine expectations of intellect restored to a
career. Yet, to all appearance, the prospects
of Dalibard were bright and promising. The
First Consul was‘at that stage of his greatness,
when he sought to employ in his service all
such talent as the Revolution had made mani-
fest—provided only, that it was not stained
with notorious bloodshed, or too strongly asso~
ciated with the Jacobin clubs. His quick eye
seemed to have discovered already the abilities
of Dalibard, and to have appreciated the sa~
gaeity and knowledge of men which had ena-
bled this subtilc person to obtain the friendship
of Itobespierre, without sharing in his crimes.
He had been frequently closeted with Bona-
' parts ; he was in the declared favor of Fouché,
who, though not at. that period at the head 0’
the police, was too necessary amid the dan-
gers of the time, deepened as they were by
the rumors of some terrible and profound con-
spiracy, to be laid aside, as the First Consul
had at one moment designed. One man alone,
of those high in the state, appeared to distrust
Olivier Dalibard—the celebrated Cambaeeres.
But with his aid the Provenqal could dis-
pense. “hat was the secret of Dalibardrs
power? was it, in truth, owing solely to 1118
native talent, and his acquired experience. 98-

pecially of Englandt—was it by honorable


64
EPILOGUE 'I‘O PART THE FIRST.
means. that he had won the ear of the First
Consult we may he sure of the contrary;
for it is a striking attribuze of men once thor-
oughly tainted by the indulgence of vicious
schemes and stratagems. that they become
wholly blinded to those plain paths of ambition,
which common sense makes manifest to ordi-
nary Hiltilly. If we regard narrowly the lives
of great criminals, we are often very much
startled by the extraordinary acuteness—the
profound calculation—the patient, meditative
energy which they have employed upon the
conception and execution ofa crime. We feel
inclined to think that such intellectual power
would have commanded great distinction, wor-
thily used and guided; but we never find that
these great criminals seem to have been sen-
sible of the opportunities to real eminence
which they have thrown away. Often we ob-
serve that there has been before them vistas
into worldly greatness, which, by no uncom-
mon prudence and exertion, would have con-
ducted honest men, half as clever, to fame and
power; but, with a strange obliquity of vision,
they appear to have looked from these broad,
clear avenues, into some dark, tangled defile,
in which, by the subtilest ingenuity, and through
the most hesetting perils. they may attain at
last to the success of a fraud, or the enjoy-
ment ofa vice. ln crime once indulged, there
is a Wonderful fascination—41nd the fascination
is, not rarely, great in proportion to the intel-
lect of the criminal. There is always hope
of reform for a dull, uneducated, stolid man,
led by accident or temptation into guilt; but
where a man of great ability, and highly edu-
cated, besots himself into the intoxication of
dark and terrible excitements, takes impure de-
light in tortuous and slimy ways, the good angel
abandons him forever.
Olivier Dalibard walked musineg on—gain-
ed a house in one of the most desolate quarters
ofthe abandoned Faubourg, mounted the spa-
cious stairs, and rang at the door of an attic
next the roof. After some moments, the door
was slowly and cautiously opened, and two
small, fierce eyes, peering through a mass of
black, tangled curls, gleamed through the aper-
ture. The gaze seemed satisfactory.
“ Enter, friend," said the inmate, with a
sort of complacent grunt; and, as Dalibard
obeyed, the man rcclosed and barred the door.
The room was bare to beggary,—the ceiling,
low and sloping, was blackened with smoke.
A wretched bed, two chairs, a table, a strong
chest, a small, cracked looking-glass, completed
the inventory. The dress of the occupier was
not in keeping with the chamber ;--true that it
was not such as was worn by the wealthier
classes, but it betokened no sign ofpoverty. A
blue coat, with high collar, and half of military
fashion, was buttoned tight over a chest of vast
girth; the nether garments were of leather,
scrupulously clean, and solid, heavy riding-
boots came half-way up to the thigh. A more
sturdy, stalwart, strong-built knave, never ex-
cited the admiration which physical power
always has a right to command: and Dalibard
gazed on him Wllll envy. The pale scholar
absolutely sighed as he thought—what an aux-
iliary to his own scheming mind would have
been so tough a frame !
But even less in form than face did the man
of thews and sincws contrast the man of wile
and craft. Opposite that high forehead, with
its massive development oforgans, scowled the
low front of one to whom thought was unfa-
miliar—protuberant, indcr-d, over the shaggy
brows, where phrenologists place the seats of
practical perception—strongly marked in some
of the brutes, as in the dog—but almost literally
void of th0se higher organs, by which we rea-
son, and imagine, and construct. But in rich
atonement for such deficiency, all the animal
reigned triumphant in the immense mass and
width of the skull behind. And as the hair,
long before, curled in flow rings to the nape of
the bull-like neck, you saw before you one of
those useful instruments to ambition and fraud,
which recoil at no danger, comprehend no crime,
are not Without certain good qualities, untler
virtuous guidance,--for they have the fidelity,
the obedience, the stubborn courage of the an-
imal; but which, under evil control, turn those
very qualities to unsparing evil—bull-dogs to
rend the foe, as bull-dogs to defend the mas-
ter.
For some moments the two men gazed si-
lently at each other. At length, Dalibard said,
with an air of calm superiority—
“ My friend, it is time that I should be pre-
sented to the chiefs of your party l”
“Chiefs, par ton: I“ diabltsl" growled the
other; “ we Chouans, are all chiefs, when it
comes to blows. You have seen my creden-
tials; you know that I am a man to be trusted;
what more dqyou need 1”
" For myself, nothing; but my friends are
more scrupulous. I have sounded, as I prom-
ised, the heads of the old Jacobin party—and
they are favorable. This upstart soldier, who
has suddenly seized in his iron grasp all the
fruits of the Revolution, is as hateful to them
as to you. But, qua aoule: mm}, mm: tth—
men are men I It is one thing to destroy Bo~
naparte; it is another thing to restore the
Bourbons. How can the Jacobin chiefs depend
on your assurance, or my own, that the Bour-
bons will forget the old ofl'enses, and reward
the new service? You apprise me, so do your
credentials, that a prince of the blood is en-
gaged in this enterprise, that he will appear at
the proper season. Put me in direct commu-
nication with this representative of the Bour-
bons, and I promise in return, if his assurances
are satisfactory, that you shall have an Emeulz
to be felt from Paris to Marseilles. Ifyou can
not do this, I am useless ', and I withdraw—"
“ \Vithdraw ! Gard: d cons—Monsieur lc Sa~
cant! No man withdraws alive from a con-
spiracy like ours."
We have said before that Olivier Dalibard
was not physically brave , and the look of the
Cliouan, as those words were said, would have
frozen the blood of many a holder man. But
the habitual hypocrisy of Dalibard enabled him
to disguise his fear, and he replied, dryly;
“ Monsieur lc Chounn,—it is not by threats
that you will gain adherents to a desperate
cause, which, on the contrary, requires mild
words and flattering inducements. Ifyou com—
mit a violence—a murder—mon char—Paris is
not Bretagne; we have a police; you will be

discovered."


EPILOGUE TO PART THE FIRST.
65
" Ha, ha !—what then !—do you think I fear
the guillotine 1”
"For yourself—no; but for your leaders—
yes! If you are discovered, and arrested for
crime, do you fancy that the police will not
recognize the right arm of the terrible George
Cadoudali—that they will not guess that Ca-
doudal is at Paris i—that Cadoudal will not ac-
company you to the guillotine!"
The C/touan‘: face fell. Olivier watched
him, and pursued his advantage.
“I asked you to introduce to me this shadow
ofa prince~ under which you would march to a
counter-revolution. But I will be more easily
contented. Present me to George Cadoudal,
the hero of Morbihan; he is a man in whom I
can trust, and with whom I can deal. What !
you hesitate 3 How do you suppose enterprises
of this nature can be carried on! If, from fear
and distrust of each other, the man you would
employ can not meet the chief who directs him,
there will be delay—confusion—panie,-—and
you will all perish by the executioner. And
for me, Pierre Guillot, consider my position : I
am in some favor with the First Consul—I
have a station of respectability—a career lies
before me. Can you think that I will hazard
these, with my head to boot, like a rash child’!
Do you- suppose that, in entering into this ter-
rible contest, l would consent to treat only with
subordinates! Do not deceive yourself. Again,
Isay, tell your employers that they must confer
with me directly, or je m‘cn lava [cs mains."
“I will repeat what you say," answered
Guillot sullenly. “Is this all 1.” -
“ All for the present,” said Dalibard, slowly
drawing on his gloves, and retreating toward
the door. The Chouan watched him with a
suspicious and sinister eye; and as the Proven-
cal‘s hand was on the latch, he laid his own
rough grasp on Dalibard‘s shoulder—
“I know not how it is, Monsieur Dalibard,
but I mistrust you.”
“Distrust is natural and prudent to all who
conspire," replied the scholar, quietly. “I do
not ask you to confide in inc—your employers
bade you seek me—I have mentioned my con-
ditions—let them decide."
“ You carry it off well, Monsieur Dalibard.
And I am under a solemn oath, which poor
George made me take, knowing me to be ahot-
headed, honest fellow—manual}: lc'te, if you
will—that I will keep my hand off pistol and
knife upon mere suspicion—that nothing less
than his word or than clear and positive proof
of treachery shall put me out of good-humor and
into warm blood. But bear this with you,
Monsieur Dalihard : if I once discover that you
use our secrets to betray them—should George
see you, and one hair of his head come to in-
iury through ymn' hands, I will wring your neck
as a good wit'e wrings a pullet‘s."
“I don’t doubt your strength or your feroci-
ty, Pierre Guillot; but my neck will be safe;
you have enough to do to take care of your
own—cu revair."
With a tone and look of calm and fearless
irony, the scholar thus Spoke, and left the
room; but when he was on the stairs, he
paused, and caught at the balustrade—the sick-
ness, is of terror, at some danger past. or to be,
time over him; and this contrast between the

self-command, or simulation which belongs to
moral courage, and the feebleness of natural
and constitutional cowardice, would have been
sublime if shown in a noble cause. In one so
corrupt, it but betrayed a nature doubly formi-
dable; for treachery and murder batch their
brood amid the folds of a hypocrite‘s cowardice.
While thus the interview between Dalibard
and the conspirator, we must bestow a glance
upon the Provencal‘s home.
In an apartment in one of the principal
streets, between the Boulevards and the Rue
St. Honoré, a boy and a woman sat side by
side, conversing in whispers. The boy was
Gabriel Varney, the woman‘Lucrctia Dalibard.
The apartment was furnished in the then mod-
ern taste which nfl‘ected classical forms; and
though not without a certain elegance, had.
something meager and comfortless in its slen-
der tripods and thin-legged chairs. There was
in the apartment that air which bespeaks the
struggle for appearances—that struggle famil-
iar with those of limited income and vain as-
pirings, who want the taste which smooths
all inequalities, and gives a smile to home-—
that taste which affection seems to prompt, if
not to create—which shows itself in a thousand
nameless, costlcss trifles, each a grace. No
sign was there of the household cares or indus-
try of women. No flowers, no music, no em-
broidery frame, no work-table. Lucretia had
none of the sweet feminine habits which be-
tray so lovelin the whereabout of women. All
was formal and precise, like rooms which we
enter and leave—not those in which we settle
and dwell.
Lucretia herself is changed, her air is more
assured, her complexion more pale, the evil
character of her mouth more firm and pro~
nounced.
Gabriel, still a mere boy in years, has a pre-
mature look of man. The down shades his
lips. His dress, though showy and theatrical,
is no longer that of boyhood. His rounged
check has grown thin, as with the care nd
thought which beset the anxious step of youth
on entering into life.
Both, as before remarked, spoke in whispers;
both from time to time glanced fearfully at
the door; both felt that they belonged to a
hearth round which smile not the jocund graces
of trust and love, and the heart‘s open ease.
"But," said Gabriel—“but if you would be
safe. my father must have no secrets bid from
you."
"I do not know that he has. He speaks to
me frankly of his hopes—of the share he has
in the discovery .of the plot against the First
Consul—of his interviews with Pierre Guillot,
the Breton."
“Ah, because there your courage supports
him, and your acuteness assists his own.
Such secrets belong to his public life—his po-
litical schemes—with those he will trust you.
It is his private life—his private projects you
must know."
“ But what does he conceal from me’! Apart
from politics, his whole mind seems_be_nt 0n
the very natural object of securing the intimacy
with his rich cousin, Monsieur Bellanger, from
whom he has a right to expect so large an in-
heritance.”


66
EPILOGUE TO PART THE FIRST.
“ Bellangeris rich; but he is not much older
than my father."
“ He has bad health.”
“ No," said Gabriel, with a downcast eye
and a strange smile; “ he has not bad health,
but he may not be long-lived."
“ How do you mean 1." asked Lucretia, sink-
ing her voice into a still lower whisper, while
a shudder, she scarce knew why, passed over
her frame.
“ What does my father do," resumed Gabriel,
“ in that room at the top'of the house! Does
he tell you that secret 1.”
“ He makes experiments in chemistry. You
know that that W? always his favorite study.
You smile again. Gabriel, do not smile so;
it appals me. Do you think there is some
mystery in that chamber 1‘"
“ It matters not what we think, belle mire-—
it matters much what we know. If I were
you, I would know what is in that chamber. I
repeat, to be safe, you must have all his secrets
or none. Hush, that is his step t"
The door handle turned noiselessly, and Oli-
vier entered. IIis look fell on his son‘s face,
which betrayed only apparent surprise at his
unexpected return. He then glanced at 'Lu-
crctia‘s, which was, as usual, cold and impen-
etrable.
“ Gabriel,” said Dalibard, gently, “I have
come in for you. I have promised to take you
to spend the day at Monsieur Bellanger's; you
are a great favorite with madame. Come, my
boy. I shall be back soon, Lucretia. I shall
but drop in to leave Gabriel at my cousin's.”
Gabriel rose cheerfully, as if only alive to
the expectation of the bon-bons and compli-
ments he received habitually 'from Madame
Bellanger.
“ And you can take your drawing implements
with you," continued Dalibard. “This good
Monsieur Bellanger has given you permission
to copy his Poussin."
“ His Poussin ! Ah, that is placed in his
bedroom,“ is it not!”
" Yes," answered Dalibard, briefly.
Gabriel lifted his sharp, bright eyes to his
father’s face. Dalibard turned away.
"Come!" he said, with some impatience;
and the boy took up his hat.
In another minute, Lucretia was alone.
Alone, in an English home, is a word imply-
ing no dreary solitude to an accomplished Wom-
an; but alone in that foreign land—alone in
those half-furnished, desolate apartments—few
books, no musical instruments, no companions
during the day to drop in; that loneliness was
wearing. And that mind so morbidly active!
In the old Scottish legend, the spirit that serves
the wizard must he kept constantly emp.oyed ;
suspend its work for a moment, and it rends the
enchanter. It is so with minds that crave for
excitement, and live, without relief ofheart and
affection, on the hard tasks of the intellect.
Lucretia mused over Gabriel's words and
warning: "To be safe, you must know all his
secrets or none.” What was the secret which
Dalibard had not communicated to her!

‘ It is scarcely necessary to observe that bedchumbers
ln Pnris, when forming part of the suite of reception,
rootru, are often decorated no less elaborately than the
other apartments.

She rose, stole up the cold, cheerless start
and ascended to the attic which Dalibard ha
lately hired. It was locked ; and she observed
that the lock was small—so small, that the key
might be worn in a ring. She descended and
entered her husband's usual cabinet, which ad-
joincd the sitting-room. All the books which
the house contained were there; a few works
on metaphysics—Spinosa in especial—the great
Italian histories, some volumes of statistics,
many on physical and mechanical philosophy,
and one or two works of biography and mem-
oirs : —- no light literature, that grace and
flower of human culture—that best philosophy
of all, humanizing us with gentle art, making
us wise through the humors, elevated through
the passions, tender in the affections of our
kind! She took out one of the volumes that
seemed less arid than the rest, for she was
weary of her own thoughts, and began to read.
To her surprise, the first passage she opened
was singularly interesting, though the title was
nothing more seductive than the " Lil'e ofa Phy-
sician of Padua, in the Sixteenth Century." It
related to that singular epoch of terror in Italy,
when some mysterious disease, varying in a
thousand symptoms, baflied all remedy, and
long defied all conjecture—a disease attacking
chiefly the heads of families, father and hus-
band—rarely women. In one city, seven hun-
dred husbands perished, hut not one wife'
The disease was poison. The hero of the
memoir was one of the earlier discoverers of
the true cause of this househo.’d epidemic. He
had been a chief authority in a commission of
inquiry. Startling were the details given in thl
work; the anecdotes, the histories, the astonish-
ing cralt brought daily to bear on the victim, the
wondrous pertidy ofthe subtlle means, the varia-
tion of the certain murder—here swift as epi-
lepsy—there slow and wasting as long decline:
—the lecture was absorbing; and absorbed in
the book Lucretia still was, when she heard
Dalibard's voice behind; he was looking over
her shoulder. ,
“ A strange selection for so fair a student!
Enfrznt, play not with such weapons l"
“ But is this all true i"
“ True, though scarce a fragment of the truth.
The physician was a sorry chemist, and a
worse philosopher. He blundered in his analy-
sis of th means; and, if I remember rightly,
he whine like a priest at the motives ; for see
you not what was really the cause of this
spreading pestilence! It was the saturnalia of
the Weak—a burst of mocking license against
the Strong: it was more—it was the innate
force of the individual waging war against the
many."
“ I do not understand you."
“No! In that age, husbands were, indeed,
lords of the household: they married mere
children for their lands; they neglected and
betrayed them; they wore inexorable if the
wife committed the faults set before her ex-
ample. Suddenly the wife found herself armed
against her tyrant. His life was in her hands.
So the weak had no mercy on the strong! But
man, too, was then, even more than now, a
lonely wrestler in a crowded arena. Brute
force alone gave him distinction in courts;
wealth alone brought him justice in the halls,


EPILOGUE TO PART THE FIRST.
67
or gave him safety in his home. Suddenly,
the frail, puny man saw that he could reach the
mortal part of his giant foe. The noiseless
sling was in his hand—it smote Goliah from
afar. Suddenly, the poor man, ground to the
dust, spat upon by contempt, saw through the
crowd of richer kinsmen, who shunned and
bade him rot—saw those whose death made
him heir to lordship, and gold, and palaces, and
power, and esteem! As m'Worm through a
wardrobe, that man ate through velvet and er-
mine, and gnawed out the hearts that beat in
his w-ay. No! A great intellect can compre-
hend these criminals, and account for the crime.
It is a mighty thing to feel in one’s selfthat
one is an army—more than an army! What
thousands and millions of men, with trumpet
and banner, and under the sanction of glory,
strive to do—destroy a foc,-that with little
more than an effort of the will—with a drop, a
grain, for all his arsenal—one man can do!"
There was a horrible enthusiasm about this
reasoning devil as he spoke thus : his crest rose,
his breast expanded. .That animation which a
noble thought gives to generous hearts kindled
in the face of the apologist for the darkest and
basest of human crimes. Lucretia shuddered;
but her gloo imagination was spelled ; there
was an inter st mingled with her terror.
“Hush! you appal me," she said, at last,
timidly. “ But, happily, this fearful art exists
no more to tempt and destroy'l"
“ As a mere philosophical discovery, it might
be amusing to a chemist to learn exactly what
were the compounds ofthose ancient poisons,"
said Dalibard, not directly answering the im-
plied question. “ Portions ofthe art are indeed
lost, unless, as I suspect, there is much credu-
lous exaggeration in the accounts transmitted
to us. To kill by a flower, a pair of gloves, a
soap-ball—kill by means which elude all possi-
ble suspicion—is it credible! What say you!
An amusing research, indeed, if one had leisure!
But enough of this now; it grows late. \Ve
dine with Monsieur de —. He wishes to let
his hotel. Why, Lucretia, if we knew a little
of this old art, par Dim! We could soon hire
the hotel! Well, well, perhaps we may survive
my cousin, Jean Bellanger 1".
Three days afterward, Lucretia stood by her
husband‘s side in the secret chamber. From
the hour when she left it a change was percep-
tible in her countenance, which gradually re-
moved from it the character of youth. Paler
the cheek could scarce become, nor more cold
the discontented, restless eye. But it was as
if some great care had settled on her brow, and
contracted yet more the stern outline of the
lips. Gabriel noted the alteration; but he did
not attempt to win her confidence. He was
occupied rather 1'..- considering, first, if it were
well for him to sound deeper into the mystery
he suspected; and secondly, to what extent,
and on what terms it became his interest to aid
the designs in which, by Dalibard’s hints and
kindly trea" .ia..t- '.e foresaw that he was meant
to participate.
A word now} an the rich kinsman of the Dali-
bards. Jun Be‘langcr had been one of those
prudent republicans who had put the Revolu-
tion to profit. By birth a Marseillais, he had
settled in Paris, as an c'pz'cicr, about the year
'1785, and had distinguished himself by the
adaptability and finesse which become those
who fish in such troubled waters. He had
sided with Mirabeau, next with Vergniaud, and
the Girondins. These he forsook in time for
Danton, whose facile corruptibility made him a
seductive patron. He was a large purchaser
in the sale of the emigrant property; he ob-
tained a contract for the supply of the army in
the Netherlands; be abandoned Danton as he
had abandoned the Girondins, but without tak-
ing any active part in the after-proceedings of
the Jacohins. His next connection was with
Tallien and Barras, and he enriched himself
yet more under the Directory than he had done
in the earlier stages of the Revolution. Under
cover of an appearance of bmihomie and good-
humor, a frank laugh and open countenance,
Jean Bellanger had always retained general
popularity and good-will, and was one of those
whom the policy of the First Consul led him to
conciliate. He had long since retired from the
more vulgar departments of trade, but contin-
ued to flourish as an army contractor. He had
a large hotel and a splendid establishment. He
was one of the great capitalists of Paris. The
relationship between Dalibard and Bellanger
was not very close—it was that of cousins
twice removed; and, during Dalibard‘s pre-
vious residence at Paris—each embracing dif-
ferent parties, and each eager in his career—
the blood-tie between them had not been much
thought of, though they were good friends, and
each respected the other for the discretion with
which he had kept aloof from the more san~
guinary excesses of the time. As Bellanger
was not many years older than Dalibard—as
the former had but just married in the year
1791, and had naturally before him the prospect
of a family—as his fortunes at that time, though
rising, were unconfirmed, and as some nearer
relations stood between them, in the shape at
two promising, sturdy nephews. Dalibard had.
not then calculated on any inheritance from his
cousin. On his return circumstances Were
widely altered—Bellanger had been married
some years, and no issue had blessed his nup-
tials. Ilis nephews, drafted into the conscrip-
tion, had perished in Egypt. Dalibard appa-
rently became his nearest relative.
To avarice or to worldly ambition there was,
undoubtedly, something very dazzling in the
prospect thus opened to the eyes of Olivier Dali-
bard. The contractor‘s splendid mode of liv-
ing, vieing with that of the fermicr-gencral 0!
old, the colossal masses of capital, by which he
hacked and supported speculations, that varied
with an ingenuity rendered practical and pro-
found by experience, infiamed into fever the
morbid restlessness of fancy and intellect which
characterized the evil scholar; for that rest-
lessness seemed to supply to his nature vices
not constitutional to it. Dalibard had not the
avarice that belongs either to a miser or a
spendthrift. In his youth, his books and the
simple desires of an abstract student sufiiced
to his wants; and a habit of method and order
—a mechanical calculation which accompanied
all his acts, from the least to the greatest—
preserved him, even when most poor. from
ueediness and want. Nor was he by nature
, vain and ostentatious—those infirmities accom-


68
EPILOGUE TO PART THE FIRST.
pany a larger and more luxuriant nature. His
philosophy rather despised, than inclined to
show. Yet, since to plot and to scheme made
his sole amusement, his absorbing excitement,
-—so a man wrapped in himself, and with no
generous ends in view, has little to plot or to
scheme for but objects of worldly aggrandize-
ment. In this, Dalibard resembled one whom
the intoxication of gambling has mastered—
who neither wants, nor greatly prizes the stake,
but who has grown wedded to the venture for
it. It was a madness like that ofa certain rich
nobleman in our own country, who, with more
money than he could spend, and with a skill in
all games where skill enters, that would have
secured him success of itself—having learned
the art of cheating, could not resist its indul-
gence. No hazard, no warning could restrain
him—cheat he must—the propensity became
iron-strong as a Greek destiny.
That the possible chance of an inheritance
so magnificent should dazzle Lucretia and Ga-
briel, was yet more natural; for in them, it
appealed to more direct and eloquent, though
not more powerful, propensities. Gabriel had
every vice which the greed of gain most irri-
tates and excites. Intense covetousness lay
at the core of his heart; he had the sensual
temperament which yearns for every enjoy-
ment, and takes pleasure in every pomp and
show of life. Lucretia, with a hardness of
mind that disdained luxury, and a certain
grandeur (if such a word may be applied to
one so perverted) that was incompatible with
the sordid infirmities of the miser, had a de-
termined and insatiable ambition, to which gold
was a necessary instrument. Wedded to one
she loved, like Mainwaring, the ambition, as
we have said in a former chapter, could have
lived in another, and become devoted to intel-
lectual efforts, in the nobler desire for power
based on fame and genius. But now she had
the glonmy cravings of one fallen, and the on-
easy desire to restore herself to a lost position
—she fed as an aliment upon scorn to bitter-
ness, of all beings and all things around her.
She was gnawed by that false fever which
riots in those who seek by outward secmings
and distinctions to console themselves for the
want of their own self-esteem; or who, de-
spising the world with which they are brought
in contact, sigh for those worldly advantages
which alone justify to the world itself their
contempt.
To these diseased infirmities of vanity or
pride, whether exhibited in Gabriel or Lucre-
tia, Dalibard administered without apparent
efl‘ort, not only by his conversation, but his
habits of life. He mixed with those much
wealthier than himself, but not better born—-
those who, in the hot and fierce ferment of
that new society, were rising fast into new
aristocracy.—fortunate soldiers, daring specu-
lators, plundercrs of man) an argosy that had
been wrecde in the great storm. Every one
about them was actuated Lv the keen desire
" to make fortune ;“ the desire was contagious.
They were not absolutely poor in the proper
sense of the word poverty, with Dalibard‘s an-
nuity and the interest of Lucretia‘s fortune,
but they were poor compared to those with
whom they associated—poor enough for dis-
'

content. Thus, the image of the mighty
wealth from which, perhaps, but a single life
divided them became horribly haunting. To
Gabriel's sensual vision, the image presented
itself in the shape of unlimited pleasure and
prodigal riot; to Lucretia, it wore the solemn
majesty of power; to Dalibard himself, it was
but the Eureka of a calculation—the palpable
reward of wile, and scheme, and dextrous
combinations. The devil had temptations suit-
ed to each. Meanwhile, the Dalibards were
more and more with the Bellangers. Olivier
glided in to talk of the chances and changes of
the state and the market. Lucretia sat for
hours, listening minutely to the contractor’s
boasts Of‘past frauds, or submitting to the mar-
tyrdom of his victorious games at tric-trac.
Gabriel, a spoiled darling, copied the pictures
on the walls, complimented madame, flattered
monsieur, and fawncd on both for trinkets and
crowns. Like three birds of night and omen,
these three evil natures settled on the rich
man's roof.
\Vas the rich man himself blind to the m0-
tives which budded forth into such attentive
affection? His penetration was too acute-E-
liis ill opinion of mankind too strong, perhaps,
for such amiable self-delusions. But he took
all in good part, availed himself of Dalibard's
hints and suggestions as to the employment or
his capital; was polite to Lucretia, and readily
condemned her to be beaten at. tric-trac, while
he accepted with bonhamic Gabriel’s spirited
copies of his pictures. But at times, there
was a gleam of satire and malice in his round,
gray eyes, and an inward chuckle at the ca
resses and flatteries he received, which per-
plexed Dalibard, and humbled Lucretia. Had
his wealth been wholly at his own disposal,
these signs would have been inauspicious ; but
the new law was strict, and the bulk of Bellan-
ger‘s property could not be alienated from his
nearest kin. Was not Dalibard the nearest!
These hopes and speculations did not, as we
have seeri, absorb the restless and rank ener-
gies of Dalibard’s crooked, but capacious and
grasping intellect. Patiently and ingeniously
he pursued his main political object—the de
tection of that audacious and complicated con
spiracy against the First Consul, which ended
in the tragic deaths of Pichcgru, the Due
d‘Enghien, and the erring, but illustrious hero
of La Vendée, George Cadoudal. In the midst
of these dark plots for personal aggrandize
ment and political fortune, we leave, for the
moment, the somber, sullen soul of Olivier
Dalibard.
‘-
Q i l i f I
Q ‘I’ Q Q I I
Q Q Q Q I I> Q
Time has passed on, and spring is over the
world; the seeds, buried in the earth, burst to
flower; but man's breast knoweth not the
sweet division of the seasons. In winter or
summer, autumn or spring alike, his thoughts
sow the germs of his actions, and day after
day his destiny gathers in her harvests.
The joy-hells ring clear through the groves
of Laughton—an heir is born to the old name
and fair lands of St. John! And, as usual, the
present race welcomes merrily in that which
shall succeed and replace it—that which shall


EPILOGUE TO PART THE FIRST.
69
thrust the enjoyers down into the black graves,
and wrest from them the pleasant goods of the
World. The joy-bell of birth is a note of warn-
ing to the knell for the dead; it wakes the
Worms beneath the mold; the new-born, every
year that it grows and flourishes, speeds the
parent to their feast. Yet who can predict
that the infant shall become the heir l who can
tell that Death sits not side by side with the
nurse at the cradle? Can the mother‘s hand
measure out the woof of the Parcse. or the
father's eye detect, through the darkness of the
morrow, the gleam of the fatal shears!
It is market-day, at a town in the midland
districts of England. There, trade takes its
healthiest and most animated form. You see
not the stunted form and hollow eye of the
mechanic—poor slave of the capitalist—poor
agent and victim of the arch disequalizer—
Civilization. There strides the burly form of
the farmer; there waits the ruddy hind with
his flock; there, patient, sits the miller with
his samples of corn; there, in the booths',
gleam the humble wares which form the luxu-
ries of cottage and farm. The thronging of
men, and the clacking of whips, and the dull
sound of wagon or dray, that parts the crowd
as it passes, and the lowing of herds, and the
bleatiug of sheep, all are sounds of movement
and bustle, yet blent with the pastoral associa-
tions of the Primitive Commerce, when the
link between market and farm was visible and
direct.
Toward one large house in the center of the
brisk life ebbing on, you might see stream after
stream pour its way. The large doors swing-
ing light on their hinges, the gilt letters that
shine above the threshold, the windows, with
theirshutters outside,cased in iron and studded
with nails, announce that that house is the
bank of the town. Come in with that yeoman,
whose broad face tells its tale, sheepish and
down-eyed—he has come not to invest, but to
borrow. _ “'hat matters, war is breaking out
anew, to bring the time of high prices, and pa-
per money, and credit. Honest yeoman, you
will not be refused. He scratches his rough
head, pulls a leg, as he calls it, when the clerk
leans over the counter. and asks to see “ Mus-
ter Mawnering hisself." The clerk points to
the little office-room of the new junior partner,
who has brought ten thousand pounds and a
clear head to the firm. And the yeoman‘s
great boots creak heavily in. I told you so,
honest yeomao ; you come out with a smile on
your broWn face, and your hand. that might fell
an ox, buttons up your huge breaches-pocket.
You will ride home with a light heart—go and
dine, and be merry.
The yeoman tramps to the Ordinary; plates
clatter, tongues wag; and the borrower‘s full
heart finds vent in a good word for that kind
"‘ Muster Mawnering.” For a wonder, all join
in the praise. " He’s an honor to the town;
he’s a pride to the county—thof he‘s such a
friend at a pinch, he’s a rale mon of business!
He‘ll make the haunk worth a million l—and
how Well he spoke at the great county meeting
about the war, and the laund, and them blood-
thirsty mounseers! If their members were
toike him, Muster Fox Would look small !"
The day declines ; the town empties-whis-

kies, horses, and carts are giving life to the
roads and the lanes—and the market is desert-
ed, and the bank is shut up, and William Main-
waring walks back to his home at the skirts oi
the town—not villa, nor cottage—that plain
English house with its cheerful face of red
brick, and its solid squareness of shape—a
symbol of substance in the fortunes of the own-
er! Yet, as he passes, he sees through the
distant trees the hall of the member for the
town. He pauses a moment, and sighs un-
quietly. That pause and that sigh betray the
germ of ambition and discontent. Why should
not he, who can speak so well, be member for
the town, instead of that stammering squire!
But his reason has soon silenced the querulous
murmur. He hastens his step—he is at home !
And there, in the neat-furnished drawing-room,
which looks on the garden behind, hisses the
welcoming tea-urn; and the piano is Open, and
_there is a packet of new books on the table:
and, best of all, there is the glad face of the
sweet English wife. The happy scene was
characteristic of the time, just when the simpler
and more innocent luxuries of the higher class
spread, not to spoil, but refine the middle. The
dress, air, mien, movements, oPthe young cou-
ple; the unassuming, suppressed, sober ele-
gance of the house; the flower-garden, the
books, and the music—evidences of cultivated
taste, not signals of display-all bespoke the
gentle fusion of ranks, before rude and unedu-
cated wealth, made in looms and lucky hits,
rushed in to separate forever the gentleman
from the parucnu.
Spring smiles over Paris, over the spires of
Notre Dame, and the crowded alleys of the Tu-
illeries, over-thousands and thousands eager,
joyous, aspiring, reckless—the New Race of
France—bound to one man’s destiny, children
of glory and of carnage, whose blood-the wolf
and the vulture scent, hungry, from afar!
The conspiracy against the life of the First
Consul has been detected and defeated. Pi-
chegru is in prison, George Cadoudal awaits
his trial, the Due d‘Enghien sleeps in his bloody
grave; the imperial crown is prepared for the
great soldier, and the great soldier‘s creatures
bask in the noonday sun. Olivier Dalibard is
in high and lucrative employment: his rise is
ascribed to his talents-his opinions. No ser-
vice connected with the detection of the con-
spiracy is traced or traceable by the public eye.
If such exist, it is known but to those who have
no desire to reveal it. The old apartments are
retained; but they are no longer dreary, and
comfortless, and deserted. They are gay with
draperies, and or-molu, and mirrors; and Ma-
dame Dalibard has her nights of reception, and
Monsieur Dalibard has already his troops of
clients. In that gigantic concentration of ego-
tism which, under Napoleon, is called The
State, Dalibard has found his place. He has
served to swell the power of the unit, and the
cipher gains importance by its position in the
sum.
Jean Bellanger is no more. He died, not
suddenly, and yet of some quick disease—nerv-
ous exhaustion: his schemes, they said; had
worn him out. But the estate of Dahbard,
though prosperous, is not that of the heir to the
dead millionaire. What mistake is this1 The


70
EPILOGUE TO PART THE FIRST.
built of that wealth must go to the nearest kin
-—so runs the law. But the will is read; and,
for the first time, Olivier Dalibard learns that
the dead man had a son—a son by a former
marriage—the marriage undeclared, unknown,
amid the riot of the Revolution; for the wife
was the daughter of aprosarit. The son had
been reared at a distance, put to school at Ly-
ons, and unavowed to the second wife, who
had brought an ample dower, and whom that
discovery might have deterred from the altar.
Unaclrnowledged through life—in death, at
least, the son's rights are proclaimed : and
Olivier Dalibard feels that Jean Bellanger has
died in vain ! For days has the pale Provencal
been closeted with lawyers; but there is no
hope in litigation. The proofs of the marriage,
the birth, the identity, come out clear and
clearer; and the beardless school-boy at Lyons
reaps all the profit of those nameless schemes
and that mysterious death. Olivier Dalibard
desires the friendship—the intimacy of the heir.
But the heir is consigned to the guardianship
ofa merchant at Lyons, near of kin to his moth-
er—and the guardian responds but coldly to
Olivier's letters. Suddenly the defeated aspi-
rant seems reconciled to his loss. The widow
Bellanger has her own separate fortune; and
it is large, beyond expectation. In addition to
the wealth shetbrought the deceased, his all'cc-
tion had led him to invest vast sums in her
name. The widow, then, is rich—rich as the
heir himself. She is still fair. Poor woman,
she needs consolation ! But, meanwhile, the
nights of Olivier Dalibard are disturbed and
broken. His eye, in the daytime, is haggard
and anxious ; he is seldom seen on foot in the
streets. Fear is his companion by day, and sits
at night on his pillow. The Chouan, Pierre
Guillot, who looked to George Cadoudal as a
god, knowa that George Cadoudal has been be-
trayed;_and suspects Olivier Dalibard ; and the
Chouan has an arm of iron and a heart steeled
against all mercy. Oh, how the pale scholar
thirsted for that Chmum’a blood ! With what
relentless pertinacity, with what ingenious re-
search he had set all the hounds of the police
upon the track of that single man ! How nota-
bly he had failed! An avenger lived; and
Olivier Dalibard started at his own shadow on
the wall. But he did not the less continue to
plot and to intrigue—nay, such occupation be-
cnlme more necessary, as an escape from him-
se .
And, in the mean while, Olivier Dalibard
sought to take courage from the recollection
that the Citation had taken an oath (and he
knew that oaths are held sacred with the Bre-
tons) that he would keep his hand from his
knife, unless he had clear evidence oftreachery;
such evidence existed, but only in Dalibard’s
desk, or the archives of Fouché. Tush, he was
safe ! And so, when, from dreams of fear, he
started at the depth ofnight, so his bolder wife
Would whisper to him, with firm, uncaressing
lips, “Olivier Dalibard, thou fearest the living,
dost thou never fear the dead? Thy dreams
are haunted with a specter. Why takes it not
the accusing shape of thy moldcring kinsman l"
Dalibard Would have answered, for he was a
philosopher in his cowardice, “ It n‘y a. gut lea
mom, qui n: rcm'ennurt pas.”

It is the notable convenience of us narrator's
to represent by what is called solilaquy, the
thoughts—the interior of thc personages we
describe. And this is almost the master-work
of the talc-teller, that is, if the soliloquy be
really in words, what self-commune is in the
dim and tangled recesses of the human heart!
But to this privilege we are rarely admitted
in the case of Olivier Dalibard; for he rarely
communed with himself; a. sort of mental cal-
culation, it is true, eternally went on within
him, like the wheels of a destiny; but it had
become a mechanical operation, seldom dis-
turbed by that consciousness of thought, with its
struggles of fear and doubt, conscience and
crime, which gives its appalling interest to the
soliloquy of tragedy.‘ Amid the tremendous
secrecy of that profound intellect, as at the bot-
tom of a sea, only monstrous images of terror,
things of prey, stirred in cold-blooded and dc-
vuuring life; but into these deeps Olivier him-
ielf did not dive. He did not face his own soul;
is outer life and his inner life seemed separate
individualities, just as, in some complicated
state, the social machine goes on through all its
numberless cycles of vice and dread, whatever
the acts of the government, which is the repre-
sentative of the state, and stands for the state
in the shallow judgment of history.
Before this time, Olivier Dalibard’s manner
to his son had greatly changed from the indif-
ference it betrayed in England: it was kind
and aflectionate, almost caressing; while, on
the other hand, Gabriel, as if in possession of
some secret which gave him power over his
father, took a more careless and independent
tone, often absented himself from the house for
days together, joined the revels of young protl
ligates older than himself, with whom he had
formed acquaintance, indulged in spendthrift
expenses, and plunged prematurely into the
stream of vicious pleasure that oozed through
the mud of Paris.
One morning, Dalibard, returning from a visit
to Madame Bellanger, found Gabriel alone in
the salon, contemplating his fair face and gay
dress in one of the mirrors, and smoothing
down the hair, which he wore long and sleek,
as in the portraits of Raffaello. Dalibard's lip
curled at the boy’s coxcombry, though such
tastes he himselfhad fostered, according to his
ruling principles, that, to govern, you must find
a foible, or instill it; but the sneer changed
into a smile.
“ Are you satisfied with yourself, jolt" gar-
pon .1" he said, with saturnine playfulness.
“ At least, sir, I hope that you will not be
ashamed of me, when you formally legitimatiza
me as your son. The time has come, you know,
to keep your promise."
“ And it shall be kept, do not fear. But first,
I have an employment for you—a mission-
your first embassy, Gabriel."
“I listen, sir."
"I have to send to England a communication
of the utmost importance—public importance—
to the secret agent of the French government.
We are on the eve of a descent on England.
We are in correspondence with some in Lon-
don on whom We count for support. A man
might be suspected, searched—mind, searched.
You, a boy, with English name and speech,


EPILOGUE T0 PART THE FIRST.
71
will be my safest envoy. Bonaparte approves
my selection. On your return, he permits me
to present you to him. He loves the rising
generation. In a few days you will be pre-
pared to start.”
Despite the calm tone of the father, so had
the son, from the instinct of fear and self-pres-
ervation, studied every accent, every glance of
Olivier—so had he constituted himself a spy
upon the heart whose pcrfnly was ever armed,
that be detected at once in the proposal some
scheme hostile to his interests. He made, how-
ever, no opposition to the plan suggested ; and,
seemingly satisfied with his obedience, the
father dismissed him.
As soon as he was in the streets, Gabriel
went straight to the house of Madame Bellan-
ger. The hotel had been purchased in her
name, and she therefore retained it. Since her
husband‘s death, he had avoided that house,
before so familiar to him; and now he grew
pale, and breathed hard, as he passed by the
porter‘s lodge up the lofty stairs.
He knew of his father‘s recent and constant
visits at the house; and, without conjectur-
ing precisely what were Olivicr‘s designs, he
connected them, in the natural and acquired
shrewdness he possessed, with the wealthy
widow. He resolved to watch, observe, and
draw his own conclusions. As he entered
Madame Bellanger's room rather abruptly, he
observed her push aside, among her papers,
something she had been gazing tin—something
which sparkled to his eyes. He sat himself
dovvn close to her, with the caressing manner
he usually adopted toward women ; and, in the
midst of the babbling talk with which ladies
generally honor boys, he suddenly, as if by
accident, displaced the papers, and saw his
father's miniature set in brilliants. The start
of the widow, her blush, and her exclamation,
strengthened the light that flashed upon his
mind. “ O-ho, I see now,” he said, laughing,
“ why my father is always praising black hair;
and—nay, nay—gentlemen may admire ladies
in Paris, surely !"
“Pooh, my dear child, your father is an old
friend of my poor husband’s, and a near rela-
tion, too! But, Gabriel, mon pail urge! you
had better not say at home that you have seen
this picture—Madame Dalibard might be foolish
enough to be angry."
“ To be sure not. I have kept a secret be-
fore now l" and again the boy’s cheek grew pale,
and he looked hurriedly round.
“ And you are very fond of Madame Dalibard,
too, so you must not vex her.”
“ Who says I'm fond of Madame Dalibard!
-a stepmother t”
“ Why, your father, of course—il est xi bon—
cc pauurt- Dulibard; and all men like cheerful
faces; but then, pour lady—an Englishwoman,
so strange here—very natural she should fret
--and With bad health, too."
“Bad health,_ah! I remember! She also
does not seem likely to live long 1"
“So your poor father apprehends. Well,
Well, how uncertain life is ! Who would have
thought dear Bellanger would have—"
Gabriel rose hastily, and interrupted the
widow‘s pathetic reflections. "I only ran in
to say, Bonjour. I must leave you now."

“ Adieu, my dear boy—not a word on the
miniature! By-the-by, here‘s a shirt-pin for
you—tn. es jolt comma 1m amour."
All was now clear to Gabriel—it was neces-
sary to get rid of him, and forever! Dali-
bard might dread his attachment to Lucretia—
he would dread still more his closer intimacy
with the widow ochllanger, should that widow
ed again—and Dalibard, frccd like her, (by
what means '.') be her choice! Into that abyss
of wickedness, fathomlcss to the innocent, the
young villainous eye plunged, and surveyed the
ground ; a terror seized on him—a terror oflife
and death. Would Dalibard spare even his
own son, if that son had the power to injure!
This mission—was it exile only ?—-only a fall
back to the old squalor of his uncle‘s studio '4—
only the laying aside ofa useless tool i—or was
it a snare to the gravel Demon, as Dalibard
was, doubtless the boy wronged him. But
guilt construes guilt for the worst.
Gabriel had formerly enjoyed the thought to
match himself, should danger come, with Dali-
bard; the hour liad come, and he felt his im-
potence. Brave his father, and refuse to leave
France! From that even his reckless hardihood
shrank as from inevitable destruction. But to
depart—be the poor victim and dupe—after hav-
ing been let loose among the riot of pleasure,
to return to labor and privation—from that:
option his vanity and his senses vindictiver
revolted. And Lucretia! the only being who
seemed to have a human kindness to him!
through all the vicious egotism of his nature,
he had some grateful sentiments for her! and
even the egotism assisted that unwontcd amia-
bility; for he felt that, Lucretia gone, he had
no hold on his father’s house—that the home
of her successor never would be his. While
thus brooding, he lifted his eyes, and saw Dali-
bard pass, in his carriage, toward the Tuillerics.
The house, then, was clear—he could see
Lucretia alone. He formed his resolution at:
once, and turned homeward. As he did so, he
observed a man at the angle of the street,
whose eyes followed Dalibard‘s carriage with
an expression of unmistakable hate and re-
venge; but scarcely had he marked the coun-
tenance, before the man, looking hurriedly
round, darted away, and was lost among the
crowd.
Now, that countenance was not quite un-
familiar to Gabriel. He had seen it before, as
he saw it now,—hastily, and, as it were, by
fearful snatches. Once he had marked, on
returning home at twilight, a figure lurking by
the house—and something in the quickness
with which it turned front his gaze, joined to
his knowledge of Dalibard‘s apprehensions,
made him mention the circumstance to his
father, when he entered. Dalibard bade him
hasten with a note, written hurriedly, to an
agent of the police, whom'he kept lodged near
at hand. The man was still upon the thresh-
old, when the boy went out on this errand, and
he caught a glimpse of his face; but before the
police agent reached the spot, the ill omcned
apparition had vanished. Pabriel now, as his
eye rested full upon that threatening brow,
and those burning eyes, was convinced that
he saw before him the terrible Pierre Guillot,
whose very name bleached his father‘s cheek


72
EPILOGUE TO PART THE FIRST.
When the figure retreated, he resolved at once
to pursue. He hurried through the crowd amid
which the man had disappeared, and looked
cagerlv into the faces of those he jostled—
someti'nes', at the distance, he caught sight of
a figure, which appeared to resemble the one
which he pursued; but the likeness faded on
approach. The chase, however, vague and des-
ultory as it was, led him on till his way was
lost among labyrinths of narrow and unfamiliar
streets. Heated and thirsty, he paused at last
before a small cufé, entered to ask for a draught
of lemonade, and, behold, chance had favored
him! the man he sought was seated there, be-
fore a bottle of wine, and intently reading the
newspaper. Gabriel set himself down at the
adjoining table. In a few moments the man
was joined by a new-comer—the two conversed,
but in whispers so low, that Gabriel was unable
to hear their conversation—though he caught,
more than once, the name of “ George.” Both
the men were violently excited, and the ex-
pression of their countenances was menacing
and sinister. The first comer pointed often to
the newapaper, and read passages from it to
his companion. This suggested to Gabriel the
demand for another journal. \Vhen the waiter
brought it to him, his eye rested upon a long
paragraph, in which the name of George Cadou-
dal frequently occurred. In fact, all the journals
of the day were filled with speculations on the
conspiracy and trial of that fiery martyr to an
erring adaptation ofa noble principle. Gabriel
knew that his father had had a principal share
in the detection of the defeated enterprise;
and his previous persuasions were confirmed.
His sense of hearing grew sharper by con-
tinued effort, and at length he heard the first
comer say, distinctly, “If I were but sure that
I had brought this fate upon George, by intro-
ducing to him that accursed Dalibard—if my
oath did but justify me, I would—” The con-
cluding sentence was lost. A few moments
after, the two men rose, and from the familiar
words that passed between them and the master
ofthe cnfé, who approached, himself, to receive
the reckoning, the shrewd boy perceived that
the place was no unaccustomed haunt. He
crept nearer and nearer; and as the landlord
shook hands with his customer, he heard dis-
tinctly the former address him by the name of
“ Guillot." When the men withdrew, Gabriel
followed them at a distance (taking care first
to impress on his memory the name of the cafe,
and the street in which it was placed), and,
as he thought, unobserved; he was mistaken.
Suddenly, in one street, more solitary than the
rest, the man Whom he was mainly bent on
tracking, turned round, advanced to Gabriel,
who was on the other side of the street, and
laid his hand upon him so abruptly, that the
boy was fairly taken by surprise.
“Who bade you follow us!" said he, with
so dark and fell an expression of countenance,
that even Gabriel’s courage failed him. “ No
evasion—no lies—speak out, and at once ;" and
the grasp tightened on the boy’s throat.
Gabriel‘s readiness of resource and presence
of mind did not long forsake him.
“Loose your hold, and I will tell you—you
stifle the.” The man slightly relaxed his grasp,
and Gabriel said, quickly, " My mother perished


on the guillotine in the Reign of Terror; I am
for the Bourbons. I thought I overheard words
which showed sympathy for poor George, the
brave Chouan. I followed you; forI thought
I was following friends."
The man smiled as he fixed his steady eye
upon the unflinching child :——“ My poor lad,”
he said, gently, “I believe you—pardon me—
but follow us no more: we are dangerous !"
He waved his hand, and strode away—rejoined
his companion, and Gabriel reluctantly aban-
doned the pursuit, and went homeward. It
was long before he reached his father's house,
for he had strayed into a strange quarter of
Paris, and had frequently to inquire the way.
At length he reached home, and ascended the
stairs to a small room, in which Lucretia usu-
ally sat, and which was divided by a narrow
corridor from the sleeping chamber of herself
and Dalibard. His stcpmother, leaning her
cheek upon her hand, was seated by the win-
dow, so absorbed in some gloomy thoughts,
which cast over her rigid face a shade, intense
and solemn as despair, that she did not perceive
the approach of the boy till he threw his arm
round her neck, and then she started as in
alarm—-
“ You—only you J" she said, with a con-
strained smile; “ see, my nerves are not so
strong as they were.”
“ You are disturbed, belle more ,- has he been
vexing you 1”
“ He—Dalibard—no, indeed, we were only,
this morning, discussing matters of business."
“ Business—that means money 2"
“ Truly,” said Lucretia, “ money does make
the staple of life’s business. In spite of his
new appointment, your father needs some some
in hand—favors are to be bought—opportuni-
ties for speculation occur, and-”
“ And my father,” interrupted Gabriel,
“ wishes your consent to raise the rest of your
portion."
Lucretia looked surprised, but answered qui-
etly, “ He had my consent long since; but the
trustees to the marriage settlement—mere men
of business—my uncle’s bankers (for I had lost
all claim on my kindred) refuse, or at least in-
terpose such difficulties as amount to refusal."
" But that reply came some days since,” said
Gabriel, musingly.
“ How did you know l—did your father tell
ou’!”
“ Poor belle mere .1" said Gabriel, almost with
pity, “ can you live in this house, and not watch
all that passes—every stranger, every message,
every letter! But what, then, does he wish
with you 1"
“ He has suggested my returning to England,
and seeing the trustees myself. His interest
can obtain my passport."
“And you have refused 7.”
“ I have not consented."
“ Consent !--Hush,—your maid—Marie—ie
not waiting Without," and Gabriel rose and
looked out ; " no, confound these doors ! none
close as they ought in this house. Is it not a
clause in your settlement that the half of your
fortune now invested goes to the survivor l"
“ It is." replied Lucretia, struck and thrilled a'
the question. “ How, again, did you know this i"
" I saw my father reading the copy. If you


EPILOGUE TO PART THE FIRST.
73
die first, then, he has all : if he merely wanted
the money, he would not send you away !"
There was a terrible pause. Gabriel re-
sumed: “I trust you, it may be, with my life ;
but Iwill speak out. My father goes much to
Bellanger's widow-she is rich and weak.
Come to England ! Yes, come,- for he is about
to dismiss me. He fears that I shall be in the
way, to warn you, perhaps, or to—to—in short,
both of us are in his way. He gives you an
escape. Once in England, the war which is
breaking out will prevent your return. He
will twist the laws of divorce to his favor—he
will marry again I What then‘! he spares you
what remains of your fortune—he spares your
life. Remain hero—cross his schemes—and—
no, no ;—come to England—safer anywhere
than here."
As he spoke, great changes had passed over
Lucretia's countenance. At first it was the
flash ofconviction, then the stunned shock of
horror; now she rose—rose to her full height
—-and there was a livid and deadly light in her
eyes—the light of conscious courage, and pow-
er, and revenge. " Fool," she mutterct , “ with
all his craft ! Fool, fool! As if, in the war of
household perfidy, the woman did not always
conquer! Man‘s only chance is to be mailed
in honor."
"But," said Gabriel, overhearing her, “ but
you do not remember what it is. There is
nothing you can see, and guard against. It is
not like an enemy face to face; it is death in
the‘food, in the air, in the touch. You stretch
out your arms in the dark—you feel nothing,
and you die! Oh, do not fancy that I have
not thought well (for I am almost a man now)
if there were no means to resist—there are
none! As well make head against the plague
-it is in the atmosphere. Come to England,
and return. Live poorly, if you must—but
live !—but live !"
“ Return to England poor and despised, and
bound still to him, or a disgraced and divorced
wife—disgraced by the low-born dependent on
my kinsman‘s house—and fawn, perhaps, upon
my sister and her husband for bread ! Never!
—I am at my post, and I will not fly !"
“ Brave, brave !“ said the boy, clapping his
hands, and sincerely moved by a daring supe-
rior to his own-H I wish I could help you !“
Lucretia’s eye rested on him with the full
gaze, so rare in its looks. She drew him to
her, and kissed his brow—" Buy, through life,
whatever our guilt and its doom, we are bound
to each other. I may yet live to have wealth
-if so, it is yours as a son’s. I may be iron
to others-never to you. Enough of this—I
must reflect !" She passed her hand over her
eyes a moment, and resumed—" You would
help me in my self-defense; I think you can.
You have been more alert /in your watch than
I have. You must have means I have not
secured. Your father guards well all his
papers!"
“ I have keys to every desk. My foot passed
the threshold of that room, under the roof, be-
fore yours. But, no; his powers can never be
yours ! He has never confided to you half his
secrets ! He has antidotes for every-every-J'
“ Hist! what noise is that‘! Only the shower
on the easements! No, no, child, that is not

my object. Cadoudal’s conspiracy! Your fath-
er lias letters from Fouché, which show how
he has betrayed others who are stronger to
avenge than a woman and a boy."
" Well i"
“I would have those letters! Give me the
keys! But hold !—Gabriel—Gahr;cl, you may
yet misjudge him. This woman—wife to the
dead man—hi: wife! Horror! Have you no
proofs of what you imply?"
“ Proofs l” echoed Gabriel, in a tone of won-
der, “I can but see and conjecture. You are
warned: watch and decide for yourself. But
again I say, come to England! I shall go !”
Without reply, Lucretia took the keys from
Gabriel’s half-reluctant hand, and passed into
her husband‘s writing-room. When she had
entered, she looked the door. She passed at
once to a huge secretary, of which the key was
small as a fairy‘s work. She opened it with
ease by one of the counterferts. No love cor-
respondence—the first object of her search, for
she was Woman—met her eye. What need of
letters, when interviews were so facile! But
she soon found a_document that told all which
love-letters could tell—it was an account ofthe
moneys and possessions ofMadame Bellanger—
and there were pencil notes on the margin :-
“ Vautran will give 400,000 francs for the lands
in Auvergne—to be accepted. Ccnsult on the
power of sale granted to a second husband.
Query, ifthere is no chance of the heir-at-law
disputing the moneys invested in Madame B.’s
name,"—and such memoranda as a man notes
down in the schedule of properties about to be
his own. In these inscriptions there was a
hideous mockery of all love—like the blue-lights
of corruption, they showed the black vaitlt of
the heart. The pale reader saw what her own
attractions had been; and, fallen as she was,
she smiled superior in her bitterness of scorn.
Arranged methodically, with the precision of
business, she found the letters she next looked
for ;-one recognizing Dalibard’s services in
the detection of the conspiracy, and authorizing
him to employ the police in the search of Pierre
Guillot, sufficed for her purpose. She with-
drew, and secreted it. She was about to lock
up the secretary, when her eye fell on the title
ofa small MS. volume in a corner; and as she
read, she pressed one hand convulsively to her
heart, while, twice with the other, she grasped
the volume, and twice withdrew the grasp.
The title ran harmlesst thus :-—-“ Philosophical
and chemical inquirtt: imr the nature and mate-
rials of the poisons in use between the 141/! and
lfilh centuries." Hurriedly, and at last, as it
doubtful of herself, she left the MS., closed the
secretary, and returned to Gabriel. _
“ You have got the paper you seek l” he
said.
“ Yes." -
" Then whatever you do, you must be quick
-he will soon discover the loss."
"I will be quick.”
“ It is l whom he will suspect," said Gabriel,
in alarm, as that thought struck him. uNo. for
my sake, do not take the letter till am gone.
Do not fear, in the mean time—he Will do noth-
ing against you while I am here." _
“ I Will replace the letter till then,” said Lit
cretia, meekly. “ You have a right to my first


74
EPILOGUE TO PART THE FIRST.'
thoughts." So she went back, and Gabriel
(suspicious, perhaps) crept after her.
As she replaced the document, he pointed to
the MS. which had tempted her—“I have seen
that before ; howl longed for it E If any thing
ever happens to him, I claim that as my legacy.”
Their hands met as he said this, and grasped
each other convulsivcly ; Lucretia relocked the
secretary, and when she gained the next room,
she tottered to a chair. Her strong nerves gave
way for the moment; she uttered no cry, but,
by the whiteness of her face, Gabriel saw that
she was senseless; senseless for a minute or so
-scarccly more. But the return to conscious-
ness, with a clenched hand, and a brow of de-
- fiance, and a stare of mingled desperation and
dismay, SCOIlN‘d rather the awakening from
some frightful dream of violence and struggle,
than the slow, languid recovery from the faint-
ness of a swoon. Yes, henceforth, to sleep,
was to couch bya serpent—to breathe, was to
listen for the avalanche ! Thou, who didst tri~
its so wantonly with treason, now gravely front
the grim comrade thou hast won ; thou, schem-
ing desecrator ofthe household gods, now learn,
to the last page of dark kn'owlcdge, what the
hearth is without them ! I
Gabriel was strangely moved, as he beheld
that proud and solitary despair. An instinct of
nature had hitherto checked him from actively
aiding Lucretia in that struggle with his father,
which could but end in the destruction of one
or the other. He had contented himself with
forewarnings, with hints, with indirect sugges-
tions; but now, all his sympathy was so
strongly roused on her behalf, that the last faint
scruple of filial conscience vanished into the
abyss of blood, over which stood that lonely
Titaness. He drew near, and, clasping her
hand, said, in a quick and broken voice,
“ Listen! You know where to find proof
of my fa-—-that is, of—Dalibard‘s treason to
the conspirators; you know the name of the
man he dreads as an avenger, and you know
that he waits but the proof to strike; but you
do not know where to find that man, if his
revenge is wanting for yourself. The police
has not hunted him out; how can you! Acci-
dent has made me acquainted with one of his
haunts. Give me a single promise, and I will
ut you, at least, upon that clue—weak, per-
aps, but as yet the sole one to be followed.
Promise me that, [only in defense of your own
life, not for mere Jealousy, you will avail your—
Self of the knowledge, and you shall know all I
o I),
“Do you think," said Lucretia, in a calm,
cold voice, “ that it is for jealousy, which is love,
that I would murder all hope, all peace ; for we
have here (and she smote her breast)-here, if
not elsewhere, a heaven and a hell! 'Son,I
will not harm your father, except in self-de-
fense! But tell me nothing that may make
the son-a party in the father's doom."
"The father slew the mother," muttered
Gabriel, between his clenched teeth; " and to
me, you have well nigh supplied her place.
Strike, if need be, in her name! If you are
driven to want the arm of Pierre Guillot, seek
neWs of him at the Café Dufour, Rue S——-,
Boulevard 1114 Temple. Be calm, now; I hear
your husband‘s step."
5

A few days more, and Gabriel is gone! Wife
and husband are alone with each other. Ln-
cretia has refused to depart. Then that mute
coma of horror! that suspense of two foes in
the conflict of death—for the subitle, prying eye
of Olivier Dalibard sees that he himself is sus-
pected—further he shuns from sifting! Glance
fastens on glance, and then hurries smilineg
away. From the cup, grins a skeleton—at the
board, warns a specter. But how kind still the
words, and how gentle the tone; and they lie
down side by side in the marriage bod—brain
plotting against brain, heart loathing heart. It
is a duel of life and death, between those sworn
through life, and beyond death, at the 'altar.
But it is carried on with all the forms and
courtesies of dual in the age of chivalry. No
conjugal wrangling—n0 slip of the tongue; the
oil is on the surface of the wave—the monsters,
in the hell of the abyss, war invisiny below.
At length, a dull torpor creeps over the woman
—shc feels the taint in her veins; the slow vic-
tory is begun. What mattered all her vigilance
and caution! Vainly glide from the pangs of
the serpent, his very breath suffices to destroy!
Pure seems the draught, and wholesome the
viand; that master of the science of murder
needs not the means of the bungler! Then,
keen and strong from the creeping lethargy,
started the fierce instinct of self, and the ruth-
less impulse of revenge. Not too late yet to
escape; for those subtile banes, that are to defy
all detection, work but slowly to their end.
One evening, a woman, closely mantled, stood
at watch by the angle ofa wall. The light came
dim and muflled from the window ofa café hard
at hand ; the reflection slept amid the shadows
on the dark pavement, and, save a solitary lamp,
swung at distance, in the vista over the cen-
ter of the narrow street, no other ray broke the
gloom. The night was clouded and starless;
the wind moaned at gusts, and the rain fell
heavily; but the gloom and the loneliness did
not appal the eye, and the wind did not chill
the heart, and the rain fell unneeded on the
head of the woman at her post. At times, she
paused, in her slow, sentry-like pace to and
fro, to look through the window of the café, and
her gaze fell always on one figure seated apart
from the rest. At length, her pulse heat more
quickly, and the patient lips smiled sternly. The
figure had risen to depart. A man came out,
and walked quickly up the street; the Woman
approached, and when the man was under the
single lamp swung aloft, he felt his arm touch-
ed; the woman was at his side, and, looking
steadily into his face,
“You are Pierre Guillot, the Breton, the
friend of George Cadoudal. Will you be his
avenger l"
The Cliouan’s first impulse had been to place
his hand in his vest, and something shone bright
in the lamplight, clasped in those iron fingers.
The voice and the manner reassured him, and
he answered readily—
“ I am he whom you seek, and I only live to
avenge."
“ Read, then, and act," answered the woman;
and she placed a paper in his hands.
t i' i i i- I“
Q Q Q h
at Q s : o


EPILOGUE TO PART THE FIRST.
75
At Laughton, the babe is on the breast of the
fair mother; and the father sits beside the bed ;
and mother and father dispute almost angrily
Whether mother or father, those soft. rounded
features of slumbering infancy resemble most.
At the red house, near the market-town, there
is a hospitable bustle. \Villiam is home earl-
ier than usual. Within the last hour, Susan has
been thrice into every room. Husband and
wife are now watching at the window. The
good Fieldens, with a coach full of children,
are expected every moment, on a week‘s visit,
at least.
In the café, in the Boulevard du Temple, sit
Pierre Guillot, the Chouan, and another of the
old band of brigands, whom George Cadoudal
had mustered in Paris. There is an expres-
sion of content on Guillot‘s countenance—it
seems more open than usual, and there is a
complacent smile on his lips. He is whisper-
ing low to his friend, in the intervals of eating,
an employment pursued with the hearty gusto
of a hungry man. But his friend does not seem
to sympathize with the cheerful feelings of his
comrade; he is pale, and there is terror on his
face; and you may see that the journal in his
hand trembles like a leaf.
In the gardens of the Tuilleries, some score
or so of gossips group together.
“And no news of the murderer!" asked one.
“No; but a man who had been friend to
Robespierre must have made secret enemies
enough.”
“ Ce pauvrc Dalibard! He was not mixed
up with the 'I‘crrorim nevertheless."
“ Ah, but the mole deadly for that, perhaps
-a sly man was Olivier Dalibard !"
I " What’s the matter!" said an emfiloyrf, loun-
ging up to the group. “ Are you tal ing of Oli-
vier Dalibardl It is but the other day he had
Marsan’s appointment. He is now to have
Pleyel‘s: I heard it two days ago—a capital
thing! Posts, {1 im loin! We shall see him
a senator soon."
“ Speak for yourself," quoth a ci-dcvmu abbé,
with a laugh. “I should be sorry to see him
again soon, wherever he is.”
“ Plait il !-—I don’t understand you !”
“Don‘t you know that Olivier Dalibard is
murdered—found stabbed—in his own house,
too i"
“ Ciel! Pray tell me all you know. His
place, then, is vacant !"
“ Why, it seems that Dalibard, who had been
brought up to medicine, was still fond of chem-
ical experiments. He hired a mom at the top
of the house for such scientific amusements.
He was accustomed to spend part of his nights
there. They found him, at morning, bathed in
his blood, with three ghastly wounds in his
side, and his fingers cut to the bone. He had
struggled hard with the knife that butchered
him.”
“ In his own house !" said a lawyer: “some
servant or spendthrift heir 1”
“He has no heir but young Bellanger, who
will be riche 11 millions, and is now but a school-
boy at Lyons. No; it seems that the window
was left open, and that it communicates with
the roof-tops. There the murderer had enter-
ed, and by that way escaped ; for they found the
loads of the gutter dabbled with blood. The

next house was uninhabited—easy enough to
get in there, and lie perdu till night.”
“Hum,” said the lawyer; “ but the assassin
could only have learned Dalihard’s habits from
some one in the house. Was the deceased
married 2"
“ Oh. yes; to an Englishwoman.“
“ She had lovers, perhaps 1"
“Pooh! lovers l—the happiest couple ever
known! You should have seen them together.
I dined there last week.”
" It is strange 3” said the lawyer.
“ And he was getting on so well," muttered .
a hungry-looking man.
“And his place is vacant !" repeated the em-
plo 6, as he qoitted the crowd, abstractedly.
n the house of Olivier Dalibard sits Lucre-
tia, alone, and in her own usual morning-room,
The officer appointed to such tasks b the
French law, has performed his visit, and made
his notes, and expressed condolence with the
widow, and promised justiée and retribution,
and placed his seal on the looks till the repre-
sentatives of the heir-at-lawshall arrive; and
the heir-ablaw is the very boy who had suc-
ceeded so unexpectedly to the \Vt‘illlll of Jean
Bellanger, the contractor! But Lucretiahas
obtained beforehand all she wishes to save from
the rest. An open box is on the floor, into
which her hand drops, noiselessly, a volume in
manuscript. On the forefinger ofthat hand is
a ring, larger and more massive than those usu-
ally worn by women—by Lucretia never worn
before. Why should that ring have been se-
lected with such care from the dead man's
hoards'l why so precious the dull opal in the
cumbrous setting! From that hand the vol~
ume drops, without sound, into the box, as those
whom the secrets of the volume instruct you
to destroy, may drop without noise into the
grave. The trace of some illness, recent and
deep, nor conquered yet, has ploughed lines in
that young countenance, and dimmed the light
of those searching eyes. Yet, courage! the
poison is arrested—the poisoner is no more—
minds like thine, stern Woman, are cased in cof-
fers of steel, and the rust, as yet, has gnawed
no deeper titan the surface. So, over that face
stamped with bodily suffering, plays a calm
smile of triumph. The schemer has baffled
the schemer ! Turn now to the right, pass by
that narrow corridor, you are in the marriage
chamber—the windows are closéd. Tall ta-
pers burn at the foot of the bed. Now, go back
to that narrow corridor: disregarded, thrown
aside, are a cloth and _a bosom; the cloth is
wet still; but here and there the red stains
are dry, and clotted as with bloody glue; and
the hairs of the bosom start up, turn and rag-
ged, as if the bristles had a sense of some
horror— as if things inanimate still partoolt of
men‘s dread at men‘s deeds. If you passed
through the corridor, and saw injhe shadow
of the wall that homeliest of instruments cast
away and forgotten, you would smile at the
slatternly housework. But if you knew that a
corpse had been borne down those stairs to
the left—borne along those floors to that mar-
riage bed, with the blood oozing, and gushing.
and plashing below, as the bearers passed with
their burden, then, straight that dead thing
would take the awe of the dead being: it told


70
EPILOGUE TO PART THE FIRST.
its own tale of violence and murder; it had
dabbled in the gore of the violated clay; it had
become an evidence of the crime. No wonder
that its hairs bristled up, sharp and ragged, in
the shadow of the wall !
The first part of the tragedy ends. Let fall
the curtain, When next it rises, years will
have passed away, graves uncounted will have
wrought fresh hollows in our merry sepulcher
—sweet earth! Take a sand from the shore,
take a drop from the ocean, less than sand-grain,
and drop in man’s planet one Death and one
Crime! On the map, trace all oceans, and
search out every shore,—rnore than seas, more
than lands, in God’s balance shall weigh on.
Death and one Crime!
IND OF PART THE FIRST


. PART II.

PROLOGUE TO PART THE SECOND.
Tris century has advanced: the rush of the
deluge has ebbcd back, the old landmarks have
reappeared; the dynasties Napoleon willed into
life have crumbled to the dust ; the plough has
passed over W'aterleo; autumn after autumn
the harvests have glittered on that grave of an
empire. Through the immense ocean of uni-
versal change. we look back on the single track
which our frail boat has cut through the waste.
As a star shines impartially over the measure-
less expanse, though it seems to gild but one
broken linc‘to each eye; so, as our memory
gazes on the past, the light spreads not over all
the breadth of the waste, where nations have
battled, and argosies gone don-it falls, nar-
row and confined, along the single course we
‘have taken: we lean over the small raft on
which we float, and see the sparkles but re-
flected from the waves that it divides.
On the terrace at Laughton but one step
paces slowly. The bride clings not now to the
bridegroom's arm. Though pale and worn, it
is still the same gentle face; but the blush of
woman‘s love has gone from it evermore.
Charles Vernon (to call him still by the name
in which he is best known to us) sleeps in the
vault of the St. Johns. He had lived longer
than he himself had expected, than his physi-
cian had hoped—lived, cheerful and happy, amid
quiet pursuits and innocent excitements. Three
sons had blessed his hearth, to mourn over his
grave. But the two elder were delicate and
sickly. They did not long survive him, and
died within a few months of each other. The
third seemed formed of a different mold and
constitution from his brethren. To him de-
scended the ancient heritage of Laughton, and
he promised to enjoy it long.
It is Vernon‘s widow who walks alone in the
stately terrace; sad still, for she loved well the
choice of her youth, and she misses yet the
children in the grave; from the date of Ver-
non‘s death, she wore mourning without and
within; and the sorrows that came later, broke
more the bruised reed ;—sad still, but resigned.
One son survives; and earth yet has the trou-
bled hopes and the holy fears of affection.
Though that son be afar, in sport or in earnest,
in pleasure or in toil, working out his destiny
as man, still that step is less solitary than it
seems. When does the son’s image not walk
beside the mother! Though she lives in se-
clusion, though the gay world tempts no more,
the gay world is yet linked to her thoughts.
From the distance she hears its murmurs in
music. Her fancy still mingles with the crowd,
and follows one, to her eye, outshining all the
rest. Never vain in herself, she is vain now of
another; -and the small triumphs of the young
and well born seem trophies of renoWn to the
eyes so tenderly deceived.

In the old-fashioned market town still the
business goes on, still the doors of the banlt
open and close every moment on the great day
of the week; but the names over the threshold
are partially changed. The junior partner is
busy no more at the desk; not wholly forgot-
ten—if his name still is spoken, it is not with
thankfulness and'praise. A something rests on
the name—that something which (time and at-
taints—not proven, not certain, but suspected
and dubious. The head shakes, the voice whis-
pers—and the attorney now lives in the solid
red house at the verge of the town.
In the vicarage, Time, the old scythe-bearer,
has not paused from his work. Still employed
on Greek texts, little changed, save that his
hair is gray, and that some lines in his kindly
face tell of sorrows as of years, the vicar sits
in his parlor; but the children no longer, blithe-
voiced and rose-checked, dart through the rust-
ling espaliers., Those children, grave men, or
staid matrons (save one whom Death chose,
and therefore now of all best beloved) are at
their posts in the world. The young ones are
flown from the nest, and, with anxious wings,
here and there, search food in their turn for
their young. But the hlithe voice and rose-
cheek 0f the child make not that loss which
the hearth misses the most. From childhood
to manhood, and from manhood to departure,
the natural changes are gradual and prepared.
The absence most missed is that household life
which presided, which kept things in order, and
must be coaxed ifa chair were displaced. That
providence in trifles, that clasp of small links,
that dear, bustling agency—now pleased, now
complaining—dear alike in each change of its
humor; that active life which has no self ofits
own ; like the mind of a poet, though its prose
be the humblest, transferring self into others,
with its right to be cross, and its charter to
scold; for the motive is clear—it takes what
it love-s too anxiously to heart. The door of
the parlor is open, the garden path still passes
before the threshold; but no step now has full
right to haltat the door, and interrupt the grave
thought on Greek texts; no small talk on de-
tails and wise sayings chime in with the wrath
of Medal. The Prudent Genius is gone from
the household ; and perhaps as the good scholar
now wearin pauses, and looks out on the silent
garden, he would have given with joy all that
Athens produced, from Eschylus to Plato, to
hear again from the old familiar lips the lament
on torn jackets, or the statistical economy of
eggs.
But see, though the wife is no more, though
the children have departed, the vicar's home is
not utterly desolate. See, along the same walk
on which William soothed Susan’s fears, and
won her consent—see, what fairy advances;


73
iPROLOGUE TO PART THE SECOND.
Is it Susan returned to youth! How like!—
yet, look again, and how unlike! The same,
the pure, candid regard—the same, the clear,
limpid blue of the eye—the same, that fair hue
of the hair—light, but not auburn—more sub-
dued, more harmonious than that equivocal col-
or which too nearly approaches to red. But
how much more blooming and joyous than Su-
san‘s is that exquisite face in which all Hebe
smiles forth—how much airier the tread, light
with health—how much rounder, ifslighter still,
the wave of that undulating form! She smiles
-——her lips move_—she is'conversing with herself
-—she can not be all silent, even when alone;
for the sunny gladness of her nature must have
vent, like a bird's. But do not fancy that that
gladness speaks the levity which comes from
the absence of thought; it is rather from the
depth of thought that it springs, as from the
depth of a sea comes its .music. See, as she
pauses and listens, with her finger half-raised
to her lip, as amid that careless jubilee of birds
she hears a note more grave and sustained, the
nightingale singing, by day—~(as sometimes,
though rarely, be is heard—perhaps, because
he misses his mate—perhaps, because he sees
from his bower the creeping form of some foe
to his race)—see, as she listens now to that
plaintive, low-chanted warble, how quickly the
smile is sobered, how the shade, soft and pen-
sive, steals over the brow. It is but the mys-
tic sympathy with nature that gives the smile
or the shade. In that heart lightly moved beats
the fine sense of the poet. It is the exquisite
sensibility of the nerves that gives its blithe
play to those spirits, and from the clearness of
the atmosphere comes, warm and ethereal, the
ray of that light.
And docs the roof of the pastor give shelter
to Helen Mainwaring's youth? Has Death
taken from her the natural protectors! Those
forms which we saw so full of youth and youth‘s
heart, in that very spot—has the grave closed
on them yet? Yeti-how few attain to the
age of the Psalmist ! Twenty-seven years have
passed since, that date—how often in those
years, have the dark doors opened for the young
as for the old ! William Mainwaring died first,
care-worn and shame-bowed: the blot on his
name had cankered into his heart. Susan’s
life, always precarious, had struggled on, while
he lived, by the strong power of affection and
will; she would not die, for who then could
console him 1 but at his death the power gave
way. She lingered, but lingered dyineg for
three years; and then, for the first time since
VVilliam’s death, she smiled—that smile re-
mained on the lips of the corpse. They had had
many trials, that young couple whom wech so
prosperous and happy. Not till many years
after their marriage had one sweet consoler
been born to them. In the season of poverty,
and shame, and grief, it came; and there was
no pride on lt'lainwaring‘s brow when they
placed his first born in his arms. By her will,
the widow consigned Helen to the joint guard-
ianship of Mr. Fielden and her sister; but the
latter was abroad, her address unknown, so the
vicar for two years had had sole charge of the
orphan. She was not unprovided for. The
sum that Susan brought to her husband had
been long since gone, it is true—lost in the ca—

lsmity which had wrecked 'William Mairwar-
ing‘s name and prospects—but Helen‘s grand-
father, Lhe land~agent, had died some time
subsequent to that event, and, indeed, just be-
fore Williain‘s death. He had never forgiven
his son the stain on his name—never assisted,
never even seen him since that fatal day—but
he left to Helen a sum of about £8000—for she,
at least, was innocent. In Mr. Fielden’s eyes,
Helen was therefore an heiress. And who
among his small range of acquaintance was
good enough for her, not only so richly portion-
ed, but so lovely l—accomplished too, for her
parents had of late years lived chiefly in France,
and languages there are easily learned, and
masters cheap; Mr. Fielden knew but one,
whom Providence had also consigned to his
charge—the supposed son of his old pupil Ard-
worth; but though a tender affection existed
between the two young persons, it seemed too
like that of brother and sister to afford much
ground for Mr. Fielden’s anxiety or hope.
From his window the vicar observed the still
attitude ofthe young orphan fora few moments ;
then he pushed aside his books, rose, and ap-
proached her. At the sound of his tread, she
Woke from her reverie, and bounded lightly
toward him.
“Ah, you would not see me before l” she
said, in a voice in which there was the slight-
est possible foreign accent, which betrayed the
country in which her childhood had been pass-
ed—“I pooped in twice at the window. I
wanted you so much to walk to the village.
But you will come now—will you not I" added
the girl coaxingly, as she looked up at him
under the shade of her straw hat.
“ And what do you want in the "illage, my
pretty Helen 1"
“Why you know it is Fair-day, and you
promised Bessie that you would buy her a fair-
ing—to say hothing of me.”
“Very true, and I ought to look in -, it will
help to keep the poor people from drinking. A
clergyman should mix with his parishioners in
their holydays. We must not associate our
ofiice only with grief, and sickness, and preach-
ing. We will go. And what fairing are you
to have 1."
“ Oh, something very brilliant, I promise you!
I have formed g and notions of a fair. I am
sure it must be like the bazaars we read of last
night, in that charming ' Tour in the East.’ "
The vicar smiled, hah benignly, half-anxious-
ly. “ My dear child, it is so like you to sup-
pose a village fair must be an eastern bazaar.
If you always thus judge 01 things by your
fancy, how this sober world will deceive yoa,
poor Helen !"
" It is not my fault—11¢ me grands: pas, me-
chant," answered Helen, hanging her head.
" But come, sir, allow, at least, that it! let- my
romance, as you call it, run away with me now
and then, I can still content myself with the
reality. What, you shake your head still!
Don’t you remember the sparrow l"
“ Ha, ha! yes—the sparrow that the pcdler
sold to you for a goldfinch; and you were so
proud of your purchase, and wondered so much
why you could not coax the goldfinch to sing,
till at last the paint wore away, and it was
only a poor little sparrow t"


PROLOIGUE TO PART THE SECOND.
79
"Go on! Confess; did I fret, thenl Vl’as
I not as pleased with my dear sparrow as I-
should have been with the prettiest goldfinch
that ever sang! Does not the sparrow follow
me about, and nestle on my shoulder—dear
little thing! And I was right after all; for if
I had not fancied it a goldfinch,I should not
have bought it, perhaps. But now Iwuuld not
change it for a goldfiuch—no, not even for that
nightingale I heard just now. So let me still
fancy the poor fair a bazaar; it is a double
pleasure, first to fancy the bazaar, and then to
be surprised at the fair.”
“ You argue well," said the vicar, as they
now entered the village. “I really think, in
spite of all your turn for poetry, and Goldsmith,
and COWper, that you would take as kindly to
mathematics as your cousin John Ardworth,
rlad !"
“ Not if mathematics have made him so grave
-—and so churlish, I was going to say—but that
word does him wrong. Dear cousin, so kind
and so rough i"
"It is not mathematics that is to blame, if
he is grave and absorbed,” said the vicar with
a sigh; “ it is the two cares that gnaw most-—
poverty and ambition.”
"Nay, do not sigh : it must be such a pleas-
ure to feel as he does, that one must triumph
at last !" _
"Umph! John must have nearly reached
London by this time," said Mr. Fielden, “ for
he is a stout walker. and this is the third day
since he left us. Well, now that he is about
fairly to he called to the bar, I hope that his
fever will cool, and he will settle calmly to
Work. I have felt great pain for him during
this last visit.”
" Pain! But why!”
“ My dear, do you remember what I read out
to you both from Sir William Temple, the night
before John left us 1"
Helen put her hand to her brow, and with a
readiness which showed a memory equally
quick and retentive, replied, “ Yes ; was it not
to this effect! I am not sure of the exact
words-4 To have something we have not, and
bescmething we are not, is the root of all
ovil.‘ "
“ \V ell remembered, my darling !"
" Ah, but," said Helen, archly, “ I remember,
too, what my cousin replied—‘ If Sir William
Temple had practiced his theory, he would not
have been ambassador at the Hague, or—' "
uPshaw! the boy’s always ready enough
with his answers,” interrupted Mr. Fielden,
rather petulantly. “ There's the fair, my dear;
more in your way, I see, than Sir William
Temple’s philosophy.” _
And Helen was right—the fair was no east-
ern bazaar: but how delighted that young im-
pressionable mind was, notwithstanding! The
swings and the roundabouts, the shows, the
booths even down to the gilt gingerbread kings
and queens. All minds genuinely poetical are
peculiarly susceptible to movement-that is, to
the excitement of numbers. If the movement
is sincerely joyous, as in the mirth of a village
holyday, such a nature shares insensiny in the
ny. But if the movement is a false and spuri-
ous gayety, as in a state hall, where the impas-
sivc face and languid step are out of harmony

with the evident object of the scene-_then the
nature we speak of feels chilled and dejected.
Hence it really is, that the more delicate and
ideal order of minds soon grow iiicxprcssibly
weary of the hack routine of what are called
fashionable pleasures. Hence the same person
most alive to a dance on the green, would be
without enjoyment at Almaclt’s. It is not be-
cause one scene is a village green, and the other
a mom in King-street; nor is it because the
actors in the one are of the humble, in the oth-
ers of the noble class, but simply because the
enjoyment in the first is visible and hearty, be-
cause in the otherit is a listless and melancholy
pretense. Helen fancied it was the swings and
the booths that gave her that innocent exhila-
ration—it was not so; it was the unconscious
sympathy with the crowd around her. When
the poetical nature quits its own dreams for the
actual world, it enters, and transfuses 'itself
into the hearts and humors ofothers. The two
wings of that spirit which we call Genius are
reverie and sympathy. But poor little Helen
had no idea that she had genius. Whether
chasing the butterfly, or talking fond fancies to
her birds, or whether with earnest, musing
eyes, watching the stars come forth, and the
dark pine-trees gleam into silver; whether with
airy day-dreams and credulous wonder poring
over the magic tales of Mirglip or Aladdin, or
whether spoilfbound to awe by the solemn woes
of Lear, or following the blind great bard into
“the heaven of heavens, an earthly guest, to
draw empyreal air,” she obeyed but the honest
and varying impulse in each change of her pli-
ant mood, and would have ascribed with genu-
ine humility to the vagaries of childhood, that
prompt gathering of pleasure—that quick shift-
ing sport of the fancy by which Nature binds
to itself, in chains undulating as melody, the
lively senses of genius.
While Helen, leaning on the vicar’s arm,
thus surrendered herself to the innocent excite-
ment of-the moment, the vicar himself smiled
and nodded to his parishioners, or paused to ex
change a friendly word or two with the young-
est or the eldest loiterers (those two extremes
of mortality which the church so tenderly
unites), whom the scene drew to its tempting
vortex, when a rough-haired lad, with a leather
bag strapped across his waist, turned from one
of the gingerbread booths, and touching his hat,
said, “Please you, sir, I was a-coming to your
house with a letter.”
The vicar‘s correspondence was confined and
rare, despite his distant children, for letters but
a few years ago were costly luxuries to persons
of narrow income; and, therefore, the juvenile
letter-carrier who plied between the post-town
and the village failed to excite in his breast
that indignation for being an hour or more be'
hind his time, which would have animated one
to whom the post brings the usual event of the
day. He took the letter from the boy‘s hand,
and paid for it with a thrifty sigh, as he glanced
at a handwriting unfamiliar to him—perhaps
from some clergyman poorer than himself.
However, that was not the place to read letters,
so he put the epistle in his pocket, until Helen,
who watched his countenance, to see when he
grew tired of the scene, kindly proposed '0 re-
turn home. As they gained a stile half-way


60
- PROLOGUE 'I‘O PART THE SECOND.
Mr. Fielden remembered his letter, took it forth.
and put on his spectacles. Helen stooped over
the bank togather violets; the vicar seated him-
self or. the stile. As he again looked at the
address, the handwriting, before unfamiliar,
seemed to grow indistinctly on his recollection,
That hold, firm hand—thin and fine as woman's,
but lurgi- and regular as man's—was too pecu-
liar to be forgotten. He uttered a briefexcla-
mation of surprise and recognition, and hastily
broke the seal. The contents ran thus :—
“ DEAR sm,
_" So many years have passed since any com-
munication has taken place between us, that
the name of Lucretia Dalibard will seem more
strange to you than that of Lucretia Clavering
I have recently returned to England, after lulltt
residence abroad. I perceive, by my deceased
sister‘s will, that she has confided her only
daughter to my guardianship, conjointly with
yourself. I atn anxious to participate in that
tender charge. I am alone in the world—an
habitual sufi'crer—afi'licted with a partial paral-
ysis that deprives me of the use of my limbs.
n such circumstances, it is the more natural
that I should turn to the only relative left me.
My journey to England has so exhausted my
strength, and all movement is so painful, that
I must request you to excuse me for not com-
ing in person for iny niece. Your benevolence,
however. will, I am sure, prompt you to afford
me the comfort of her society, as soon as you
can contrive some suitable arrangement for her
iourney. Begging you to express to Helen, in
my name, the assurance of such a welcome as
is due from me to my sister’s child, and waiting
with great anxiety your reply,
'“ I am, dear sir, your very faithful servant,
“LUCBETIA DALIBARD.”
“ P S.—I can scarcely venture to ask you to
bring Helen yourself to town; but I should be
glad if other inducements to take the journey
afi‘ordcd me the pleasure of seeing you once
again. I am anxious, in addition to such de-
tails of my late sister as you may be enabled to
give me, to learn something of the history of
her connection, Mr. Ardworth, in whom I felt
much interested years ago, and who, I am re-
cently informed, left an infant, his supposed
on, under your care. So long absent from
England, how much have I to learn, and how
little the mere grave-stones tell us ofthe dead l”
While the vicar is absorbed in this letter,
equally unwelcome and unexpected,—while,
unconscious as the daughter of Ceres gathering
flowers when the Hell King drew near, of the
change that awaited her and the grim presence
that approached on her fate, Helen bends still
over the bank odorous with shrinking violets,
we turn where the new generation equally in-
vites our gaze, and make our first acquaintance
with too persons connected with the progress
of our tale.
1* Q Q I~ {-
Q * l i- * *
l- } 1 Ir *
The britska stopped. The servant, who had
been gradually accumulating present dust and
future rheumatisms on the “ bad eminence" of
a rumble-tumble, exposed to the nipping airs of

an English sky, leaped to the ground, and open-
ed the carriage door.
" This is the best place for the view, sir—a
little to the right."
Percival St. John threw aside his book (a
volume of Voyages), whistled to a spaniel doz-
ing by his side, and descended lightly. Light
was the step of the young man, and merry was
the bark of the dog, as it chased from the road
the startled sparrow, rising high into the clear
air—favorites ofNature both, man and dog!
You had but to glance at Percival St. John,
to know at once that he was of the race that
toils not; the assured step spoke confidence in
the world’s fair smile. N0 care for the morrow
dimmed the bold eye and the radiant bloom.
About the middle height—his slight figure,
yet undeveloped, seemed not to have attained
to its full growth—the darkening down only just
shaded a cheek somewhat sunburnt, though
naturally fair, round which looks, black as jet,
played sportively in the fresh air—about him
altogether there was the inoxpressible charm
of happy youth. He scarcely looked sixteen,
though above four years older; but for his firm,
though careless step. and the open foarlessness
of his frank eye, you might have almost taken
him for a girl in men’s clothes, not from efi‘emi-
nacy of feature, but from the sparkling bloom
of his youth, and from his unmistakable new-
ness to the cares and sins of man. A more
delightful vision of ingenuous boyhood opening
into life, under happy auspices, never inspired
with pleased, yet melancholy interest the eye
of half-envious, half-pitying age.
“ And that," mused Percival St. John—“ that
is London! Oh, for the Diable Boiteux to un-
roof me those distant houses, and show me the
pleasures that lurk within l—Ah, what long let-
ters I shall have to write home! How the dear
old captain will laugh over them, and how my
dear good mother will put down her Work and
sigh! Home l—Um, I miss it already. How
strange and grim, after all, the huge city seems!"
His glove fell to the ground, and his spaniel.
mumbled it into shreds. The young man
laughed, and, throwing himself on the grass,
played gayly with the dog.
“ Fie, Beau, sir, fie; gloves are indigestible.
Restrain your appetite, and we’ll lunch togeth-
er at. the Clarendon.”
At this moment there arrived at the same
patch of greensward a pedestrian some years
older than Percival St. John—a tall, muscular,
raw-boned, dust-covered, travel-stained pedes-
trian—one of your pedestrians in good earnest
-—no amatehr in neat gambroon, manufactured
by Inkson, who leaves his carriage behind him,
and walks on with his fishing-rod by choice, but
a sturdy wanderer, with thick shoes and strap-
less trowaers, a threadbare coat and a knapsack
at his back. Yet, ithal, the young man had
the air of a gentleman; not gentleman as the
word is understood in St. James's, the gentle-
man ofthe noble and idle class, but the gentle-
man as the title is accorded, by courtesy, to all r
to whom both education and the habit of mix-
ing Willi educated persons gives aclaim to the
distinction, and imparts an air of refinement.
The new comer was strongly built, at once lean
and largo—far more strongly built than Percival
St. John, but without his look of cheerful and


PROLOGUE TO PART THE SECOND. 81
oome\y health. His complexion had not the
florid hues that should have accompanied that
strength of body; it was pale, though not sick-
ly; the expression grave, the lines deep, the
face strongly marked. By his side trotted pain-
fully at wiry, yellowish, foot-sore Scotch terrier.
Beau sprang from his master‘s caress, cocked
his handsome head on one side, and suspended,
in silent halt, his right forepaw. Percival cast
over his left shoulder a careless glance at the
intruder. The last heeded neither Beau nor
Percival. He slipped his knapsack to the
ground, and the Scotch terrier sank upon it,
and curled himself up into a ball. The way~
farer folded his arms tightly upon his breast,
heaved a short, unquiet sigh, and cast over the
giant city, from under deep-pent, lowering
brows, a look so earnest, so searching, so full
of inexpressible, dogged, determined power, that
Dercival, roused out ofhis gay indifference, rose
and regarded him with curious interest.
In the mean while Beau had very leisurely
approached the bilious-looking terrier; and af-
ter walking three times round him, with a stare
and a small sniff of superb impertinence, halted
with great composure, and lifting his hind leg—-
0 Beau, Beau, Beau! your historian blushes
for your breeding, and, like Sterne’s recording
angel, drops a tear upon the stain which wash-
es it from the register—but not, alas ! from the
back of the bilious terrier! The space around
was wide, Beau. You had all the world to
choose; why select so specially for insult the
single spot on which reposed the worn-out and
unofi'endingl O, dainty Beau !—O, dainty
world! Own the truth, both of ye. There is
something irresistibly provocative of insult in
the back ofa shabby-looking dog! -
The poor terrier, used to affronts, raised its
heavy eyelids, and shot the gleam ofjust indig-
nation from its dark eyes. But it neither stir-
red nor growled; and Beau, extremely pleased
with his achievement, wagged his tail in tri-
umph, and returned to his master—perhaps, in
parliamentary phrase, to "report proceedings,
and ask leave to sit again.”
“I wonder," soliloquized Percival St. John,
“what that poor fellow is thinking of;—per-
haps he is poor, indeed—no doubt of it, now I
look again. And I so rich! I should like to—
hem—let‘s see what he’s made of.”
F

Herewith Percival approached, and with all
a boy‘s half-bashful, half-saucy frankness, said
—“ A fine prospect, sir."
The pedestrian started, and threw a rapid
glance over the brilliant figure that accosted
him. Percival St. John was not to be abashed
by stern looks; but that glance might have
abashed many a more experienced man. The
glance of a squire upon a corn-law missionary,
of a Crockt'ord dandy upon a Regent-street
tiger, could not have been more disdainful.
"Tush!" said the pedestrian, rudely, and
turned upon his heel.
Percival colored, and, shall we own itl was
boy enough to double his fist. Little would he
have been deterred by the brawn ofthose great
arms and the girth of that Herculean chest, if
he had been quite sure that it was a proper
thing to resent pugilistically so discourteous a
monosyllable. The “tush!” stuck greatly in
his throat. But the man, now removed to the
farther verge of the hill, looked so tranquil and
so lost in thought, that the short-lived anger
died.
“ And after all, if I was as poor as he looks,
I dare say I should be just as proud,” muttered
Percival. “However, it's his own fault if he
goes to London on foot, when I might, at least,
have given him a lift. Come, Beau, sir."
\Vith his face still a litt ushed, and his
hat, unconsciously, cocked cely on one side,
Percival sauntered back to his hritska.
As in a whirl of dust, the light carriage was
borne by the four posters down the hill, the pe-
destrian turned for an instant from the view
before to the cloud behind, and muttered—“ Ay,
a fine prospect for the rich—a noble field for the
poor l" The tone in which those words were
said told volumes: there spoke the pride, the
hope, the energy, the ambition, which make
youth laborious, manhood prosperous, age re-
nowned.
The stranger then threw himself on the
sward, and continued his silent and intent con-
templation till the clouds grew red in the west.
When, then, he rose, his eye was bright, his
mien erect, and a smile, playing round his firm,
full lips, stole the moody sternness from his
hard face. Throwing his knapsack once more
on his back, John Ardworth went resolutely on
to the great vortex. _


PART THE SECOND.
CHAPTER I.
THE CORONATXON.
Tna eighth of September, 1831, was a holy-
day in London. William IV. received the
crown of his ancestors in that mighty church
in which the most impressive monitors to hu-
man pomp are the monuments of the dead:
the dust of conquerors and statesmen, of the
wise heads, and the hold hands, that had guard-
ed the thrones of departed kings, slept around ;
and the great men of the modern time were
assembled in homage to the monarch, to whom
the prowess and the liberty of generations had
bequeathed an empire in which the sun never
sets. In the Abbey—thinking little ofthe past,
caring little for the future—the immense audi-
ence gazed eagerly on the pageant that occurs
but once in that division of history—the life-
time ofa king. The assemblage was brilliant
and imposing. The galleries sparkled with the
gems of women who still upheld the celebrity
for form and feature, which, from the remotest
times, has beenwarded to the great English
race. Below, in ieir robes and coronets, were
men who, neither 'in the senate nor the field,
have shamed their fathers. Conspicuous among
all, for grandeur of mien and stature, towered
the brothers of the king; while, commanding
yet more the universal gaze, were seen, here
the eagle features of the old hero of Waterloo,
and there the majestic brow of the haughty
statesman, who was leading the people (while
the last of the Bonrbons, whom Waterloo had
restored to the Tuilleries, had left the orb and
purple to the kindred house, so fatal to his
name) through a stormy and perilous tran-
sition to a bloodless revolution and a new
charter.
Tier upon tier, in the division set apart for
them, the members of the lower house moved
and murmured above the pageant; and the
coronation of the new sovereign was connect-
ed, in their minds, with the great measure,
which, still undecided, made, at that time, a
link between the People and the King; and
arrayed against both, if not, indeed, the real
' Aristocracy, at least the Chamber, recognized
by the Constitution, as its representative. With-
out the space, was one dense mass. Houses,
from balcony to balcony, window to window,
were filled as some immense theater. Up,
through the long thoroughfare to Whitehall,
the eye saw that audience—A PEOPLE ; and the
gaze was bounded at the spot where Charles I.
had passed from the banquet-house to the
scaffold.
The ceremony was over; the procession had
swept slowly by; the last huzza had died away.
And, after staring awhile upon Orator Hunt,
who had clambered up the iron palisade near
\Vestminster Hall, to exhibit his goodly person
in his court attire, the serried crowds, hurry-
ing from the shower which then unseasonably

descended, broke into large masses or lengthen-
ing columns.
In that part of London, which may be said to
form a boundary between its old and its new
world, by which, on the one hand, you pass to
Westminster, or through that gorge of the
Strand which leads along endless rows of shops
that have grown up on the sites of the ancient
halls of the Salisburys and the Exeters, the
Buckinghams and Southamptons, to the heart
of the city, built around the primeval palace of
the “ Tower,"--while, on the other hand, you
pass into the new city of aristocracy and let-
ters, of art and fashion, embracing the whilom
chase of Marylebone, and the once sedge-grown
waters of Pimlico; by this ignoble boundary
(the crossinr,r from the Opera House, at the bot-
tom of the Haymarket to the commencement
of Charing Cross) stood a person, whose dis-
contented countenance was in singular contrast
with the general gayety and animation of the
day. This person, 0 gentle reader—this sour,
querulous, discontented person—was a king,
too, in his own walk. None might dispute it.
He feared no rebel; he was harassed by no
reform ; he ruled without ministers. Tools he
had; but, when worn out, be replaced them
without a pension of a sigh. He lived by taxes,
but they were voluntary; and his Civil List
was supplied, without demand, for the redress
of grievances. This person, nevertheless, not
deposed, was suspended, from his empire, for
the day. He was pushed aside; he was for-
gotten. Hc was not distinct from the crowd. ‘
Like Titus, he had lost a day—his vocation
was gone. This person was the Sweeper of
the Crossing.
He was a character ! He was young, in the
fairest prime of youth; but it was the face of
an old man on young shoulders. His hair was
long. thin, and prematurely streaked with gray;
his face was pale, and deeply furrowed; his
eyes hollow, and their stare gleamed, cold and
stolid, under his bent and shaggy brows. The
figure was at once fragile and ungainly; and
the narrow shoulders curved in a perpetual
stoop. It was a person, once noticed, that you
would easily remember, and associate with
some undefined, painful impression. The man-
ner was humble, but not meek ; the voice was
whining, but without pathos. There was a
meager, passionless dullness about the aspect,
though, at times, it quickened into a kind of
avid acutencss. No one knew by what human
parentage this personage came into the world.
He had been reared by the charity of a stranger,
crept through childhood, and misery, and rags
mysteriously; and suddenly succeeded an old
defunct negro in the profitable crossing whereat
he is now standing. All education was un-
known to him ; so was all love. In those fes-
tive haunts at St. Gilcs‘s, where he who would
see " Life in London" may often discover the
boy who has held his horse in the morning


THE CORONATION.
83
dancing merrily with his chosen damsel at
night, our sweeper’s character was austere as
Charles Xll.’s. And, the poor creature had
his good qualities. He was sensitively alive to
kindness—little enough had been shown him to
make the luxury the more prized from its
rarity—though fond of money, he would part
with it (we do not say cheerfully, but part with
it still), not to mere want, indeed (for he had
been too pinched and starved himself, and had
grown too obtuse to pinchingand tostarvingfor
the scusitivcness that prompts to charity), but
to any of his companions who had done him a
good service, or had evon warmed his dull
heart by a friendly smile; he was honest, too
—honest to the backbone. You might have
trusted him with gold untold. Through the
heavy clod, which man’s care had not molded,
nor books enlightened, nor the priest’s solemn
lore informed, still natural rays, from the great
. parent source of Deity, struggled, fitful and dim.
He had no lawful name; none knew ifsponsors
had ever stood security for his sins at the
sacred font. But he had christened himself
by the strange, unchris'ian like name of“Beck."
There he was, then, seemingly without origin,
parentage, or kindred tie —a lonesome, squalid,
bloodless thing, which the great monster, Lon-
don, scemed to have spav ned forth of its own
self—one of its sickly, mi erable, rickety off-
spring, whom it puts out to nurse to Penury,
at school to Starvation, and, t.nally and literally,
gives them stones for bread, with the option of
the gallows or the dunghill, Wren the desper-
ate ofl'gpring calls on the giant mother for
return and home!
And this creature did love something-loved,
perhaps, some fellow-being--of that hereafter,
when we dive into the secrets 01 his privacy.
Meanwhile, openly and frankly, ht? loved his
crossing; he was proud of his crossing; he
was grateful to his crossing. God help thee,
son of the street, why not! He ha-l in it a
double afl‘ection: that of serving and being
served. He kept the crossing—if the crossing
kept him. He smiled at times to himself when
he saw it lie fair and brilliant amid the mire
around; it bestowed on him a sense of proper-
ty ! \Vhat a man may feel for a fine estate in
a ring fence, Beck felt for that isthmus of the
kennel which was subject to .his broom! The
coronation had made one rebellious spirit, when
it swept the sweeper from his crossing.
He stood then half under the colonnade of
the Opera House, as the crowd now rapidly
grew thinner and more scattered; and, when
the last carriage of a long string of vehicles
had passed by, he muttered, audibly,
“ it‘ll take a deal of pains to make she right
v'agin !”
“So you be's ere to-day, Beck!" said a
ragamntfin boy, who, pushing and scrambling
through his bctters, now halted_ and wiped his
forehead as he looked at the sweeper. "Vy,
ve are all out pleasuring. Vy vont you come
with vet—lots of fun !"
The sweeper scowled at the urchin, and
made no answer, but began sedulously to apply
himself to the crossing.
" Vy, there isn’t another sweep in the
streets, Beck, his majesty King Bill‘s curry-
nation makes all on us so nppy !"

“ It has made she unkirnmon dirty !" returned
Beck, pointing to the dingy crossing, scarce
distinguished from the rest of the road.
The ragamuffin laughed.
“ But ve he‘s it goin‘ to ave Reform now,
Book. The peopul's to have their rights and
libties, hand the luds is to be put down, hand
beefstoaks is to be a penny a-pound, and—”
" What good will that do to she!”
“ Vy, man, ve shall take turn about, and sum
vun helse will svecp the crossings, and ve shall
ride in sum vun helse's coach and four prads—
cos vy! ve shall hall be hequals !"
" chuals l I tells you vot, if you keeps jaw-
ing there, atween me and she, I shall vop you,
Joe—cos vy—I he’s the biggest l” was the
answer of Beck the sweeper to Joe the raga-
muffin.
The jovial Joe laughed aloud, snapped his
fingers, threw up his ragged cap with a. shout
for King Bill, and set 06‘ scampering and
whooping to join those festivities which Beck
had so churlishly disdained.
Time crept on—evcning began to close in,
and Beck was still at his crossing, when a
young gentleman on horseback, who, after
seeing the procession, had stolen away for a
quiet ride in the suburbs, reined in close by
the crossing, and, looking round, as for some
one to hold his horse, could discover no loiterer
worthy that honor except the solitary Beck.
So young was the rider, that he seemed still a
boy. On his smooth countenance, all that most
prcpossesses in early youth left its Witching
stamp. A smile, at once gay and sweet, played
on his lips. There was a charm, even in acer-
tain impatient pctulance, in his quick eye, and
the slight contraction of his delicate broWs.
Almaviva might well have been jealous of such
a page! He was the beau ideal of Cherubino.
He held up his whip, with an arch sign, to the
sweeper. “ Follow, my man,” he said in atone,
the very command of which sounded gentle,
so blithe was the movement of the lips, and so
silvery the easy accent; and, without waiting,
he cantered carelessly down Pall Mall.
The sweeper cast a ruefnl glance at his
melancholy domain. But he had gained but
little that day, and the offer was too tempting
to be rejected. He heaved a sigh, shouldered
his broom, and murmuring to himself that he
would give her a last brush before he retired
for the night, he put his long limbs into that
swinging, shambling trot, which characterizes
the motion of those professional jackals, who
having once caught sight of a groomless rider,
fairly hunt him down, and appear when he least
expects it, the instant he dismounts.
The young rider lightly swung himself from
his sleek, high-bred gray, at the door of one
of the clubs in St. James's-strcet, patted his
horse’s neck, chucked the rein to the sweeper,
and sauntered into the house, whistling, music-
ally—if not from want of thought, certainly from
want of care.
As he entered the club, two or three men,
young, indeed, but much older, to appearance,
at least, than himself, who were dining together
at the same table, nodded to him their friendly
greeting. _
"Ah, Perce," said one, "We have 0111me
sat down—here is a seat for you."


84
THE CORONKTION.
The boy blushed shyly, as he accepted the
proposal, and the young men made room for
him at the table, with a smiling alacrity which
showed that his shyness was no hinderance to
his popularity.
“ Who," said an elderly dandy, dining apart
with one of his cotemporarics, “who is that
lad! One ought not to admit such more boys
into the club."
“ He is the only surviving son ofan old friend
of ours,” answered the other, dropping his eye-
glass. " Young Percival St. John.”
“St. John! What! Vernon St. John‘s
son!"
“Yes.”
“ He has not his father’s good air. These
young fellows have a tone -—a something— a
want of self-possession, eh !”
“ Very true. The fact is, that Percival was
meant for the navy, and even served as a mid.
for a year or so. He was a younger son,
then—third, I think. The two elder ones
died, and Master Percival walked into the
inheritance. I don't think he is quite of age
yet." .
“ 0f age ! he does not look seventeen !"
“Oh, he is more than that! I remember
him in his jacket, at Laughton. A fine prop-
erty !"
“ Ay, I don’t wonder those fellows are so
civil to him. This claret is corked !—every-
thing is so bad at this (1— club !-—no Wonder,
when a troop of boys are let in !—enough to
spoil any club !—don’t know Larose from La-
fitte. Waiter !"
Meanwhile, the talk round the table, at
which sat Percival St. John, was animated,
lively, and various—the talk common with
young idlcrs: of horses, and steeple-chases,
and opera-dancers, and reigning beauties, and
good-humored jest at each other. In all this
babhle, there was a naive freshness about Per-
cival St. John’s conversation. which showed
that, as yet, for him life had the zest of novel-
ty. He was more at home about horses and
I steeple-chases, than about opera-dancers and
beauties, and the small scandals of town.
Talk on these latter topies did not seem to
interest him ; 0n the contrary, almost to pain.
Shy and modest as a girl, he colored or looked
aside when his more hardened friends boasted
0f assignations and love-afiairs. Spirited, gay,
and manly enough in all really manly points,
the virgin bloom of innocence was yet visible
in his frank, charming manner. And often, out
of respect for his delicacy, some hearty son of
pleasure stopped short in his narrative, or lost
the point of his anecdote; and yet so lovable
was Percival in his good-humor, his na'ivclé, his
Joyous entrance into innocentjoy, that his com-
panions were scarcely conscious of the ge‘ne
and restraint he imposed on them. Those
merry, dark eyes, and that flashing smile, were
conviviality of themselves. They brought with
them a contagious cheerfulness, which compen-
sated for the want of corruption.
Night had set in. St. John‘s companions had
departed to their several haunts, and Percival
himself stood on the steps of the club, resolving
that ho would join the crowds that swept
through the streets to gale on the illuminations,
When he perceived Beck (still at the rein of his

dozing horse), whom he had quite forgot tll'
that moment. Laughing at his own want of
memory, Percival put some silver into Beck’s
hand—more silver than Beck had ever befiore
received for similar service—and said:
“Vl’ell, my man, I‘suppose I can trust you
to take my horse to his stables—No. —, the
Mews, behind Curzon-street. Poor fellow, he
wants his supper,—-and you too, I suppose!"
Beck smiled—a pale, hungry smile, and pulL
ed his forelock politely—"I can take the oss
worry safely, your onor."
“ Take him, then, and good evening; but
don't get on, for your life."
“ Oh, no, sir; I never gets on: ’taint in my
vays."
And Beck slowly led the horse through the
crowd, till he vanished from Percival‘s eyes.
Just then, a man passing through the street,
paused, as he saw the young gentleman on the
steps ofthe club, and said gayly, “ Ah! how do
you do! Pretty faces in plenty out to-night!
Which way are you going!”
“ That is more than I can tell you, Mr. Var-
ney. I was just thinking which turn to take—
the right or the left.”
" Then let me be your guide," and Varnsy
offered his arm.
Percival accepted the courtesy; and the two
walked on toward Piccadilly. Many a kind
glance from the milliners and maid-servants,
whom the illuminations drew abroad, roved,
somewhat impartially, toward St. John and his
companion ; but they dwelt longer on the last,
for there, at least, they were sure of a return.
Varney, ifnot in his first youth,was still in the
prime of life; and Time had dealt with him so
leniently, that he retained all the personal ad-
vantages of youth itself. His complexion still
was clear; and as only his upper lip, decorated
with a slight, silken, and well trimmed mus<
tache. was unshaven, the contour of the face,
added to the juvenility of his appearance by the
rounded symmetry it betrayed. His hair as
caped from his hat in fair, unchanged luxuriance.
And the nervous figure, agile as a. panther’s,
though broad-shouldered and deep-chested, de-
noted all the slightness and elasticity of twen
ty-five, combined with the muscular power of
forty. His dress was rather fantastic—too
showy for the good taste which is habitual to
the English gentleman—and there was a pecu-
liarity in his gait almost approaching to a strut,
which bespoke a desire of effect—a conscious-
ness of personal advantages—equally opposed
to the mien and manner of Percival‘s usual
companions; yet withal, even the most fastid-
ious would have hesitated to apply to Gabriel
Varney the epithet of “ vulgar." Many turned
to look again; but it was not to remark the
dress or the slight swagger :—an expression of
reckless, sinister power in the countenance—
omcthing of vigor and determination even in
that very walk, foppish as it would have been
in most, made you sink all observation of the
mere externals, in a sentiment of curiosity to~
ward the man himself. He seemed a somebody
—not a somebody of conventional rank, but a
somebody of personal individuality—an artis'
perhaps, a poet, or a soldier in some foreign
service, but certainly a man whose name you
would expect to have heard of. Among the


THE CORONATION.
85
common mob of passengers he stood out in'
marked and distinct relief.
“I feel at home in a crowd,” said Varney.
“ Do you understand me i"
“1 think so,” answered Percival. “ If ever,
I could become distinguished, I, too, should‘
feel at home in a crowd."
“You have ambition, then? you mean to be-
come distinguished?" asked Varney, with a
sharp, searching look.
l‘here was a deeper and steadier flash than
usual from Percival‘s dark eyes, and a manlier
glow over his check, at Varney's question. But
he was slow in answering; and when he did
so, his manner had all its wonted mixture of
graceful bashfulness and gay candor.
“Our rise does not always depend on our-
selves. We are not all born great, nor do we
all have ‘ greatness thrust on us.’ Shakspeare
—hem l"
“ One can be what one likes, with your for-
tune,” said Varney; and there was a growl of
envy in his voice.
“ What,-a painter like you! Ha, ha!"
“Faith,” said Varney, “ at least, if you could
paint at all, you would have what I have not—
praise and fame.”
Percival pressed kindly on Varney's arm.
“ Courage! you will get justice some day."
Varney shook his head. “ Bah! there is no
such thing as justice; all are underrated or
overrated. Can you name one man whom you
think is estimated by the public at his precise
value! As for present popularity, it depends
on two qualities—each singly, or both united—
cowardice and charlatanism; that is, servile
compliance with the taste and opinion of the
moment, or a quack’s spasmodic efforts at origi-
nality. But why bore you on such matters!
There are things more attractive round us. A
good ankle that, oh! W'hy, pardon me, it is
strange; but you don‘t seem to care much for
women 1"
“ Oh, yes, I do," said Percival, with a sly de-
mureness. "I am very fond of—my mother!"
“Very proper and filial," said Varney, laugh-
ing; “ and does your love for the sex stop
there!"
“ Well, and in truth I fancy so—pretty near-
ly. You know my grandmother is not alive.
But that is something really worth looking at.”
And Percival pointed. almost with a child‘s de-
light, at an illumination more brilliant than the
rest.
“ I suppose, when you come of age, you will
have all the cedars at Laughton hung with col-
ored lamps. Ah, yop must ask me there, some
day. I should so like to see the old place again."
" You never saw it, I think you say, in my
poor father’s time I.”
" Never.” -
“ Yet you knew him‘!’
“ But slightly.”
“And you never saw my mother!"
“ No; but she seems to have such influence
over you, that lam sure she must be a very
superior person—rather proud, I suppose."
" Proud-no; that is, not exactly proud, for
she is very meek and very affable. But yet—"
“ But yet—you hesitate—she would not like
you to be seen, perhaps, walking in Piccadilly

with Gabriel Varney, the natural son of old Sir
Miles's librarian,-—Gabriel Varney the painter
-—Gabriel Varney the adventurer!”
" As long as Gabriel Varney is a man with-
out stain on his character and honor, my moth-
er would only be pleased that I should know an
able and accomplished person, whatever his
origin or parentage. But my mother Would be
sad if she knew me intimate with a Bourbon or
a Rafl‘aelle, the first in rank or the first in ge-
nius, if either prince or artist had lost o‘r even
sullicd his ’scutcheon of gentleman. In a
word, she is most sensitive as to honor and
conscience—all else she disregards."
“ Hem !“ Varney stooped down, as if exam- '
ining the polish of his boot, while he continued,
carelessly—“ Impossible to walk the streets
and keep onc's boots otit ofthe mire! “'ell—
and you agree with your mother!”
" It would be strange if I did not. When I
was scarcely four years old, my poor father
used to lead me through the long picturc~gal-
lcry at Laughton, and say, ‘Walk through life
as if those brave gentlemen looked down on
you.‘ And," added St. John, with his ingenu-
ous smile, “my mother would put in her word
—‘ And those unstained women, too, my Per-
cival !' "
There was something noble and touching in
the boy's low accents as he said this; it gave
the key to his unusual modesty, and his frank,
healthful innocence of character.
The devil in Varney's lip sneered mockingly.
“ My young friend, you have never loved yet.
Do you think you ever shall!"
“ I have dreamed that I could love one day.
But I can wait.”
Varney was about to reply, when he was ac-
costed abruptly by three men of that exagger-
ated style of dress and manner, which is im-
plied by the vulgar appellation of “Tigrish."
Each of the three men had a cigar in his mouth
-—each seemed flushed with wine. One were
long brass spurs, and immense mustacth ;
another was distinguished by an enormous sur-
face of black satin cravat, across which mean-
dered a Pactolus ofgold chain ; a third had his
coat laced and braided, (I la Polonaise, and
pinched and padded d Ia. Russ-e, with trowsers
shaped to the calf of a sinewy leg, and a glass
screwed into his right eye.
“Ah, Gabriel! ah, Varney! ah, prince of
good fellows, well met. You sup with us to-
night at little Cclcslc’s—wc were just going in
search of you."
“ Who's your friend—one of us 1." whispered
a second.
And the third screwed his arm tight and lov-
ingly into Varney‘s.
Gabriel, despite his habitual assurance, looked ‘
abashed for a moment, and would have extri-
cated himself from cordialities not at that mo-
ment welcome; but he saw that his friends
were too far gone in their cups to be easily
shaken ofl‘, and he felt relieved when Percival,
alter a dissatisfied glance at the three, said, qui-
etly—“I must detain you no longer-I shall
soon look in at your studio ;” and, without
waiting for answer, slid off, and was lost among
the crowd.
Varney walked on with his new-found friends,
unheeding for some moments their loose re-
marks and familiarbantcr. At length he shook


86
THE CORONATION.
off'his abstraction, and surrendering himself to
the coarse humors of his companions, soon
eclipsed them all by the gusto of bls slang and
the mocking profligacy of his sentiments; for
here he no longer played a part, or suppressed
his grosser instincts. That uncurbed dominion
of the senses, to which his very boyhood had
abandonéd itself, found a willing slave in the
man. Even the talents themselves that he dis-
played came from the cultivation of the sensual.
His eye, studying externals, made him a painter
-—his ear, quick and practiced, a musician. His
wild, prodigal fancy rioted on every excitement,
and brought him in a vast harvest of experience
in knowledge of the frailties and the vices on
which it indulged its vagrant experiments Men
who overcultivate the art that connects itself
with the senses, with little counterpoise from
the reason and pure intellect, are apt to be dis-
sipated and irregular in their lives. This is
frequently noticeable in the biographies of mu-
sicians, singers, and painters, less so in poets,
because he who deals with words, not signs,
and tones, must perpetually compare his senses
with the pure images of which the senses only
see the appearances ; in a word, he must employ
his intellect, and his self-education must be large
and comprehensive. But with most real genius,
however, fed merely by the senses—most really
great painters, singers, and musicians, however
easily led astray into temptation, the richness
of the soil throws up abundant good qualities to
countervail or redeem the evil—they are usually
compassionate, generous, sympathizing. That
Varney had not such beauties of soul and tem-
perament it is unnecessary to add—principally,
it is true, because of his nurture, education, pa-
rental example, the ulter corruption in which
his childhood and youth had passed—partly be-
cause he had no real genius: it was a false ap-
parition of the divine spirit, reflected from the
exquisite perfection of his frame (which ren-
dered all his senses so vigorous and acute), and
his riotous fancy, and his fitful energy, which
was capable at times of great application, but
not of definite purpose or earnest study. All
about him was flashy and hollow. He had not
the natural subtilty and depth of mind that had
characterized his terrible father. The graft of
the opera dancer was visible on the stock of the
scholar: wholly without the habits of method
and order, without the patience, without the
mathematical, calculating brain of Dalibard, he
played wantonly with the horrible and loathe
some wickedness of which Olivier had made
dark and solemn study. Extravagant and lav-
.sh, he spent money as fast as he gained it; he
.threw away all chances ofeminence and career.
In the midst of the direst plots ofhis villainy, or
the most energetic pursuit of his art, the poorest
excitement, the veriest bauble would draw him
aside. His heart was with Falri in the sly, his
fancy with Aladdin in the palace. To make a
show was his darling object: beloved to cre-
ate effect by his person, his talk, his dress, as
well as by his talents. Living from hand to
mouth, crimes, through which it is not our in-
tention to follow him, had at times made him
rich to-day, for vices to make him poor again
to-morrow. What he called “luck,” or “ his
star," had favored him—he was not hanged!
he lived; and, as the greater part of his un-

scrupulous career had been conducted in for—
cign lands, and under other names—in his own
name, and in his own country, though something
scarcely to be defined, but equivocal and provo-
cative ofsuspicion, made him displeasing to the
prudent, and vaguely alarmed the experience of
the sober—still no positive accusation was at-
tached to the general integrity of his character;
and the mere dissipation of his habits was nat-
urally little known out of his familiar circle.
Hence he had the most presumptuous confidence
in himself—a confidence native to his courage,
and confirmed by his experience. His con-
science was so utterly obtuse that he might
almost be said to present the phenomenon of a
man without conscience at all. Unlike Conrad,
he did not “know himself a villain ;” all that
he knew of himself was, that he was a remark-
ably clover fellow, without prejudice or super-
stition. That, with all his gifts, he had not
succeeded better in life, be ascribed carelessly
to the surpassing wisdom of his philosophy. He
could have done better if he had enjoyed him-
self less—butwas not enjoyment the be all and
end all of this little life! More often, indeed,
in the moods of his bitter envy, he would lay
the fault upon the world. How great he could
have been if he had been rich and high born!
Oh, he was made to spend, not to save—to
command, not to fawn. He was not formed to
plod through the dull mediocrities of fortune;
he must toss up for the All or the Nothing! It
was no control over himself that made Varncy
now turn his thoughts, from certain grave de-
signs on Percival St. John, to the brutal de-
bauchery of his three companions—rather he
then yielded most to his natural self. And
when the morning star rose over the night he
passed with low profiigates and venal nymphs
—when, over the fragments on the board and
emptied bottles, and drunken riot, dawn gleamed
and saw him in all the pride of his magnificent
organization, and the cynicism ofhis measured
vice; fair, fresh, and blooming amid those
maudlin eyes, and flushed cheeks, and reeling
figures; laughing hideously over the spectacle
he had provoked, and kicking aside, with a
devil‘s scorn, the prostrate form of the favored
partner whose head had rested on his bosom,
as alone, with a steady step, he passed the
threshold, and walked into the fresh. healthful
air; Gabriel Varney enjoyed the fell triumph
of his hell-born vanityfand reveled in his sen~
timent of superiority and power.
Meanwhile, on quitting Varney, young Per'
cival strolled on as the whim directed him.
Turning doWn the Haynnrket. he gained the
colonnade ofthe Opera House. The crowd there
was so dense that his footsteps were arrested,
and he leaned against one of the columns in ad-
miration of the various galaxies in view. In
front blazed the rival stars of the United Service
Club and the Athenaeum ; to the left, the quaint
and peculiar device which lighted up Northam-
berland House; to the right, the anchors, cau-
nons, and'bombs, which typified ingeniously the
martial attributes of the Ordnance Office.
At that moment there were three persons
connected with this narrative within a few feet
of each other, distinguished from the multitude
by the feelings with which each regarded the
scene and felt the jostle of the crowd. Perci-


LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT.
87
val St. John, in whom the harmless sense of
pleasure was yet vivid and unsatiated, caught
from the assemblage only that physical hilarity
which heightened his own spirits. If in a char-
acter as yet so undeveloped—to Which the large
passions and stern ends oflife were as yet on-
known—stirred some deeper and more musing
thoughts and speculations, giving gravity to the
habitual smile on his rosy lip, and steadying the
play of his sparkling eyes, he would have been
at a loss himself to explain the dim sentiment
and the vague desire.
Screened by another column from the press
are of the mob, with his arms folded on his
breast, a man some few years older in point of
time—many years older in point of character——
' gazed (with thoughts how turbulent—with am-
bition how profound !) upon the dense and dark
masses that covered space and street far as the
eye could reach. He, indeed, could not have
said, with Varney, that he was " at home in a
crowd ;“ for a cmwd did not fill him with the
sense of his own individual being and import-
ance, but grappled him to its mighty breast
with the thousand tissues ofacommon destiny.
Who shall explain and disentangle those high,
and restless, and interwoven emotions with
which intellectual ambition, honorable and ar-
dent, gazes upon that solemn thing with which,
in which, for which it lives and labors—the
Human Multitude'l To that abstracted, soli-
tary man, the illumination, the festivity, the
curiosity, the holyday, were nothing, or but as
fleeting phantoms and vain seemings. In his
heart's eye, he saw before him but the none,
the shadow of an everlasting audience—audi-
ence at once and judge.
And literally touching him as he stood, the
ragged sweeper, who had returned in vain to
devote a last care to his beloved charge, stood
arrested with the rest, gazing joylessly on the
blazing lamps, dead as the stones he heeded,
to the young vivacity of the one man, the sol-
emn visions of the other. So, 0 London, amid
the universal holyday to monarch and to mob,
in those three souls lived the three elements,
which, duly mingled and administered, make
thy vice,and thy virtue—thy glory and thy
shame—thy labor and thy luxury; pervading
the palace and the street—the hospital and the
prison i—enjoyment, which is pleasure—ener-
gy, which is action—torpor, which is want!
_--.—_
CHAPTER II.
LOVE AT ems-r axon-r.
Sunnmxmr across the gaze of Percival St.
John there. flashed a face that woke him from
his abstraction, as a light awakes the sleeper. It
was as a recognition ofsoniething seen dimly be-
fore-~a truth coming out from a dream. It was
not the mere beauty of that face (and beautiful
it was), that arrested his eye and made his heart
beat more quickly—it was, rather, that nameless
and inexplicable sympathy which constitutes
love at first sight ;—-a sort of impulse and, in-
stinct common to the dullest as the quickest—-
the hardest reason as the liveliest fancy. Plain
Cobbett, seeing before the cottage door, at her
homelicst of house-work, the girl of whom he
said-“ That girl should be my wife ;’-' and

Dante, first thrilled by the vision of Beatrice,
are alike true types of a common experience:
whatever of love sinks the deepest is felt at
first sight; it streams on us abrupt from the
cloud—a lightning flash—a dostiny revealed to
us face to face.
Now, there was nothing poetical in the place
or the circumstance, still less in the compan-
ionship in which this fair creature startled the
virgin heart of that careless boy ; she was lean-
ing on the arm of a stout, rosy-faced matron in '
a puce-colored-goWn, who was flanked on the
other side by a very small, very spare man,
with a very Wee face, the lower part of which
was enveloped in an immense belchcr. Beside
these two incumhrances, the stout lady con-
trived to carry in her hands an umbrella, a has-
ket, and a pair of pattens.
In the midst ofthis strange, unfamiliar emo-
tion which his eye conveyed to his heart, Per-
cival's-ear was displeasingly jarred by the loud,
bluff, hearty voice of the girl‘s female compan-
ion—-
“ Gracious me! ifthat is not John Ardworth;
who’d have thought it! \Vhy, John—I say,
John!" and lifting her umbrella horizontally,
she poked aside two city clerks in front of her,
wheeled round the little man on her left, upon
whom the clerks simultaneously bestowed the
appellation of “ feller," and driving him, as be-
ing the sharpest and thinnest wedge at hand,
through a dense knot of some lian-a~dozen
gapers, while following his involuntary prog-
ress she looked defiance .on the malcontents,
she succeeded in clearing her way to the spot
where stood the young man she had discovered.
The ambitious dreamer, for it was he, thus de-
tected and disturbed, looked embarrassed for a
moment, as the stout lady, touching him with
the umbrella. said—
“ Well, I declare, if this is not too bad! You
sent word that you should not be able to come
out with us to see the ‘luminations, and here
you are as large as life i"
“I did not think, at the moment you wrote
to me, that—”
“Oh, stuff !" interrupted the stout woman,
with a significant, good-humored shake of her
head, " I know what‘s what ; tell the truth, and
shame the gentleman who objects to showing
his feet. You are a wild follow, John Ard-
worth—you are i you like looking after the
pretty faces—you do—you do—ha, ha. ha! very
natural! So did you once—did not you, Mr.
Mivers--did not you, eh ! men must be men—
they always are men, and it‘s my belief that men
they always will be !"
\Vith this sage conjecture into the future, the
lady turned to Mr. Mivers, who, thus appealed
to, extricated with some difficulty his chin from
the folds of his belchei', and. putting up his
small face, said, in a small voice—" Yes, I was
a wild fellow once, but you have tamed me I—
you have, Mrs. ll ."
And therewith the chin sunk again into the
belcher, and the small voice died into a small
sigh.
The stout lady glanced benignly at her spouse.
and then resuming her address, to which Ard-
worth listened With a half-frown and a half-
smile, observed, encouragingly—
" Yes, there‘s nothing like a lawful wife to


88
LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT.
break a man in, as you will find some day.
Howsomever, your time’s not come for the
altar: so suppose you give Helen your arm, and
come with us.”
" Do," said Helen, in a sweet, coaxing voice.
Ardworth bent down his rough, earnest face
to Helen‘s. and an evident pleasure relaxed its
thoughtful lines. “I can not resist you," he be-
gun, and then he paused and frowned. “ Pish,"
he added, "I was talking folly; but what head
would not you turn! Resist you I must, for I
am on my way now to my drudgery. Ask me
any thing, some years hence, when I have time
to be happy, and then see if I am the bear you
now call me."
“Well,” said Mrs. Mivcrs, emphatically,
“ are you coming, or are you not 1 Don’t stand
there, shilly-shnlly.”
“Mrs. Mit'ers," returned Ardworth, with a
kind of sly humor, “I am sure you Would be
very angry with your husband’s excellent shop-
mcn, if that was the way they spoke to your
customers. Ifsome unhappy dropper-in—some
lady who came to buy a yard or so of Irish, was
suddenly dazzled, as I am, by a luxury wholly
unforeseen, and eagerly coveted—a splendid
laoe vcil, or a ravishing cashmere, or whatever
else you ladies desiderate, and while she was
balancing between prudence and temptation,
your foreman exclaimed—‘ Don’t stand, shilly-
shally,‘—comc, I put it to you.
" Stufl'!” said Mrs. Mivcrs.
“Alas! unlike your imaginary customer-(I
hope so, at least, for the sake of your till), pru-
dence gets the better of me; unless,” added
Ardworth, irrcsolutcly, and glancing at Helen—
“unless, indeed, you are not sufliciently pro-
tected, and-”
" Purtected !” exclaimed Mrs. Mivers, in an
indignant tone of astonishment, and agitating
the formidable umbrella, “ as if I was not
enough, with the help of this here domestic
commodity, to purtect a dozen such. Purtect-
ed, indeed !”
“John is right, Mrs.M.; business is business,”
said Mr. Mivcrs. “ Let us move on—we stop
the way, and those idle lads are listening to us,
and sniggering." ,
“Sniggering!” exclaimed the gentle help-
mate; “I should like to see those who pre-
sume for to snigger;” and as she spoke she
threw a look of defiance around her. Then,
having thus satisfied her resentment, she pre-
pared to obey, as no doubt she always did, her
lord and master. Suddenly, with a practiced
movement, she wheeled round Mr. Mivers, and
taking care to protrude before him the sharp
point of the umbrella, cut her way through the
crowd like the scathcd car of the ancient Brit-
ons, and was soon lost amid the throng, al-
though her way might be guessed by a slight
ripple of peculiar agitation along the general
stream, accompanied by a prolonged murmur
of reproach or expostulation which gradually
died in the distance.
Ardworth gazed after the fair form of Helen
with a look of regret; and, when it vanished-
with a slight start and a suppressed sigh, he
turned away, and with the long. steady stride
of a strong man, cleared his path through the
Strand, toward the printing-oflicc ofajournal on
Which he was responsibly engaged.

But Percival, who had caught much ofthe
conversation that took place so near him—Per-
civnl, happy child of idleness and whim, had no
motive oflabor and occupation to stay the free
impulse of his heart, and his heart drew him on,
with magnetic attraction, in the track of the
first being that had ever touched the sweet in—
stincts of youth.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Mivcrs was destined to learn
—-though, perhaps, the lesson little availed he!
—that to get smoothly through this world it is
necessary to be supple as well as strong ; and
though, up to a certain point, man or woman
may force the way by poking unihrellas into
people’s ribs, and treading mercilessly upon
people‘s toes, yet the endurance of ribs an
toes has its appointed limits.
Helen, half-terrified, also half-amused by her
companion's robust resolution of purpose, had
in Mrs. Mivers's general courage and success
that confidence which the weak repose in the
strong, and though, whenever she turned her
eyes from the illuminations, she besought Mrs.
Mivers to be more gentle; yet, seeing that
they had gone safely from St. Paul's to St.
James's, she had no distinct apprehension of
any practically ill results from the energies she
was unable to mitigate. But now, having just
gained the end of St. James‘s-street, Mrs. Miv-
ers at last found her match. The crowd hero
halted, thick and serried, to gaze in peace up):
the brilliant vista which the shops and clubs of
that street presented. Coaches and carriages
had paused in their line, and immediately before
Mrs. Mivcrs stood three very thin, small Women,
whose dress bespoke them to be of the humblest
class.
“ Make way, there—make way, my good
women—make way !" cried Mrs. Mivcrs, equal-
ly disdainful of the size and the rank of the ob-
structing parties.
“ Arrah, and what shall we make way for the
like of you, you ould busyhodyl" said one at
the dames, turning round, and presenting a
very formidable squint to the broad optics ot
Mrs. Mivcrs.
Without deigning a reply, Mrs. Mivers had
recourse to her usual tactics. Umbrella and
husband went right between turn of the femi
nine obstrttctives; and to the inconceivable as-
tonishment and horror of the assailant, husband
and umbrella instantly vanished. The three
small furies had pounced upon both. They
were torn from their natural owner—they- were
hurried away; the stream behind, long frcttcd
at the path so abruptly made amid it, closed in,
joyous with a thousand waves. Mrs. Mivers
and Helen wege borne forward in one way, the
umbrella and the husband in the other: at the
distance asmall voice was heard, “ Don‘t you!
—don't ! De quiet?! Mrs—Mrs. -Mrs. M.!
Oh! oh ! Mrs. M. !" At that last :epetition of
the beloved and familiar initial, uttered in a
tone of almost superhuman ang 'ish, the con~
jugal heart oers. Mivers was afilicted beyond
control.
" Wait here a moment, my dear! I'll just
giVe it them—that‘s all !” And in another mo-
ment Mrs. Mivcrswas heard bustling, scolding,
till all trace of her whereabout was gone from
the eyes of Helen. Thus left alone, ln exceed~
ing shame and dismay, the poor girl cast a


LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT.
89
glance around. The g ance was caught by two
young men, whose station, in these days, when
dress is an equivocal designator of rank, could
not be guessed by their exterior. They might
be dandies from the west—they might be clerks
from the east.
“ By Jove," exclaimed one, “that's a sweet
pretty girl!" and, by a sudden movement of
the crowd, they both found themselves close to
Helen.
"Are you alone, my dear?" said a voice
rudely familiar.
Helen made no reply-the tone of the voice
'rightened her. A gap in the mob showed the
space toward CléVeland-row, which, leading
to no illuminations, was vacant and solitary.
She instantly made toward this spot; the two
men followed her—the bolder and elder one
occasionally trying to catch hold of her arm.
At last, as she passed the last house to the left, a
house then otvned byone who, at once far-sighted
and impetuous, affable and haughty—characte-
rized alike by solid virtues and brilliant faults—
would, but for hollow friends, have triumphed
over countless foes, and enjoyed at last that
brief day of stormy power for which statesmen
resign the health of manhood and the hope of
age—as she passed that memorable mansion,
she suddenly perceived that the space before
her bad no thoroughfare, and, whi eshe paused
in dismay, her pursuers blockade her escape.
One of them now fairly seized her hand:
“ Nay, pretty one, why so cruel'.1 But one
kiss—only one!” He endeavored to pass his
arm round her waist while he spoke. Helen
eluded him, and darted forward, to find her way
stopped by her persecutor's companion,_when,
to her astonishment, a third person gently
pushed aside the form that impeded her path,
approached, and looking mute defiance at the
unchivalric molesters, ofi'ered her his arm.
Helen gave but one timid, hurrying glance to
her unexpected protector. Something in his
ace, his air, his youth, appealed at once to her
confidence. Mechanically, and scarce knowing
what she did, she laid her trembling hand on the
arm held out to her.
The two Lotharios looked foolish. One pull-
ed up his shirt collar, the other turned, with a
forced laugh, on his heel. Boy as Percival
seemed, and little more than boy as he was,
there was a dangerous fire in his eye, and an
eXprcssion of spirit and ready courage in his
whole countenance, which, if it did not awa his
tall rivals, made them at least unwilling to have
a scene, and provoke the interference of the
policemen, one of whom was now seen walking
slowly up to the spot. They therefore pre-
served a discomfited silence; and Percival St.
John, with his heart going ten knots a beat,
sailed triumphantly oil with his prize.
Scarcely knowing whither he went, certainly
forgetful of Mr. Mivers, in his anxiety to escape
at least from the crowd, Percival walked on till
he found himself, with his fair charge, under the
trees of St. James’s Park.
Then Helen, recovering herself, paused, and
said, alarmed, “ But this is not my way—I must
go back to the street!"
" How foolish I am—that is true !" said Per-
cival, looking confused. “ l—I felt so happy to
be with you, feel your hand on my arm, and

think that we were all by ourselves, that—that
—but you have dropped your flowers !”
And a bouquet Helen wore, dislodged some-
how or other, fell to the ground ; both stooped
to pick it up, and their hands met. At tha
touch Percival felt a strange tremble, which
perhaps communicated itself (for such things
are contagious) to his fair companion. Perci-
Val had got the nosegay, and seemed willing to
detain it, for be bent his face lingeringly over
the flowers. At length, he turned his bright, '
ingenuous eyes to Helen, and singling one
ruse from the rest, said, beseechingly—“May
I keep this? See, it is not so fresh as the
others."
l‘I am sure, sir," said Helen, coloring, and
looking down. “I owe you so much that I
should be glad if a poor flower could repay
it.”
“ A poor flower!
prize this is to me I" ,
Percival placed the rose reverently in his
bosom, and the two moved back slowly, as if
reluctant both, through the old palace court into
the street.
“ Is that lady related to you 1." asked Perci-
val, looking anpther way, and dreading the re-
ply : "Not your mother, surely !"
“ Oh, no !—I have no mother !”
“Forgive me!’-’ said Percival, for the tone
of Helen‘s voice told him that he had touched
the spring ofa household sorrow. “And,” he
added, with a jealousy that he could scarcely
restrain from making itself evident in his ae-
cent, “ that gentleman who spoke to you under
the colonnade—I have seen him before, but
where I can not remember. In fact, you have
put every thing but yourself out of my head.
Is he related to you I"
" He is my cousin."
“ Cousin !” repeated Percival, pouting a lit
tie; and again there was a silence.
" I don't know how it is," said Percival, at
last, and very gravely, as if much perplexed by
some abstruse thought, "but I feel as ifl had
known you all my life. ' I never felt this for any
one before."
There was something so irresistibly innocent
in the boy‘s serious, wondering tone, as he said
these words, that a smile, in spite of herself,
broke out among the thousand dimples round
Helen's charming lips. Perhaps the little witch
felt a touch of coquetry for the first-time.
Percival, who was looking sidelong into her
face, saw the smile, and said, drawing up his
head, and shaking back his jetty curls, “ I dare
say you are laughing at me as a mere boy; but
I am older than I look. I am sure I am much
older than you are. Let me see, you are seven-
teen, I suppose 1"
Helen, getting more and more at her case,
nodded playful assent.
“ And I am not far from twenty-one. Ah!
you may well look surprised—but so it is. An
hour ago I felt a mere boy; now I shall never
feel a boy again !"
Once more there was a long pause, and be,
fore it was broken they had gained the very spot
in which Helen had lost her friend.
‘- Why, bless us, and save us !" exclaimeda
voice ‘loud as a trumpet,’ but not ' with u 31]-
vcr sound,’ “there you are, after all ,“ and Mrs.
You don‘t know what a


90
LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT.
Mivers (husband and umbrella both regained)
planted herself full before them.
“0b, a pretty fright I have been in; and
now, to see you coming along as cool as if
nothing had happened-as if the humbrella had
not lost its hivory andle—it’s quite purvoking.
Dear, dear ! what we have gone through! And
who is this young gentleman, pray!”
Helen whispered some hesitating explana-
tion, which Mrs. Mivers did not seem to re-
ceive as graciously as Percival, poor fellow,
had a right to expect. She stared him full in
the face, and shook her head suspiciously when
she saw him a little confused by the survey.
Then, tucking Helen tightly under her arm, she
walked back toward the Haymarket, merely
saying to Percival,
“ Much obligated, and good night. I have a
long journey to take to set down this here
young lady, and the best thing we can all do is
to get home as fast as we can, and have a re-
freshing cup of tea—that’s my mind, sir. Ex-
cuse me !"
Thus abruptly dismissed, poor Percival gazed
wistfully on his Helen, as she was borne along,
and was somewhat comforted at seeing her look
back, with (as he thought) a touch of regret in
her parting smile. Then suddenly it flashed
across him how sadly he had wasted his time.
Novice that he was, he had'not even learned
the name and address of his new acquaintance.
At that thought he hurried on through the
crowd, but only reached the object of his pur-
suit just in time to see her placed in a coach,
and to catch a full view of the luxuriant propor-
tions of Mrs. Mivers as she followed her into
the vehicle.
As the lumbering conveyance (the only coach
on the stand) heaved itself into motion, Perci-
val’s eye fell on the sweeper, who was still
leaning on his broom, and who, in grateful re-
cognition of the unwonted generosity that had
repaid his service, touched his ragged hat, and
smiled drowsily on his young customer. Love
sharpens the wit and animates the timid ;—a
thought, Worthy of the most experienced, in-
spired Percival St. John: he hurried to the
sweeper, laid his hand on his patchWork coat,
and said, breathlessly,
“ You see that coach turning into the square ;
follow it—find out where it sets down. There‘s'
a sovereign for you—another if you succeed.
Call and tell me your success. Number —,
Cur-zon-street l—ofi“, like a shot !"
The sweeper nodded and grinned; it was
possibly not his first commission of a similar
kind. He darted down the street} and Perci-
val, following him with equal speed, had the
satisfaction to see him, as the coach traversed
St. James‘s-square, comfortably seated on the
footboard.
He, drill clod, knew nothing, cared nothing,
felt nothing as to the motives or purposes ofhis
employer. Honest love or selfish vice, it was
the same to him. He saw only the one sover-
eign which, with astounded eyes, he still
gazed at on his palmI and the vision of the
sovereign that was yet to come.
“ Seandlt crates vitloss naves,
Cum: use turmul equitum relinqult."
It was the selfishness of London—calm and

stolid, whether on the track of innocence or at
the command of guile.
At half-past ten o‘clock Percival St. John
was seated in his room, and the sweeper stood
at the threshold. Wealth and penury seemed
brought into visible contact in the persons of
the visitor and the host. The dwelling is held
by some to give an index to the character of
the owner; if so, Percival's apartments dif-
fered much from those generally favored by
young men of rank and fortune. On the one
hand it had none of that afi‘ectation of su-
perior taste, evinced in marqueterie and gild-
ing, or the more picturesque discomfort of high-
backed chairs and mediazval curiosities which
prevails in the daintier abodes of fastidious
bachelors. Nor, on the other hand, had it the
sporting character which individualize the ruder
juveniles “gut gaudem tquis," betrayed by en-
gravings of racers, and celebrated fox-hunts,
relieved, perhaps, if the Nimrod condescend to
a cross of the Lovelace, with portraits of figu-
mum, and ideals of French sentiment, en-
titled, " Le Soir," or “ La Rcuilléc," “L'E':poir,”
or “ L‘Abandon.” But the rooms had a physi-
ognomy oftheir own, from their exquisite neat-
ness and cheerful simplicity. The chintz dra-
peries were lively with gay flowers; books
filled up the niches; here and there were small
pictures, chiefly sea-pieces—well chosen, well
placed.
There might, indeed, have been something
almost efl‘eminate in a certain inexpressiblo
purity of taste, and a cleanliness of detail that
seemed actually brilliant, had not the folding~
doors allowed a glimpse of a plainer apartment,
with fencing-foils and boxing-gloves ranged on
the wall, and a cricket-bat resting carelessly in
the corner. These gave a redeeming air of
manliness to the rooms; but it was the manli-
nessof a boy; half-girl, if you please, in the
purity of thought that pervaded one room, all
boy in the playful pursuits that were made
manifest in the other. Simple, however, as
this abode really was, poor Beck had never
been admitted to the sight of any thing half so
fine. He stood at the door for a moment, and
stared about him, bewildered and dazzled. But
his natural torpor to things that concerned him
not soon brought to him the same stoicism that
philosophy gives the strong; and after the first
surprise, his eye quietly settled on his em-
ployer. St. John rose eagerly from the sofa,
on which he had been contemplating the starlit
tree-tops of Chesterfield Gardens—
“ Well, well,” said Percival.
“ Hold Brompton," said Beck, with a brevity
of word and clearness of perception worthy a
Spartan.
" Old Brompton l” repeated Percival, think-
ing the reply the most natural in the world.
“ In a big one by hisself,” continued Beck,
“with a igh vall in front.”
“ You would know it again i"
" in course; he's so ery pecular."
“ He! who?"
“ Vy, the ous. The young lady got out, and
the hold folks driv back. I did not go arter
them !"—-and Beck looked sly.
“ So ;--I must find out the name."
"I axed at the public," said Beck, proud of
his diplomacy. “ They keeps a servant rot


EARLY TRAINING FOR AN UPRIGHT GENTLEMAN.
91
takes half-a-pint at her meals. The young
lady’s ma be a foriner."
“A foreigner! Then she lives there with
her mother 1" ‘
“ So they ’spose at the public."
"And the name 1"
Beck shook his head. “’Tis a French un,
your onor; but the sarvant‘s is Martha."
“You must meet me at Brompton, near the
turnpike, tomorrow, and show me the house."
“Vy, 1’s in bizness all day, please your
onor."
“ In business 1"
"1’5 the place of the crossing,” said Beck,
with much dignity; “ but arter eight 1 goes
vhere I_likes.”
" To-morrow evening, then, at half-past eight,
by the turnpike.”
Beck pulled his forelock assentingly.
“There‘s the sovereign I promised you. my,
poor fellow—much good may it do you. Per-
haps you have some father or mother whose
heart it will glad.”
“I never had no such thing," replied Beck,
turning the coin in his hand.
“ Well, don’t spend it in drink.”
“I never drinks nothing but svipes.”
"Then," said Percival, laughingly, “what,
my good friend, will you ever do with your
money!"
Beck put his finger to his nose, sunk his Voice
into a whisper, and replied solemnly—“I as a
mattris."
“A mistress,” said Percival; “oh, a sweet-
heart! \Vcll ; but if she‘s a good girl, and
loves you, she won't let you spend your money
on her."
“I baint such a ninny as that,” said Beck,
with majestic contempt. “I ’spises the flat
that is done brown by the blowens. I as a
mattris.”
“Ainatrcss! a matress!
that to do with the money 1"
“Vy, I lines it."
Percival looked puzzled. “ Oh," said he, af-
ter a thoughtful pause, and in a tone of consid-
erable compassion, “I understand: you sew
your money in your matress. My poor, poor
lad, you can do better than that l—therc are the
savings-banks."
Beck looked frightened: “I opes your ‘onor
vont tell no vun. I opes no vun vont go for to
put my tin vere I shall know nothing vatsom-
ever about it. Now, I knows vere 't is—and I
lays on it."
“Do you sleep more soundly when you lie
on your treasure l"
" No; it‘s hodd," said Beck, musingly, “ but
the more 1 lines it the verse I sleeps."
Percival laughed ; but there was melancholy
in his laughter; something in the forlorn, be-
nighted, fatherless, squalid miser, Went to toe
core of his open, generous heart.
“ Do you ever read your Bible 1.” said he, af-
ter a pause ; “ —or even the newspaper l"
“ I does not read nothing, cos vyI I haint been
made a schollard, like svell Tim, as was lagged
for a forgery."
'“You go to church on a Sunday 1"
'" Yes; I “as a veekly hingagement at the new
road."
“ What do you mean I”
\Vell, what has

“ To see arter the gig of a gemman vot comes
from Ighgate." -
Percival lifted his brilliant eyes, and they
were moistened with a heavenly dew, on the
dull face of his fellow-creature. Bock made a
scrape, looked reund, shambled back to the door.
and ran home, through the lamp-lit streets of the
great mart of the Christian universe, to sew the
gold in his matress.
+
CHAPTER III.
man 'rnmvmo non An uvnron'r can-rtzmm.
PERCIVAL Sr. Joan had been brought up at
home, under the eye of his mother and the care
of an excellent man, who had been tutor to him-
self and his brothers. The tutor was not much
of a classical scholar, for, in great measure, he
had educated himself; and be who does so,
usually lacks the polish and brilliancy of one
Whose footsteps have been led early to the Tem-
ple of the Muses. In fact, Captain Greville was
a gallant soldier, With whom Vernon St. John
had been acquainted in his own brief military
career, and whom circumstances had so reduced
in life, as to compel him to sell his commission,
and live as he could. He had always been
known, in his regiment, as a reading man, and
his authority looked up to in all the disputes as to
history and dates, and literary anecdotes, which
might occur at the mess-table. Vernon con-
sidered him the most learned man of his ac-
quaintance; and, when accidentally meeting
him in London, he learned his fallen fortunes,
he congratulated himselfon a very brilliant idea,
when he suggested that Captain Greville should
assist him in the education of his boys and the
management of his estate. At first, all that
Greville modestly undertook with respect to
the former, and, indeed, was expected to do,
was to prepare the young gentlemen for Eton,
to which Vernon, with the natural predilection
of an Eton man, destined his sons. But the
sickly constitutions of the two elder justified
Lady Mary in her opposition to a public school;
and Percival conceived early so strong an af—
fection for a sailor’s life, that the father‘s in-
tentions were frustrated. The two elder con-
tinued their education at home; and Percival,
at an earlier age than usual, went to sea. The
last was fortunate e'nough'to have for his cap-
tain one of that new race of naval officers who,
well educated and accomplished. form a notable
contrast to the old heroes of Smollet. Percival,
however, had not been long in the service before
the deaths ofhis two elder brothers, preceded by
that of his father, made him the head of his
ancient house, and the sole prop of his mother's
earthly hopes. He conquered, with a generous
effort, the passion for his noble profession,
which service had but confirmed, and returned
home with his fresh, child-like nature uncor-
rupted, his constitution strengthened, his lively
and impressionable mind braced by the expe-
rience of danger and the habits of duty, and
quietly resumed his reading under Captain Gre~
ville, who had moved from the Hall to a small
house in the village.
Now, the education he had received, from
first to last, was less adapted prematurely to
quicken his intellect and excite his imagination


EARLY TRAINING FOR AN UPRIGH'I‘ GENTLEMAN.
tion of positive truths, had led him easily
through the elementary mathematics. and his
9‘2
than to warm his heart and elevate, while it,
chastencd, his moral qualities; for in Lady
Mary there was, amid singular sweetness ofisomewhat martial spirit had made him delight
temper, a high cast of character and thought. in the old captain’s lectures on military tactics.
She was not whatis commonly called clever, and Had he remained in the navy, Ecrcival St. John
her experience of the world was limited, com- would, doubtless, have been distinguished. His
pared to that of most women of similar rank I talents fitted him for straightforward, manly ac-
who pass their lives in the vast theater of Lon-
don. But she became superior by a certain
single-heartedness which made truth so habit-
ual to her. that the light in which she lived
rendered all objects around her clear. One
who is always true, in the great duties of life,
is nearly always wise. And Vernon, when he
had fairly buried his faults, had felt a noble
shame for the excesses into which they had
led him. Gradually more and more wedded to
his home, he dropped his old companions. He
set grave guard on his talk (his habits now
required no guard), lest any of the ancient lev-
ity should taint the ears of his children. Noth-
ing is more common in parents than their desire
that their children should escape their faults.
We scarcely know ourselves till we have chil-
dren, and then, if we love them duly, we look
narrowly into failings that become vices, when
they serve as examples to the young.
The inborn gentleman, with the native cour-
age, and spirit, and horror of trick and falsehood
which belong to that chivalrous abstraction,
survived almost alone in Vernon St. John ; and
his boys sprang up in the atmosphere of gener-
ous sentiments and transparent truth. The
tutor was in harmony with the parents—a sol-
dier, every inch of him,—not a mere disciplina-
rian, yet with a profound sense of duty, and a
knowledge that duty is to be found in attention
to details. In inculcating the habit of subordi-
nation, so graceful to the young, he knew how
to make himself beloved, and, what is harder
still, to be understood. The soul of this poor
soldier was white 'and unstained, as the arms
of a maiden knight; it was full of suppressed,
but lofty enthusiasm. He had been ill used,
whether by Fate or the Horse Guards—his ca-
reer had been a failure; but he was as loyal as
if his hand held the field-marshal‘s truncbeon
and the garter hound his knee. He was above
all qucrulous discontent. From him, no less
than from his parents, Percival caught not only
a spirit of honor worthy the antiquafidc: of the
poets, but that peculiar cleanliness of thought,
if the expression may he used, which belongs
to the ideal ofyouthful chivalry. In mere book-
learning, Percival, as may he supposed, was not
veryextensively read ; buthis mind, ifnot largely
stored, had a certain unity of culture which gave i
it stability and individualized its operations.
Travels, voyages, narratives of heroic adveny
ture, biographies of great men, had made the
favorite pasture of his enthusiasm. To this
was added the more stirring, and, perhaps, the
more genuine order of poets who make you
feel and glow, rather than doubt and ponder.
He knew, at least, enough of Greek to enjoyi
old Homer; and if he could have come but ill
through a college examination into Eschylus
tion; and he had a generous desire of distinc-
tion, vague, perhaps, the moment he was taken
from his profession, and curbed by his dillidence
in himself and his sense of deficiencies in the
ordinary routine of purely classical education.
'Still he had in him all the elements of a true
{man—a man to go through life with a firm step
1and a clear conscience, and a gallant hope.
“Such a man may not win fame, that is an acci-
dent ; but he must occupy no despicable place
in the movement ofthe World.
It was at first intended to send Percival to
.Oxford ; but for some reason or other, that de-
sign was abandoned. Perhaps Lady Mary, over-
' cautious, as mothers left alone sometimes are,
feared the contagion to which a young man
of brilliant expectations, and no studious turn,
is necessarily exposed in all places of miscel-
laneous resort. So Percival was sent abroad
for two years, under the guardianship of Cop-
tain Greville. On his return, at the age of
nineteen—the great World lay before him. and
he longed ardently to enter. For a year Lady
Mary‘s fears and food anxieties detained him
at Laughton; but, though his great tenderness
for his mother withheld Percival from opposing
her wishes by his own, this interval of inaction
affected visibly his health and spirits. Captain
Greville, a man of the world, saw the cause
sooner than Lady Mary, and one morning, ear-
lier than usual, he walked up to the Hall.
The captain, with all his deference to the
sex, was a plain man enough, when business
was to be done. Like his great commander, he
came to the point in a few words.
“My dear Lady Mary, our boy must go to
London—we are killing him here."
“ Mr. Greville!” cried Lady Mary, turning
pale and putting aside her embroidery—" kill-
ing him i"
“Killing the man in him. Idon’t mean to
alarm you—l dare say his lungs are sound
enough, and that his heart would hear the
sthenoscope to the satisfaction of the College
of Surgeons. But, my dear ma'am, Percival is
,to be a man—it is the man you are killing by
>keeping him tied to your apron-string."
i “ Oh, Mr. Grevillc! I am sure you don‘t wish
ito wound me, hut—“
" I beg ten thousand pardons.
ibut truth is rough sometimes."
“it is not for my sake," said the mother,
warmly, and with tears in her eyes, “that I
have wished him to be here. lfhe is dull, can
we not till the house for him 1"
“ Fill a thimble, my dear Lady Mary—Per-
cival should have a plunge in the ocean."
“But he is so young yet, that horrid Lon-
don !—-such temptations—fatherless, [00 t"
" I have no fear of the result if Percival goes


I am rough.
and Sophocles, he had dwelt with fresh delight now, while his principles are strong and his
on the rushing storm of spears, in the Seven be- imagination not inflamed ; but it We keep him
fore Thebes, and wept over the heroic calami-‘ here much longer against his bent, he will learn
ties of Antigone. In science he was no adept; ‘ to brood and to muse, write bad poetry perhaps,
but his clear, good sense, and quick apprecia-. and think the world withheld from him a thou-


JOHN ARDWORTH.
93.
sand times more delightful than it is.
Very dread oftemptation vrtll provoke his curi-
osity, irritate his fancy. make him imagine the
temptation must be a very delightful thing.
For the first time in my life, ma‘am, I have
caught him sighing over fashionable novels, and
subscribing to the Southampton Circulating Li-
brary. Take my word for it, it is time that
Percival should begin life, and swim without
corks."
Lady Mary had a profound confidence in
Greville‘s judgment and atfection for Percival ;
and, like a sensible Woman, she was aware of
her own weakness. She remained silent for a
few moments, and then said, with an effort-
“ You know how hateful London is to me
now—how unfit I am to return to the hollow
forms of its society ; still, if you think it right,
I will take a house for the season, and Percival
can still be under our eye."
“ No, ma‘am, pardon me, that will be the
surest way to make him either discontented or
hypocritical. A young man of his prospects
and temper can hardly be expected to chime in
with all our sober, old-fashioned habits. You
will impose on him—if he is to conform to our
hours, and notions, and quiet set—a thousand
irksome restraints; and what will be the con-
sequence? In a year, he will be of age, and
can throw us off altogether, if he pleases. I
know the boy -don’t seem to distrust him—
he may be. trusted. You place the true con-
straint on temptation, when you say to him,
‘ We confide to you our dearest treasure—your
honor, your morals, your conscience, your-
self!’ ”
“But, at least, you will go with him, if it
must be so," said Lady Mary, after a few timid
arguments, from which, one by one, she was
driven.
" I! what fort—to be a jest of the young
puppies he must know—to make him ashamed
of himself and me—himsclf as a milksop, and
me as a dry nurse."
“ But this was not so abroad !”
“Abroad, ma’am, I gave him full swing, I
promise you; and when we went abroad, he
was two years younger."
" But he is a mere child, still."
" Child, Lady Mary! At his age I had gone
through two sieges. There are younger faces
than his at a mess-room. Come, come! I
know what you fear—he may commit some
follies; very likely. He may be taken in, and
lose some money—he can afford it, and he will
get experience in return. Vices he has none.
I have seen him—ay, with the vicious. Send
him out against the world, like a saint of old,
with his Bible in his hand, and no spot on his
robe. Let him see fairly what is, not stay here
to dream of what is not. And when he‘s of
age, ma'am, we must get him an object—a
pursuit; start him for the county, and make
him serve the state; he will understand that
business pretty well. Tush! tush! what is
'there to cry at 1."
The captain prevailed. We don‘t say that
his advice would have been equally judicious
for all youths of Percival’s age; but he knew
well the nature to which he confided ; he knew
well how strong was that young heart in its
healthful simplicity and instinctive rectitude;

This iand he appreciated its manliness not too highly
when he felt that all evident props and aids
would be but irritating tokens vfdistrust.
And thus, armed only with letters of intro-
duction, his mother’s tearful admonitions, and
Grevillc’s experienced warnings, Percival St.
John was lanched into London life. After the
first month or so, Grevrlle came up to visit
him, do him sundry kind invisible offices among
his old friends, help him to equip his apart-
ments, and mount his stud ; and, wholly satis-
fied with the results ofhis experiment, returned,
in high spirits, with flattering reports to the
anxious mother.
But, indeed, the tone of Percival‘s letters
would have been sufficient to allay even mater-
nal anxiety. He did not write, as sons are too
apt to do, short excuses for not writing more at
length, unsatisfactory compressions of details
(exciting worlds of conjecture) into a hurried
sentence. Frank and overflowing, those de-
lightful epistles gave accounts fresh from the
first impressions of all he saw and did. There
was a racy, Wholesome gusto in his enjoyment
of novelty and independence. I-lis balls and
his dinners, and his cricket at Lord's—his part-
ners,and his companions; his general gayety, his
occasional ennui, furnished ample materials to
one who felt he was corresponding with another
heart, and had nothing to fear or to conceal.
But about two months before this portion of
our narrative opens with the coronation, Lady
Mary’s favorite sister, who had never married,
and who, by the death of her parents, was left
alone in the worse than widowhood of an old
maid, had been ordered to Pisa, for a complaint
that betrayed pulmonary symptoms; and Lady
Mary, with her usual unselfishness, conquered
both her aversion to movement and her wish to
be in reach of her son, to accompany abroad
this beloved and solitary relative. Captain
Greville was pressed into service as their joint
cavalier. And thus Percival‘s habitual inter-
course with his two principal correspondents
received a temporary check.
+—
- CHAPTER IV.
roux ARDWORTH.
Ar noon the next day, Beck, restored to his
grandeur, was at the helm of his state; Percival
was vainly trying to be amused by the talk of
two or three loungers who did him the honor
to smoke a cigar in his rooms; and John Ard-
worth sat in his dingy cell in Gray’s Inn, with
a pile of law books on the table, and the daily
newspapers, carpeting a footstool of Haruard’:
Debates, upon the floor—no unusual combina-
tion of studies among the poorer and more ar-
dent students of the law, who often owe their
earliest, nor perhaps their least noble earnings,
to employment in the empire of the Press. By
the power of a mind habituated to labor, and
backed by a frame of remarkable strength and
endurance, Ardworth grappled with his arid
studies not the less manfully for a night mainly
spent in a printer’s office, and stinted to less
than four hours’ actual sleep. But that sleep
was profound and refreshing as a peasant‘s.
The nights thus devoted to the Press _(he was
employed in the ub-editing of a daily Journal),


_94
JOl-‘IN ARDWORTH.
the mornings to the law, he kept distinct the
two separate callings with a stern subdivision
oflabor, which in itself proved the vigor of his
energy and the resolution of his will. Early
compelled to shift for himself, and carve out
his own way, he had obtained a small fellow-
ship at the small college in which he had passed
his academic career. Previous to his arrival
in London, by contributions to political periodi-
cals, and a high reputation at that noble de-
bating society in Cambridge which has trained
some of the most eminent ofliving public men,’
he had established a name which was imme-
diately ust-i'nl to him in obtaining employment
on the Press. Like most'youiig men ofpracti-
cal ability, lie was an eager politician. The
popular passion of the day kindled his enthusi-
asm, and stirred the depths of his soul with
magnificent, though exaggerated, hopes in the
destiny of his race. He identified himselfwith
the people; his stout heart beat loud in their
stormy cause. His compositions, ifthey want-
ed that knowledge of men, that subtile compre-
hension of the true state of parties, that happy
temperance in which the crowning wisdom of
statcsinen must consist—qualities which expe-
rience alone can give—excited considerable
attention by their bold eloquence and hardy
logic. They were suited to the time. But
John Ard worth had that solidity of understand-
ing which bctokens more than talent—which
is the usual substratum of genius. He would
not depend alone on the precarious and often
unhonorcd toils of polemical literature for that
distinction on which he had fixed his steadfast
heart. Patiently he plodded on through the
formal drudgeries of his new profession, light-
ing up dullness by his own acute comprehension,
weaving complexities into simple system by
the grasp of an intellect inurcd to generalize;
and learning to love even what was most dis-
tasteful, by the sense of difficulty overcome,
and the clearer vision which every step through
the mists and up the hill, gave of the land be-
yond. Of what the superficial are apt to con-
sider genius, John Ardworth had but little. He
had some imagination (for a true thinker is
ncvcr without that), but he had a very slight
share of fancy. He did not flirt with the Muses;
on the granite of his mind, few flowers could
spring. llis style, rushing and earnest, admit-
tcd at times of a humor, not without delicacy——
though less delicate than forcible and deep—
bnt it was little adorned with wit. and still less
with poetry. Yet Ardworth had genius, and
genius ample and magnificent. There was
genius in that industrious energy so patient in
the conquest of detail, so triumphant in the per-
ception of results. There was genius in that
kindly sympathy with mankind—genius in that
stubborn determination to succeed—genius in
that vivid comprehension of affairs, and the
large interests of the world—genius fed in the
labors of the closet, and evinced the instant he

‘ Among those whom the “Unloa” almost cotcmpo-
rancnnaly prepared for public life, and whose distinction
has kept the promise of their youth, we may mention the
eminent barristers. Messrs. Austin and Coekbum; and
among statesmen, Lord Grey, Mr. C. Buller, Mr. Charles
Vllliers, and Mr. Macauley. Nor might we to forget
those brilliant competitors for the prizesui' the University,
Dr. Kennedy (now head master of Bhnwnbury School)
and the late Winthrop M. Pned.

Iwas brought in contact with men ; evinced in
readiness oftliought. grasp of memory, even in a
rough, imperious manner, which showed him
. born to speak strong truths, and in their name
to struggle and command.
Itough was this man often in his exterior,
though really gentle and kind-hearted. John
Ardworth had sacrificed to no Graces; he
would have thrown Lord Chesterfield into a
fever—not that he was ever vulgar, for vul-
garity implies afl‘ectation of refinement; but he
talked loud, and laughed loud if the whim
seized him, and rubbed his great hands Willi a
boyish heartiness of glee if he discomfited an
adversary in argument. Or, sometimes, he
would sit abstracted and moody, and answer
briefly and boorishly those who interrupted him.
Young men were mostly afraid of him, though
he wanted but fame to have a set of admiring
disciples. Old men censured his presumption,
and recoiled from the novelty of his ideas.
Women alone liked and appreciated him, as,
with their finer insight into character, phey
generally do what is honest and sterling. Sinie
strange failings, too, had John Ardworth--sbme
of the usual vagaries and contradictions of
clever men. As a system, he was rigidly ab-
stemious. For days together he would drink
nothing but water, eat nothing but bread,
or hard biscuit, or a couple of eggs; then
having wound up some allotted portion of
work, Ardwarth Would indulge what he called
a self-saturnalia—would stride off with old col-
lege friends to an inn in one of the suhifrbs,
and spend, as he said, triumphantly, “ a day of
blessed debauch!" Innocent enough, for the
most part, the debauch was ;—consisting in
cracking jests, stringing puns, a fish dinner,
perhaps, and an extra bottle or two of fiery port.
Sometimes this jollity, which was always loud
and uproarious, found its scenein one ofthe cider
cellars or midnight taverns; but Ardworth's la-
bors on the Press made that latter dissipation
extremely rare. These relaxations were al-
ways succeeded by a mien more than usually
grave, a manner more than usually curt and
ungracious, an application more than ever rig-
orous and intense. John Ardworth was not a
good-tempered man, but he was the best-na-
tured man that ever breathed. He was, like all
ambitious persons, very much occupied with
self, and yet it would have been a ludicrous
misapplication of words to call him selfish.
Even the desire of fame which absorbed him
was but a part of benevolence—a desire to pro-
mote justice and to serve his kind.
John Ardworth's shaggy .brows were bent
over his open volumes, when his clerk entered,
noiselessly, and placed on his table a letter
which the two-penny postman had just deliv-
ered. With an impatient shrug of the shoul-
ders, Artlworth glanced toward the superscrip-
tion; but his eye became earnest and his interest
aroused, as he recognized the hand. “ Again !“
he muttered, “what mystery is this? Who can
feel such interest in my fate'l" He broke the
seal. and read as follows :—
“ Do you neglect my advice, or have you be—
gun to act upon it! Are you contented only
with the slow process of mechanical applica-
tion, or will you make a triumphant effort to
abridge your apprenticeship, and emerge at 01:00


JOHN ARDWORTH.
95
I repeat that you fritterimixed a kind of fear.
into fame ano power
Plain, earnest, onro-
away your talents and your opportunities, upon l mantic, in the common acceptation of the Word,
this miserable task-work on a journal.
impatient for you.
I am the mystery ofthis intermeddiing with his fate,
Come forward yourself, put this arrogation of the license to spy. the right
vour force and your knowledge into some Work l to counsel, and the privilege to bestow, gave
of which the world may know the author. Day ‘ him the uneasiness the bravest men may feel
after day, I am examining into your destiny,
and 'day after day I believe more and more that
you are not fated for-the tedious drudgery to
which you doom your youth. I would have you
great, but in the senate—not a wretched casuist
at the bar. Appear in public as an individual
authority, not one of that nameless troop of
shadows, contemned while dreaded as, the
Press. Write for renown. Go into the world
and make friends. Soften your rugged bearing.
Lift yourself above that herd whom you call the
septa. What if you are born of the noble class?
hat it' your career is as gentleman, not ple-
beian‘! \Vant not for money. Use what I send
you, as the young and the well-born should use
it; or let it, at least, gain you a respite from
toils for bread—and support you in your strug-
gle to emancipate yourself from obscurity into
fame. Your: Unxrwwrv FRIEND."
A bank-note for £100 dropped from the en-
velope as Ardworth silently replaced the letter
on the table.
Thrice before had he received communica-
tions in the same handwriting, and much to
the same effect. Certainly to a mind of less
strength, there would have been something very
unsettling in those vague hints of a station
higher than he owued—of a future at variance
with the toilsome lot he had drawn from the
urn; but after a single glance over his lone po-
sition in all its bearings, and probable expecta-
tions, Ardworth‘s steady sense shook off the
slight disturbance such misty vaticinations had
effected. His mother‘s family was indeed un-
knowa to him—ho was even ignorant of her
maiden name. But that very obscurity seemed
unfavorable to much hope from such a quarter.
The connections with the rich and well-born
are seldom left obscure. From his father’s
family he had not one expectation. More had
he been moved by exhortations now generally
repeated, but in a previous letter more precise-
ly detailed-via, to appeal to the reading public
in his acknowledged person. and by some strik-
ing and original work. This idea he had often
contemplated and revolved, unprompted; but
partly the necessity of keeping pace with the
many exigences of the hour had deterred him,
and partly also the conviction of his sober judg-
ment, that a man does himself no good at the
bar, even by the most brilliant distinction gain-
ed in discursive fields. He had the natural
yearning of the restless genius; and the pa-
tient genius (higher power of the two) had
suppressed the longing. Still so far, the whis-
pers of his correspondent tempted and aroused.
But hitherto he had sought to persuade himself
that the communications thus strangely forced
on him, arose, perhaps, from idle motives—a
jest, it might be, of one of his old college
friends, or at best the vain enthusiasm of some
more credulous admirer. But the inclosure
now sent to him, forbade either of these sup-
positions. Who that he knew could afford so
costly ajest, or so extravagant a tribute”.l He
was perplexed and with his perplexity was
I
l

at noises in the dark. That day he could ap-
ply no more—he could not settle back to his
law reports. He took two or three uuquiet
turns up and down his smokedried cell, then
locked up the letter and inclosure, seized his
hat, and strode, with his usual lusty, swinging
strides, into the open air.
But still the letter haunted him. “ And if,”
he said almost audihly, “if Iwere the heir to _
some higher station, why then I might have
a heart like idle men; and Helen—beloved
Helen!"—he paused, sighed, shook his rough
head, shaggy with neglected curls, and added
—“As if even then i could steal myself into a
girl‘s good graces! Man’s esteem I may corn-
mand, though poor—woman’s love could I win,
though rich! Pooh! pooh! every wood does
not makea Mercury; and faith, the wood I am
made of, will scarcely cut up into a lover.”
Nevertheless, though thus soliloquizing, Ard-
worth mechanicallybent hissvay toward Bromp-
ton, and halted, half-ashamed of himself, at the
house where Helen lodged with her aunt. It
was a building that stood apart from all the
cottages and villas of that charming suburb,
half-way down a narrow lane, and inclosed by
high, melancholy walls, deep-set in which a
small door, with the paint blistered and weath-
er-stained, gave unfrequented entrance to the
dcmesne. A woman servant of middle age
and starchcd, puritanical appearance, answered
the loud ring ofthe bell, and Ardworth seemed
a privileged visitor, for she asked him no ques-
tion, as with a slight nod, and a smilcless, stu-
pid expression in a face otherwise comely, she
led the way across a paved path, much weed-
grown, to the house. That house itself had
somewhat of a stern and sad exterior. It was
not ancient, yet it looked old from shabbiness
and neglect. The vine, loosened from the
rusty nails, trailed rankly against the wall, and
fell in crawling branches over the ground.
The house had once been white washed, but
the color, worn off in great patches, distained
with damp, struggled here and there with the
dingy. chipped bricks beneath. There was no
peculiar want of what is called “ tenantable re-
pair ," the windows were whole, and doubtless
the roof sheltered from the rain. But the
wood-work that encased the panes was decay-
ed, and house-leek covered the tiles. Alto-
gether there was that forlorn and cheerless
aspect about the place, which chills the visitor,
he defines not why. And Ardworth steadied
his usual careless step, and crept, as if timidly,
up the creaking stairs.
On entering the drawing-room—it seemed
at first deserted ; but the eye, searching round,
perceived something stir in the recess of a huge
chair—set by the fireless hearth. And from
amid a mass of coverings a pale face emerged,
and a thin hand waved its Welcome to the
visitor.
Ardworth approached, pressed the hand, and
drew a seat near to the sutl'erer’s. ' I
"You are better, I hope,” he said cordially,


96
JOI-IN ARDWORTH. '-_
and yet in a tone of'more respect than was of-
ten perceptible in his deep, blunt voice.
“I am always the same," was the quiet an-
swer; “come nearer still. Your visits cheer
me.”
And as the last words were said, Madame
Dalibard raiscd herself from her recumbent
posture, and gazed long upon Ardworth’s face
of power and front of thought. “ You over-
fatigue yourself, my poor kinsman," she said,
with a certain tenderness: “ you look already
too old for your young years."
“ That's no disadvantage at the bar."
“ Is the bar your means, or your end i"
“ My dear Madame Dalibard, it is my profes-
SlOo ~-
“No, your profession is to rise. John Ard-
Worth," and the we voice swelled in its vol-
ume, “ you are bold, able, and aspiring—for
this, I love you—love you almost—almost as a
mother. Your fate,” she continued, hurriedly,
“interests me; your energies inspire me with
admiration. Often I sit here for hours, musing
over your destiny to be—so that at times, I may
almost say that in your life I live.”
Ardworth looked embarrassed, and with an
awkward attempt at compliment, he began hes-
itatingly, “I should think too highly of myself,
if I could really believe that you—"
“ Tell me," interrupted Madame Dalibard:
“ we have had many conversations upon grave
and sub.ilc matters; we have disputed on the
secret mysteries of the human mind; we have
compared our several experiences of outward
life and the mechanism of the social world—
tell me then, and frankly, what do you think of
me 1 Do you regard me merely as your sex is
apt to regard the woman, who aspires to equa
men—a thing of borrowed phrases and unsound
ideas—feeble to guide and unskilled to teach?
or do you recognize in this miserable body a
mind of force not unworthy yours, ruled by an
experience larger than your own 1"
" I think of you," answered Ardworth, frank-
ly, " as the most remarkable woman I have ever
met. Yet, do not be angry, I do not like to
yield to the influence which you gain over me
when we meet. It disturbs my convictions—
it disquiets my reason—I do not settle back to
my life so easily after your breath has passed
over it." A
“ And yet," said Lucretia, with a solemn
sadness in her‘voice, “ that influence is but the
natural power which cold maturity exercises
on ardent youth. It is my mournful advantage
over you, that disquiets your happy calm. It
is my experience that unsettles the fallacies
which you name ‘convictions,’ Let this pass.
I asked_your opinion of me, because I wished
to place at your service all that knowledge of
life which I possess. In proportion as you
esteem me, you will accept or reject my coun-
eels.”
“I have benefited by them already. It is
the tone that you advised me to assume, that
gave me an importance I had not before. with
that old forinalist whose paper I serve, and
whose prt’lUtliCCS I shook; it is to your criti-
cisms that I owe the more practical turn of my
writings, and the greater hold they have taken
on the public."
“Trifles indeed, these,“ said Madame Dali-

hard, with a half-smile. "Let them at least
induce you to listen to me; ifl propose to
make your path more pleasant, yet your ascent
more rapid."
ArdWorth knit his brows, and his counte-
nance assumed an eXpression of doubt and
curiosity. However, he only replied, with a
blunt laugh, '
"You must be wise, indeed, if you have dis-
covered a royal road to distinction !
“‘ Ah, who can tell how hard it is to climb
The steep where Fume‘s proud temple shines afarl'
A more sensible exclamation than poets us-
ually preface with their whining ‘Ali‘s’ and
‘Oh‘s !‘ ”
“ What we are is nothing,” pursued Madame
Dalibard ; “ what we stem is much."
Ardworth thrust his hands into his pockets,
and shook his head. The wise woman con-
tinued. unheeding his dissent from her premises.
" Every thing you are taught to value has a
likeness, and it is thatlikeness which the world
values. Take a man out of the streets, poor and
ragged, what will the world do with him! Send
him to the workhouse, if not to the jail. Ask a
great painter to take that man‘s portrait, rags,
squalor, and all; and kings-will bid for the pic-
ture. You would thrust the man from your
doors, you would place the portrait in your pal-
aces. It is the same with qualities, the por-
trait is worth more than the truth. What is
virtue without character! But a man without
virtue may thrive on a character! \Vhat is
genius without success! But how often you
bow to success without genius! John Ard-
Worth, possess yourself of the portraits—win
the character—seize the success.”
“Madam.” exclaimed Ardworth, rudely, “this
is horrible !"
" Horrible it may be,” said Madame Dalibard,
gently, and feeling, perhaps, that she had gone
too far: “but it is the world’s judgment. Sttm,
then, as well as be. You have virtue, as I be-
lieve. \Vell, wrap yourselfin it—in your closet.
Go into the world, and earn character. If you
have genius let it comfort you. Rush into the
crowd, and get success.”
“ Stop !" cried Ardworth ; “I recognize you.
How could I be so blind? It is you who have
written to me, and in the same strain; you
have robbed yourself—you, poor sufferer, to
throw extravagance into these strong hands.
And why? What am I to you?"
An expression of actual fondness softened
Lucretia’s face, as she looked up at him, and
replied; "I will tell you hereafter what you are
to me. First, I confess that it is I whose let-
ters have perplexed, perhaps offended you.
The sum that I sent I do not miss. lhave
more—will ever have more at your command
—never fear. Yes, I wish you to go into the
world, not as a dependent, but as an equal to
the world’s favorites. I wish you to know
more of men than mere law-books teach you.
I wish you to he in men‘s mouths, create a cir
clc that shall talk of young Ardworth—that talk
would travel to those who can advance your
career. The very possession of money in cer-
tain stages oflife gives assurance to the man-
ner, gives attraction to the address."
"But," said Ardworth,“all this is very well
for some favorite of birth and fortune ; but for


JOHN ARDWORTII.
97
O
Inc—yet speak, and plainly : you throwout hints
that I am what I know not; but something less
dependent on his nerves and his brain, than is
plain John A rdworth. What is it you mean I"
Madame Dalihard bent her face over her
breast, and, rocking herself in her chair, seemed
to muse for some moments before she answered.
fl When I first came to England, some months
ago, I desired naturally to learn all the particu-
lars of my family and kindred, from which my
long residence abroad had estranged me. John
\Valter Ardworth was related to my half-sister,
to me he was but a mere connection. However,
I knew something of his history, yet I did not
know that he had a son. Shortly before I came
to England, I learned that one who passed for
his son had been brought up by Mr. Fielden.
and from Mr. Fieldcn I have since learned all
the grounds for that belief, from which you take
the name of Ardworth." ‘
Lucretia paused a moment; and after a glance
at the impatient, wondering, and eager coun-
tenance that bent intent upon her, she resumed:
“ Your reputed father was, you are doubt-
less aware, ot‘rcckless and extravagant habits.
He had been put. into the army by my uncle,
and he entered that profession with the care-
less buoyancy of his sanguine nature. I re-
member those days—that day! \Vell, to re-
turn—where was It—VValter Ardworth had
the folly to entertain strong notions of politics.
He dreamed of being a soldier, and yet per-
suaded hituselfto be a republican. His notions,
so hateful in his profession, got wind; be dis-
guised nothing; be neglected the portraits of
things—Appearances. lie excited the rancor of
his commanding officer—for politics then, more
even than now, were implacable ministrants to
hate—occasion presented itself: during the
short peace of Amrens he had been recalled.
He had to head a detachment ofsoldicrs against
some mob, in Ireland, I believe: he did not fire
on the mob according to orders—so, at least, it
was said : John \Valtor Ardworth was tried by
a court~martial, and broke! But you know all
this, perhaps?”
“ My poor father! Only in part: I knew that
he had been dismissed the army—I believed
unjustly. He was a soldier, and yet he dared
to think for himself, and be humane l"
“ But my uncle had left him a legacy—it
brought no blessing—none of that old man’s
gold did. “here are they all now“! Dalibard,
Susan, and her fair-faced husband, Where!
Vernon is in his grave—but one son of many
left! Gabriel Varney lives, it is true !—and
I ! But that gold—yea, in our hands, there
was a curse on it! Walter Ardworth had his
legacy—his nature was gay : if disgraced in his
profession, he found men to pity and praise
him-fools of party, like himself. He lived
joyously—drank or gamed—or lent or borrowed
-wliat matters the wherefore I—he was in
debt-he livcd at last a wretched, shifting, fu-
gitive life—snatching bread where he could—
with the bailiffs at his heels—then, for a short
time, we met again.”
Lucretia‘s brow grew black as night, as her
voice dropped at that last sentence, and it was
with a start that she continued.
1‘ In the midst of this hunted existence, W'al-
ter Ardworth appearedélate one night, at Mr.
Fielden's with an infant. He seemed, so says
'Mr. Fielden, ill, worn, and haggard. Ho en-
tered into no explanations with respect to the
child that accompanied him, and retired at once
to rest. What follows, Mr. Fielden, at my re-
quest, has noted down. Read, and see what
claim you have to the honorable parentage so
vaguely ascribed to you."
As she spoke, Madame Dalibard opened a
box on her table, drew forth a paper in Fielden’s
writing, and placed it in Ardworth's hand. Af-
ter some preliminary statement of the writer’s
intimacy with the elder Ardivorth, and the ap-
pearance of the latter at his house, as related
by Madame Dalibard, 61.0., the document went
on thus :-— '
“ The next day, when my poor guest was still
in bed, my servant Hannah came to advise me
that two persons were without, waiting to see
me. As is my wont, I bade them be shown in.
On their entrance (two rough farmer-looking
men they were, who I thought might be com-
ing to hire my little pasture-field), I prayed
them to speak low, as a sick gentleman was
just overhead. Whereupon, and without say-
ing a word further, the two strangers made a.
rush from the room, leaving me dumb with
amazement; in a few moments, I heard voices
and ascufile above. I recovered myself, and
thinking robbers had entered my peaceful house,
I called out lustily, when Hannah'came in, and.
we both, taking courage, went up stairs, and
found that poor \Valter was in the hand of these
suppOsed robbers, who, in truth, were but bailiffs.
They would not trust him out of their sight for
a moment. However, he tonk it more pleas-
antly than I Could have supposed possible ',
prayed me in a whisper to take care of the
child, and Ishould soon hear from him again.
In less than an hour, he was gone. Two days
afterward, I received from him a hurried letter,
without address,-of which this is the copy :—
“ ‘ Dean FRIEND,—I slipped from the bailiffs,
and hero I am in a safe little tavern in sight of
the sea! Mother Country is a very bad parent
to me ; Mother Brownrigg herself could scarce-
ly be worse. I shall Work out my passage to
some foreign land, and if I can recover my
health (sea-air is bracing!) Idon’t despair of
getting my bread honestly, somehow. If ever
I can pay my debts I may return. But, mean-
while, my goud old tutor, what will you think
of me‘! You to whom my sole return for so
much pains taken in vain, is another mouth to
feed! And no money to pay for the board!
Yet you won't grudge the child a place at your
table, will you! No, nor kind, saving Mrs.
Ficlden either—God bless her tender, econom-
ical soul ! You know quite enough of me to be
sure thatI shall very soon either free you of
the boy, or send you something, to prevent its
being an incumbrance. I would say, love and
pity the child for my sake. But I own I feel—
By Jove, I must be off—I hear the first signal
from the vessel, that-
“ ‘ Yours, in haste, " J. ‘W. A.’ ”
Young Ardworth stopped from the lecture,
and sighed heavily. There seemed to him, in
this letter, Worse than a mock gayety';—a cer-
tain levity and recklessness—which Jarred on

his own high principles. And the want of af-


98
JOHN ARDVVORTH.
fection for the child thus abandoned was evi-
dent—not one fond word: He resumed the
statement with a gloomy and disheartened at-
tention.
“ This was all I heard from poor, erring Wal-
ter for more than three years, but I knew, in
spite of his follies, that his heart was sound at
bottom" (the son's eye brightened here, and he
kissed the paper), “and the child was no bur-
den to us—we loved it, not only for Ardworth’s
sake, but for its own, and for charity‘s, and
Christ’s. Ardworth‘s second letter was as fol-
lows :— '
“ ' En iterum Crispinus !-—-I am still alive, and
getting on in the world—ay, and honestly, too,
—I am no longer spending heedlessly; I atn
saving for my debts, and I shall live, I trust, to
pay off every farthing. First, for my debt to
you—I send an order not signed in my name,
but equally valid, on Messrs. Drummond, for
2501. Itcpay yourself what the boy has cost.
Let him be educated to get his own living—if
clever, as a scholar or a lawyer—if dull, as a
tradesman. \Vhatever I may gain, he will
have his own way to make. I ought to tell you
the story connected with his birth, but it is one
of pain and shame; and, on reflection,I feel
that I have no right to injure him by affixing to
his early birth an opprobrium of which he him-
self is guiltless. If ever I return to England,
you shall know all, and by your counsels I will
abide. Love to all your happy family.
“ ‘Your grateful Friend and Pupil.’
“ From this letter I began to suspect that the
poor boy was probably not born in wedlock, and
that Ardworth‘s silence arose from his com-
punction, I conceived it best never to mention
this suspicion to John himself as he grew up.
Why should I afflict him by a doubt from which
his father‘ shrunk, and which might only exist
in my own inexperienced and uncharitable in-
terpretation of some vague words! When
John was fourteen, I received from Messrs.
Drummond a further sum of 6001., but without
any line from Ardworth, and only to the effect
that Messrs. Drummond were directed by a
correspondent in Calcutta to pay me the said
sum on behalf of expenses incurred for the
maintenance of the child left to my charge by
John W'alter Ardworth. My young pupil had
been two years at the university, when I re-
ceived the letter of which this is a copy :—
“ ‘ How are you l—still well—still happy 1—-
let me hope so! I have not written to you,
dear old friend, but I have not been forgetful of
you—I have inquired of you through my cor-
respondents, and have learned, from time to
time, such accounts as satisfied my grateful
affection for you. Ifind that you have given
the boy my name. Well, let him bear it—it is
nothing to boast of, such as it became in my
person ; but, mind, I do not therefore acknowl-
edge him as my son. I wish him to think him-
self without parents, without other aid in the
career of life than his own industry and talent,
—-if talent he has. Let him go through the
healthful probation of toil-let him search for
and find independence. Till he is of age, 1501.
will be paid quarterly to your account for him
at Messrs. Drummond’s. If then, to set him
up in any business or profession, a sum of
money be necessary, name the amount by a

line, signed A. B., Calcutta, to the care of
Messrs. Drummond, and it will reach, and find
me disposed to follow your instructions. But
after that time all further supply from me will
cease. Do not suppose, because I send this
from India, that I am laden with rupees ; all I
can hope to attain is a competence. That boy
is not the only one who has claims to share it.
Even, therefore, if I had the wish to rear him
to the extravagant habits that ruined myself, I
have not the power. Yes !—-let him lean on
his own strength. In the letter you send me,
write fully of your family, your sons, and write
as to a man who can perhaps help them in the
world, and will be too happy thus in some slight
degree to repay all he owes you. You would
smile approvingly ifyou saw me now—a steady,
money-getting man, but still yours as ever.
“ ‘ P.S.-—Do not let the boy write to me, nor
give him this clue to my address.’ ”
“ On the receipt of this letter, I wrote fully
to Ardworth about the excellent promise and
conduct of his poor neglected son. I told him
truly be was a son any father might be proud
of, and rebuked, even to harshness, Walter’s
unseemly tone respecting him. One’s child is
one’s child, however the father may have
wronged the mother. To this letter I never
received any answer. When John was of age,
and had made himself independent of want, by
obtaining a college felIQWship, I spoke to him
about his prospects. I told him that his father,
though residing abroad and for some reasons
keeping himself concealed, had munificently
paid hitherto for his maintenance, and Would
lay down what might be necessary to start him
in business, or perhaps place him in the army;
but that his father might be better pleased if
he could show a love of independence, and
henceforth maintain himself. I knew the boy
I spoke to—John thought as I did, and I never
applied for another donation to the elder Ard-
worth. The allowance ceased : John since
then has maintained himself. I have heard no
more from his father, though I have written
often to the address he gave me. I begin to fear
that he is dead. I once went up to town and
saw one of the heads of Messrs. Drummond's
firm—a very polite gentleman, but he could
give me no information, except that he obeyed
instructions from a correspondent at Calcutta
-—one Mr. Macfarren—whereon I wrote to Mr.
Macfarren, and asked him, as I thought very
pressingly, to tell me all he knew of poor Ard-
worth the elder. He answered shortly, that
he knew of no such person at all, and that A.
B. was a French merchant, settled in Calcutta,
who had been dead for above two years. I now
gave up all hopes of any further intelligence, and
was more convinced than ever that 1 had acted
rightly in withholding from poor John my cor-
respondence with his father. The lad had been
curious and inquisitive naturally, but when I
told him that I thought it my duty to his father
to be so reserved, he forbore to press me. I
have only to add, first, that by all the inquiries
I could make of the surviving members of
Walter Ardworth‘s family, it seemed their full
belief that he had never been married, and
therefore I fear we must conclude that he had
no legitimate children, which may account for,
though it can not excuse, his neglect; and


JOHN ARDWOR'I‘H.
99
secondly, with respect to the sums received on
dear John‘s account—I put them all by, capital
and interest, deducting only the expense of his
first year at Cambridge (the which I could not
defray, without injuring my OWn children), and
it all stands in his name at Messrs. Drum-
mond’s, vested in the Three Per Cents. That
I have not told him of this was by my poor dear
wife‘s advice; for she said, very sensibly, and
she was a shrewd woman on money matters,
‘If he knows he has such a large sum all in
thelump, who knows but he may grow idle and
extravagant, and spend it at once, like his
father before him; whereas, some time or
other, he will want to marry, or need money
for some particular purpose—then what a bles-
sing it will be!’
" However, my dear madam, as you know
the world better than I do, you can now do as
you please, both as to communicating to John
all the information herein contained as to his
parentage, and as to apprising him of the large
sum of which he is lawfully possessed.
“ MATTHEW FIELDEN.
“ P.S.--In justice to poor John Ardworth,
and to show that whatever whim he may have
conceived about his own child, he had still a
heart kind enough to remember mine, though
Heaven knows I said nothing about them in my
letters, my eldest boy received an offer ofan
excellent place in a West India merchant‘s
house, and has got on to be chiefclerk, and my
second son was presented to a living of one
hundred and seventeen pounds a-year, by a
gentleman he never heard of. Though I never
traced these good acts to Ardworth, from whom
else could they come 1"
Ardworth put down the paper without a
word ; and Lucretia, who had watched him
while he read, was struck with the self-control
he evinced when he came to the end ofthe dis-
closure. She laid her hand on his, and said,
“ Courage !—you have lost nothing !"
“ Nothing !'_’ said Ardworth, with a bitter
smile. “A father‘s love and a father‘s name
—nothing !"
"But," exclaimed Lucretia, “is this man
your father! Does a father‘s heart beat in one
line of those hard sentences! No, no; it seems
to me probable—it seems to me almost certain,
that you atc—" she stopped, and continued
with a calmer accent, " near to my own blood.
I am now in England—in London —to prose-
cute the inquiry built upon that hopc. If so—
if so—you shall—" Madame Dalibard again
stepped abruptly, and there was something ter-
rible in the Very exultation of her countenance.
She drew a long breath, and resumed, with an
evident effort at self-command—“ If so, I have
a right to the interest I feel for you. Sufl‘er
me yet to be silent as to the grounds of my
belief, and—and—love me a little in the mean
while !"
Her voice trembled, as if with rushing tears,
at these last Words, anl there was almost an
agony in the tone in wht'lt they were said, and
in the gesture of the clasped hands she held out
to him.
Much moved (amid all his mingled emotions
at the tale thus made known to him) by the
manner and voice of the narrator, Ardworth

bent down and kissed the extended hands.
Then he rose abruptly, walked to and fro the
room, muttering to himself—paused opposite
the window—threw it open, as for air, and, in-
deed, fairly gaspcd for breath. When he turn-
ed round, however, his face was composed, and
folding his arms on his large breast with a sud-
den action, he said aloud, and yet rather to him-
self than to his listener,
" What matter, after all, by what name men
call ottr fathers ! \Ve ourselves make our own
fate! Bastard or noble, not a jot care I. Give
me ancestors, I will not disgrace them; raze
from my lot even the very name of father, and
my sons shall have an ancestor in me i"
As he thus spoke, there was a rough gran-
deur in his hard face and the strong case of his
powerful form. And while thus standing and
thus looking, the door opened, and Varney
walked in abruptly. -
These two men had met occasionally at Ma-
dame Dalibard's, but no intimacy had been
established between them. Varney was formal
and distant to Ardworth, and Ardworth felt a.
repugnance to Varney. With the instinct of
sound, sterling, weighty natures, he detected
at once, and disliked heartily, that something
ofgaudy, false, exaggerated, and hollow, which
pervaded Gabriel Varney’s talk and manner—-
even the trick of his walk, and the cut of his
dress. And Ardworth wanted that boyish and.
beautiful luxuriance of character which belong-
ed to Percival St. John, easy to please and to
be pleased, and expanding into the warmth of.
admiration for all talent and all distinction.
For art, if not the highest, Ardworth cared not
a straw: it was nothing to him that Varney
painted and composed, and ran showily through
the jargon of literary babble, or toyed with the
puzzles of unsatisfying metaphysics. He saw
but a charlatan; and he had not yet learned
from experience what strength aqd what dan-
ger lie hid in the boa parading its colors in the
sun, and shifting, in the sensual sportiveness
of its being, from hough to bough.
Varney halted in the middle of the room, as
his eye rested first on Ardworth, and then
glanced toward Madame Dalibard, but Ard-
worth, jarred from his reverie or resolves by
the sound of a voice discordant to his car at all
times, especially in the mood which then pos-
sessed him, scarcely returned Varney's saluta-
tion, buttoned his coat over his chest, seized
his hat, .and upsetting two chairs, and very
considerably disturbing the gravity of a round
table, forced his way to Madame Dalibard,
pressed her hand, and said in a whisper, “I
shall see you again soon,” and vanished.
Varney, smoothing his hair with fingers that
shone with rings, slid into the seat next Ma-
dame Dalibard, which Ardworth had lately occu-
pied, and said. “Ifl were a Clytemnestra, I
should dread an Orcstes in such a son!"
Madame Dalibard shot toward the speaker
one of the sidelong, suspicious glanccswblch 0t
old had characterized Lucretia, and said,
" Clytemncstra was happy ! The Furies slept
to her crime, and haunted but the avenger."
“ Hist E" said Varney.
The door opened, and Ardworth reaPPeaTEd-
"I quite forgot what I half came to know.--
How is Helen '1 Did she return home safe 1."


100
THE WEAVERS AND THE VVOOF.
“ Safe—yes !”
“ Dear girl—I am glad to hear it ! \Vhere is
she'l Not gone to those Mivers's again ! Iarn
no aristocrat, but why should one couple to-
gether refinement and vulgarity l"
“ Mr. Ardworth," said Madame Dalibard,
with haughty coldness, " my niece is under my
care, and you will permit me to judge for my-
self how to discharge the trust. Mr. Mivers is
her own relation—a nearer one than you are."
Not. at all abashed by the rebuke, Ardworth
said carelessly, " Well, I shall talk to you again
on that subject. Meanwhile, pray, give my
love to her—Helen, I mean."
Madame Dalibard half-rose in her chair, then
sunk back again, motioning with her hand to
Ardworth to approach. Varney rose and walked
to the window, as if sensible that something
was about to be said not meant for his ear.
- When Ardworth was close to her chair, Ma-
dame vDahbard grasped his hand with a vigor
that surprised him, and drawing him nearer
still, whispered as he bent down—
"I will give Helen your love, if it is a cons-
in's—or, if you will, a brother’s love. Do you
intend—do you feel—another, a warmer love?
Speak, sir !" and drawing suddenly back, she
gazed on his face, with a stern and menacing
expression, her teeth set, and the lips firmly
pressed together.
Ardwortb, though a little startled, and half-
angry, answered, with a low ironical laugh, not
uncommon to him, “ Pish! you ladies are apt
to think us men much greater fools than we
are. A bricfless lawyer is not very inflammable
tinder. Yes, a cousin's love—quite enough.
Poor little Helen! time enough to put other
notions into her head ; and then—she will have
a sweetheart, gay and handsome like herself!”
“Ay,” said Madame Dalibard, with a slight
smile, “ ay, I am satisfied. Come soon.” '
Ardworth nodded, and hurried down the
stairs. As We gained the door, he caught sight
of Helen at a distance, bending over a flower-
bed in the neglected garden. He paused, irres-
olute, a moment: "No," he muttered to him-
self; " no, I am fit company only for myself!
A long walk into the fields, and then—away
with these mists round the Past and the Fu-
ture; the Present at least is mine 1”
_—.__
CHAPTER V.
was weaves: ANI) The woos-I
“Aso what," said Varney—“ what, while
we are pursuing a fancied clue, and seeking to
provide first a name, and then a fortune for this
young lawyer—what steps have you really taken
to meet the danger that menaces mc—to secure,
if our inquiries fail, an independence for your-
self! Months have elapsed, and you have still
shrunk from advancing the great scheme upon
which we built, when the daughter of Susan
Mainwaring was admitted to your hearth."
" \Vhy recall me, in these rare moments
when I feel myself human still—why recall me
back to the nethermost abyss of revenge and
crime! Oh! let me be sure that I have still a
son! Even if John Ardworth, with his gifts
and energies, be denied to me !-a son, though
in rags, I will give him wealth !—a son, though

ignorant as the merest boor, I will pour into
his brain my dark wisdom ls—a son—~a son !—
rny heart swells at the ward. Ah, you sneer!
Yes, my heart swells, but not with the mawk-
ish fondness of a feeble mother. In a son, I
shall live again—transmigrate from this tortured
and horrible life of mine—drink back my youth.
In him I shall rise from my fall—strong in his
power—great in his grandeun It is because I
was born a Woman—died woman‘s poor passions,
and infirm weakness, that I am what I am—I
wouldtransfermyselfinto the soul ofman—man,
who has the strength to act, and the privilege to
rise. Into the bronze of man‘s nature I would
pour the experience which has broken, with its
fierce elements, the puny vessel of clay. Yes,
Gabriel, in return for allI have done and sacrificed
for you, I ask but cooperation in that one hope
of my shattered and storm-beat being. Bear—
forbear—await—risk not that hope by some
wretched peddling crime, which will bring on us
both detection—some wanton revelry in guilt,
which is not Worth the terror that treads upon
its heels.”
“You forget," answered Varney, with a kind
ofsubmissive sullenness, for whatever had pass-
ed betn'een these two persons in their secret
and fearful intimacy, there was still a power
in Lucretia, surviving her fall amid the fiends,
that impressed Varney with the only respect he
felt for man or Woman—“ you forget strangely
the nature of our elaborate and master project,
when you speak of' addling crime,’ or ‘wanlml
revelry’ in guilt! ou forget, too, how every
hour that we waste deepens the peril that sur-
rounds me, apd may sweep from your side the
sole companion that can aid you in your objects
—nay, without whom, they must wholly fail.
Let 'me speak first of that most urgent danger,
for your memory seems short and troubled,
since you have learned only to hope the re-
covery of your son. If this man, Stubmore, in
whom the trust created by my uncle‘s will is
now vested—once comes to town—once begins
to hustle about his accurscd projects of trans-
ferring the money from the Bank' of England, I
tell you again and again that my forgery on the
bank will be detected, and that transportation
Will be the smallest penalty inflicted; part of
the forgery, as you know, was committed on
your behalf, to find the moneys necessary for
the research for your son—committed on the
clear understanding, that our project on Helen
should repay me—should enable me, perhaps
undetected, to restore the sums illegally ab-
stracted, or, at the worst, to confess to Stub-
more, whose character I well know—that op-
pressed by difficulties, I had yielded to temp-
tation—that I had forged his name (as I had
forged his father’s) as an authority to sell the
capital from the bank, and that now, in replacing
the money,I repaid my error, and threw myself
on his indulgence—on his silence. I say, that
I know enough of the man to know, that I
should he thus cheaply saved, or at the Worst,
I should have but to strengthen his compassion
by a bribe to his avarice. But ifI can not re-
placc the money, I am lost."
“\Vcll, Well," said Lucretia, “ the money
you shall haVe, let me but find my son. and—“
" Grant tne patience!" cried Vai'ney. impetu-
ously; " but what can your son do, if found,


102
THE LAWYER AND THE BODY-SNATCHER.
Lucretia, with an accent of suppressed rage.
“ Do you think that her—that his—daughter, is
to me but a vulgar life, to be sacrificed merely
for gold? Imagine away your sex, man ! Wom-
en only know what I—snch as I, woman still
-—feel in the presence of the pure! Do you
fancy that I should not have held death a bless-
ing, if death could have found me in youth such
as Helen is! Ah, could she but live to suffer!
Die! Well, since it must be—since my son
requires the sacrifice—do as you will with the
victim that death mercifully snatches from my
grasp. I could have wished to prolong her life,
to load it with some fragment of the curse her
parents heaped upon me l-haflied love. and
ruin, and despair! I could have hoped in this
division of the spoil, that mine had been the
vengeance, if yours the gold. You want the
life—I the heart ;—the heart to torture first, and
then—why then—more willingly than I do now,
could I have thrown the carcass to the jackal !"
“ Listen l" began Varney, when the door
opened, and Helen herself stood unconsciously
smiling at the threshold.
.—+__.
CHAPTER VI.
THE LAWYER am: Tun BODY-SNATCHER.
Tan same evening, Beck, according to ap-
pointment, met Percival, and showed him the
dreary-looking house, which held the fair stran-
ger who had so attracted his youthful fancy.
And Percival looked at the high walls, with the
sailor’s bold desire for adventure, while con-
fused visions reflected from plays, operas, and
novels, in which scaling walls with rope ladders
and dark lanterns, was represented as the nat-
'ural avocation of a lover, flitted across his
brain ;—and certainly he gave a deep sigh, as
his common sense plucked him back from such
romance. However, having now ascertained
the house, it would be easy to learn the name
of its inmates, and to watch or make his op-
portunity. As slowly and reluctantly he walked
back to the spot where he had left his cabriolet,
he entered into some desultory conversation
with his strange guide; and the pity he had
before conceived for Beck increased upon him,
as he talked and listened. This benighted
mind, only illumined by a kind of miserable
astuteness, and that “cunning of the belly”
which is born of want to engender avarice—
this joyless temperament-this age in youth—
this living reproach, rising up from the stones
of London against our social indifference to the
souls which wither and rot under the hard eyes
of science and the deaf ears of wealth, had a
pathos for his lively sympathies and his fresh
heart.
\“If ever you want a friend, come to me,”
said St. John, abruptly.
The sweeper stared, and a gleam of diviner
nature, a ray of gratitude and unselfish devo-
tion, darted through the fog and darkness of
his mind. He stood, with his hat ofi‘, watching
the wheels of the cabriolet, as it bore away the
happy child of fortune, and then, shaking his
head as at some puzzle that perplexed and de-
fied his comprehension, 'strode back to the
town, and bent his way homeward.

“'Ah, but could it wither first !"I muttered '
Between two and three hours after Percival
thus parted from the sweeper, a man, whose
dress was little in accordance with the scene
in which we present him, threaded his way
through a foul labyrinth of alloys in the worst
part of St. Giles‘s; a neighborhood, indeed;
carefully shunned at dusk, by wealthy passen-
gers; for here dwelt not only penury in its
grimmest shape, but the desperate and danger-
ous Guilt, which is not to be lightly encountered
in its haunts and domicile. Here children im-
bibe vice with their mother's milk. Here Pros-
titution, commencing with childhood, grows
fierce and sanguinary in the teens, and leagues
with theft and murder. Here slinks the pick-
pocket—here emerges the burglar—here skulks
the felon. Yet all about and all around, here,
too, may be found virtue in its rarest and no-
blest form—virtue outshining circumstance and
defying temptation—the virtue of utter poverty,
which groans and yet sins not. So interwm‘en
are these webs of penury and fraud, that in one
court your life is not safe, but turn to the right
hand, and, in the other, you might sleep safely
in that worse than Irish shealing, though your
pockets were full of gold. Through these
haunts, the ragged and penniless may walk
nniearing, for they have nothing to dread from
the lawless—more, perhaps, from the law; but
the wealthy, the respectable, the spruce, the
dainty, let them beware the spot, unless the
policeman is in sight, or day is in the skies!
As this passenger, whose appearance, as we
have implied, was certainly not that of a deni-
zen, turned into one of the alleys, a rough hand
seized him by the arm, and suddenly a group 01
girls and tatterdemalions issued from a house,
in which the lower shutters, unclosed, showed
a light burning, and surrounded him with a
hoarse whoop.
The passenger whispered a word in the ear
of the grim blackguard who had seized him, and
his arm was instantly released.
“ Hist! a pal: he has the catch," said the
blackguard, surlyly. The group gave way, and
by the light of the clear star-lit skies and a sin-
gle lamp, hung at the entrance of the alley,
gazed upon the stranger. But they made no
effort to detain him; and as he disappeared in
the distant shadows, hastened back into the
wretched hostelry, where they had been merry--
making. >Meanwhile, the stranger gained a
narrow court. and stopped before a house in one
of its angles—a house taller than the rest—so
much taller than the rest, that it had the efl‘ect
of a tower; you Would have supposed it (per-
haps rightly) to he the last remains of some an-
cient building of importance, around which, as
population thickened, and fashion changed, the
huts below it had insolently sprung up. Quaint
and massive pilasters, black with the mire and
soot of centuries, flanked the deep-set door;
the windows were heavy with mullions and
transoms, and strongly barred in the lower
floor; but few of the panes were whole, and
only here and there had any attempts been
made to keep out the wind and rain by rags,
paper, old shoes, old hats, and other ingenious
contrivances. Beside the door was conve-
niently placed a row of some ten or twelve bell-
pulls, appertaining, no doubt, to the various
lodgmcnts, into which the building was subdi-


THE LAWYER AND THE BODY-SNATCHER.
10.!
vided. The stranger did not seem very famil-
iar with the appurtenances of the place. He
stood in some suspense, as to the proper bell to
select, but at last, guided by'a brass plate an-
nexed to one of the pulls, which, though it was
too dark to decipher the inscription, denoted a
claim to superior gentility than the rest of that
nameless class, he hazarded a tug, which
brought forth a larum loud enough to startle
the whole court from its stillness.
In a minute or less, the easement in one of
the upper stories opened, a head peered forth,
and one of those voices peculiar to low de-
bauch—raw, cracked, and hoarse—called out,
“ Who waits l”
" is it you, Grabman‘l” asked the stranger,
dubiously.
“ Yes; Nicholas Grahman, attorney-at-law,
air, at your service: and your name l"
“Jason,” answered the stranger.
“ Ho! there—ho! Beck,” cried the cracked
voice, to some one within; " go down and open
the door."
In a few moments the heavy portal swung
and creaked, and yawued sullenly, and a gaunt
form, half-undressed, with an inch ofa farthing
rush-light, glimmering through a battered lan-
tern, in its hand, presented itself to Jason. The
last eyed the ragged porter sharply.
“Do you live here 1."
“ Yes,” answered Beck, with the cringe ha-
bitual to him. “ H-up the ladder, vith the rats,
drat ’em." '
“ \Vell, lead on—hoid up the lantern ; a devil
of a dark place this!” grumbled Jason, as he
nearly stumbled over sundry broken chattels,
and gained a flight of rude, black, broken stairs,
that creaked under his tread.
“'St ! ’st !" said Beck, between his teeth, as
the stranger, halting at the second floor, de-
manded, in no gentle tones, whether Mr. Grab-
man lived in the chimney-pots.
" ’St, ’st l—don‘t make such a rumpus, or No.
7 will he at you."
“ What do [care for No. 7! and who the
devil is N0. 7'!"
“ A hody-snatcher,” whispered Beck, with a
shudder. “He’s a dillicut sleeper, and can’t
abide having his night‘s rest. sp’ilt. And he’s
the houtrageoustest great cretur, when-he‘s h-up
in his tantrums—it makes your air stand on ind
to car him."
“ i should like very much to hear him, then,"
said the stranger, curiously. And while he
spoke the door of N0. 7 opened abruptly. A
huge head, covered with matted hair, was thrust
for a moment through the aperture, and two
dull eyes, that seemed covered with a film, like
that of the birds which feed on the dead, met
the stranger’s bold sparkling orbs.
“ Hell and fury," bawled out the voice of thi
ogre, like a clap of near thunder, “ if you two
keep—tramp, tramp there,'close at my door,
I'll make you meat for the surgeons—b—
you 5“
“ Stop a moment, my civil friend," said the
stranger, advancing; “just stand where you
are; i should like to make a sketch of your
head."
That head protruded farther from the door,
and with it an enormous bulk of chest and
lhoulder. But the adventurous visitor was not
to be daunted. He took out, very coolly, a pen-
cil, and the back of a letter, and began his
sketch.
The body-snatcher stared at him an instant,
in mute astonishment; but that operation and
the composure ofthe artist were so new to him,
that they actually inspired him with terror. He
slunk back—banged-to the door: and the stran-
ger, putting up his implements, said, with a dis-
dainful laugh, to Beck, who had slunk away into
a corner-
“ No. 7 knows well how to take care of No.
Lead on, and be quick, then."
As they continued to mount, they heard the
body-snatcher growling and blaspheming in his
den, and the sound made Beck clamber the
quicker, till at the next landing-place, he took
breath, threw open a door, and Jason, pushing
him aside, entered first.
The interior of the room bespoke better cir-
cumstances than might have been supposed
from the approach ; the floor was covered with
sundry scraps of carpets, formerly of difi‘erent
hues and patterns, but mellowed by time into
one threadbare mass of grease and canvas.
There was a good fire on the hearth, though
the night was warm: there were sundry vol-
umes piled round the walls, in the binding pe-
culiar to law-books; in a corner, stood a tall
desk, ofthe fashion used by clerks, perched on
tall slim legs, and companioned by a tall slim
stool. On a table before the fire, Were scatter-
ed the rernains of the nightly meal; broiled
bones, the skeleton of a herring; and the steam
rose from a tumbler, containing a liquid, color-
less as water, but poisonous as gin.
The room was squalid and dirty, and bespoke
mean and slovcnly habits, but it did not be-
speak pcnury and want; it had even an air of
filthy comfort of its own—the comfort of the
swine in its warm sty. The occupant of the
chamber was in keeping with the localities.
Figure to yourselfa man of middle height—not
thin, but Void of all muscular flesh, bloated,
puffed, unwbolesome. He was dressed in a
gray flannel gown and short breaches, the
stockings wrinkled and distained, the feet in
slippers. The stomach was that of a portly
man, the legs those of a skeleton; the checks
full and swollen, like a plough-boy’s, but livid,
bespeckled, of a dull, lead color, like a patient
in the dropsy. The head, covered in patches
with thin, yellowish hair, gave some promise
ofintellect, for the forehead was high, and ap-
peared still more so from partial baldness; the
eyes, imbedded in fat and wrinkled skin, were
small and lusterless, but they still had that
acute look which education and ability com-
municate to the human orb; the mouth most
showed the animal—full-lipped, coarse, and
sensual; while, behind one of two great ears
stuck a pen.
You see before you, then, this slatternly fig-
ure—slip-shod, half-clothed, with a sort ofshab
by demigentility about it—half ragamutfin,
halt" clerk ; while, in strong contrast, appeared
the new-comer, scrupulously neat, new—With
bright black satin stock, coat cut jauntily to the
waist, varnished boots, kid gloves and trim
mustache.
Behind this sleek and comely Personaler 0"
, knock-knees, in torn shirt 098n 1" the "1mm,
1.


104
THE LAWYER AND THE BODY-SNATCHER.
with apathetic, listless, unlighted face, stood the
loan and gawky Beck.
“ Set a chair for the gentleman," said the in-
mate of the chamber to Beck, with a dignified
wave of the hand.
“ How do you do, Mr.-Mr.—-humph—Jasonl
-—how do you do i—always smart and bloom-
ing—the world thrives with you.”
“The world is a farm, that thrives with all
who till it properly, Grabman,” answered Ja-
son, drily, and with his handkerchief he care-
fully dusted the chair on which he then daintily
deposited his person.
" But who is your Ganymede, your valet,
your gentleman usher l"
“ Oh! a lad about town, who lodges above,
and does odd' jobs for me—brushes my coat,
cleans my shoes, and, after his day‘s Work, goes
an errand now and then. Make yoursolfscarce,
Beck .'—Anatomy, vanish!"
Beck grinned, nodded, pulled hard at a fluke
ofhis hair, and closed the door.
" One of your brotherhood, that i” asked Ja-
son, carelessly.
“ He oaf l—no," said Grabman, with pro-
found contempt in his sickly visage. “ He
works for his bread !-~instinct l—turnspits, and
truffle-dogs, as some silly men have it! \Vhat
an ago since we met—shall I mix you a tumb-
r177
“ You know I never drink your vile spirits;
though in Champagne and Bordeaux I am any
man‘s match."
“And how the devil do you keep old black
thoughts out of your mind by those washy po-
tations’l"
“ Old black thoughts 'l—of what i"
“ Of black actions, Jason. We have not met
since you paid me for recommending the nurse
who attended your uncle in his last illness!"
“Vi/ell, poor coward Z"
Grabman knit his thin eyebrows, and gnawed
his bluhber lip—
"I am no coward, as you know.”
“Not when a thing is to be done, but after it
is done. You brave the substance, and tremble
at the shadow. Idare say you see ugly gob-
lins in the dark, Grabman."
“Ay, ay; but it is no use talking to you.
You call yourself Jason, because of your yel-
low hair, or your love for the golden fleece;
but your old comrades called you Rattlesnakc,
and you have its blood, as its venom E"
“And its charm, man,” added Jason, with a
strange smile, that, though hypocritical and
constrained, had yet a certain softness, and ad-
ded greatly to the comeliness of features, which
many might call beautiful, and all Would allow
_ to be regular and symmetrical. hI shall find
at least ten love letters on my table when I go
home. But enough of these fopperies: I am
here on business.”
“ Law, of course; I am your man—who’s the
victim l” and a hideous grin on Grabman‘s face
contrasted the sleek smile that yet lingered
upon his visitor‘s.
“No; something less hazardous, but not less
lucrative than our old practices. This is a busi-
ness that may bring you hundreds, thousands—
that may take you from this hovel to speculate
t the West End—that may change your gin
into Lafitte, and your herring into venison—

that may hit the broken attorney again upon
the wheel—again to roll down, it may be; but"
that is your affair."
“ Fore Gad, open the case,” cried Grabman,
eagerly; and, shoving aside the ignoble relics
of his supper, he leaned his elbows on the table,
and his chin on his damp palms, while eyes,
that positively brightened into an expression of
greedy and relentless intelligence, were fixed
upon his visitor.
“The case runs thus,” said Jason: “Once
upon a time, there lived, at an old house in
Hampshire, called Laughton, a wealthy baronet
named St. John. He was a bachelor—his es-
tates at his own disposal. He had two nieces
and a more distant kinsman. His eldest niece
lived with him—she was supposed to be des-
tined for his heiress; circumstances needless
to relate brought upon this girl her uncle's dies
pleasure—she was dismissed his house. Short-
ly afterward he died, leaving to his kinsman—
a Mr. Vernon—his estates, with remainder to
Vernon’s issue, and in default thereof—first, to
the issue of the younger niece, next, to that of
the elder and disinherited one. The elder mar-
ried, and was left a widow, without children.
She married again, and had a son. Her second
husband, for some reason or other, conceived
ill opinions of his wife. In his last illness (he
did not live long) be resolved to punish the
wife by rubbing the mother. He sent away
the sun—nor have we been able to discover
him since. It isthat son whom you are to find."
“I see, I see l go on,” said Grabman. “ This
son is now the remainder-man. How lost 1—
when i—what year t-what trace 1"
“ Patience ! You will find in this paper the
date of the loss, and the age of the child, then
a mere infant. Now for the trace. This hus-
band—did I tell you his namel—no—Alfrcd
Braddell—had one friend more intimate than
the rest—John Walter Ardworth, a cashiered
officer, a ruined man, pursued by bill-brokers,
Jews, and bailit'l‘s. To this man we have lately
had reason to believe that the child was given.
Ardworth, however, was shortly afterward
obliged to fly his creditors. We know that he
went to India, but if residing there, it must
have been under some new name, and we fear
he is now dead. All our inquiries at least,
after this man—have been fruitless. Before
he went abroad, he left with his old tutor a
child, corresponding in age to that of Mrs.
Braddell‘s. In this child she thinks she recog-
nizes her son. All that you have to do is to
trace his identity, by good legal evidence-
don’t smile in that foolish \ ay—I mean sound,
lumd ftde evidence, that will stand the tire of
cross-examination; you know what that is!
You will therefore find out— first, whether
Braddell did consign his child to .-
dworth,
and, if so, you must thcn follow Ardwortb,
with that child in his keeping, to Matthew
Fielden‘s house, whose address you find noted
in the paper I gave you, together with many
other memoranda as to Ardworth's creditors,
and those whom he is likely to have come
across."
“John Ardworth, I see !"
“John Walter Ardworth, commonly called
Walter; he, like me, preferred to be known only
by his second baptismal name. He, because at


THE LAWYER AND THE BODY-SNA'I‘CHER.
105
a favorite radical godfather-I, because Honoré
is an inconvenient. Gallicism, and perhaps when
Honoré Mirabcan (my godfather) went out of
fashion with the sans-culottes ; my father
thought Gabriel a safer designation. Now I
have told you all !"
“ What is the mother’s maiden name!"
“ Her maiden name was Clavering; she was
marricdamdcr that of Dalibard, her first bus-
band."
“ And," said Grabman, looking over the notes
in the paper given to him, ‘f it is at Liverpool
that the husband died, and whence the child
was sent away!"
“ It is so; to Liverpool you will go first. I
tell you fairly, the task is difficult, for hitherto
it has foiled me. I knew but one man who,
without flattery, could succeed; and therefore
I spared no pains to find out Nicholas Grab-
man. You have the true ferret‘s faculty ; you,
too, are a lawyer, and snufl‘ evidence in every
breath. Find up a son—a legal son—a son to
be shown in a court of law, and the moment
he steps into the lands and the Hall of Laugh-
ton, you have £5000.”
“ Can i have a bond to that effect?"
" My bond I fear is Worth no more than my
word. Trust to the last; if I break it you
know enough ofmy secrets to hang me E"
" Don’t talk of hanging—I hate that subject.
But stop—if found, does this son succeed 1 Did
this Mr. Vernon leave no heir—this other sis-
ter continue single, or prove barren?”
" Oh, true! be, Mr. Vernon, who by will took
the name of St. John—he left issue—but only
one son still survives, a minor and unmarried.
The sister, too, left a daughter; both are poor
sickly creatures—their lives not worth a straw.
Never mind them. You find Vincent Brad-
dell, and he will not be long out of his property,
nor you out of your £5000! You see, under
these circumstances, a bond might become
dangerous evidence !"
Grabman emitted a fearful and- tremulous
chuckle—a laugh, like the laugh of a supersti-
tious man when you talk to him of ghosts and
churchyards. He chuckled—and his hair bris-
tled! But after a_ pause, in which he seemed
to wrestle with his own conscience, he said,
“ Well, well—you are a strange man, Jason,
you love your joke—I have nothing to do, ex-
cept to find out this ultimate remainder-man—
mind that l"
“ Perfectly; nothing like subdivision of la-
bor."
“ The search will be expensive !"
“There is oil for your wheels," answered
Jason, putting a note-book into his confidant's
hands. “ But mind, you waste it not; no tricks,
no false play with me : you know Jason, or if
you like the name better, you know the Rattle-
snake!"
" I will account for every penny," said Grab-
man, eagerly, and clasping his hands, while his
pals face grew livid.
"I do not doubt it, my quill-driver. Look
sharp, start t0-morrow! Get thyself decent
clothes, be sober, cleanly, and respectable.
Act as a man who sees before him £5000. And
now light me down stairs."
With the candle in his hand, Grahman stole
down the rugged steps, even more timorously
than Beck had ascended them, and put his finger
to his mouth as they came in the dread vicinity
of No. 7. But Jason, or, rather, Gabriel Var-
ney, with that fearless, reckless bravado of
temper, which, while causing hall his guilt,
threw at times a false glitter over its baseness,
piqued by the cowardice of his comrade—gave
a lusty kick at the closed door, and shouted out
—“ Old Gravestealcr, come out, and let me
finish your picture. Out, out !-—I say—out 3"
(irahman left the candle on the steps, and made
but three bounds to his own room.
At the third shout of his disturber, the res-
urrection man threw open his door, violently,
and appeared at the gap—the upward flare of
the candle showing the deep lines ploughed in
his hideous face, and the immense strength of
his gigantic trunk and limbs. Slight, fair, and
delicate as he was, Varney eyed him deliberate-
ly, and trembled not.
“ What do you want with me!” said the ter-
rible voice, tremulous with rage.
“ Only to finish you portrait as Pluto. He
was the god of Hell, you know !"
The next moment, the vast hand of the ogre
hung like a great cloud over Gabriel Varney.
This last, ever‘on his guard, sprang aside, and
the light gleamcd on the steel of a pistol.
“Hands ot'f!—-or—-"
The click of the pistol-cock finished the sen-
tence. The ruflian halted. A glare of disap-
pointed fury gave a momentary luster to his
dull eyes. “ P’raps I shall meet you agin one
0’ these days, or nights, and I shall know ya in
ten thousand."
“ Nothing like a bird in the hand, Mas
ter Gravestealer! Where can we evar meet
again 1”
“ P’raps in the-fields—"p‘raps on the road—
p’raps at the old Bailey—p‘raps at the gallows
~p’raps in the convict-ship,—I knows what that
is! I was chained night and day once to a
chap jist like you—didn’t Ibreak his spurit—
didn’t I spile his sleep! Ho, ho l—yon looks a
bit less varmently howdacious now—my flash
cove !"
Varney had not known one pang of fear, one
quicker beat of the heart before. But the im-
age presented to his irritable fancy (always
prone to brood over terrorsl—tho image of that
companion—chained to him night and day—
—suddenly quelled his courage-Abe image
stood before him palpably like the 011.10; Onciros
—the Evil Dream of the Greeks.
He breathed loud. The body-stealer‘s stupid
sense saw that he had produced the usual efl'ect
of terror, which gratified his brutal self-esteem ;
he retreated slowly, inch by inch, to the door,
followed by Varney's appalled and staring eye
—and closed it with such violence that the can-
dle was extinguished.
Varney, not-daring-yes, literally. not daring
-—to call, aloud to Grabman for another light,
crept down the dark stairs with hurried, ghost-
like steps—and, after groping at the door-ban-
rlle with one hand, while the other grasped his
pistol, with a strain of horror he succeeded at
last in winning access to the street, and stood
a moment to collect himself in the open air—-
—the damps upon his forehead. and his limbs
trembling like one who has escaped by a ham

breadth the crash ofa falling house.


106 THE RAPE OF THE MATRESS.
CHAPTER VII.
run time or THE trusses.
Tun Mri Grabman slept calmly that night,
is probable enough, for his gin-bottle was empty
the next morning; and it was with eyes more
than usually heavy that he dosily followed the
movements of Beck. who, according to custom,
opened the shutters of the little den adjoining
his sitting room, brushed his clothes, made his
fire, set on the kettle to boil, and laid his break-
fast things, preparatory to his own departure
to the duties of the day. Stretching himself,
however, and shaking off slumber, as the re-
membrance of the enterprise he had undertaken
glanced pleasantly across him, Grabtnan sat up
in his bed, and said, in a voice that if not mand-
lin was affectionate, - 1:! if not affectionate was
maudlin :—
“ Beck, you are a good fellow! You have
faults—you are human; humanum est crrare,
which means that you sometimes scorch my
mufl‘ins. But, take you all in all, you are a kind
creature. Beck, I am going into the country
for some days. I shall leave my key in the hole
in the wall—you know; take care of it when
you come in. You were out late last night,
my poor fellow. Very wrong! Look well to
yourself, or who knows, you may be clutched
by that blackguard resurrection-man, No. 7.
Well, well! to think of that Jason‘s fool-hardi-
ness. But he‘s the Worse devil of the two.
Eh! what was I saying! And always give a
look into my room every night before you go to
roost. The place swarms with cracksnien, and
one can‘t be too cautious. Lucky dog, you, to
have nothing to be robbed of!"
Beck winced at that last remark. Grabman
did not seem to notice his confusion, and pro-
ceeded, as he put on his stockings, “ And Beck,
you are a good fellow, and have served me faith-
fully ; when I come back, I will bring you some-
thing handsome—a backey box ; or, who knows,
a beautiful silver watch. Meanwhile, I think——
let me see—yes, I can give you this elegant
pair of small clothes. Put out my best—the
black ones. And now, Beck, I’ll not keep you
any longer.” _
i The poor svveep, with many pulls at his fore-
lock, acknowledged the munificcnt donation,
and having finished all his preparations, hast-
ened first to his room, to examine at leisure,
and with great admiration, the drab small-
clothes. Room, indeed, we can scarcely style
the wretched inclosure which Beck called his
own. It was at the top of the house, under the
roof, and hot—oh, so hot in the summer! It
had one small begriined window, through which
the light of heaven .never came, for the parapet,
beneath which ran the choked gutter, prevented
that. But the rain and the wind came in. So,
sometimes, through four glassless panes. came
a fugitive tom-cat. As for the rats, they held
the place as their own. Aecustomed to Beck,
they cared nothing for him. They were the
mayors of that palace—he only It: roi fainéant.
They ran over his bed at night; he often felt
them on his face, and was convinced they
would have eaten him, if there had been any-
thing worth eating upou his bones; still, per-
baps out of precaution rather than charity, he
generally left them a potato or two, or a crust

of bread, to take ofl‘the edge of their appetites.
But Beck was far better ofi" than most who oc-
cupied the various settlements in that Alsatia
—he had his room to himself. That was neces-
sary to his sole luxury—the inspection of his
treasury, the safety of his matress; for it he
paid, without grumbling, what he thought was
a very high rent. To this hole in the root
there was no lock,-—-for a very good reason,
there was no door to it. You went up a ladder
as you would go into a loft. Now. it had often
been matter of much intense cogitation to Beck,
whether or not he should have a door to this
chamber; and the result of the cogitation was
invariably the same—he dared not! What
should he want with a door—a door with a lock
to it—for one followed as a consequence to the
other. Such a novel piece of grandeur would
be an ostentatious advertisement that he had
something to guard. He could have no pre-
tense for it on the ground that he was intruded
on by neighbors; no step but his own was ever
caught by him ascending that ladder; it led to
no other room. All the offices required for the
lodgment he performed himself. His supposed
poverty was a-better safeguard than doors of
iron. Beside this, a door, if dangerous, would
be superfluous ; the moment it was suspected
that Beck had something worth guarding, that
moment all the picklocks and skeleton-keys in
the neighborhood would be in a jingle. And a
eracksman of high repute lodged already on
the ground-floor. So Beck's treasure, like the
bird‘s nest, was deposited as much out of sight
as his instinct could contrive; and the locks
and bolts of civilized man were equally dis-
pensed with by bird and Beck.
On a rusty nail the sweep suspended the drab
small-clothes, stroked them down lovingly. and
murmured, “ They be‘s too good for [—1 should
like to pop ’em! But vouldn’t that be a shame!
Beck, ben‘t you a hungrateful beast to go for to
think of nothin‘ but the tin, veu your ’art ought
to varrn vith hemotion'l I vill vear ’em ven I
vaits on him. Ven he sees his own smalls
bringing in the muffins, he will say, ‘Beck, you
becomes ’em !’ "
Fraught with this noble resolution, the sweep
caught up his broom, crept doWn the ladder,
and, with a furtive glance at the door of the
room in which the cracksman lived, let himself
out, and shambled his way to his crossing.
Grabman, in the mean while, dressed himself
with more care than usual, shaved his beard
from a four days‘ crop, and, while seated at his
breakfast, read attentively over the notes which
Varney had left to him, pausing at times to
make his own pencil memoranda. tle then
packed up such few articles as so moderate 21
worshiper of the Graces might require, depos-
ited them in an old blue brief-hag; and this
done, he opened his door, and, creeping to the
threshold, listened carefully. Below, a few
sounds might be heard; here, the wait of a
child—there, the shrill scold of a woman, in
that accent above all others adapted to scold—
the Irish. Farther down still, the deep bass
oath of the choleric resurrection-man ; but
above, all was silent. Only one floor intervened
between Grabman’s apartment and the ladder
that led to Beck‘s loft. And the inmates of
that room gave no sound of life. Grumman


THE RAPE OF THE MATRESS.
107
took courage, and, shuflling off his shoes, as-
cended the stairs; he passed the closed door
of the room above—he seized the ladder with
a shaking hand—he mounted, step after step—
lte stood in Beck‘s room.
Now, 0 Nicholas Grabman, some moralists
may be harsh enough to condemn thee for what
thou art doing: kneeling yonder, in the dim
light, by that curtainless pallet, with greedy
fingers feeling here and there, and a placid,
self-hugging smile upon thy pale lips. That
poor vagabond, whom thou art about to despoil,
‘ has served thee Well and faithfully, has borne
with thine ill humors, thy sarcasms, thy swear-
ings, thy kicks and buffets. Often, when in the
bestial sleep of drunkenness, he has found thee
stretched helpless on thy floor, with a kindly
hand he has moved away the sharp fender, too
near that knavish head now bent on his ruin ;
or closed the open window, lest the keen air,
that thy breath tainted, should visit thee with
rheuui and fever. Small has been his guerdon
for uncomplaining sacrifice of the few hours
spared to the Weary drudge from his daily toil
-—small, but gratefully received. And if Beck
had been taught to pray, he would have prayed
for thee, as for a good man, 0 miserable sinner!
And thou art going now, Nicholas Grabman,
upon an enterprise which promises thee large
gains, and thy purse is filled ; and thou wantest
nothing for thy wants, or thy swinish luxuries.
Why should those shaking fingers itch for the
poor beggarmau’s boards“!
Buthadst thou been bound on an errand that
would have given thee a million, thou ouldst
not have left unrifled that secret store which thy
grying eye had discovered, and thy hungry heart
ad coveted. No; since one night, fatal, alas !
to the owner of loft and treasure, when, need-
ing Dock for some service, and fearing to call
aloud (for the resurrection-man in the floor
below thee, whose oaths even now ascend to
thine ear, sleeps ill, and has threatened to make
thee mute forever if thou disturbest him in the
few nights in which his dismal calling suffers
him to sleep at all), thou didst creep up the lad-
der, and didst see the unconscious miser at his
nightly work, and, after the sight, did steal
down again, smiling—no; since that night, no
school-boy ever more rootedly and ruthlessly
set his mind upon the nest of a linnet, than
thine was set upon the stores in Beck’s mat-
ress.
And yet, why, 0 lawyer, should rigid moral-
ists blame thee more than such of thy tribe as
live honored and respectable upon the frail
and the poor? Vl'ho among them ever left loft
or matress while a rap could be wrung from
either ‘l Matters it to Astraea, whether the spo-
liation he made, thus nakedly and briefly, or by
all the acknowledged forms in which item on
item, six-and-eightpence on six-and-eightpence,
the inexorable hand closes, at length, on the
last farthing of duped dcspairl Not—Heaven
forbid !--that we make thee, foul Nicholas Grah-
man, a type for all the class called attorneys-
at-law! Noble hearts, liberal minds, are there
among that brotherhood, we know, and have
experienced ; but a type art thou of those whom
want, and error, and need have proved—alas!
too well,—-the lawyers of the poor. And even
while we write, and even while ye read, many
\

a Grahman steals from helpless toil the savings
of a life.
Ye poor hoards—darling delights of your oth-
erwise juyless owner—how easily has his very
fondness made ye the prey of the spoiler! How
gleefully when the pence swelled into a shilling
have they been exchanged into the new bright
piece of silver, the newest and brightest that
could be got! then the shillings into crowus,
then the crowns into gold—got slyly and at a
distance, and contemplated with what rupture !
—-so that, at last, the total lay manageable and
light in its radiant compass. And what a total
—what a surprise to Grabman! Had it been
but a sixpence, he Would have taken it; but to
grasp sovereigns by the handful, it was too
much for him; and, as he rose, be positively
laughed, from a sense of fun.
But among his booty there was found one
thing that specially moved his mirth—it was a
child's coral with its little bells. Who could
have given Beck such a bauble—or bow Beck
could have refrained from turning it into money,
would have been a fit matter for speculation.
But it was not that at which Grabman chuck-
led; he laughed, first, because it was an om<
blem of the utter childishness and folly of the
creature he was leaving penniless; and, sec-
ondly, because it furnished his ready wit with
a capital contrivance to shift Beck's indignation
from his own shoulders to a party more liable
to suspicion. He left the coral on the floor
near the bed, stole down the ladder, reached
his cum room, took up his brief-bag, locked his
door, slipped the key in the rat-hole, where the
trusty, plundered Beck alone could find it, and
went boldly down stairs; passing successively
the doors,within which still stormed the resur-
rection-man, still walled the child, still shrieked
the Irish shrew ; he paused at the ground-floor
occupied by Bill the cracksman, and his long
fingered, slender, quick-eyed imps, trained al-
ready to pass through broken window panes,
on their precocious progress to the hulks.
The door was open, and gave a pleasant sight
of the worthy family within. Bill, himself, a
stout-looking fellow, Willi a florid, jolly counte~
nance, and a pipe 'n his mouth, was sitting at
his window, with iis brawny legs lolling on a
table covered with the remains ofa very toler_
able breakfast. Four small Bills were employed
in certain sports, which no doubt, according to
the fashionable mode of education, instilled
useful lessons under the artful guise of playful
amusement. Against the wall at one corner
of the room was atfixed a row of bells, from
which were suspended exceedingly tempting
apples by slender wires. Two of the boys
were engaged in theinnocent entertainment of
extricating the apples without occasioning any
alarln from the bells; a third Was amusing him-
self at a table, covered with mock rings and
trinkets, in a way that seemed really surpris-
ing; with the end of a finger dipped-probably in
some glutinous matter, he just touched one 01
the gewgaWs, and lo, it vanished !--vanished
so magically, that the quickest eye could scarce-
ly trace whither; sometimes up a cufl', some-
times into a shoe—here, there, anywhere—El-
cept back again upon the table. The fourth,
an urchin apparently about five years PM; he
might, be much younger, Judglng from lltS stunt-


108
PERCIVAL VISITS LUCRETIA.
cd size; somewhat older, judging from the vi-
cious acuteness of his face, on the floor under
his father‘s chair, was diving his little band
into the paternal pockets in search for a marble,
sportively hidden in those capaciuus recesses.
On the rising geniuses around him, Bill, the
cracksman, looked, and his father's heart was
proud. '
Pausing at the threshold, Grabman looked in,
and said, cheerfully, “ Good day to you—good
day to you all, my little dcars."
“ Ah, Grabman,” said Bill, rising, and mak-
ing a bow, for Bill valued himself much on his
politeness, “come to blow a cloud, ehl Bob I"
(this to the eldest born) “manners, sir; wipe
your nose, and set a chair for the gent."
“Many thanks to you, Bill, but I can‘t stay
now—I have a long journey to take. But bless
my soul, how stupid I am; I have forgotten my
clothes-brush. I knew there was something on
my mind all the wayI was coming devvn stairs.
I was saying to myself, ‘Grabman, there is
something forgotten.’ ”
H I know what that ere feelin’ is,” said Bill,
thoughtfully: “I had it myself the night afore
last; and sure enough when I got to the—-but
that‘s neither here nor there. Bob, run' up
stairs, and fetch down Mr. Grabman‘s clothes-
brush. ’Tis the least you can do for a gent
who saved your father from the fate of them
ere innocent apples—your fist, Grabman. I
have a heart in my buzzom; out me open, and
you will find there, ‘ Halibi and Grabman.‘ Give
Bob your key." .
“ The brush is not in my room," answered
Grabman; “ it is at the top of the house; up
the ladder, in Beck’s loft—Beck, the sweeper.
The stupid dog always keeps it there, and for-
got to give it me. Sorry to occasion my friend
Bob so much trouble."
“ Bob has a soul above trouble; his father‘s
heart beats in his buzzom. Bob, track the dan-
cers. Up like a lark—and down like a dump.“
Bob grinned, made a mow at Mr. Grabman,
and scamperetl tip the stairs.
" You never attends our free-and-easy," said
Bill; “but we toasts you, with three times three,
and ‘up standing.’ Tis a lungrateful world !
But some men has a heart ; and, to those who
has a heart, Grabman is a trump!"
“ I am sure, whenever I can do you a service,
you may reckon on me. Meanwhile, if you
could get that cursed bullying fellow who lives
under me to be a little more civil, you would
oblige mo."
" Under you! No. 7! No. 7--is it! Grab-
man, h-am l a man'l Is this a h-arm, and this
a bunch of lives! I dares do all that does he-
come a man; btit No. 7 is a body-snatcher!
No. 7 has bullied me—and I bore it! No. 7
might whop tne—and this h-arm would let him
whop! He lives with graves, and church-
yards, and stiff ’uns—that damtiable No. 7!
Ask some'at else, Grabman. I dares not touch
No. 7 any more than the ghosteses."
Grabman sneered as he saw that Bill, stout
rogue as be was, turned pale while he spoke ;
but at that moment Bob reappeared with the
clothes-brush, which the ex-attorney thrust into
his pocket; and shaking Bill by the hand, and
patting Bob on the head, he set out on his
Journey. ,

Bill reseated himself, muttering. “ Bully a
body-snatcher! 'drot that Grabrnan, does he
want to get rid of poor Bill 1"
Meanwhile Bob exhibited slyly to his second
brother, the sight of Beck‘s stolen coral. The
children took care not to show it to their father.
They were already inspired by the laudable
ambition to set up in business on their owa ac-
counL
.__._
CHAPTER VIII.
Psacrvitt. vist'rs LucRE'ru.
Hume once ascertained the house in which
Helen lived, it was no difficult matter for St.
John to learn the name of the guardian whom
Beck had supposed to us her mother. No com-
mon delight mingled with Percival's amaze,
when in that name he recognized one borne by
his own kinswoman. Very little, indeed, of
the family history was known to him. Neither
his father nor his mother ever Willingly con-
versed of'the fallen heiress—it was a subject
which the children had felt to be proscribed;
bttt in the neighborhood, Percival had, ofcourse,
heard some mention of Lucretia, as the haughty
and accomplished Miss Clavering—who had, to
the astonishment of all, stooped to a mésallism
with her uncle’s French librarian. That her
loss of the St. John property, the succession of
Percival’s father, were unexpected by the vil-
lagers and the squires around, and perhaps set
down to the caprice of Sir Miles, or to an intel—
lPt'l. impaired by apnplectic attacks, it was not
likely that he should have heard. The rich
have the polish of their education, and the poor
that instinctive tact so Wonderful among the
agricultural peasantry, to prevent such unman-
nerly disclosures or unwelcome hints; and,
both by rich and poor, the Vernon St. Johns
were too popular and respected for wanton allu-
sions to subjects calculated to pain them. All,
therefore. that Percival knew of his relation,
was, that she had resided from infancy with Sir
Miles; that after their uncle‘s death, she had
married an inferior in rank, of the name of
Dalibard, and settled abroad; that she was a
person of peculiar manners ; and, he had heard
somewhere, of rare gifts. He had been unable
to learn the name of the young lady staying
with Madame Dalibard; he had learned only
that she went by some other name, and was
not the daughter of the lady who rented the
house. Certainly, it was possible that this
last might not be his kinswoman, after all. The
name, though strange to English ears, and not
comtnon in France, was no sufficient warrant
for Pereival‘s high spirits at the thought that
he had now won legitimate and regular access
to the house—still it allowed him to call; it
furnished a fair eXcuse for a visit.
How long he was at his toilet that day, poor
llfly ! I-low sedulously, with comb and brush.
he sought to smooth into straight precision
that luxuriant labyrinth of jetty curls, which
had never cost him a thought before! Gil Bias
says that the toilet is a pleasure to the young,
though a labor to the old ; Percival St. John's
toilet was no pleasure to him that anxroul
morning.
At last, he tore himself, dissatisfied and des-
App


PERCIVAL VISITS LUCRETIA.
109
perate, from the glass, caught his hat and his
whip, threw himself on his horse, and rode, at
first very fast and at last very slowly, to the
old, decayed, shabby, neglected house, that lay
hid, like the poverty of fallen pride, amid the
tiim villas and smart cottages of fair and flour-
ishing Broinptun.
The same servant who had opened the gate
to Ardworth appeared to his summons, and,
after eying him for some moments With a list-
less, stupid stare, said, “ You‘ll be after some
mistake !" and turned away.
“ Stop—stop !" cried Percival, trying to in-
trude himself through the gate ; but the servant
blocked up the entrance sturdily. "It is no
mistake at all. my good lady. I have come to
see Madame Dalibard, my—my relation !”
“ Your relation l” and again the woman stared
at Percival with a look through the dull vacancy
of which some distrust was dimly perceptible.
“ Bltlt' a bit there, and give us your name."
Percival gave his card to the servant, with
his sweetest and most persuasive smile. She
took it with one hand. and, with the other,
turned the key in the gate, leaving Percival out-
side. it was five minutes before she returned,
and she then, with the same prim, smilelcss
expression ofcountenance, opened the gate-find
motioned him to follow.
The kind-hearted boy sighed as he-cast a
glance at the desolate and poverty-stricken ap-
pearance of the house, and thought within him-
self—“ Ah, pray Heaven she may be my rela-
tion, and then I shall have the right to find her,
and that sweet girl, a very different home i"
The old Woman threw open the drawing-mom
door, and Percival was in the presence of his
deadliest foe! The arm-chair was turned to-
ward the entrance, and from amid the cover-
ings that hid the form, the remarkable counte-
nance of Madame Dalibard emerged, sharp and
earnest, directly fronting the intruder.
“ So," she said, slowly, and, as it were, de-
vouring him with her keen, steadfast eyes;
" so. you are Percival St. John ! Welcome! I
did not know that we should ever meet. I have
not sought you—you seek -me. Strange—yes,
strange—that the young and the rich should
seek the suffering and the poor!”
Surprised and embarrassed by this singular
greeting, Percival halted abruptly in the middle
of the room; and there was something inex-
pressibly winning in his shy. yet graceful con-
fusion. It seemed, with silent eloquence, to
apologize and to deprecate. And when. in his
silvery voice, scarcely yet tuned to the fullness
of manhood, he said, feelingly, "Forgive me,
madam, but my mother is not in England,” the
excuse evinced such delicacy of idea, so ex-
quisite a sense of high breeding, that the calm
assurance of worldly case could not have more
attested the chivalry of the native gentleman.
“I have nothing to forgive, Mr. St. John,"
said Lucretia, with is softened manner. “ Par-
don me rather, that my infirmities do not allow
me to rise to receive you. This seat—here—
next to me. You have a strong likeness to your
father.“
Percival received this last remark as a com-
pliment, and bowed. Then, as he lifted his
ingenuuns brow, he took, for the first time, a
steady view of his new found relation. The
lpPr‘tlllill'lllPS of Lucretia's countenance in youth
had naturally deepened with middle-age. The
contour, always too sharp and pronounced,th
now strong and bony as a man's: the line he-
twcen the eyebrows was hollowed into a fur-
:row. The eye retained its old uneasy, sinister,
'side-long glance; or, at rare moments (as when
l l‘eri-ival entered), its searching pt iii-ti‘ation and
assured command; but the l’yl‘lllls' themselves,
erl and injected. as with grief or vigil, gave
smoothing haggard and Wild, whether to glanco
or gaze. Dr‘t-iplle the paralysis of the frame,
the lace, though pale and thin. showed no
bodily decay. A vigor, surpassing the strength
of woman, might still be seen in the play of the
hold muscles, thc' firmness of the contracted
lips. What physicians call “vitality,” and trace
at once(if cxperienced)on the physiognomy, as
the prognostic oflong life, undulated restlessly
in ever ‘ aspect ofthe face, every movement ol
those thin nervous hands, which, contrasting
the rest ofthat motionless form, never seemed
to be at rest. The teeth were still white and
regular. as in youth; and when they shone out
in speaking, gave a strange, unnatural fresh
ness to a face otherwise so Worn.
As Percival gazed, and, while gazing, saw
those wandering eyes bent down, and yet felt
they watched him. a thrill, almost of fear, shot
through his heart. ' Nevertheless, so much
more impressionable was he to charitable and
trustful, than to suspicious and timid emo-
tions, that, when Madame Dalibard, suddenly
looking lip, and shaking her head gently, said,
“ You see but a sad wreck, young kiosnian;"
all those instincts, which nature itsclf seemed
to dictate for self-preservation, vanished into
heavenly tenderness and pity.
“ Ah !" he said, rising and pressing one of
those deadly hands in both his own, while tears
rose to his eyes. “ Ah! since you call me kins-
man, I have all a kinsman’s privileges. You
must have the best advice—the most skillful
surgeons. Oh, you will recovsr; you must not
dcspond."
Lucretia’s lips moved uneasily. This kind-
ness took her by surprise. She turned desper-
ately away from the human gleam that shot
across the sevenfold gloom of her soul. “ Do
not think of me," she said, with a forced smile;
“it is my peculiarity not to like allusion to my-
self, though, this time,l provoked it. Speak
to me of the old cedar-trees at Laughton—do
they stand still! You are the master of Laugh-
ton, now; it. is a noble heritage.”
Then, St. John, thinking to please her, talked
of the old manor-house, described the improve-
ments made by his father, spoke gayly ofthose
which he himself contemplated ; and, as he ran
on, Lucretia's brow, a moment rufllcd, grew
smooth and smoother, and the gloom settled
back upon her soul.
All at once, she interrupted him. " How did
you discover toe—was it through Mr. Varney'l
I bade him not mention inc-yet how else
could you learn 1” As she spoke, there was an
anxious trouble in her tone, which increased,
while she observed that St. John looked con-
fused. ' _
“ Why," he began, hesitatingly, and brushing
his hat with his hand; “why—perhaps You
may have heard from the—that is—I ll“le


110
THE ROSE BENEATH THE UPAS.
there is a young—. Ah, it is you—it is you!
I see you once again !” And springing up, he
was at the side of Helen, who at that instant
had entered the room ; and now, her eyes
dowucast, her cheeks blushing, her breast gently
heaving, heard, but answered not that passion-
ate burst ofjoy.
Startled, Madame Dalibard (her hands firmly
grasping the sides of her chair) contemplated
the two. She had heard nothing, guessed noth-
ing of their former meeting. All that had pass-
ed before between them was unknowu to her.
Yet, there, was evidence unmistakable, con-
clusive—the son of her despoiler loved the
daughter of her rival; and, if the virgin heart
'speaks by the outward sign, those downcast
eyes, those blushing cheeks, that heaving
breast, told that he did not love in vain.
Before her lurid and murderous gaze, as ifto
defy her, the two inheritors of a revenge un-
glutted by the grave—stood, united inysteri-
ously together. Up, from the vast ocean of her
hate, rose that poor isle of love; there, uncon-
scious ofthe horror around them—the victims
found their footing ! How beautiful at that
hour their youth—their very ignorance of their
own emotions—their innocent gladness—their
sweet trouble! The fell gazer drew a long
breath of fiend-like complacency and glee, and
her hands opened wide, and then slowly closed,
as ifshc felt them in her grasp.
.—..__.
CHAPTER lX.
'rirs noes ssssrru 'rt-nt mus.
Aim from that day, Percival had his privi-
leged entry into Madame Dalibard‘s house. The
little narrative of the circumstances connected
with his first meeting with Helen, partly drawn
from Percival, partly afterward from Helen,
(with blushing and [altered excuses from the
latter, for not having mentioned before an inci-
dent that might, perhaps needlessly, vex or
alarm her aunt in so delicate a state of health),
was received by Lucretia with rare gracious-
lcss. The connection, not only between her-
self and Percival, but between Percival and
Helen, was allowed, and even dwelt upon by
Madame Dalibard, as a natural reason for per-
mitting the artless intimacy which immediately
sprang up between these young persons. She
permitted Percival to call daily, to remain for
hours, to share in their simple meals, to wan-
der alone with Helen in the garden, assist her
to bind up the ragged flowers, and sit by her in
the old ivy-grown arbor, when their work was
done. She affected to look upon them both as
children, and to leave to them that happy fa-
miliarity which childhood only sanctions, and
COMPnltld to which the affection of maturer
years seems at once coarse and cold.
As '.hey grew more familiar, the differences
and similarities in their characters came out,
and nothing more delightful than the harmony
into which even the contrasts blended, ever in-
vitE/l the guardian angel to pause and smile.
As flowers in some trained parterre relieve
each other, now softening, now heightening
each several hue, till all unite in one concord
of interwoven beauty, so these two blooming
natures, brought together, seemed, where va-

rying still, to melt and fuse their ufi‘iucnces into
one wealth of innocence and sweetness. Both
had a native buoyancy and cheerfulncss of
spirit, a noble trustfulness in others, a singular
candor, and freshness of mind and feeling.
But beneath the gayety of Helen, there was a
soft and holy under-stream of thoughtful mel-
ancholy, a high and religious sentiment that
vibrated more exquisitely to the subtile myste-
ries of creation—the soiemn unison between
the bright world without, and the grave desti-
nice of that world within, (which is an imper-
ishable soul), than the lighter and more vivid
youthfulness of Percival had yet conceived. In
him, lay the germs of the active mortal, who
might win distinction in the bold career we run
upon the surface of the earth. In her, there
was that finer and more spiritual essence which
lifts the poet to the golden atmosphere of
dreams, and reveals in glimpses to the saint,
the choral populace of Heaven. \Ve do not
say that Helen Would ever have found the ut-
terance of the poet, that her reveries, undefined
and unanalyzed, could have taken the sharp,
clear form of words. For to the poet, practi-
cally developed and made manifest to the world,
many other gifts, beside the mere poetic sense,
are needed; stern study, and logical generali-
zation of scattered truths, and patient observa-
tion of the characters of men, and the wisdom
that comes from sorrow and passion, and a
sage’s experience of things actual, embracing
the dark secrets of human infirmity and crime.
But, despite all that has been said in dispar-
agement or disbelief of “mth iiiglorious Mil-
tons," we maintain that there are natures in
which the divinest element of poetry exists,
the purer and more delicate for escaping from
bodily form, and evaporating from the coarser
vessels into which the poet, so called, must
pour the ethereal fluid. There is a certain
virtue within us, comprehending our subtilest
and noblest emotions, which is poetry while
untold, and grows pale and poor in proportion,
as we strain it into poems. Nay, it may be
said of this airy property of our inmost being,
that, more or less it departs from us, according
as we give it forth into the world, even as only
by the loss of its particles, the rose wastes its
perfume on the air. So this more spiritual
sensibility dwelt in Helen, as the latent mes-
merism in water, as the invisible fairy in an
enchanted ring. it was an essence or divinity,
shrined and shrouded in herself, which gave
her more intimate and vital union with all the
influences of the universe, a companion to her
loneliness, an angel hymning low to her own
listening soul. This made her enjoyment of
Nature, in its merest trifles, exquisite and pro-
found; this gave to her tenderness of heart all
the delicious and sportive variety love borrows
from imagination; this lifted her piety above
the mere forms of conventional religion. and
breathed into her prayers the ecstasy of the
saint,
But Helen was not the less filled with the
sweet humanities of her age and sex; her very
gravity was tinged with rosy light, as a western
cloud with the sun. She had sportiveness and
caprice, and even whim as the butterfly, though
the emblem of the soul, still flutters wantonly
over every wild flower, and expands its glowing


112
THE ROSE BENEA'I‘H THE UPAS.
more, and that Helen alone stood between
Laughton and her son. Now that he had him-
self, as if with predestined feet, crossed her
threshold—that he, like Helen, had delivered
himselfinto her toils—the hideous guilt, before
removed from her hands, became haunting,
fronted her face to face, and filled her with a
superstitious awe.
Meanwhile, her outward manner to both her
meditated victims, if moody and fitful at times,
was not such as would have provoked suspicion
even in less credulous hearts. From the first
entry of Helen under her roof, she had been
formal and measured in her welcome—kept
her, as it were, aloof, and affected no prodigal
superfluity of dissimulation ; but she had never
been positively harsh or unkind in word or in
deed, and had coldly excused herself for the
repulsiveness of her manner.
" I am irritable,” she said, “ from long suffer--
ing; lam unsocial from habitual solitude: do
not expect from me the fondness and warmth
that should belong to our relationship. Do not
harass yourself with vain solicitude for one
whom all seeming attention but reminds more
painfully ofinfirniity, and who, even thus strick-
en dowu, would be independent of all cares not
bought and paid for. Be satisfied to live here
in all reasonable liberty, to follow your own
habits and caprices uncontrolled. Regard me
but as a piece of necessary furniture. You can
never displease me but when you notice that I
live and suffer."
If Helen wept bitterly at these hard words
when first spoken, it was not with anger that
her loving heart was_so thrown back upon her-
self. On the contrary, she became inspired
with a compassion so great that it took the
character of reverence. She regarded this very
coldness as a mournful dignity. She felt grate-
ful that one who could thus dispense with should
yet have sought her. She had heard her moth-
er say that " she had been under great obliga-
tions to Lucretia," and now, when she was
forbidden to repay them, even by a kiss on
those weary eyelids, a daughter’s hand to that
sleepless pillow—when she saw that the barrier
first imposed was irremovable—that no time
diminished the distance her aunt set between
them—that the least approach to the tender-
ness of service beyond the most casual offices
really seemed but to fret those excitable nerves,
and fever the hand that she ventured timorous-
ly to clasp—she retreated into herself with a
sad amaze that increased her pity and height-
ened her respect. To her, love seemed so ne-
cessary a thing in the helplessness of human
life, even when blessed with health and youth,
that this rejection of all love in one so bowed
and crippled, struck her imagination as some-
thing sublime in its' dreary grandeur and stoic
pride of independence. She regarded it as, of
old, a tender and pious nun would have regard-
ed the ascctlcism of some sanctified recluse—-
as Teresa (had she lived in the same age) might
have regarded St. Simon Stylitcs, existing aloft
from human sympathy on the roofless summit
of his column of stone; and With this feeling
she sought to inspire Percival. He had the
heart to enter into her compassion, but not the
imagination to sympathize with her reverence.
Even tho repugnant awe that he had first con-

ceived for Madame Dalibard, so hold was he by
temperament, he had long since cast off: he
recognized only the moroseness and petulance
of an habitual invalid, and shook playfully his
glossy curls when Helen, with her sweet se-
riousness, insisted on his recognizing more.
4 To this house few, indeed, were the visitors
admitted. The Miverses, whom the benevolent
ofiiciousness of Mr. Fielden had originally sent
thither to see their young kinswoman, now and
then came to press Helen to join some party to
the theater, or Vauxhall, or a pic/mic in Rich-
mond Park; but when they found their over-
tures. which had at first been politely accepted
by Madame Dalibard, were rejected, they grad-
ually ceased their visits, wounded and indig-
nanL
Certain it was that Lucretia had, at one time,
eagerly caught at their well meant civilities to
Helen—now she as abruptly declined them.
Why? It would be hard to plumb into all the
black secrets of that heart. It would have been
but natural to her, who shrank from dooming
Helen to no worse calamity than a Virgin's
grave, to have designed to threw her, in such
uncongenial aguidance, amid all the manifold
temptations of the corrupt city—to have suf-
fered her to be seen, and to be ensnared by
those gallants ever on the watch for defense
less beauty, and to contrast with their elegance
ofmien and fatal flatteries the grossness ofthe
companions selected for her, and the unloving
discomfort of the home into which she had been
thrown. But now that St. John had appeared,
that Helen‘s heart and fancy were steelcd alike
against more dangerous temptation, the object
to be obtained from the pressing courtesy of
Mrs. Mivers existed no more. The vengeance
flowed into other channels.
The only other visitors at the house were
John Ardworth and Gabriel Varney.
Madame Dalibard watched vigilantly the
countenance and manner of Arrlworth, when,
after presenting him to Percival, she whispered,
“I am glad you assured me as to your senti-
ments for Helen. She has found time the
lover you wished for her, ‘ gay and handsome as
herself.’ "
And, in the udden paleness that overspread
Ardworth‘s face, in his compressed lips and con-
vulsive start, she read with unspeakable rage
the untold secret of his heart—till the rage gave
way to complacency at the thought that the
last insult to her wrongs was spared her—that
her son (as son she believed he was) could not
now, at least, be the successful suitor of her
loathed sister's loathed child. Her discovery,
perhaps, confirmed her in her countenance to
Percival's progressive wooing, and half recon
ciled her to the pangs it inflicted on herself.
At the first introduction, Ardworth had scarce-
ly glanced at Percival. He regarded him but
as the sleek flutterer in the sunshine offertune.
And for the idle, the gay, the fair, the well
dressed, and wealthy, the sturdy workman of
his own rough way felt something of the unchar-
itahle disdain which the laborious have not: too
usually entertain for the prosperous hut-es. But
the moment the unwelcome intelligence of
Madame Dalibard was conveyed to him, the
smooth-faced boy BWelled into dignity and im'
portance. -


THE ROSE BENEATH THE UPAS.
113
O
Yet it was not merely as a rival, that that
strong, manly heart, after the first natural agony,
‘regarded Percival. No, he looked tipon him
less with anger than with interest—as the one
in whom Helen‘s happiness was henceforth to
be invested. And to Madame Dalibard's aston~
ishment, for this nature was wholly new to her
experience, she saw him, even in that first in-
terview, composing his rough face to smiles,
.moothing his blufl‘, imperious accents into cour-
tesy, listening patiently, watching benigniy,
and at last thrusting his large hand frankly
forth—griping Pereivai‘s slender fingers in his
mm; and then, with an indistinct chuckle, that
seemed half-laugh and half-groan, as if he did
not dare to trust himself further, he made his
wonted unceremonious nod, and strode hur-
riedly from the room.
But he came again and again, almost daily,
for about a fortnight; sometimes, without en-
tering the house, he would join the young peo-
ple in the garden, assist them with awkward
hands in their playful work on the garden, or
sit with them in the ivied bmver; and, warm-
ing more and more each time he came, talk
at last with the cordial frankness of an elder
brother. There was no disguise in this—he
began to love Percival—what would seem more
strange to the superficial—t0 admire him. Ge-
nius has a quick perception of the moral qual-
ities; genius which, differing thus from mere
talent, is more allied to the heart than to
the head, sympatliizes genially with goodness.
ArdWorth respected that young. ingenuous, un-
poliuted mind : he himseiffeit better and purer
in its atmosphere. Much of the affection he
cherished for Helen, passed thus beautifully
and nobly into his sentiments for the one whom
Helen not unworthily preferred. And they
grew so fond of him—as the young, and gentle
ever will grow fond of genius, however rough,
once admitted to its companionship !
Percival, by this time, had recalled to his
mind, where he had first seen that strong-
featured, dark-brewed countenance, and he gay-
ly reminded Ardworth of his disconrtesy, on
the brow of the hill which commanded the view
of London. 'I‘hat reminiscence made his new
friend writhe; for then, amid all his ambitious
visions of the future, he had seen Helen in the
distance—the reward of every labor—the fair-
est star in his horizon. But he strove stoutly
against the regret of the illusion lost: the
viocndi mum were left him still, and for the
nymph that had glided from his clasp, he clung
at least to the laurel that was left in her place.
In the folds of his robust fortitude, Ardworth
thus wrapped his secret. Neither of his young
playmates suspected it. He would have dis-
dained himself if he had so poisoned their
pleasure. That he suffered when alone, much
and bitterly, is not to be denied; but in that
masculine and complete being, Love took but
its legitimate rank amid the passions and cares
of man. It soured no existence—it broke no
heart-—the wind swept some blossoms from the
bough, and tossed wildly the agitated branches
from root to summit, but the trunk stood firm.
In some of these visits to Madame Daiibard’s,
Ardworth renewed with her the more private
conversation which had so unsettled his past

calm, strong currents of his mind. I‘m-was
chiefly anxious to learn what conjectures Ma-
dame Dniihard had formed as to his parentage,
and what ground there was for belief that be
was near in blood to herself", or that he was
born to a station less dependent on continuous
exertion; but on these points the dark sibyl
preserved an obstinate silence. She was sat-
isfied with the hints she had already thrown
out, and absolutely refused to say more till bet-
ter authorized by the inquiries she had set on
foot. Artfully, she turned from these topics of
closer and more household interest, to those on
which she had previously insisted—connected
with the general knowledge of mankind, and
the complicated science of practical life. To
the his genius, wing his energies, inflame his
ambition above that slow, laborious drudgery to
which he had linked the chances of his career,
and which her fiery and rapid intellect was
wholly unable to comprehend—save as a waste
of life for uncertain and distant objects—be-
came her task. And she saw with delight that
A rdworth listened to her more assentingly than
he had done at first. In truth, the pain shut with-
in his heart, the conflict waged keenly hetWeen
his reason and his passion, unfittcd him, for
the time, for more mechanical employment, in
which his genius could afford him no consola-
tion. Now, genius is given to man, not only
to enlighten others, but to comfort as well as
to elevate himself. Thus, in all the sorrowsof
actual existence, the man is doubly inclined to
turn to his genius for distraction. Harassed in
this world of action, he knocks at the gate of
that world of idea or fancy which he is privi-
leged to enter: he escapes from the clay to the
spirit. And rarely, till some great griei'comes,
does the man in whom the celestial fire is
lodged know all the gift of which he is possess-
ed. At last, Ardworth‘s visits ceased abruptly.
He shut himself up once more in his chambers;
but the law-books were laid aside.
Varney, who generally contrived to call when
Ardworth was not there, seldom interrupted
the lovers in their little paradise of the garden ;
but he took occasion to ripen and cement his
intimacy with Percival: sometimes walked, or
(if St. John had his cabriolet) drove home and
dined with him, tile-a-tétz, in Curzon-street;
and as he made Helen his chief subject of con-
versation, Percival could not but esteem him
among the most agreeable of men. With
Helen, when Percival was not there, Varney
held some secret conferences—secret even
from Percival ; two or three times, before the
hour in which Percival was accustomed to
come, they had been out together: and Helen's
face looked more cheerful than usual on their
return. It was not surprising that Gabriel
Varney, so displeasing to a man like Ardworth,
should have Won little less favor with Helen
than with Percival; for to say nothing of an
ease and suavity of manner which stole into
the confidence of those in whom to confide
was a natural propensity, his various acquisi-
tions and talents, imposing, from the surface
overdwhich they spread, and the glitter which
they made, had an inevitable effect upon a
mind so susceptible as Helen’s to admiration
for art and respect for knowledge. But What
oouvictions as to his birth, and so disturbed the chiefly couciliated he: to Varney, whom she
H


THE BATTLE OF THE SNAKE.
115
rupted Lucretia. “ I know that, and thank her
not. Pass on." - .
“And you know, too, that in the course of
my conversation with the girl, I let out also in-
cidentally that, even so, you were dependent

of her ancestral spirit shot across her brow;
but it passed quickly, and she added, with fierce
composure—H You are right; go on !"
“Either—and pardon me for an insult that
comes not from me-either this will be the
on the chances of her life; that if she died 1 case'; Lady Mary St. John will hasten back in
(and youth itself is mortal, before she was of 1
age), the sum left her by her grandfather would
revert to her father‘s family; and so, by hints,
I drew her on to ask if there was no mode by
which, in case of her death, she might insure
subsistence to you. So that you see the whole
scheme was made at her own prompting. Idid
but, as a man of business, suggest the means—
an insurance on her life."
“ Varney, these details are hateful. I do not
doubt that you have done all to forestall inquiry
and elude risk. The girl has insured her life
to the amount of her fortune l"
“ To that amount only! Pooh! Her death
will buy more than that! As no single office
will insure for more than 5000l., and as it was
easy to persuade her that such oflices were
liable to failure, and that it was usual to in-
sure in several, and for a larger amount than
the sum desired, 1 got her to enter herself at
three ofthe principal offices. The amount paid
to us on her death will be 15,0001. It will be
paid (and here I have followed the best legal
advice), in trust to me for your benefit. Hence,
therefore, even if our researches fail us, if no
son of yours can be found, with sufficient evi-
dence to prove, against the keen interests and
bought advocates of heirs-at-law, the right to
Laughton, this girl will repay us well, will re-
place what I have taken, at the risk of my neck,
perhaps—certainly at the risk of the hulks,
from the capital of my uncle’s legacy—will
refund what we have spent on the inquiry—
and the residue will secure to you an indepen-
dence sufficing for your wants almost for life,
and to me, what will purchase with economy"
(and Varney smiled) “a year or so of a gen-
tleman‘s idle pleasures. Are you satisfied thus
far ."
" She will die happy and innocent!" mutter-
ed Lucretia, with the growl of demoniac disap-
pointment.
“ Will you wait, then, till my forgery is de-
tected, and l have no power to buy the silence
ofthe trustees-wait till I am in prison, and on
a trial for life and death!
every hour of delay, is fraught with peril. But,
if my safety is nothing compared to the refine-
ment of your revenge, will you wait till Helen
marries Percival St. John! You start! But
can you suppose that this innocent love-play
will not pass rapidly to its dénoucment? It is
out yesterday that Percival confided to me, that
he should write this very day to his mother,
and communicate all his feelings and his hopes;
-—that he waited but her assent, to propose
formally for Helen. Now one of two things
must happen. Either this mother, haughty and
vain as lady mothers mostly are, may refuse
consent to her son’s marriage with the daugh-
ter ofa disgraced banker, and the niece of-that
Lucretia Dalibard, whom her husband would
not admit beneath his roof—"
" Hold, sir !" exclaimed Lucretia, haughtily,
and amid all the passions that darkened her
countenance and degraded her soul, some flash
Reflect, every day,v

alarm to London ; sbe exercises extraordinary
control over her son; she may withdraw him
from us altogether, from me as well as you,
and the occasion now presented to us may be
lost (who knows?) forever: or she may be a
weak and fond woman,—may be detained in.
Italy by her sister’s illness,—may be anxious
that the last lineal descendant of the St. Johns
should marry betimes; and, moved by her
darling’s prayers, may consent at once to the
union. Or a third course, which Percival
thinks the most probable, and which, though
most unwelcome to us of all, I had well nigh
forgotten, may be adopted. She may come to
England, and, in order to judge her son‘s choice
with her oWn eyes, may withdraw Helen from
your roof to hers. At all events, delays are
dangerous—dangerous, putting aside my per-
sonal interest, and regarding only your own
object—may bring to our acts new and search-
ing eyes—may cut us off from the habitual
presence either of Percival, or Helen, or both;
or surround them, at the first breath of illness,
with prying friends, and formidable precautions.
The birds now are in our hands. Why then
open the cage and bid them fly, in order to
spread the net! This morning all the final
documents with the insurance companies are
completed. It remains for me but to pay the
first quarterly premiums. For that I think I
am prepared, without drawing further on your
hoards or my own scanty resources, which
Grabman will take care to drain fast enough.”
“And Percival St. John!” said Madame
Dalibard. " We want no idle sacrifices. If
my son he not found, we need not that boy’s
ghost among those who haunt us."
“ Surely not,” said Varney; “and for my
part, he may be more useful to me alive than
dead. There is no insurance on his life, and a
rich friend (credulous green-horn that he is !) is
scarcely of that flock of geese which it were
wise to slay from the mere hope of a golden
egg. Percival St. John is your victim, not
mine—not till you give the order, would I liftv
a finger to harm him.”
“Yes, let him live, unless my son he found
to me,” said Madame Dalibard, almost exult-
ingly; “ let him live to forget you fair-faced
fool, leaning now, see you, so delightedly on
his arm, and fancying eternity in the hollow
vows of love l—let him live to wrong and aban-
don her hy forgetfulness, though even in the
grave; to laugh at his boyish dreams—to sully
her memory in the arms of harlots! Oh, if the
dead can suffer, let him live, that she may feel
beyond the grave his inconstancy and his fall!
Methinks that that thought will comfort me, it
Vincent be no more, and I stand childless in
the world !"
“It is so settled, then," said Varney, ever
ready to clench the business that promised
gold, and relieve his apprehensions of the_de-
teetion of his fraud. “And now to your notes-
less hands, as soon as may be, I consign the
girl: she has lived long enough i"


116
LOVE AND INNOCENCE.
CHAPTER XI.
LOVE AND INNOCENCB.
W11th this the conference between these
execrable and ravening birds of night and prey,
Helen and her boy-lOVer were thus conversing
in the garden, while the autumn sun—for it was
in the second week of October—broke pleas-
antly through the yellowing leaves of the tran-
quil shrubs. and the flowers, which should have
died with the gone summer. still fresh by their
tender care. despite the lateness of the season,
smiled gratefully as their light footsteps passed.
“ Yes, Helen," said Percival, “ yes, you will
love my mother, for she is one of those people
who seem to attract love, as if it were a prop-
erty belonging to them. Even my dog Beau
(you know how fond Beau is of me !) always
nestles at her feet when we are at home. I
own she has pride, but it is a pride that never
offended any one. You know there are some
flowers that we call proud. The pride of the
flower is not more harmless than my mother‘s.
But perhaps pride is not the right word—it is
rather the aversion to any thing low or mean.
the admiration for every thing pure and high.
Ah, how that very pride. if pride it be, will
make her love you, my Helen !”
“ You need not tell me." said Helen, smiling
seriously. " that I shall love your mother, I love
her already—nay, from the first moment you
said you had a mother, my heart leaped to her.
Your mother ! if ever you are really jealous. it
must he of her! but that she should love me.
that it is whatI doubt and fear. For if you
were my brother, Percival, I should be so am-
bitious for you. A nymph must rise from the
stream, a sylphid from the rose, before I could
allow another to steal you from my side. And
ifl think I should feel this only as your sister.
what can be precious enough to satisfy a moth-
or!"
“ You, and you only," answered Percival.
with his blithesomo laugh—“ you, my sweet
Helen, much better than nymph or sylphid,
about whom. between ourselves, I never cared
three straws, even in a poem. How pleased
you will be with Laughton! Do you know, I
was lying awake all last night, to consider what
:room you would like best for your own. And
at last, I have docided—come. listen—it opens
from the music-gallery that overhangs the hall. '
From the window, you overlook the southern
side of the park, and catch a view of the lake
beyond. There are two niches in the wall—
one for your piano, one for your favorite books.
It is just large enough to hold four persons with
ease—our mother and myself, your aunt, whom
by that time we shall have pelted into good-
humor, and if we can coax Ardworth there—
the best good follow that ever lived—I think
our party will be complete. By the way, I am
uneasy about Ardworth, it is so long since we
have seen him; I have called three times—
nay, five. but his odd-looking clerk always
swears he is not at home. Tell me. Helen,
now, you who know him so well—tell me, how
I can serve him ! You know, I am so terribly
rich (at least, I shall he in a month or two) ;-
I can never get through my money. unless my
friends will help me. And is it not shocking
‘bat that noble fellow should be so poor, and

yet sufi'or me to call him ‘friend.’ as if. in
friendship one man should want every thing.
and the other nothing. Still,I don't know how
to Venture to propose—collie, you understand
tne. Helen—let us lay our wise heads to-
gether, and make him well off. in spite of him-
self."
It was in this 10058, boyish talk of Percival‘s,
that he had found the way not only to Helen's
heart, but to her soul. For in this, she (grand,
undeveloped poetess) recognized a nobler po-
etry than we chain to rhythm—the poetry of
generous deeds. She yearned to kiss the warm
hand she held, and drew nearer to his side as
she answered—"And sometimes, dear, dear
Percival. you wonder why I would rather list-
en to you than to all Mr. Varney's bitter elo-
quence, or even to my dear cousin's aspiring
ambition. They talk well, but it is of them-
selves; wht'le you—"
Percival blushed, and checked her.
" Well," she said—“ well, to your question.
Alas! you know little of my cousin. if you think
all our arts could decoy lnm out of his rugged
independence, and, much as I love him,l could
not wish it. But do not fear for him; he is
one of those who are born to succeed, and
without help."
“ How do you know that. pretty prophetess i"
said Percival. with the superior air of man-
hood. “I have seen more of the world than
you have, and I can not see why Ardworth
should unrated, as you call it ;—or, if so. why he
should succeed less if he swung his hammock
in a better berth than that hole in Gray’s lnn,
and would just let me keep him a cab and a
groom."
Had Percival talked of keeping John Ard-
worth an elephant and a palanquin. Helen
could not have been more amused. She clap-
ped her little hands in a delight that provoked
Percival, and laughed out loud. Then seeing
her boy-lover's lip pouted petulantly. and his
brow was overcast, she said more seriously—
"Do you not know what it is to feel con-
vinced of something which you can not explain 1
Well, I feel this as to my cousin's fame and
fortunes. Surely, too. you must feel it. you
scarce know why, when he speaks of that fu-
ture. which seems so dim and so fat" to me, as
of something that belonged to him."
" Very trite, Helen,"said Percival. "he lays it
out like the map of his estate. One can’t laugh
when he says so carelessly—‘ At such an age I
shall lead my circuit—at such an age I shall be
rich—at such an age I shall enter parliament—
and beyond that I shall look as yet no farther.‘
And. pour fellow. then he will be forty-three!
forty-three l—llow very. very old! And in the
mean while to suffer such privations l”
" There are no privations to one who lives
in the future," said Helen, with that noble in-
tuition into lofty natures, which at times flash-
ed from her childish simplicity, foreshowing
what, ifheaven spare her life, her maturer in-
tellect may develop: “For Ardworth there is
no such thing as poverty. He is as rich in his
hopes as we are in—” She stopped short,
blushed, and continued, with downcast looks—
“ As well might you pity me in those walks, so
dreary without you. I do not live in them; I
live in my thoughts of you."


SUDDEN CELEBRITY AND PATIENT HOPE.
117
Her voice trembled with emotion in those last
words. She slid from Percival’s arm, and
timidly sat down (and he beside her) on a little
mound, under the single chestnut-tree, that
threw its shade over the garden.
Both were silent for Some minutes—Percival
with grateful ecstasy—Helen With one ofthose
sudden tits of mysterious melancholy, to which
ner nature was so subjected.
He was the first to speak. “ Helen," he said,
gravely, “since i haw known you, I feel as if
life were a more solemn thing than i ever re-
garded it hetore. it seems in me as if a new
and more! arduous duty were added to those for
which I was prepared—a duty, Helen, to be-
come Worthy ofyou! Will you smile! No—
you Will not smile, ifl say i have had my brief
moments of ambition. Sometimes as a boy,
with Pliitai-ieh in my hand, stretched idly under
the old cedar-trees at Laughton—sometimes as
a sailor, “lo-n, hecalmed on the Atlantic, and
my ears freshly filled with tales of Coiling-
WOod and Nelson, l stole front my comrades,
and leant, musingly, over the boundless sea.
But when this ample heritage passed to me—
When I had no more my own fortunes to make,
my own rank to build up—sui-h dreams became
less and less frequent. is it not true that
Wealth makes its contented to ho obscure!
Yes; i understand. while lspeak, why poverty
itself befriends, not cripples, Ardworth‘s ener-
gies. But, since I have known you, dearest
Helen, those dreams return more vividly than
eVer. He who t'lHllllS you should bc—must be
-something nobler than the crowd, llelen !”
and he (use by an irri-tistible and restless im-
pulse; " i shall not he contented till you are as
proud ofyour choice as l of mine i"
It seemed, as Pert'iVal spoke and looked, as
if boyhood were cast from him forever. The
unusual weight and gravity of his words, to
which his tone gave even eloquence; the
steady flash of his dark eyes; his erect, elastic
form, all had the dignity of man. Helen gazed
on him silently, and with a heart so full, that
words Would not come, and tears overflowed
instead.
That sight sobered him at once—he knelt
dowu beside her, threw his arms round her—it
was his first embrace—and kissed the tears
away.
" How have I distressed you! why do you
weep!"
" Let me weep on, Percival, dear Percival !
These tears are like prayers; they speak to
Heaven—and of you i” ‘
“0h !" she resumed, recovering herself at
tength, “ if, as sometimes even when you are
with me, a cold and nameless foreboding seems
to whisper—iflam not reserved for so much
happiness—if l can not partake your fate-if we
are divided !”
" What can divide us'i" exclaimed Percival,
in passionate alarm. Helen sighed heavily,
and ineekly bowing her head, murmured, “ Does
not the same holy ground hold the altar and the
gravel If i should go before you, Percival,
think that I one you still—think that the same
bright destinies still await y‘u-think that he
who would so nohly aspire to be Worthy a hit-
man ltl\"", has still to be Worthy God !"
She laid her hand on his as she ceased; its

touch was cold, and the chill pierced to his
heart; the tears were dry upon her cheeks, but
they still glittered in the eyes that were raised
devoutly upward. He would have spoken, but
his voice failed him. Something of her fore-
bodings passed into his own heart. And while
thus silent, a step came noiselesst over the
grass, and between them and the sunlight, stood
Gabriel Varney.
+
CHAPTER. XII.
BUDDEN CELEBRITY AND PATIENT HOPE.
PBRCIVAL was unusually gloomy and abstract-
ed in his way to town that day, though Varney
was his companion, and in the full play of those
animal spirits which he owed to his unrivaled
physical organization and the obtuseness of his
conscience. Seeing, at length, that his gayety
did not communicate itself to Percival, he paus-
ed and looked at him suspiciously. A falling
leaf startles the steed, and a shadow the guilty
man.
" You are sad, Percival 1.” he said, inquir-
ingly. " What has disturbed you 1“
" It is nothing—or, at least, would seem
nothing to you,” answered Percival, with an
effort to smile, “for I have heard you laugh at
the doctrine of presentiinents. We sailors are
more superstitious."
" What presentiment can you possibly enter-
tain 1.” asked Varney, more anxiously than Peg
cival could have anticipated.
“Presentiments are not so easily defined,
Varney. But, in truth, poor Helen has infect-
ed me. Have you not remarked, that, guy as
she habitually is, some shadow comes over her
so suddenly, that one can not trace the cause?
And to-day she has been talking as I never
heard but one talk before, and that was a poor
fellow-midshipman of mine, who seemed the
'vcry picture. of health, and who was persuaded
he should die of consumption. we used to
laugh at him; but, three months after his re-
turn home, I saw in the papers that he did die,_
and of that disease.”
Varney mused. It might be well to foster the
idea thus started ; would it not be prudent, also,
now to mention Helen‘s insurances on her life ;
it would come in so naturally—it would prevent
the suspicious appearance of too close a secrecy
hereafter.
“My dear Percival,” said be, after a short
pause, “what you say does not surprise me.
Helen herself has confided to me those strange
forebodings of hers. Like you I see no cause
for them, though it Would be false kindness to
conceal from you that I have heard Madame
Dalibard say that her mother was, when about:
her age, threatened with consumptive symp-
toms—but she lived many years afterward.
Nay, nay, rally yourself; Helen‘s appearance,
despite the extreme purity of her complexion,
is not that of one threatened by the terrible
malady of our climate. The young are often
haunted with the idea of early death. As we
grow older, that thought is less cherished; in
youth it is a sort of luxury. To this mournful
idea (which you see, you have remarked as
well as I), we must attribute not only Helen‘s
romantic presentiments, but a genemsny 0!


118
SUDDEN CELEBRITY AND PATIENT HOPE.
forethought, which I can not deny myself the
pleasure of communicating to you, though her
delicacy would be shocked at my indiscretionv
You know how helpless her aunt is. Well,
Helen, who is entitled, when of age, to a moder-
ate competence, has persuaded me to insure
her life, and accept a trust to hold the moneys
’if ever unhappily due) for the benefit of my
mother’in-law, so that Madame Dalibard may
not be left destitute, if her niece die before she
is twenty-one. How like Helen !—is it not '2"
Percival was too overcome to answer.
Varucy resumed—“I cntreat you not to
mention this to Helen—it would ofl‘end hcr
modesty to have the secret of her good deeds
thus betrayed by one to whom alone she con-
fided them. lcould not resist her entreaties;
though, mire-nuns, it cripples me not a little to
advance for her the necessary sum for the pre-
miums. Apropos, this brings me to a point on
which I feel, as the vulgar idiom goes, ‘very
awkward,’—-as I always do in these confounded
money matters. But you were good enough to
ask me to paint you a couple of pictures for
Laughton. Now, ifyou could let me have some
portion of the sum, whatever it be (for I don‘t
price my painting to you), it would very much
oblige me."
Percival turned away his face as he wrung
Varney’s hand, and muttered, with a choked
voice, “ Let me have my share in Helen's divine
forethought. Good heavens! she so young, to
100k thus beyond the grave, always for others—
10.“ Jthers l”
Callous as the wretch was, Percival's emo—
tion and his proposal struck Varney with a sen-
timent like compunction. He had designed to
appropriate the lover's gold, as it was now of-
fered ; but that Percival himself should propose
it, blind to the grave, to which that gold paved
the Way, was a horror not counted in those to
which his fell cupidity and his goading appre-
hensions had familiarized his conscience.
"No," he said, with one of those wayward
scruples to which the blackest criminals are
‘sometimes susceptible—“ no. Ihave promised
Helen to regard this as a loan to her, which she
is to repay me when of age. What‘you may ad-
vance me is for the pictures. I have a right to
do as I please with what is bought by my own
labor. And the subjects of the pictures—what
shall they be 2”
" For one picture try and recall Helen's as-
pect and attitude when you came to us in the
garden, and entitle your subject—‘ The Fore-
boding.'"
“ Hem l” said Varney, hesitatingly. “ And the
other subject!"
“ Wait for that, till the joy-hells at Laughton
have welcomed a bride, and then—and then,
Varncy,'_’ added Percival, with something of his
natural Joyous smile, “ you must take the ex-
pression as you find it. Once under my care,
and, please Heaven, the one picture shall laugh-
iugly upbraid the other!"
As this was said, the cabriolet stopped at
Percival‘s door. Varney dined with him that
day ; and if the conversation flagged, it did not
revert to the subject which had so darkened the
bright spirits of the host, and so tried the hy-
pocrisy of the guest. “'hcn Varney left, which
he did as soon as the dinner was concluded,

Percival silently put a check into his hands, to
a greater amount than Varuey had anticipated
even from his generosity.
“ This is for four pictures, not two," he said,
shaking his head ; and then, with his character-
istic conceit, he added—“Well, some years
hence, the world shall not call them overpaid
Adieu, my Medici ; a dozen such men, and Art
would revive in England.”
When he was left alone, Percival sat down
and, leaning his face on both hands, gave way
to the gloom which his native manliness, and
the delicacy that belongs to true affection, had
made him struggle not to indulge in the presence
of another. Never had he so loved Helen as in
that hour; never had he so intimately and in-
tensely felt her matchless worth. The image
of her unselfish, quiet, melancholy consideration
for that austere, uncaressing, unsytupathizing
relation, under whose 'shade her young heart
must have withered, seemed to him filled with
a celestial pathos. And he almost hated Var-
ney, that the cynic painter could have talked ofit
with that business-like phlegm. The evening
deepened; the tranquil street grew still ; the air
seemed close; the solitude oppressed him; he
rose abruptly, seized his hat, and went forth,
slowly, and still witha heavy heart.
As he entered Piccadilly, on the broad step
of that house successively inhabited by the
Duke onueensbury and Lord Hertford, and now
divided into apartments for such as can pay
per room the rent of a moderate house,——on
the step of that mansion, up which so many
footsteps light with wanton pleasure have gany
trod, Percival‘s eye fell upon a wretched,
squalid, ragged object, doubled up as it were,
in that last despondcncy which has ceased to beg,
that has no care to steal, that has no wish to
live. Percival halted, and touched the outcast.
“What is the matter, my poor fellow? Take
care—the policemen will not suffer you to rest
here. Come, cheer up, I say ! There is some-
thing to find you a better lodging l”
The silver fell unheedcd on the stones.
The thing of rags did not even raise its head,
but a low, broken voice muttered—
“It be too late now-let ’em take me to
prison—let ’em send me ’cross the sea to But-
tany—let ’em hang me if they please. I he's
good for nothin’ now-—nothin’ !”
Altered as the voice was, it struck Percival
as familiar. He looked down and caught a view
ofthe drooping face.
“Up, man, up!" he said, checrily; “ see,
Providence sends you an old friend in need, to
teach you never to despair again."
The hearty accent, more than the words,
touched and aroused the poor creature. He
rose mechanically, and a sickly, grateful smile
passed over his wasted features as he recog-
nized St. John.
" Come! how is this! I have always under-
stood that to keep a crossing was a flourishing
trade now-a-days."
“I ’as no crossin’. I ’as sold her !" groaned
Beck. “I he‘s good for nothin' now, but to
cadge about the streets, and steal. and filch,
and hang like the rest on us! Thank you,
kindly, sir," (and Beck pulled his forelock),
" but, please your ’onor,I vould rather make an
ind on it i"


SUDDEN CELEBRITY AND PATIENT HOPE.
119
“Pooh, pooh! didn't I tell you when you
wanted a friend to come to me! Why did you
doubt me, foolish fcllowl. Pick up those shill-
ings—get a bed and a. supper. Come and see
me to-morrow, at nine o'clock, you know where
-the same house in Curzon-strcet; you shall
tell me then your whole story, and it shall go
hard but. I‘ll buy you another crossing or get
you something just as good." _
Poor Beck swayed a moment or two on his
slender logs, like a drunken man, and then sud-
denly falling on his knees, he kissed the hem
of his benefactor‘s garment, and fairly wept.
ThQSG tears relieved him—they seemed to wash
the drought of despair from his heart.
“Hush, bush! or we shall have a crowd
round us. You Won't forget, my poor friend,
No.——, ()umrn-street—nine to-morrow. Make
haste now, and get food and rest—you look,
indeed, as if you wanted them. Ah! would to
heaven all the poverty in this huge city stood
here in thy person, and We could aid it as easily
as I can thec "
Percival had moved on as he said those last
words, and, looking back, he had the satisfac-
tion to see that Beck was slowly crawling after
him, and had escaped the grim question of a
very portly policeman, who had no doubt ex~
pressed 3 natural indignation at the audacityof
so ragged a skeleton not keeping itself respect-
any at home in its church-yard.
Entering one of the clubs in St. James’s-street,
Percival found a small knot of politicians in
eager mnversaiiou respecting a new book
which had been published but a day or two be-
fore, but which had already seized the public
attention with that strong grasp which consti-
tutes always an era in an author’s life, some-
times an epoch in a nation's literature. The
newspapers were full of extracts from the Work
-—the gossips of conjecture as to the authorship.
we need scarcely any that a book which makes
this kind of sensation, must hit some popular
feeling of the hour, supply some popular want.
Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, therefore,
its character is political: it was so in the pres-
ent. instance. It may be remembered that that
year Parliament sat during great part of the
month of October, that it was the year in which
the lbeform Bill was rejected by the House of
Lords, and that public feeling in our time had
never been so keenly excited. This work ap-
peared during the short interval between the
rejection of the bill and the prorogation of Par-
liament.’ And what made it more remarkable,
was, that while stamped with the passion of the
time, there was a weight of calm and stem
reasoning. embodied in its vigorous periods,
which gave to the arguments of the advocate
something of the impartiality of the judge.
Unusually abstracted and unsocial, for, despite
his youth and that peculiar bashfulness before
noticed, he was generally alive enough to all
that passed around him, Percival paid little at-
tentioq to the comments that circulated round
the easy chairs in his vicinity, till a subordinate
in the administration, with whom he was
llightly acquainted, pushed a small volume
toward him, and said:

' Pnrliziioent wan prorogued October com; the bill re-
acted by the Lords. October 6th.

~
“ You have seen this, of course, St. John!
Ten to one you do not guess the author. It is
certainly not B—m, though the lord chancel
lor has energy enough for any thing. R——-
says it has a touch of S—r."
"Could M—y have written it 1." asked a
young member of parliament, timidly.
“ M——y !---very like his matchless style, to
be sure. You can have read very little of
M—-—y, I should think,” said the subordinate,
with the true sneer of an otficial and a critic.
The young member could have slunk into a
nutshell.
Percival, with very languid interest, glanced
over the volume. But despite his mood, and
his moderate affection for political writings, the
passage he opened upon struck and seized him
unawares. Though the sneer of the official was
just, and the style was not comparab to
M y‘s, (whose is‘!) still the steady rus of
strong words, strong with strong thoughts—
heaped massively together—showed the ease
of genius and the gravity of thought:--the
absence of all efi'eminate glitter—the iron
grapple with the pith and substance of the ar-
gument opposed, seemed familiar to Percival.
He thought he heard the deep bass of John
Ardworth's earnest voice, when some truth
roused his advocacy, or some falsehood pro-
voked his wrath. He put down the book be-
wildered. Could it be the obscure, briefless law-
yer in Gray's Inn (that very morning the object
of his young pity), who was thus lifted into
fame'.l He smiled at his own credulity. But
he listened with more attention to the enthusi-
astic praises that circled round, and the various
guesses which accompanied them. Soon, how-
ever, his formcr gloom returned—the Babel
began to chafe and weary him. He rose and
went forth again into the air. He strolled on
without purpose, but mechanically into the
street where he had first seen Helen. He
paused a few moments under the colonnade
which faced Beck‘s old deserted crossing. His
pause attracted the notice of one ofthe unhappy
beings whom we sull'er to pollute our streets,
and rot in our hospitals. She approached and
spoke to him—to him whose heart was so full
of Helen. He shuddered and strode on. At
length, he paused before the twin towers of
Westminster Abbey, on which the moon rested
in solemn splendor; and in that space, one man
only shared his solitude. A figure with folded
arms leant against the iron rails, near the statue
of Canning, and his gaze comprehended in one
view, the walls of the parliament, in which all
passions wage their war, and the glorious Ab-
bey, which gives a Walhalla to the great. The
utter stillness of the figure, so in unison with
the stillness of the scene, had upon Percival
more efl‘ect than would have been produced by
the most clamorous crowd. He looked round
curiously, as he passed, and uttered an excla-
mation, as he recognized John Ardworth.
" You, Percival !” said Ardworth—“a strange
meeting-place at this hour! What can bring
you hither 1"
“Only whim, I fear—and you!" oi “oi
linked his arm into Ardworth‘s. "
"Twenty years hence I will tell you what
brought me here!” answered Ardworth, mov.
ing slowly back toward Whitehall.


120 SUDDEN CELEBRITY
AND PATIENT HOPE.
I
“If we are alive then."
“\Ve live till our destinies below are fulfill-
ed; till our uses have passed from us in this
sphere, and rise to benefit another. For the
soul is as a sun, but with this noble distinction,
the sun is confined in its career—day after day,
it visits the same lands, gilds the same planets,
or rather, as the astronomers hold, stands the
motionless center of moving worlds. But the
BOD], when it sinks into seeming darkness and
the deep, rises to new destinies, fresh regions
unvisiled before. \Vhat we call eternity, may
be but an endless series of those transitions
which men call deal/is, abandonments of home
after home, even to fairer scenes and loftier
heights. Age after age, the spirit, that glorious
Nomad, may shift its tent, fated not to rest in
the dull Elysium of the heathen, but carrying
wi it evermore its elements—activity and
desire. Why should the soul ever repose?
God, its Principle, reposes never. While we
speak, new Worlds are sparkling forth—suns
are throwing ofl" their nebulae—nebulae are hard-
ening into worlds. The Almighty proves his
existence by creating. Think you that Plato is
at rest, and Shakspeare only basking on a
sun'cloud‘! Labor is the very essence of spirit
as of divinity: labor is the purgatory of the err-
ing ; it may become the hell of the wicked, but
labor is not less the heaven of the good."
Ardworth spoke with unusual earnestness and
passion; and his idea of the future was em-
blematic of his own active nature : for each of
us is wisely left to shape out, amid the impene-
trable mists, his own ideal of the Hereafter.
The warrior child of the biting North placed his
Bela amid snows, and his Himrnel in the
banquets of victorious war; the son of the East,
parched by relentless summer—his hell amid fire,
and his elysium by cooling streams ; the weary
peasant sighs through life for rest, and rest
awaits his vision beyond the grave; the work-
man of genius—ever ardent, ever young—hon-
ors toil as the glorious development of being-
and springs refreshed over the abyss of the
grave—40 follow, from star to star, the progress
that seems to him at once the supreme felicity
and the necessary law. So be it with the fan-
tasy of each. Wisdom that is infallible, and
love that never sleeps, watch over the darkness
—-and bid darkness be, that we may dream.
“Alas !" said the young listener—" what re-
proof do you not convey to those, like me, who,
devoid of the power which gives results to every
toil, have little left to them in life, but to idle
life away. All have not the gift to write, or
harangue, or speculate, or--"
“ Friend," interrupted Ardworth, bluntly,
“ do not belie yourself. There lives not a man
on earth—nut of a lunatic asylum—who has not
in him the power to do good. What can
Writers, haranguers, or speculators do more
than that? Have you ever entered a cottage—
. ever traveled in a coach—ever talked With a
peasant in the field, or Ioitered with a mechan-
to at the loom, and not found that each of those
men- had a talent you had not, knew some
things y 1 knew not i The most. useless crea-
tors that ever yaWned at a club, or counted the
vermin on his rags, under the suns of Calabria,
has no excuse for want of intellect. What men
want is, not talent, it is purpose :—in other
words, not the power to achieve, but the will
to labor. You, Percival St. John—you affect to
despond, lest you should not have your uses—
you, with that fresh, warm heart—you with
that pure enthusiasm for what is fresh and
good—you, who can even admire a thing like
Varney, because, through the tawdry man, you
recognize art and skill, even though wasted in
spoiling canvas—you, who have only to live as
you feel, in order to diffuse blessings all around
you, lie, foolish boy! you will own your error
when I tell you why I come from my rooms at
Gray's Inn to see the walls in which Hamp-
den, a plain country squire like you, shook
with plain words the tyranny of eight hundred
years."
“ Ardworth, I will not wait your time to tell
me what took you yonder. I have penetrated a
secret that you, not kindly, kept from me. This
morning you rose and found yourself famous;
this evening you have come to gaze upon the
scene of the career to which that fame will
the more rapidly conduct you—”
"And upon the tomb which the proudest
ambition I can form on earth must content
itself to win. A poor conclusion, if all ended
here."
r- “I am right, however," said Percival, with
boyish pleasure. " It is you whose praises have
just filled my ears. You,dear—dearArdworth.
How rejoiced I am."
Ardworth pressed heartily the hand extended
to him: “I should have trusted you with my
secret to-rnorrow, Percival; as it is, keep it for
the present. A craving of my nature has been
satisfied, a grief has found distraction ; as for
the rest, any child who throws a stone into the
water with all his force can make a splash; but
he would be a fool, indeed. if he supposed that
the splash was a sign that he had turned a
stream."
Here_Ardworth ceased abruptly—and Perci-
val, engrossed by a bright idea, which had sud-
denly occurred to him, exclaimed-
“Ardworth—ynur desire, your ambition, is
to enter parliament ; there must be adissolulion
shortly—the success of your book will render
you acceptable to many a popular constituency.
All you can want is a sum for the necessary
expenses. Borrow that sum from rue—repay
me when you are in the cabinet, or attorney-
general. It shall be so i"
A look so bright, that even by that dull lamp-
light, the glow of the cheek, the brilliancy ot
the eye were visible—flashed over Ardivorth‘s
face. He felt at that moment what ambitious
man must feel when the object he has seen
dimly and afar—is placed within his grasp ; but
his reason was proof even against that strong
temptation.
He passed his arm ‘round the boy‘s slender
waist, and drew him to his heart, with grateful
affection, as he replied,
“And what, if new in parliament, giving up
my career—with no regular means ofsnhsisb
once-what could I be, but a venal adventurer "
Place would become so vitally necessary to me,
that I should feed but a dangerous war between
my conscience and my wants. In chasing
Fame, the shadow, I should lose the substance,
Independence—why, that very thought would

paralyze my tongue. No, no—my generom
Q
__‘--q-.n-_'——.-—r-:l


THE LOSS OF THE CROSSING.
121
friend. As labor is the arch elevator of man,
so patience is the essence of labor. First let
we build the foundation, I may then calculate
the height of my tower. First let me be inde-
pendent of the great—l will then be the cham-
pion of the lowly. Hold ! tempt the no more—
do not lure me to the loss of self-esteem ! And
now, Percival," resumed Ardworth, in the tone
of one who wishes to plunge into some utterly
new current of thought, “let us forget for a
while these solemn aspirations, and be frolic-
some and human. ‘Ncmo mortalium omnibus
km‘t'a mpil.’ ‘ Ncquc semper arcum lmdil Apal/o.’
\Vhat say you, to a cigarl"
Percival stared. He was not yet familiarized
to the eccentric whims of his friend !
“ Hot negus and a cigar !” repeated Ardworth,
while a smile, full of drollery, played round the
corners of his lips, and twinkled in ltis deep-set
eyes.
“ Are you serious 2"
“ Not serious—I have been serious enough"
(and Ardworth sighed) “ for the last three
weeks. Who goes to Corinth to be sage, or to
the Cider Cellar to be serious 1”
“I subscribe, then, to the negus and cigar,"
said Percival, smiling; and he had no cause to
repent his compliance, as be accompanied Ard-
worth to one of the resorts favored by that
strange person in his rare hours of relaxation.
For, seated at his favorite table, which hap-
pened, luckily, to be vacant, with his head
tbfiiwn carelessly back, and his negus steam-
ing before him, John Ardworth continued to
pour forth, till the clock struck three, jest upon
jest—pun upon pun—broad drollery upon broad
drollery, without flagging, without intermission
--so varied, so copious, so ready, so irresistible,
that Percival was transported out of all his
melancholy, in enjoying, for the first time in his
life, the exuberant gayety ofa grave mind once
set free—all its intellect sparkling into wit—all
its passion rushing into humor. And this was
the man he had pitied! supposed to have no
sunny side to his life ! How much greater had
been his compassion and his wonder, if he could
have known all that had passed, within the last
few weeks, through that gloomy, yet silent
breast, which, by the very breadth of its mirth,
shovved what must be the depth of its sadness!
_.-_.
CHAPTER XIII.
Tits Loss 0? THE cnosstno.
DESPITE the lateness of the hour before he
got to rest, Percival had already breakfastcd,
when his valet informed him, with raised, super-
cilious eyebrows, that “ an uncommon ragged
sort of a person insisted that he had been told
to call." Though Beck had been at the house
before, and the valet had admitted him—so
much thinner, so much more ragged was he
now, that the trim servant—no close observer
of such folks—did not recognize him. How-
ever, at Percival's order, too well bred to show
surprise, he ushered Beck up with much civili-
ty ; and St. John was painfully struck with the
ravages a few Weeks had made upon the sweep-
er‘s countenance The lines were so deeply
ploughed—the dry hair looked so thin, and was
so sown with gray, that Beck might have beat
all Farren‘s skiii In the part of an old man.
The poor Sweepcr’s tale, extricated from its
peculiar phraseology, was simple enough, and
soon told: He had returned home at night to
find his hoards stolen. and the labor of his life
overthrown. How he passed that night he did
not very Well remember. We may well sup-
pose that the little reason he possessed was
well nigh bereft from him. No suspicion ofthe
exact thief crossed his perturbed mind. Bad
as Grabman’s character might be, he held a
respectable position compared with the other
lodgers iii the house. Bill, the cracksman,
naturally, and by vocation, suggested the hand
that had despinled him; how hope for redress,
or extort surrender, from such a quarter!
Mechanically, however, when the hour arrived
to return to his day‘s task, he stole down the
stairs, and lo, at the Very door of the house,
Bill‘s children were at play, and in the hand of
the eldest he recognized what he called his
" curril.“ _
“ Your curril," interrupted St. John.
“Yes, curril-vot the little ons bite, afore
they gets their teethin'."
St. John smiled, and supposing that Beck had
some time or other been puerile enough to pur-
chase such a bauble, nodded to him to continue.
To seize upon the urchin, and, in spite of kicks,
bites, shrieks, or scratches, repossess himself
of his treasure, was the. feat of a moment.
The brat's clamor drew out the father—and to
him Beck (pocketing the coral, that its golden
bells might not attract the more experienced
eye, and influence the more formidable greedi~
ness of the paternal thief), loudly, and at first
fearlessly,'appealed. Him he charged, and ac-
.cused, and threatened with all vengeance, hu-
man and divine. Then changing his tone, he
implored—he wept—he knelt. As soon as the
startled cracksmnn recovered his astonishment
at such audacity, and comprehended the nature
of the charge against himself and his family, he
felt the more indignant from a strange and on-
familiar consciousness of innocence. Seizing
Beck by the nape of thenoek,with adextrous
application of hand and foot, he sent him spin-
ning into the kennel.
“ Go to Jericho, mud-scraper E" cried Bill, in a
voice of thunder, "and if ever thou sayst such
a vopper agin—’sparaging the characters of
them ere motherless babes—l will seal thee up
in a ’tato sack, and sell thee for tiv’penee to
No.7, the great body-snatcher. Take care
how I ever sets eyes agin on thy h-ugly mug !"
With that Bill clapped to the door, and Beck,
frightened out of his wits, crawled from the
kennel, and, bruised and smarting, crept to his
crossing. But he was unable to discharge his
duties that day; his ill fed, miserable frame
was too Weak for the stroke he had received.
Long before dusk, he sneaked away, and, dread-
ing to return to his lodging, lest, since nothing
now was worth left robbing but his carcass,
Bill might keep his word, and sell Illa! 10 the
body—snatcher, he took refuge under the only
roof where he felt he could sleep in safety.
And here we must pause to explain. it out
first introduction of Beck, we contented our
selves With implying to the ingenious and prao
ticed reader, that his heart might still be large


NEWS FROM GRABMAN.
123
stand of mercy, and providence, and vice, that
the diviiier part of the homily was quite lost on
him. However, he confessed penitently that
“ the matress had made him vorse nor a beast
to the h-old crittur ; and that he was cured of
saving to the end ofhis days."
“ And now,” said Percival, "as you really
seem not strong enough to bear this out-of-duor
Work (the winter coming on, too), what say
you to entering into my service! Iwant some
help in my stables. The work is easy enough;
and you are used to horses, you know, in a sort
of a way."
Beck hesitated, and looked a moment unde-
cided. At last, he said, “ Please your ’onor,
if I beant strong enough for the crossin‘, l'se
afeard I‘m too h-ailing to sarve' you. And
vouldn‘t I be vorse nor a wiper, to take your
vages, and not vork for ’em has I h-ought 1"
“ Pooh, we‘ll soon make you strong, my
man. Take my advice-don’t let your head
run on the crossing. That kind ofindustry ex-
poses you to bad company and bad thoughts.”
“ That‘s vot it is, sir," said Beck, assenting-
ly, laying his dexter forefinger on his sinister
palm.
" \Vell, you are in my service, then. Go
down stairs now, and get your breakfast—by-
and-by, you shall show me your ‘mammy's’
house, and we‘ll see what can be done for her.”
Beck pressed his hands to his eyes, trying
hard not to cry ; but it was too much for him ;
and as the valet, who appeared to Percival‘s
summons, led him down the stairs, his sobs
Were heard from attic to basement.
____.—_
CHAPTER XIV
NEws FROM GRABMAN.
Tun- day, opening thus auspiciously to Beck,
wits memorable also to other arid more promi-
nent persons in this history.
Early in the forenoon a parcel was brotight
to Madame Dalibard, which contained Ard-
worth’s already famous book, a goodly assort-
ment of extracts from the newspapers thereon,
and the following letter from the young author:
" You will see, by the accompanying packet,
that your counsels have had weight with me.
I have turned aside in my slow, legitimate ca-
reer. I have, as you desired, made ‘ men talk
of me.’ What solid benefit I may reap from
this, I know not. I shall not openly avow the
hook. Such notoriety can not help me at the
bar. But, liberavi animam meant—excuse my
pedantry—I have let my Soul free for a moment
—I am now catching it back, to put bit and
saddle on again. I will not tell you how you
have disturbed me—how you have stung me
into this premature rush amid the crowd—how,
after robbing me of name and father, you
have driven me to this experiment with my
own riiind, to see ifI was deceived, when I
groaned to my spirit, "l‘he public shall give
you a name, and fame shall be your mother.’
I am satisfied with the experiment. I know
better now what is in me. And I have regain-
ed my peace of mind. If, in the success oftliis
hasty Work, there he that which “’lll gratify the
interest you so kindly take in me, deem that
success your own: I owe it to you—to your

revelations—'40 your admonitions. I wait pa-
tiently your own time for lurtlier disclosures;
till then, the wheel must work on, and the grist
be ground. Kind and generous Iriend, till now
I would not wound you by returning the sum
you sent me—nay, more, I knew I should
please you by devoting part of it to the risk of
giving this essay to the world, and so making
its good fortune doubly your own work. l\'ow,
when the publisher BIIIIIt‘S, and the shopmen
how, and I am acknowledged to have a bank in
my biains,—naw, you can not be offended to re-
ceive it back. Adieu. When my mind is in
train again, and l feel my step firm on the old
dull road, I WI“ come to see you. Till then,
yours—by what name’l Open the ‘ Biographi-
cal Dictionary,’ at hazard, and send me one.”
“Gray's Inn.”
Not at the noble thoughts. and the deep sym-
pathy with mankind. that glowed through that
work, over which Lucretia now tremulously
hurried, did she feel delight. All that she rec-
ognized or desired to recognize, were those
evidences of that kind of intellect which wins
its way through the World, and which, strong
and unmistakable, rose up in every page of
that vigorottslogic and commanding style. The
book was soon dropped, thus read: the newspa-
per extracts pleased even more.
"This," she said, audibly, in the freedom of
her solitude—“ this is the son I asked for—a
son in whom I can rise—in whom I can ex-
change the sense ol‘crushing infamy for the old
delicious ecstasy of pride! For this sun can I
do too much! No; in what I may do for him
methinks there will be no remorse. And he
calls his success mine—mine !" Her nostrils
dilated, and her front rose erect.
In the midst of this exultation, Varney found
her ; and before he could communicate the busi-
ness which had brought him, he had to listen,
which he did with the secret, gnawing envy,
that every other man’s success occasioiitd him,
to her haughty self-felicitations.
He could not resist saying, with a sneer, when
she paused, as if to ask his sympathy :
" All this is very fine, bell: min,- and yet I
should hardly have thought that coarse-leatnred,
uncouth limb of the law, who seldom moves
without upsetting a chair—never laughs but the
panes rattle in the Window—I should hardly
have thought him the precise person to gratify
your pride, or answer the family ideal of a
gentleman and a St. John."
“ Gabriel," said Lucretia, sternly, "you have
a biting tongue, and it is fully in me to resent
those privileges, which our learlul connection
gives you. But—this raillery—”
“ Come, come, I was wrong—forgive it !" in-
terrupted Varney, who, dreading nothing else,
dreaded much the rebuke of his grim step-
mother.
“ It is forgiven,“ said Lucretia, coldly, and
with a slight wave of her hand; then she added,
with composure:
“ Long since—even while heiress of Laugh-
ton—l parted with mere pride in the hollow
seemings of distinction. Had I not, should I
have stooped to William lt'lai'nwaiiiigl What
I then respected, amid all the degradations I
have known, I respect still; talent, anihittori,
intellect, and will. Do you think I would ex


124
NEWS FROM GRABMAN.
change these in a son of mine, for the mere
graces which a dancing-master can sell him”!
Fear not! Let us give but wealth to that in-
tellect, and the world will see no clumsiness in
the movements that march to its high places,
and hear no discord in the laugh that triumphs
over fools! But you have some news to com-
municate, or some propOsal to suggest."
uI have both,” said Varney. “In the first
place, I have a letter from Grabman !"
Lucretia's eyes sparkled, and she snatched
eagerly at the letter her son-in-law drew forth.
" Liverpool, October, 1831.
“ Insom—I think I am on the road to success.
Having first possessed myself of the fact, com-
memorated in the parish register, of the birth
and baptism of Alfred Braddell’s son, for we
must proceed regularly in these matters, I next
set my wits to work, to trace that son’s exodus
from the paternal mansion. Ihave hunted up
an old woman-servant, Jane Prior, who lived
with the Braddells. She now thrives as a
Iaundress ; she is a rank puritan, and starches
for the godly. She was at first very wary and
reserved in her communications, but by siding
with her prejudices and humors, and by the in-
tercession of the Rev. Mr. Graves (of her own
persuasion), I have got her to open her lips. It
scents that these Bratldells lived very unhappin
-—thc husband, a pious dissenter, had married a
lady who turned out ofa very different practice
and belief. Jane Prior pitied her master, and
detestcd her mistress. Some circumstances in
the conduct of Mrs. Braddell made the husband,
who was then in his last illness, resolve, from
a point of conscience, to save his child from
what he deemed the contamination of her pre-
cepts and example. Mrs. Braddell was absent
from Liverpool, on a visit, which was thought
very unfeeling by the husband‘s friends; during
this time Braddell was visited constantly by a
gentleman (Mr. Ardworth), who dttl'ered from
him greatly in some things, and seemed one of
the carnal; but with whom, agreement in poli-
tics (for they were both great politicians and
republicans) seems to have established a link.
One evening, when Mr. Ardworth was in the
house, Jane Prior, who was the only maid-
servant (for they kept but two, and one had
been just discharged), had been sent out to the
apothecary's. On her return, Jane Prior, going
into the nursery, missed the infant ; she thought
it was with her master, but coming into his
room, Mr. Braddell told her to shut the door,
informed her that he had intrusted the boy to
Mr. Ardworth, to be brought up in a righteous
and pious manner, and implored and command-
ed her to keep this a secret from his wife, whom
he was resolved, indeed, if he lived, not to re-
ceive back into his house. Braddell. however,
did not survive more than two days this event.
On his death, Mrs. Braddell returned, but cir-
cumstances connected with the symptoms of
his malady, and a strong impression which
haunted himself, and with which he had infect-
ed .lane Prior, that bc'had been poisoned, led to
a posthumous examination of his remains. No
trace of poison was, however, discovered, and
suspicions that had been directed against his
wife, could not be substantiated by law; still,
she was regarded in so unfavorable a light by
all who had known them both, she met with

such little kindness or sympathy in her widow-
hood, and had been so openly denounced by
Jane Prior, that it is not to be wondered at that
she left the place as soon as possible. The
house, indeed, was taken from her, for Brad-
dell's affairs were found in such confusion. and
his embarrassments so great, that every thing
was seized and sold off; nothing left for the
widow, nor for the child (if the last were ever
discovered).
“ As may be supposed, Mrs. Braddell was at
first very clamorous for the lost child ; but Jane
Prior kept her promise, and withheld all clue
to it. And Mrs. Braddell was forced to quit
the place, in ignorance what had become of it;
since then no one had heard of her, but Jane
Prior says, that she is sure ‘she had come to
no good.’ Now, though much of this may be,
no doubt, familiar to you, dear Jason, it is right,
when Iput the evidence before you, that you
should know, and guard against, what to expect;
and in any trial at law, to prove the identity of
Vincent Braddell, Jane Prior must be a princi-
pal witness, and will certainly not. spare poor
Mrs. Braddell. For the main point, however,
viz., the suspicion of poisoning her husband,
the inquest and verdict may set aside all alarm.
“ My next researches have been directed on
the track of Walter Ardworth, after leaving
Liverpool, which (I find by the books at the inn
where be lodged and was kHOWn) he did in debt
to the inn-keeper, the very night he received
the charge ofthe child. Here, as yet, I am in
fault ; but I have ascertained that a Woman. one
of the sect, of the name of Joplin, living in a
village fifteen miles from the town, had the care
of some infant, to replace her own, which she
had lost. Iam going to this village to-morrow.
But I can not expect much in that quarter,
since it would seem at variance with your
more probable belief that 'Walter Ardvvorth took
the child at once to Mr. Fielden's. Howevi,
you see I have already gone very far in the ev-
idcnce;—the birth of the child—the delivery
ofthe child to Ardworth. I see a very pretty
case already before us, and I do not now doubt
for a moment of ultimate success.
“Yours, N. Gunman."
Lucretia read steadily, and with no change
of countenance, to the last line of the letter.
Then, as she put it down on the table before
her, she repeated, with a tone of deep exulta-
tion—“ No doubt of ultimate success !"
"You do not fear to brave all which the
spite of this woman, Jane Prior, may prompt
her to say against you 1." asked Varncy.
Lucretia‘s brow fell. “ It is another tor-
ture,” she said, “even to own my marriage with
a low-born hypocrite. But 1 can endure it for
the cause," she added, more haughtily. " Noth-
ing can really hurt me in these obsolete asper-
sions, and this vague scandal. The inquest
acquitted me, and the world will be charitable
to the mother of him who has wealth and rank,
and that vigorous genius which, if proved in
obscurity, shall command opinion in rt-novvn."
“ You are now, then. disposed at once to pro-
ceed to action. For Helen, all is prepared—
the insurances settled—the trust for which I
hold them on your behalf is signed and com-
pleted. But, for Percival St. John, I await
your directions. Will it be best first to prgvd


. VARIETIES. ‘
125
your son’s identity, or, when morally satisfied
that that proof is forthcoming, to remove be-
timcs bath the barriers to his inheritance! If
we tarry for the last, the removal of St. John
becomes more suspicious than it does at a time
when you have no visible interest in his death.
Beside, now we have the occasion, or can
make it—can we tell how long it will last!
Again, it will seem more natural that the lover
should break his heart in the first shock of——"
“Ay,” interrupted Lucretia, “I would have
all thought and contemplation of crime at an
end; when, claspng my boy to my heart, Ican
say—‘ Your mother's inheritance is yours.’ I
Would not have a murder before my eyes, when
they should look only on the fair prospects _be-
yond. I would cast back all the hideous images
of horror into the rear of memory, so that hope
may for once visit me again undisturbed. No,
Gabriel, were I to speak forever, you would
comprehend not what I grasp at in a son ! It
is at a future! Rolling a stone over the sepul-
cher of the past—it is as a resurrection into a
fresh world—it is to know again one emo-
tion not impure—one scheme not criminal. It
is, in a word, to cease to be as myself, to think
in another soul, to hear my heartbeat in another
form. All this I covet in a son. And when all
this should smile before me in his image, shall
I be plucked back again into my hell, by the
consciousness that a new crime is to be done?
No; wade quickly through the passage of blood,
that we may dry our garments, and breathe the
air, upon the bank where sun shines and flowers
bloom i"
t- “ So be it, then,” said Varney. “ Before the
week is out, I must be under the same roof as
St. John. Before the week is out, why not all
meet in the old halls of Laughton l"
“ Ay, in the halls of Laughton ; on the
hearth of our ancestors, the deeds done for our
descendants look less dark."
" And first, to prepare the way, Helen should
sicken in these fogs ot'London, and want change
of air."
“ Place before me that desk. I will read
William Mainwaring’s letters again and again,
till from every shadow in the past a voice
comes forth—‘ The child of your rival, your
betrayer, your undoer, stands between the day-
light and your son.’ "
__.___
CHAPTER XV.
VARIETIEB.
Lemme the guilty pair to concert their
schemes, and indulge their atrocious hopes,
we accompany Percival to the hovel occupied
by Becky Carruthers.
On following Beck into the room she rented,
Percival was greatly surprised to find, seated
comfortably 0n the only chair to be seen, no
less a person than the worthy Mrs. Mivers.
The good 'lady blushed scarlet on being de-
tected in her visit of charity, and hastened to
excuse herself by the information that she be-
longed to a society of ladies for “ the Bettering
the Condition of the Poor," and that having
just been informed of Mrs. Becky's destitute
state, she had looked in to recommend her—u
ventilator!

“It's quite shocking to see how little the
poor attends to the proper wentilating their
houses. No wonder there‘s so touch typos
about !" said Mrs. Mivers. “ And for one-and-
sixpencc, we can introduce a stream of hair
that goes up the chiinbly, and carries away all
that it finds."
“ I 'unihly thank you, marm," said the poor
bundle of rags that went by the name of
“Becky,” as, with some difliculty, she con-
trived to stand in the presence of the benevo-
lent visitor; “but, I'm much afcard, that the
hair will make the rheumatiz worry rumpa-
tious !"
“ On the contrary—on the contrary," said
Mrs. Mivers triumphantly, and she proceeded
philosophically to explain, that all the fevers,
aches, pains, and physical ills that harass the
poor, arise from the want of an air-trap in the
chimney, and a perforated net-work in the
window-pane. Beck listened patiently; for
Mrs. Mivers was only a philosopher in her talk,
and she had proved herself any thing but a
philosopher in her actions, by the spontaneous
present of five shillings, and the promise ofa
basket of victuals, and some good wine to keep
the cold wind she invited to the apartment out
of the stomach.
Percival imitated the silence of Becky, whose
spirit was so bowed down by an existence 0]
drudgery, that not even the sight of her foster
son could draw her attention from the respect
due to a superior.
“ And is this poor cranky-looking cretur your
son, Mrs. Becky I” said the visitor, struck at
last by the appearance of the err-sweeper as he
stood at the threshold, hat in hand. ‘
“ No, indeed, marm," answered Becky; “I
often says—says I—‘ Child, you_bc the son oi
Sint Poll's."
Beck smiled proudly.
“ It was agin the grit church, marm—but it’s
a long story. My poor good man had not a
long been dead—as good a man as ever lived,
marm," and Becky dropped a courtesy; “ he
fell ofi'a scafl'ol, and pitched right on his 'ead—
or I should not have come on the parish, marm
—and that's the truth on't l"
“ Very well, I shall call and hear all about it
—a sad case, I dare say. You see, your hus-
band should have subscribed to our Loan Soci-
ety, and then they’d have found him a ’and-
some coffin, and given three pounds to his
idder. But the poor are so benighted in these
parts. I‘m sure, sir, I can't guess what brought
you beret—bot that‘s no business of mine.
And how are all at Old Brompton l"—hcre Mrs.
Mivers bridled indignantly. " There was a
time when Miss Mainwaring was very glad to
come and chat with Mr. M. and myself; but
now ‘rum has riz,’ as the saying is—not but
what I dare say it‘s not her fault, poor thing !—-
that stiff aunt of hers l—shc need not look so
high—pride and poverty, forsooth l"
While delivering these conciliatory senten-
ces, Mrs. Mivers had gathered up her gown,
and was evidently in the bustle of departure.
As she now nodded to Becky, Percival stepped
up, and With his irresistible smile, offered her
his arm. Much surprised, and much flattered,
Mrs. Mivers accepted it. As she did so he
gently detained her, while he said to Becky;


126 ‘
VARIETIES. '
" My good friend, I have brought you the poor
lad, to whom you have been a mother, to tell
you that good deeds find their reward sooner
or later. As for him, make yourself easy; be
will inform you of the new step he has taken,
and for you, good, kind-hearted creature, thank
the boy you brought up. if your old age shall be
made easy and cheerful. Now Beck, silly lad,
go and tell all to your nursel Take care of
this step, Mrs. Mivers.”
As soon as he was in the street, Pereival,
who, if amused at the ventilator, had seen five
shillings gleam on Becky’s palm, and felt that
he had found under the puce-colored gown a
good woman‘s heart to understand him, gave
Mrs. Mivers a short sketch of peor Beck’s his-
tory and misfortunes, and so contrived to inter-
est her in behalfof the nurse, that she willingly
promised to become Percival‘s almoner, to ex-
ecute his commission, to improve the interior
of Becky's abode, and distribute weekly the lib-
eral stipend he proposed to settle on the old
widow. They had grown, indeed, quite friend-
ly and intimate, by the time he reached the
smart, plate-glowed, mahogany-colored fugade,
within which the flourishing business of Mr.
Mivers was carried on ; and when knocking at
the private door, promptly opened by a lemon-
colored page, she invited him up stairs, it so
chanced that the conversation hail slid off to
Helen, and Percival was sufficiently interested
to bow assent, and to enter.
Though all the way up the stairs, Mrs. Miv-
ers, turning back at every other step, did her
best to impress upon her young visitor’s mind
the important fact, that they kept their house-
hold establishment at their " Willer," and that
their apartments in Fleet-street were only a-
“conwenience"—the store set by the worthy
housewife upon her goods and chattels was
sufficiently visrhlc in the drugget that threaded
its narrow way up the gay Brussels stair-car-
pet, and in certain layers of paper, which pro-
tected from the profanation of immediate touch,
the mahogany hand-rail. And nothing could
exceed the fostering care exhibited in the draw-
ing-room, when the door, thrown open, admit-
ted a view of its damask moreen curtains,
pinned back from such irnpertinent sunbeams
as could force their way through the foggy air
of the cast into the windows, and the ells of
yellow muslin that guarded the frames, at least,
of a collection of colored prints, and two kit-
cat portraitures oer. Mivers and his lady, from
the peramhnlations of the flies.
But Percival‘s view of this interior was some-
what impeded by his portly guide, who, uttering
a little exclamation of surprise, stood, motion-
less on the threshold, as she perceived Mr.
Mivers sealed by the hearth in close conference
with a gentleman whom she had never seen
before. At that hour, it was so rare an event
in the life of Mr. Mivers to he found in the draw-
ing_roorn, and that he should have an acquaint-
ance unknown to his helpmate, was a circum-
stance so much rarer still, that Mrs. Mivers
may well be forgiven for keeping St. John
standing at the door till she had recovered her
amaze.
Meanwhile, Mr. Mivers rose in some confu-
sion, and was apparently about to introduce his
guest, when that gentleman coughed and pinch-
~chairs were not meant for such usage.

ed the host's arm significantly. Mr. Mivers
coughed also, and stammered out—“ A gentle-
man, M.s \! a friend ;—stny with us a day
or twi Much honored—hum !"
Mrs. Mivers stared and courtesied, and stared
again. But there was an open, good-humored
smile in the face of the visitor, as he advanced
and took her hand, that attracted a heart very
easily conciliated. Seeing that that was no
moment for further explanation, she plumped
herself into a seat, and said—
“ But bless us and save us, I am keeping you
standing, Mr. St. John."
“St. John !“ repeated the visitor with 1: ve-
hemence that startled Mrs. Mivers.
“Your name is St. John, sir—related to the
St. Johns of Laughton l"
“ Yes, indeed," answered Percival, with his
shy, arch smile, “Laughton at present has no
worthier owncr than myself."
The gentleman made. two strides to Percival,
and shook him heartily by the hand.
l‘This is pleasant, indeed,” he exclaimed.
“You must excuse my freedom; but I knew
well poor old Sir Miles, and my heart warms
at the sight of his representative."
Percival glanced at his new acquaintance,
and on the whole was prepossessed in his favor.
He seemed somewhere on the sunnier side oflif-
ty,with that superb yellow bronze of complexion,
which betokeus long residence under eastern
skies. Deep wrinkles near the eyes, and a
dark circle round them, spoke of cares and fa-
tigue, and perhaps dissipation. But he had evi-
idently a vigor of constitution that~had borne
him passany through all; his frame was wiry
and nervous; his eye bright and full of life-
and there was that abrupt. unsteady, mercurial
restlessness in his movements and manner,
which usually accompanies the man whose
sanguine temperament prompts him to concede
to the impulse, and who is blessed or cursed
with a superabundance of energy, according as
circumstances may favor or judgment correct,
that equivocal gift ofconstitution.
Percival said something appropriate in reply
to so much cordiality paid to the account of the
Sir Miles whom he had never seen, and seated
himself,——coloring slightly under the influence
of the fixed, pleased, and earnest look still bent
upon him.
Searching for something else to say, Percival
asked Mrs. Mivers if she had lately seen John
Ardworth. _
The guest, who had just rescated himself,
turned his chair round at that question with such
vivacity, that Mrs. Mivers heard it crack. Her
A
shade fell over her rosy countenance as she re-
plied—
“No, indeed, (please, sir, them chairs is brit-
tle !) No, he is like madam at Bromptnn, and
seldom condescends to favor us now. It was
but last Sunday we asked him to dinner. I am
sure he need not turn up his nose at our roast
beef and pudding !"
Here Mr. Mivers was taken with a violent fit
of coughing, which drew otl‘his wife‘s attention.
She was afraid he had taken cold.
The stranger took out a large snnil'box,
Snllaltftl a long pinch of snuff, and said to St.
ohn:


VARIETI ES.
127
“This Mr. John Ardworth, a pert enough
jackanapes, I suppose—a limb ofthe law, eh 1”
“Sir.” said Percival, gravely; “John Ard-
worlh is my particular friend. It is clear that
you know very little of him."
" That‘s true," said the stranger—“ ’pon my
life, that‘s very true. But [suppose he‘s like
all lauycrs—cunning and tricky, conceited and
supercilious. full of prejudice and cant, and a
red-hot Tory into the bargain. I know them,
sir—I know them."
“ Well,“ answered St. John, half-gayly, half-
angrily, " your general experience serves you
very little here; for Ardworth is exactly the
opposite of all you have described.”
“Even in politics?"
" \Vhy, I fear he is halfa Radical—certainly
more than a Whig," answered St. John, rather
mournfully; for his own theories were all the
other way, notwithstanding his unpatriotic for-
getfulness of them, in his offer to assist Ard-
worth’s entrance into parliament.
“I am very glad to hear it," cried the stran-
ger, again taking snuff. “And this madame at
Brompton—perhaps I know her a little better
than I do young Mr. Ardworth—Mrs. Brad—I
mean Madame Dalibard!" and the stranger
glanced at Mr. MiVers, who was slowly recov-
ering from some vigorous slaps on the back,
administered to him by his wife, as a counter-
irritant to the cough. “Is it true that she has
lost the use of her limbs l"
Percival shook his head.
“ And takes care of poor Helen Mainwaring,
the orphan! Well, well! that looks amiable
enou h. I must see—I must see 2"
“ ho shall I say inquired after her, when I
see Madame Dalibard?” asked Percival, with
some curiosity.
“ Who! 0h, Mr. Tomkins. She will not rec-
ollect him. though,"—and the strangerlanghed,
and Mr. Mivers laughed, too; and Mrs. Mivers,
who, indeed, always laughed when other people
laughed, laughed also. So Percival thought he
ought to laugh for the sake ofgood company, and
all laughed together, as he rose and took leave.
He had not, however, got far from the house,
on his way to his cabriolet, which he had left
by Temple Bar, when, somewhat to his sur-
prise, he found Mr. Tomkins at his elbow.
l‘I beg your pardon, Mr. St. John, but I have
onlyjust returned to England, and on such oc-
casions a man is apt to seem curious. This
young lawyer; you see, old Ardworth—(good
for-nothing scamp!)-was a sort of friend of
mine—not exactly friend, indeed, for. by Jove,
I think he was a worse friend to me than he
was to any body else,—-still I had a foolish in-
terest for him, and should be glad to hear
something more about any one bearing his
name. than I can coax out of that droll little
linendraper. You are really intimate with
young Ardworth, eh 'l"
“Intimate! poor fellow, he will not let any
one be that! He works too hard to be social.
But I love him sincerely; and I admire him
beyond measure.”
“ The dog has industry, then—that’s good.
And does he make debts, like that rascal Ard-
worth, senior!"
“ Really, sir, I must say, this tone with re-
spect to Mr. ArdWorth’s father—"

"What the devil. sir! Do you take the fa
ther’s part, as Well as the son's l"
“ I don‘t know any thing about Mr. Ardworth,
senior,“ said Percival, pouting; " but ldo know
that my friend Would not allow any one to speak
ill of his father in his presence; and I beg you,
sir, to consider that whatever would offend him,
must otfend me."
“Gail’s my life! He is the luckiest young
rogue to have such a friend. Sir, I wish you a
very good day."
Mr. Tomkins took ofi' his hat—bowed—and
passing St. John with a rapid step, was soon
lost to his eye among the crowd hurrying west-
ward. '
But our business being now rather with him
than with Percival, we leave the latter to mount
his cabriolet, and we proceed with Mr. Mivers‘s
memorial guest on his eccentric way through'
the throng.
There was an odd mixture of thoughtful ab-
straction and quick observation in the sohloouy
in which this gentleman indulged, as he walked
briskly on.
"A pretty young spark, that St. John! A
look of his father. but handsomer, and loss af-
fected. I like him. Fine shop that—very!
London wonderfully improved. A hookah in
that window l—God bless me !—a real hookah !
This is all very good news about that poor boy
—very. After all, he is not to blame if his
m0ther was such a damnable—I must con-
trive to see and judge ofhim myself as soon as
possible. Can't trust to others—too sharp for
that! What an ugly dog that is, looking after
me! It is certainly a bailifi'. Hang it !—what
do I care for bailifl‘s! Hem—hem !" And the
gentleman thrust his hands into his pockets,
and laughed, as the jingle of coin reached his
ear through the din without. " Well, I must
make haste to decide; for, really there is a
very troublesome piece of business before me.
Plague take her !—what can have become of
the woman! I shall have to hunt out a sharp
lawyer. But John's a lawyer himself. No-
attorneys, I suppose, are the men. Gad! they
were sharp enough when they had to hunt me!
What’s that great bill on the wall about! ‘ Down
with the Lords.’ Pooh, pooh! Master John
Bull, you love lords a great deal too much for
that. A prettyish girl. English Women are
very good-lookingI certainly. That Lucretia_-
what shall I do, zf—Ah, time enough to think
ofhcr, when I have got over that mighty stifl‘if!"
In such cogitations and mental remarks our
traveler whiled away the time, till he found
himselfin Piccadilly. There, a publisher’s shop
(and he had that keen eye for shops which be-
trays the stranger in London)'. with its new pub-
lications exposed at the window attracted his
notice. Conspicuous among the rest, was the
open title-page of a book, at the foot of which
was placed a placard, with the enticing words
--“ Foon'm EDITION; Jus'r our," in red capi-
tals. The title of the work struck his irritable,
curious fancy ; he walked into the shop—asked
for the volume—and while looking over the
contents, with muttered ejaculations, “ Good !
capital! why this reminds one of Home Tooke'!
What's the price? very dear—must have it
though—must. Ha! ha! homethrust there!"
while thus turning over the leaves, and reading


128
VARIETIES.
them asunder with his forefinger, regardless of
the paper-cutter extended to him by the sh0p-
man, a gentleman, pushing by him, asked ifthe
publisher was at home; and us the shopnian,
bowing very low, answered, "yes," the new-
comer darth into a little recess behind the
shop. Mr, Tomkins, who had looked up very
angrily on being jostled so unceremoniously,
started and changed color, when he saw the
face of the ofi‘r-ndcr. “ Saints in heaven !" he
murmured almost andihly; “ what a look of
that woman ! and yet~no-it is gone i"
" Who is that gentleman!" he asked, ab-
roptiy, as he paid for his book.
The shopnian smiled, but answered, “ I don‘t
know, Sir.“
“ That‘s a lie! you would never how so low
to a man you did not know i"
The shopman smiled again. "\Vhy, sir,
there are many who come to this house who
don't wish us to know them.”
"Ah, I understand! you are political pub-
lishers—afraid of lihcls, I dare say. Always
the same thing in this cursed country, and then
they tell us that we are "free!" So I suppose
that gentleman has written something William
Pitt does not like. But William Pitt !—ha—
he‘s dead! very true. so he is. Sir, this little
book'seems triost excellent; but, in my time, a
man would have been sent to Newgate for
printing it."
While thus running on, Mr. Tomkins had
edged himself pretty close to the recess, within
which the last comer had disappeared; and
there, seated on a high stool, he contrived to
read and to talk at the same time, but his eye
and his ear were both turned every instant to-
ward the recess.
The shopman, little suspecting that in so
very eccentric, garrulous a person he was per-
mitting a spy to encroach upon the secrets of
the house, continued to make up sundry parcels
of the new publication which had so enchanted
his customer, while he expatiated on the pro-
digious sensation the book had created; and
while the customer himself had already caught
enough of the low conversation, within the re-
cess, to be aware that the author of the book
was the very person who had so roused his
curiosityv
Not till that gentleman, followed to the door
by the polite publisher, had quitted the shop,
did Mr. 'l‘onikins put his volume in his pocket,
and, with a familiar nod at the shopman, take
himself off.
He was scarcely in the street, when he saw
Percival St. John leaning out of his cabriolet,
and conversing with the author he had dis-
covered. lle halted a moment irresolute, but
the young man, in whom our reader recognizes
John Ardworth, declining St. John‘s invitation
to accompany him to Bromptou, resumed his
way through the throng; the cabriolet drove
on, and Mr. Tomkins, though with a graver
mien, and a stcadier step, continued his des-
ultory rambles. Meanwhile, John Ardworth
strode gloomily back, to his lonely chamber.
There, throwing himself on the well worn
chair before the crowded desk, he buried his
face in his hands, and for some minutes he felt
all that profound despondency, peculiar to those
who have won fame, to add to the dark volume

of experience the conviction of fams’s nothing-
ness. For some minutes he felt an illiberal
and ungrateful envy of St. John—so fair, so
light-hearted, so favored by fortune, so rich in
friends—in a mother’s love, and in Helen's half-
plighted troth. And be, from his very birth, cut
off from the social ties of blood—no mother’s
kiss to reward the toils, or gladden the sports
of childhood—no father’s cheering word up the
steep hill of man ! And Helen, for whose sake
he had so often, when his heart grew weary,
nerved himself again to labor, saying, “ Let me
he rich, let me be great, and then I will dare to
tell Helen that I love her !"—-Hulcn smiling
upon another, unconscious of his pangs! What
could fame bestow in compensation? What
matter that strangers praised, and the babble of
the world's running stream lingered its brief
moment round the pebble in its way. In the
bitterness of his mood, he was unjust to his
rival. All that exquisite, but half-concealed
treasure of imagination and thought, which lay
beneath the surface of Helen‘s childlike smile,
he believed that he alone—he, soul of power
and son of genius, was worthy to discover and
to prize. In the pride not unfrequcnt with that
kingliest of all aristocracies, the Chiefs of In-
tellect, he forgot the grandeur which invents
the attributes of the heart—forgot that, in the
lists of love, the heart is at least the equal of
the mind. In the reaction that follows great
excitement, Ardworth had morbidly felt, that
day, his nttcr solitude—felt it in the streets
through which he had passed—in the home to
which he had returned—the burning tears, shed
for the first time since childhood, forced them-
selves throngh his clasped fingers. At length,
he rose, with a strong efihrt at self-mastery—
some contempt of his weakness, and much re-
morse at his ungrateful envy. He gathered
together the soiled manuscript and dingy proofs
of his book, and thrust them in the grimy bars
of his grate; then, opening his desk, he drew
out a small packet, and with trcinulous fingers,
unfolding paper after paper, gazed with eyes
still moistened on the relics kept till then, with
the devotion of the only scnti'ment inspired by
Eros, that had ever, perhaps, soltened his iron
nature; these were two notes from Helen-—
some violets she had once given him, and a
little purse she had knitted for him (with a play-
ful prophecy of future fortunes), when he had
last left the vicaragc. Nor blame him, ye who,
with more habitual romance of temper, and
richer fertility of imagination, can reconcile the
tenderest memories with the sternest duties, if
he, with all his strength, felt that the associa-
tions, connected with those tokens, would but
enervate his resolves, and imbitter his resigna-
tion. You can guess not the extent of the
sacrifice, the bitterness of the pang, when,
averting his head, he dropped those relics on
the hearth. The evidenceof the dcsultory am-
bition, the tokens of the visionary love—the
same flame leaped up to devour both ! It was
as the funeral pyre of his youth!
“ So i” he said to himself, “ let all that can
divert me from the true ends of my life—con-
sume ! Labor, take back your son.”
An hour aitcrward. and his clerk, returning
home, found Ardworth employed as calmly as
usu al on his Law Reports.


THE INVITATION TO LAUGHTON. 129
CHAPTER XVI.
rns INVITATION 'ro LAUGH'I‘ON.
Tan day, when he called at Brompton, Per-
cival reported to Madame Dalibard his inter-
view with the eccentric Mr. Tomkins. Lucre-
tia seemed chafcd and disconcerted by the in-
quiries with which that gentleman had honored
her, and as soon as Percival had gone, she sent
for Varney. He did not come till late—she
repeated to him what St. John had said of the
stranger. Varney participated in her uneasy
alarm. The name, indeed, was unknown to
them. nor could they conjecture the bearer of
so ordinary a patronymic, but there had been
secrets enow in Lucretia’s life, to render her
apprehensive of encountering those who had
known her in earlier years; and Varney feared
lest any rumor reported to St. John might cre-
ate his mistrust, or lessen the hold obtained
upon a victim heretofore so unsuspicious. They
both agreed in the expediency of withdrawing
themselves and St. John, as soon as possible,
from London. and frustrating Percival‘s chance
of closer intercourse with the stranger, who
had evidently aroused his curiosity.
The next day Helen was much indisposed,
and the symptoms grew so grave toward the
evening, that Madame Dalibard expressed
alarm, and willingly suffered Percival (who
had only been permitted to see Helen for a few
minutes, when her lassitude 'was so extreme
that she was obliged to retire to her room) to
go in search of a physician : he returned with
one of the most eminent of the faculty. On
the way in Brampton, in reply to the questions
of Dr. , Percival spoke of the dcjection to
which Helen was occasionally subject, and this
circumstance confirmed Dr. ——, after he had
seen his patient, in his view of the case. In
addition to some feverish and inflammatory
symptoms, which he trusted his prescriptions
Would speedily remove, he found great nervous
debility, and willingly fell in with the casual
suggestion of Varney, who was present. that
change of air would greatly improve Miss Main-
waring’s general health, as soon as the tempo-
rary acute attack had subsided. He did not
regard the present complaint very seriously,
and reassured poor Percival by his cheerful
mien and sanguine predictions. Percival re-
mained at the house the whole day, and had the
satisfaction, before he left, of hearing that the
remedies had already abated the fever, and that
Helen had fallen into a profound sleep. W'alk-
ing back to town with Varney, the last said,
hesitatingly, “You were saying to me the other
day that you feared you should have to go, for
a few days, both to Vernon Grange and to
Laughton, as your steward wished to point out
to you some extensive alterations in the man-
agement of your woods, to commence this an-
tumn. As you were so soon coming of age,
Lady Mary desired that her directions should
now yield to your own. Now, since Helen is
recommended change of air, why not invite
Madame Dalibard to visit you at one of these
places! I would suggest Laughton. My poor
mother-in-law, I know, longs to revisit the
scene of her youth, and you could not compli-
ment or conciliate her more than by such an
invitattm." I


“ Ob," said Percival, joyfiilly, " it would re-
alize the fondest dream of my heart to see
Helen under the old roof-tree of Laughton ; but
as my mother is abroad, and there is therefore
no lady to receive them, perhaps—”
“ Why,” interrupted Varney, " Madame Dali-
bard herself is almost the very person whom
lea bicnsé'ancca might induce you to select to do
the honors of your house in Lady Mary‘s ab-
sence ; not only as kinswoman to yourself. but
as the nearest surviving relative of Sir Miles
-—the most immediate descendant of the St.
Johns; her mature years and decorum of life,
her joint kindred to Helen and yourself, surely
remove every appearance ofimpropriety."
“ If she thinks so, certainly—l am no accu-
rate judge of such formalities. You could not
oblige me more, Varney, than in pre-obtaining
her consent to the proposal. Helen at Laugh~
ton! Oh, blissful thought i”
“And in what air would she be so likely to
revive i" said Varney, but his voice was thick
and husky.
The ideas thus presented to him, almost ban-
ished its anxiety from Percival’s breast. in a
thousand delightful shapes they haunted him
during the sleepless night. And when, the
next morning, he found that Helen was surpris-
ingly better, be pressed his invitation upon Ma-
dame Dalibard, with a warmth that made her
cheek yet more pale, and the hand, which the
boy grasped as he pleaded, as cold as the dead.
But she briefly consentedyand Percival, allow
ed a brief interview with Helen, had the rap
titre to see her smile in a delight as childlike as
his QWn at the news he communicated, and
listen, with swimming eyes, when he dwelt on
the- walks they should take together, amid
haunts to become henceforth dear to her as to
himself. Fairy-land dawned before them.
The visit of the physician justified Percival's
heightened spirits. All the acuter symptoms
had vanished already. He sanctioned his pa-
tient's departure from town as soon as Madame
Dalibard‘s convenience would permit, and rec-
ommended only a course of restorative medi-
cines to strengthen the nervous system, which
was to commence with the following morning,
and be persisted in for some weeks. He dwelt
much on the effect to be derived from taking
these medicines, the first thing in the day, as
soon as Helen woke. Varney and Madame
Dalibard exchanged a rapid glance. Charmed
with the success that in this instance had at-
tended the skill of the great physician, Percival,
in his usual zealous benevolence, now eagerly
pressed upon Madame Dalibard the wisdom of
consulting Dr. for her own malady; and
the doctor, putting on his spectacles, and draw-
ing his chair nearer to the froWning cripple,
began to question her of her state ; but Madame
Dalibard abruptly and discourteously put a stop
to all interrogatories—she had already exhaust-
ed all remedies art could suggest—she had be-
come reconciled to her deplorable state, and
lost all faith in physicians—some day or other
she might try the baths at Egra, but, till thenI
she must be permitted to suffer undisturbed.
The doctor, by no means wishing to under-
take a case of chronic paralysis, rose smilingly,
and with a liberal confession that the German
baths were sometimes extremely efficacious in


130
THE INVITATION TO LAUGHTON.
such complaints, pressed Percival’s outstretch-
ed haud, then slipped his own into his pocket,
and bowed his way out ofithe room.
Relieved from all apprehensions, Percival
very good-humoredly received the hint of Mn-
dame Dalibard, that the excitement through
which she had gone for the last twenty-four
hours, rendered her unfit for his society; and
went home to write to Laughton, and prepare
all things for the reception of his guests. Var-
ney accompanied him. Percival found Beck
in the hall, already much altered, and embel-
lished, by a new suit ofiivery. The err-sweeper
stared hard at Varney, who, without recogni-
zing, in so smart a shape, the squalid tatter-
demalion who had lighted him up the stairs to
Mr. Grabman‘s apartments, passed him by into
Percival's little study, on the ground-floor.
“ Well, Beck,” said Percival, ever mindful
of others, and attributing his groom’s astonish-
ed gaze at Varney to his admiration of that
gentleman's showy exterior, “ I shall send you
down to the country to-morrow with two of
the horses—so you may have to-day to your-
self, to take leave of your nurse. I flatter my-
self you will find her rooms a little more com-
fortable than they were yesterday."
Beck heard with a bursting heart; and his
master, giving him a cheering tap on the shoul-
der, left him to find his way into the streets,
and to Becky‘s abode.
He found, indeed, that the last had already
undergone the magic transformation which is
ever at the command of godlike wealth. Mrs.
Mivcrs, who was naturally prompt and active,
had had pleasure in executing Percival‘s com-
mission. Early in the morning, floors had been
scrubbed—the windows cleaned—the ventila-
tor fixed ;—then followed porters with chairs
and tables, and a wonderful Dutch clock, and
new bedding, and a bright piece of carpet; and
then came two servants belonging to Mrs.
Mivers to arrange the chattels; and finally,
when all was nearly completed, the Avatar of
Mrs. Mivers herself, to give the last finish with
her own mittened hands, and in her own house-
wifer apron.
The good lady was still employed in ranging
a set of tea-cups on the shelves of the dresser,
when Beck entered ; and his old nurse, in
the overflow of her gratitude, hobbled up to
her foundh'ng, and threw her arms round his
neck. -
“ That's right i" said Mrs. Mivcrs, good-hu-
moredly, turning round, and wiping the tear
from her eye. “ You ought to make much of
him, poor lad ; he has turned out a God-send,
indeed ; and, upon my word, he looks very re-
spectable in his new clothes. But what is this
-a child’s coral l" as, opening a drawer in the
dresser, she discovered Beck‘s treasure. “ Dear
me, it is a very handsome one—why, these
bells look like gold !"---and, suspicion of her
protege": honesty, for a moment, contracted her
thoughtful brow—“how ever on earth did you
come by this, Mrs. Becky!"
“ Sure and sartin," answered Becky, drop-
ping her mutilated courtesy, "I be’s glad it be
found now, instead of sum days afore, orI might
have been vicked enough to let it go with the
rest to the pop-shop; and I‘m sure the time‘s
out of mind, ven that 'ere boy was a h-urchin,

that I've rist-cd the timptashung. and said,
‘ No, Becky Carruthers, that maun‘t go to my
h~uncle‘s l’ "
“ And why not, my good woman 1"
"Lor‘ love you, marm, if that curril could
speak, who knows vot it might say—eh, lad,
who knows? You sees, marm, my good man
had not a long been dead—l could not a get no
vork, no vays—‘ Bcclry Carrothcrs,’ says I,
‘ you must go out in the streets a-bcgging l' I
niver thought I should a come to that. But
my poor husband, you sees, marm, fell from a
scaffol,--as good a man as h-ever—”
“Yes, yes, you told me all that before," said
Mrs. Mivers, growing impatient, and already
diverted from her interest in the coral, by a new
cargo, all bright from the tinman, which, indeed,
no less instantaneously, absorbed the admiration
both of Beck and his nurse. And what with the
inspection of these articles, and the comments
each provoked, the coral rested in peace on the
dresser, till Mrs. Mivcrs, when just about to re-
new hcr inquiries, was startled by the sound
of the Dutch clock striking four,—a voice which
reminded her of the lapse of timekand her own
dinner-hour. So, with many promises to call
again, and have a good chat with her humble
friend, she took her departure, amid the bless-
ings of Becky, and the less noisy, but not less
grateful salutations of Book.
Very happy “;as the evening these poor crea-
tures passed together over their first cup oftea,
from the new bright copper kettle, and the al-
most forgotten luxury of crumpets, in which
their altered circumstances 'permitted them,
without extravagance, to indulge. In the course
of conversation, Beck communicated how much
he had been astonished by recognizing the vis-
itor of Grabman, the provoker of the irritable
grave-stealer, in the familiar companion of his
master; and when Becky told him how often in
the domestic experience her avocation of char-
ing had accumulated, she had heard of the ruin
brought on rich young men, by gamblers and
sharpers, Beck promised to himself to keep a
sharp eye on Grabman’s showy acquaintance.
" For master is but a babe like," said he, majes-
tically; “and I'd be cut into mincemcat afore
I’d let an 'air on his ’ead come to ’arm, if so
he's h-as ow I could perwent it."
We need not say that his nurse confirmed
him in these good resolutions.
" And now," said Beck, when the time came
for parting, “ you'll keep from the gin-shop, old
’oman, and not shame the young master 1."
“ Sartin sure,” answered Becky ; " it is only
ven vun is down in the vorld that vun goes to
the licker-sbop. Now, h-indced,"—-and she
looked round very proudly—“I ’as a ‘spectable
stashion, and I vouldn't go for to lower it, and
let ’em say that Becky Carruthers does not
know how to conduct herself. The curril will
be safe enutTnow—but praps you had best take
it yourself, lad."
" Vot should I do vith it! I've had enufi‘ of
the ’sponsibility. Put it up in a ’nnkerchifll
and praps ven master get's married, and ‘as a
babby vet’s tecthin’, he will say, ‘Thank ya.
Beck, for your curril.‘ Vould not that make
us proud mummy 't"
Chuckling heartily at that vision, Beck kissed
his nurse, and trying hard to keep himself up-


THE WAKING OF THE SERPEN'I‘.
131
right, and do credit to the dignity of his cloth,
returned to his new room over the stables.
.___.__
CHAPTER XVII.
THE warns-c or THE senses-r.
AM) how, 0 Poet of the sad belief, and elo-
quence, "like ebony, at once dark and splen-
did," how couldst thou, august Lucretius,
deem it but sweet to behold from the steep the
strife of the great sea, or, safe from the peril,
gaze on the wrath of the battle, or serene in the
temples of the wise, look afar on the wander-
ings ofhuman error! Is it so sweet to survey
the ills from which thou art delivered! Shall
not the strong law of Srnrnuv find thee out,
and thy heart rebuke thy philosophy! Not
sweet, indeed, can be man’s shelter in self,
when he says to the storm, "I have no bark on
the sea ;" or to the gods of the battlfl‘l have
no son in the slaughter ;"—when he smiles un-
moved upon Vt’oe, and murmurs, “\Veep on,
for these eyes know no tears ;”-—when unap-
palled, he beholdeth the black deeds of crime,
and cries to his conscience, “ Thou art calm :"
-Yet solemn is the sight to him, who lives in
all life; searches Nature in the storm, and
Providence in the battle; loses selfin the woe;
probes his heart in the crime; and owns no
philosophy that sets him free from the fetters
of man. Not in vain do we scan all the con-
trasts in the large framework of civilized earth,
if we note, “ when the dust groweth into hard-
ness, and the clods cleave fast together." Range,
0 Art, through all space, clasp together all ex-
tremes, shake idle \Vealth from its lethargy, and
bid States look in hovels, where the teacher is
dumb, and Reason unweeded runs to rot! Bid
haughty lntellect pause in its triumph, and doubt
if intellect alone can deliver the soul from its
tempters ! Only that lives uncorrupt, which
preserves in all seasons the human affections
in which the breath of God breathes, and is!
Go forth to the world, 0 Art !—go forth to the
innocent, the guilty ;—the wise, and the dull!
-—go forth as the still voice of Fate !—speak of
the insecurity even of Goodness below l—carry
on the rapt vision of suffering Virtue through
“ the doors of the shadows of death !"—show
the dim revelation symboled forth in the Tra-
gedy of old l—how incomplete is man’s destiny,
how undeveloped is the justice divine, if An-
tigone sleep eternally in the ribs of the rock,
and (Edipus vanish forever in the Grove of the
Furies ! Here, below, “the waters are hid
with a stone, and the face ofthe deep is frozen !“
But above liveth He “ who can bind the sweet
influences ofthe Pleiadcs, and loose the bands
of Orion.” Go with Fate over the bridge, and
she vanishes in the land beyond the gulf! Be-
hold where the Eternal demands Eternity for
the progress of his creatures, and the vindica-
tion of His justice !
It was past midnight, and Lucretia sat alone
in her dreary room; her head buried on her
bosom, her eyes fixed on the ground, her hands
resting on her knees :—it was an image of in-
animate prostration and decrepitude that might

" It was said of Tcrlullr'un, that “his style was, like
ebony, dark and splendid."
have moved compassion to its depth. The
door Opened, and Martha entered, to assist
Madame Dalibard, as usual, to retire to rest.
Her mistress slowly raised her eyes at the
noise of the opening door, and those eyes took
their searching, penetrating acuteness, as they
fixed upon the florid, nor uncomely countenance
of the waiting-woman.
In her starched cap, her sober-colored stufl'
gown—in her prim, quiet manner, and a cer-
tain sanctified demureness of aspect, there was
something in the first appearance of this wom-
an, that impressed you with the notion of re-
spectability, and inspired confidence in those
steady, good qualities which we seek in a
trusty servant. But, more closely examined,
an habitual observer might have found much
to qualify, perhaps to disturb, his first prepos-
sessions. The exceeding lowness of the fore-
head, over which that stiff, harsh hair was so
puritanically parted—the severe hardness of
those thin, small lips, so purscd up and con-
strained—even a certain dull cruelty in those
light, cold, blue eyes, might have caused an
uneasy sentiment, almost approaching to fear.
The fat grocer‘s spoiled child instinctively re-
coiled from her, when she entered the shop to
make her household purchases—the old, gray-
whiskered terrier dog at the public house,
slunk into the tap when she crossed the thresh-
old.
Madame Dalihard silently suffered herself to
be wheeled into the adjoining bedroom, and
the process of disrobing was nearly completed,
before she said, abruptly,
“ So you attended Mr. Varney‘s uncle in his
last illness. Did he surfer much 1"
“ He was a poor creature, at best,” answered
Martha ; " but he gave me a deal of trouble a-
fore he went. lie was a scranny corpse when
l strecked him out.”
Madame Dalibard shrank from the hands
at that moment employed upon herself, and.
said,
" It was not, then, the first corpse you have
laid out for the grave 1”
“Not by a many."
“And did any of those you so prepared, die
ofthe same complaint?”
“ I can’t say, I‘m sure,” returned Martha.
“I never inquires how folks die; my bizness
was to nurse ‘em till all was over, and then to
sit up. As they say in my country—‘Riving
Pike wears a hood, when the weather bodes
ill.’ " *
“And when you sat up with Mr. Varney's
uncle, did you feel no fear in the dead of the
night 'l—that corpse before you—no fear!"
“Young Mr. Varney said I should come to no
harm. Oh, he‘s a clever man. What should I
fear, ma‘am l” answered Martha, with a horrid
simplicity. _
" You have belonged to a very religious sect,
I think I have heard you say—a sect not un-


familiar to me —- a sect to which great crime is
very rarely known.”
“ Yes, ma’am, some of 'em be tame enough,
but others be weel i- dcep l”
* If Hiving Flke do wear a hood,
The day, be sure, will no‘nr be good.
A Lucuuuui Diaries
1 Week—whirlpool.


RETROSPECT
133
the past ever weakened those nerves, when
the hour called tip its demon, and the Will
ruled the rest of the human being as a machine.
She replaced the ring, she reclused the cas-
ket, and relockcd its depository, then passed
lgain into the adjoining chamber.
A few minutes afterward, and the dim light
that stole from the heavens (in which the moon
was partially overcast), through the easement
on the staircase, rested on a shapeless figure,
robed in black from head to foot—a figure so
obscure and indefinable in outline, so suited to
the gloom in its hue, so stealthy and rapid iii its
movements, that, had you started from sleep,
and seen it on your floor, you Would, perforce,
have deemed that your fancy hnz! befoolctl you !
Thus darkly, through the darkness, Went the
Poisoner to her prey.
___._-._.
CHAPTER. XVIII.
RETROSPECT.
We have now arrived at that stage in this
history when it is necessary to look back on
the interval in Lucretia's life between the death
of Dalibard and her reintroduction in the sec-
ond portion of our talc.
One day, without previous notice or warn-
ing, Lucretia arrived at William Mainwaring‘s
house; she was in the deep weeds of widow-
hood, and that garb of mourning sufficed to add
Susan‘s tendt‘rest commiseration to the warmth
of her affectionate welcome. Lucretia appeared
to have forgiven the past. and to have con-iner-
ed its more painful recollections; she was gen-
tle to Susan, though she rather suffered than
returned her caresses; she was open and frank
to \Villiam. Both felt inexpressihly grateful
for her visit, the forgiveness it betukened, and
the confidence it implied. At this time, no
condition could he more promising and prosper-
one than that of the young banker. From the
first the most active partner in the bank, he
had now virtually almost monopolized the busi-
ness. The senior partner was old and infirm ;
the second had a bucolic turn. and was much
taken up by the care of a large farm he had
recently purchased; so that Mainwaring, more
and more trusted and honored, became the sole
managing administrator of the firm. Business
throve in his able hands; and with patient and
steady perseverance there was little doubt but
what, before middle age was attained, his com-
petence would have swelled into a fortune suf-
ficient to justify him in realizing the secret
dream of his heart—the parliamentary repre-
sentation of the town in which he had already
secured the affection and esteem of the inhabi-
tants.
It was not long before Lucretia detected the
ambition William's industry but partially con-
cealed ;_ it was not long before, with the ascend-
ency natural to her will and her talents, she
began to exercise considerable, though uncon-
scious, influence over a man in whom a thou-
sand good qualities and some great talents were
unhappin accompanied by infirm purpose and
weak resolutions. The ordinary convers..tion
of Lucretia unsettled his mind and inflamed his
vanity-a conversation able, aspiring, full both

of knowledge drawn from books, and of that
eirperience of public men which her residence
in Paris (whereon, with its new and greater
Charlemagne, the eyes of the world were turn-
ed) had added to her acquisitions in the lure of
human life. Nothing more disturbs a mind like
William Mainwaring‘s than that species of elo-
quence which rebukes its patience in the pres-
ent by inflaming all its hopes in the future.
Lucretia had none of the charming babble of
women—none of that tender interest in house-
hold details, in the minutiae of domestic life,
which relaxes the intellect while softening the
heart. Hard and vigorous, her sentences came
forth in eternal appeal to the reason, or address
to the sterner passions in which love has no
share. Beside this strong thinker, poor Susan‘s
sweet talk seemed frivolous and inane. Her
soft hold upon Mainwaring leosened—he ceased
to consult her upon business—he began to re-
pine that the partner of his lot could have little
sympathy with his dreams—more often and
more bitterly now did his discontented glance,
in his way homeward, rove to the roof-tops of
the rural member for the town—more eagerly
did he read the parliamentary debates—more
heavily did he sigh at the thought of eloquence
denied a vent, and ambition delayed in its ca-
reer.
When arrived at this state ofmind, Lucretia's
conversation took a more worldly, a more prac-
tical tnrn. Her knowledge of the speculators
of Paris instructed her pictures of bold ingenuity
creating sudden wealth ; she spoke of fortunes
made in a day—of paramus bursting into mil-
lionairas—Of wealth as the necessary instrument
of ambition, as the arch ruler of the civilized
world. Never once, be it observed, in these
temptations, did Lucretia address herself to the
heart—the ordinary channels of vulgar seduc-
tion were disdained by her; she would not have
stoole so low as Mainwaring's love, could she
have commanded or allured it ; she was willing
to leave to Susan the husband reft from her
own passionate youth, but leave him with the
brand on his brow and the worm at his heart—-
a scofi' and a wreck.
At this time there was in that market-town
one of those adventurous speculative men, who
are the more dangerous impostors, because im-
posed upon by their own sanguine chimeras-
who have a plausibility in their calculations, an
earnestness in their arguments, which account
for the dupes they daily make in our most sober
and wary of civilized communities. Unscrupu-
lous in their means, yet really honest in the
belief that their objects can be attained, they
are at once the rogues and fanatics of Mam-
mon ! This person was held to have been for-
tunate in some adroit speculations in the corn
trade, and he was brought too frequently into
business with Mainwaring not to be a frequent
visitor at the house. In him Lucretia saw the
very instrument of her design ; she led him on
to talk of business as a game—of money as a
realizer of cent. per cent.; she drew him into
details—she praised him, she admired. in his
presence she seemed only to hear him—in his
absence, musineg she started from Silence to
exclaim on the acuteness of his genius and the
accuracy of his figures. Soon the_tenipter at
Mainwaring‘s heart gave signification to these


RETROSPECT.
135
trayedl—what dark memories were on my
soul !—-What a hell boiled within my bosom !—
\Vell might those memories take each a voice
to accuse theml—wcll, from that hell, might
rise the Alecto! Their lives were in my pow-
er l—my fatal dowry at my command—rapid
death, or slow consuming torture ;—but to have
seer. each cheer the other to the grave, light-
ing every downward step with the eyes of love
--vengcance, so urged, would have fallen only
on myself! Ha! deceiver, didst thou plume
thyself, forsooth, on spotless reputation? didst
thou stand, me by thy side, among thy perjuer
household gods, and talk of honor! Thy home
-—it is refl. from thee l—thy reputation, it is
a scoff—thine honor, it is a ghost that shall
haunt thee! Thy love—can it linger yet 3-
Shall the soft eyes of thy Wife not burn into
thy heart, and shame turn love into loathing!
\Vrceks of my vengeance—minions of my
bounty—I did well to let yc live! I shake the
dust from my feet on your threshold;—live on
—homeless, hopeless, and childless ! The
curse is fulfilled i”
From that hour, Lucretia never paused from
her career to inquire further of her victims;
she never entered into communication with
either. They knew not her address, nor her
fate, nor she theirs. As she had reckoned,
Mainwaring made no effort to recover himself
from his fall. All the high objects that had
lured his ambition, were gone from him ever-
more. No place in the state, no authority in
the senate, awaits in England the man with a
blighted name. For the lesser objects of life,
he had no heart, and no care. They lived in
obscurity in a small village in Cornwall, till the
peace allowed them to remove to France. The
rest of their fate is known.
Meanwhile, Lucretia removed to one of those
smaller Londoner—resorts of pleasure and idle-
ness, with which rich England abounds, and in
which Widows oflimitcd income can make pov-
erty seem least plcheian. And now, to all those
passions that had hitherto raged within her, a
dismal apathy succeeded. it was the great
calm in her sea of life. The winds fell, and the
sails drooped. Her vengeance satisfied, that,
which she had made so preternaturally the main
object of existence, once fulfilled, left her in
youth ohjcctless.
She strove at first to take pleasure in the so-
ciety of the place, but its frivolities and petti-
ness of purpose soon earied that masculine
and grasping mind, already made inscnsihlo to
the often healthful, often innocent excitement of
trifles, by the terrible ordeal it had passed. Can
the touch of the hand, scorched by the burning
iron, feel pleasure in the softness of silk, orthc
light down of the cygnct‘s plume! She next
sought such relief as study could afford; and
her natural bent of thought, and her desire to
vindicate her deeds to herself, plunged her into
the fathondess abys of metaphysical inquiry,
with the hope to confirm into positive assurance
her earlier skepticism-with the atheist‘s hope
to annihilate the soul, and banish the presiding
God. But no voice that could satisfy her rea-
son came from those dreary deeps: contradic-
tion on contradiction met her in the maze. Only
when, weaned with book-lore, she turned her
eyes to the visible nature, and beheld every-

where harmony, order, system, contrivance, art,
did she start with the amaze and awe of in-
stinctive conviction; and the natural religion
revolted from her checrless ethics. Then came
one of those sudden reactions common with
strong passions and exploring minds—hut more
common with Women, however manlike, than
with men. Had she lived in ltaly then, she
had become a nun. For in this woman, unlike
Varney and Dalibard, the conscience could.
never be utterly silenced. In her choice of
evil, she found only torture to her spirit in all
the rcspitcs afforded to the occupations it in-
dulged. 	hn employed upon ill, remorse gave
way to the nest of scheming: when the ill was
done, remorse came with the repose.
It was in this peculiar period of her life that,
Lucretia, turning everywhere, and desperately,
for escape from the past, became acquainted
with some members of one of the most rigid of
the sects of dissent. At first, she permitted
herself to know and commune with these per-
sons from a kind of contemptuous curiosity;
she desired to encourage. in contemplating
them, her experience of the follies of human
nature : hut in that crisis of her mind, in those
struggles of her reason, whatever showed that:
which she yearned most to discover; viz., earn-
est faith, routed and genuine conviction, wheth-
er of annihilation or of immortality—a philoso-
phy that might reconcile her to crime by
destroying the providence of good, or a creed.
that could hold out the hope of redeeming the
past, and cxorcising sin by the mystery of a,
divine sacrifice—had over her a power which
she had not imagined or divined. Gradually
the intense convictions of her new associates
disturbed and infected her. Their affirmations,
that as we are born in wrath, so sin is our sec-
ond nature, our mysterious heritage. seemed,
to her understanding, willing to be blinded, to
imply excuses for her past misdeeds. Their
assurances that the worst sinner may become
the most earnest saint—that through but one,
act of the will, resolute faith, all redemption is
to be found-these affirmations and these assu-,
rances, which have so often restored the guilty,
and remodeled the human heart, made a saluw
tary, if brief, impression upon her. Nor were
the livcs of these dissenters, for the most part,
austerer moral, nor the peace and self-com-
placency which they evidently found in the sat-
isfaction of conscience and fulfillment of duty,
without an influence over her, that, for a while,
both chastencd and soothed.
Hopeful of such a convert, the good teachers
strove hard to confirm the seeds springing up
from the granite and amid the weeds; and
among them came one man more eloquent,
more seductive than the rest, Alfred Bradde'J.
This person, a trader at Liverpool, was one of
those strange living paradoxes that can rarely
be found out of acommcrcinl community. He
himself had been a convert to the sect, and like
most converts, he pushed his enthusiasm into
the bigotry of the zealot. He saw no salvation
out of the pale into which he had entered; hut,
though his belief was sincere, it did not gen-
ially operate on his practical life; with the
most scrupulous attention to forms, he had the
worldliness and cunning of the carnal. He had
abjured the vices of the softer senses, but not


136
RETROSPECT.
that which so seldom wars on the decorums of
outer life. He was essentially a money-maker—-
close, acute, keen, Over-reaching. Good works
with him now indeed as nothing—faith the all
in all. He was one of the elect. and could not
fall. Still, in this man there was all the inten-
sity which often characterizes a mind in pro-
portion to the narrowness ofits compass ; that
intensity gave fire to his gloomy eloquence, and
strength to his obstinate will. He saw Lucre-
tia, and his zeal for her conversion soon ex-
panded into love for her person, yet that love
was secondary to his covetousness. Though
ostensibly in a flourishing business, he was
greatly distressed for money to carry on oper-
ations which swelled beyond the reach of his
capital; his fingers itched for the sum which
Lucretia had still at her disposal. But the
seeming sincerity of the man, the persuasion of
his goodness, his reputation for sanctity de-
ceived her; she believed herself honestly and
ardently beloved, and by one who could guide
her back, if not to happiness, at least to repose.
She herself loved him not, she could love no
more. But it seemed to her a luxury to find
some one she could trust, she could honor. If
you had probed into the recesses of her mind
at that time, you would have found that no re-
ligious belief was there settled—only the dos-
perate wish to believe—only the disturbance of
all previous infidelity—only a restless, gnawing
desire to escape from memory, to emerge from
the gulf. In this troubled, impatient disorder
of mind and feeling, she hurried into a second
marriage as fatal as the first.
For a while she bore patiently all the priva-
tions of that ascetic household; assisted in all
those external formalities, centered all her in-
tellect within that iron range of existence. But
no grace descended on her soul—no warm ray
unlocked the ice of the well. Then, gradually
becoming aware of the niggardly meannesses,
of the harsh, uncharitable judgments, of the
dccorous frauds, that, with unconscious hypoc-
risy, her husband concealed beneath the robes
of sanctity, a weary disgust stole over her;
it stole, it deepened, it increased, it became iii-
tolerable, when she discovered that Braddell
had knowingly deceived her as to his worldly
substance. In that mood into which she had
rushed into these ominous nuptials, she had
had no thought for vulgar advantages; had
Braddell been a beggar, she had married him as
rashly. Biit he, with the inability to compre-
bend a nature like hers—dim not more to her
terrible vices than to the sinister grandeur
which made their ordinary atmosphere—bad
descended cuniiingly to address the avarice he
thought as potent in others as himself, to en-
large on the worldly prosperity with which
Providence had blessed him ; and now she saw
that her dowry alone had saved the crippled
trader from the bankrupt list. With this revolt-
ing discovery, with the scum it produced, van-
ished all Lucretia’s unstable visions of reform.
She saw this man a saint among his tribe, and
would not believe in the virtues of his brethren,
great and unquestionable as they might have
been proved to a more dispassionate and hum-
ble inquirer. The imposture she detected she
deemed universal in the circle in which she
dwelt; and Satan once more smiled upon the

subject he regained. ' Lucretia became a mother
-but their child formed no endearing he be-
tween the ill-assorted pair; it rather imoittcred
their discord. Dimly, even then, as she bent
over the cradle, that vision which now, in the
old house at Brampton, haunted her dreams,
and beckoned her over seas of blood into the
fancied future, was foreshadowed in the face
of her infant son. To be born again in that
birth—to live only in that life—to aspire, as man
may aspire, in that future man whom she would
train to knowledge and lead to power; these
Were. the feelings with which that somber
mother gazed upon her babe. The idea that
the low-born, groveling father had the sole
right over that son‘s destiny—had the author-
ity to cabin his mind in the walls of form—bind
him down to the sordid apprenticeship, debnsed,
not dignified, by the solemn mien, roused her
indignant wrath—she sickened when Braddell
touched her child. All her pride of intellect,
that had never slept—all her pride of birth, long
dormant, woke up to protect the heir of her
ambition, the descendant of her race, from the
defilement of the father’s nurture. Not long
after her confinement, she formed a plan for
escape—she disappeared from the house with
her child. Taking refuge in a cottage, living
on the sale of the few jewels she possessed,
she was for some weeks almost happy. But
Bratldell, less grieved by the loss than shocked
by the scandal, was indefatigable in his re-
searches—be discovered her retreat. The
scene between them was terrible. There was
no resisting the power which all civilized laws
give to the rights of husband and father. Be-
fore this man, whom she scorned so unuttera-
bly, Lucretia was impotent. Then, all the
boiling passions long suppressed beneath that
command of temper, which she owed both to
habitual simulation and intense disdain, rushed
forth. Then, she appalled the impostor with
her indignant denunciations of his hypocrisy,
his meanness, and his guile. Then. throwing
off the mask she had worn, she hurled her
anathema on his sect, on his faith, with the
same breath that smote his conscience, and left
it wordless. She shocked all the notions he
sincerely entertained, and he stood awed by
accusations from a blasphemer whom he dared
not rebuke. His rage broke at length from his
awe. Stung, maddened by the scorn of him-
self, his blood fired into juster indignation by
her scoff at his creed, he lost all self~posses~
sion,'and struck her to the ground. In the
midst of shame and dread at disclosure of his
violence, which succeeded the act so provoked,
he was not less relieved than amazed when
Lucretia, rising slowly, laid her hand gently on
his arm, and said, "Repent not, it is past;
fear not, I will be silent! Conic, you are the
stronger—you prevail. I will follow my child
to your home."
In this unexpected submission in one so im~
perious, Braddell’s imperfect comprehension of
character saw but fear, and his stupidity exulted
in his triumph. Lucretia returned with him.
A few days afterward, Braddell became ill ; the
illness increased, slow, gradual, wearing. It
broke his spirit with his health; and then the
steadfast imperiousness of Lucretia‘s stern will,
ruled andgsubjugated him. He cowered bo-


RETROSPECT.
137
neath her haughty, searching gaze, he shivered
at her sidelong, malignant glance; but with
this fear, came necessarily hate; and this hate,
sometimes sufficing to vanquish the fear, spite-
fully evinced itself in thwarting her legitimate
control over her infant. He would have it,
though he had little real love for children. con-
stantly with him, and affected to contradict all
her own orders to the servants, in the sphere
in which mothers arrogate most the right. Only
on these occasions sometimes would Lucretia
lose her grim self-control, and threaten that her
child yet should be emancipated from his hands
—should yet be taught the scorn for hypocrites,
which he had taught herself. These Words
sank deep not only in the resentment. but in the
conscience ofthe husband. Meanwhile, Lucretia
scrupled not to evince her disdain of Braddell,
by markedly abstaining from all the ceremonies
she had before so rigidly observed. The sect
grew Scandalized. Braddell did not abstain
from making known his causes of complaint.
The haughty, imperious woman was condemned
in the community, and hated in the household.
It was at this time that Walter ArdWorth
who was then striving to eke out his means by
political lectures (which at the earlier part of
the century found ready audience) in our great
towns, came to Liverpool. Braddell and Ard-
vi'orth had been schoolfellows, and even at
school, embryo politicians of congenial notions ;
and the conversion of the former to one of the
sects which had grown out of the old creed,
that, under Cromwell, had broken' the scepter
of the son of Bella], and established the Com-
monwealth of Saints, had only strengthened the
republican tenets ofthe sourfanatic. Ardworth
called on Braddell, and was startled to find in
his schoolfcllow’s wife, the niece of his bene-
factor, Sir Miles St. John. Now, Lucretia had
never divulged her true parentage to her hus-
band. In an onion so much beneath her birth,
she had desired to conceal from all her connec-
tions—the fall of the once honored heiress.
She had descended, in search of peace, to ob-
scurity; but her pride revolted from the thought,
that her low-born husband might boast of her
connections, and parade her descent to his level.
Fortunately, as she thought, she received Ard-
worth before he was admitted to her husband,
who now, growing feebler and feebler, usually
kept his room. She stooped to beseech Ard-
worth not to reveal her secret, and he, compre-
hending her pride, as a man well-born himself,
and pitying her pain. readily gave his promise.
At the first interview, Braddell evinced no
pleasure in the sight of his old schoolfellow. It
was natural enough that one so precise should
be somewhat revolted by one so careless of all
form. But when Lucretia imprudently evinced
satisfaction at his surly remarks on his visitor
—when he perceived that it Would please her,
that he should not cultivate the acquaintance
offered him, he was moved by the spirit ofcon-
tradictiou, and the spiteful delight even in friv-
olous annoyance, to conciliatc and court the in-
timacy he had at first disdained; and then, by
degrees, sympathy in political matters, and old
recollections of sportive, careless boyhood, cc-
mented the intimacy into a more familiar bond
than the sectarian had contracted really with
any of his late associates

Lucretia regarded this growing friendship
With great uneasiness—the uneasiness increas-
ed to alarm, when one day, in the presence
of Ardwoi'th, Braddell, writhing with a sudden
spasm, said—"I can not account for these
strange seizures—l think verily I am poisoned !”
—and his dull eye rested on Lucretia‘s pallid
brow. She was unusually thoughtful for some
days after this remark, and one morning she
informed her husband, that she had received
the intelligence that a relation from whom she
had pecuniary expectations, was dangerously
ill; and requested his permission to visit this
sick kinsman, who dwelt in a distant county.
Braddell’s cyes brightened at the thought of her
absence; with little further questioning he con
sentcd; and Lucretia, sure perhaps that the
barb w’as in the side of her victim, and reckon-
ing, it may be, on greater freedom from suspi-
cion, if her husband died in her absence, left
the house. It was, indeed to the neighborhood
of her kindred that she went. In a private
conversation with Ardworth. when questioning
him of his news of the present possessor of
Laughton, he had informed her, that he had
heard accidentally, that Vernon‘s two sons
(Percival was not then born) were sickly; and
she went into Hampshire, secretly and unknown,
to see what were really the chances that her
son might yet become the lord of her lostin-
heritance. '
During this absence, Braddell, now gloomin
aware that his days were numbered, resolved
to put into practice the idea long contemplated,
and even less favored by his spite than jus1ified
by the genuine convictions of his conscience.
W'hatever his faults, sincere at least in his re-
ligious belief, he might well look with dread to
the prospect of the training and education his
son would receive from the hands of a mother,
who had blasphemed his sect, and openly pro-
claimed her infidelity. By will, it is true, he
might create a trust, and appoint guardians to
his child. But to have lived under the same
roof with his wife-nay, to have carried her
back to that roof, when she had left it, afforded
tacit evidence that whatever the disagreement
between them, her conduct could hardly have
merited her exclusion from the privileges ofa
mother. The guardianship might, therefore,
avail little to frustrate Lucretia's indirect con-
tamination, if not her positive control. Be-
side, where guardiaiis are appointed, money
must be left; and Braddell knew that at his
death his assets would be found insufficient for
his debts. Who would be guardian to a penni-
less infant‘l He resolved, therefore, to send
his child from his roof, to some place where, if
reared humbly, it might at least be brought up
in the right faith—some place which might defy
the search, and be beyond the perversion of
the unbelieving mother. He looked round, and
discovered no instrument for his purpose that
seemed so ready as Walter Ardworth. For
by this time he had thoroughly excited the pity
and touched the heart of that good-natured,
easy man. His representations ofthe miscon—
duct of Lucretia were the more implicitly br-
lieved by one who had alwzns been secretly
preposscssed against her—wlio,-adm'lted to
household intimacy, was an (lye-\Vlllit‘s‘b'lt) he;
hard indifference to her husband‘s sufferings-


RETROSPECT.
139
by this reflection, Varney happened to he in
the very town in France. in which the Main-
warings, in their later years, had taken refuge,
and from which Helen had been removed to
the roof of Mr. Fielden. By accident he heard
the name, and his curiosity leading to further
inquiries, learned that Helen was made an
heiress by the will of her grandfather. With
this knowledge came a thought of the most
treacherous, the most miscreant, and the vilest
crime, that even he yet had perpetrated; so
black was it, that, for a while, he absolutely
struggled against it. But in guilt there seems
ever a necessity, that urges on—step after step
—to the last consummation. Varney received
a letter to inform him that the last surviving
trustee was no more, that the trust was, there-
fore, now centered in his son and heir, that that
gentleman was, at present, very busy in settling
his own affairs, and examining into a very mis-
managed property in Devonshire, which had
deVolved upon him; but that he hoped in a few
months to discharge, more efficiently than his
father had done, the duties of trustee, and that
some more profitable investment than the Bank
of England would probably occur.
This new trustee was known personally to
Varney—a cotemporary of his own, and, in ear-
lier youth, a pupil to his uncle. But, since
then, he had made way in life, and retired from
the Profession of Art. This younger Stubmore,
he knew to he a bustling, officious man of busi-
ness—somewhat greedy and covetous, but
withal somewhat weak ofpurpose, good-natured
in the main, and with a little lukewarm kind-
ness for Gabriel, as a quondam fellow-pupil.
That Stubmore would discover the fraud was
evident—that he would declare it, for his own
sake, was evident also—that the bank Would
prosecute—that Varney would be convicted,
was no less surely to be apprehended. There
was only one chance left to the forger--if he
could get into his hands, and in time, before
Stubmorc‘s bustling interference, a sum suffi-
cient to replace what had been fraudulently
taken--he might easily manage, he thought, to
prevent the forgery ever becoming known.
Nay, if Stubmore, roused into strict personal
investigation, by the new power of attorney,
which a new investment on the bank would
render necessary, should ascertain what had
occurred, his liabilities being now indemnified,
and the money replaced, Varney thought he
could confidently rely on his ci-deurmf fellow-
pupil's assent to wink at the forgery, and bush
up the matter. But this was his only chance.
How was the money to be gained? He thought
of Helen's fortune, and the last scruple gave
way to the imminence of his peril, and the ur-
gency of his fears.
With this decision, he repaired to Lucretia,
whose concurrence was necessary to his de-
signs. Long habits ofcrime had now deepened
still more the dark and stem color of that dread
woman‘s somber nature. Butthrough all that
had ground the humanity from her soul, one
human sentiment, fearfully tainted and adulter-
ated as it was, still struggled for life—the mem-
ory of the mother. It was by this, her lcas'
criminal emotion, that Varuey led her to the
worst of her crimes. He offered to sell out the
remainder of the trust-money by a fresh act of

forgery—t0 devote such proceeds entirely to
the search for her l0st Vincent; he revived the
hopes she had long since gloomily relinquished,
till she began to conceive the discovery easy
and certain. He then brought before her the
prospect of that son‘s succession to Laughton—
hut two lives now between him and those broad
lands—those two lives associated with just
cause of revenge !-—two lives! Lucretia, till
then, did not know that Susan had left a child
_that a pledge of those nuptials, to which she
imputed all her infamy, existed to revive a jeal-
ousy never extinguished, appeal to the hate that
had grown out of her love. More readily than
Varney had anticipated, and with fierce exulta
tion, she fell into his horrible schemes.
Thus had she returned to England, and
claimed the guardianship of her niece. Var-
ney engaged a dull house in the suburb, and
looking out for a servant, not likely to suspect
and betray, found the nurse who had watched
over his uncle's last illness; but Lucretia, ac,
cording to her invariable practice, rejected all
menial BCOOmpllCQS—I'Pptlsed no confidence in
the tools of her black deeds. Feigning an in-
firmity that would mock all suspicion of the
hand that mixed the draught, and the step that
stole to the slumber, she defied the justice of
earth, and stood alone under the omniscience
of Heaven.
Various considerations had delayed the exe-
cution of the atrocious deed so coldly contem-
plated. Lucretia herself drew back; perhaps
more daunted by conscience than she herself
was distinctly aware,—and disguising her scru-
plcs in those yet fouler refinements of hoped
revenge which her conversations with Varney
have betrayed to the reader. The failure of
the earlier researches for the lost Vincent, the
suspended activity of Stubmore, left the more
impatient murderer leisure to make the ac-
quaintance of St. John, steal into the confidence
of Helen, and render the insurances on the life
of the latter less open to suspicion titan if ef-
fected immediately on her entrance into that
shamblehouse, and before she could be sup-
posed to form that affection for her aunt which
made probable so tender a forethought. These
causes of delay now vanished, the Parcae closed
the abrupt woof, and lifted the impendingsheans.
Lucretia had long since dropped the name of
Braddell. She shrank from proclaiming those
second spousals, sullied by the degradation to
which they had exposed her, and the suspicious
implied in the inquest on her husband, until
the hour for acknowledging her son should ar-
rive. She resumed, therefore, the name of
Dalibard, and by that we will continue to call
her. Nor was Varney uninfiuential in dissuad-
ing her from proclaiming her second marriage
till occasion necessitated. If the son were dis
covered, and the proofs of his birth in the keep-
ing of himself and his accomplice, his avarice
naturally suggested the expediency of wringing
from that son some pledge of adequate reward on
succession to an inheritance which they alone
could secure to him: out of this fancied fund,
not only Grahman, but his employer, was to be
paid. The concealment of the identity be-
tween Mrs. Braddell and Madame Dalibard
might facilitate suc n arrangement. This
idea Varney looked as yet in his own breast.


140
MR. GRABMAN‘S ADVENTURES.
He did not dare to speak to Lucretia of the
bargain he ultimately nieditated with her son.
.__.___.
CHAPTER XIX.
NB. onkstun’s ADVENTURES.
Tits lackevs in their dress-liveries stood at
the porch of Laughton, as the postilions drove
rapidly along the road, sweeping through ven-
erable groves tinged with the hues of autumn,
up to that stately pile. From the window of
the large, cumhrous vehicle, which Percival,
mindful of Madame Daltbard's infirmity, had
hired for her special accommodation, Lucretia
looked keenly forth. On the slope of the hill
grouped the deer, and below, Where the lake
gleamed. the swan rested on the wave. Far-
ther on to the left, gaunt and stag-headed, rose,
living still, from the depth of the glen, Guy‘s
memorable oak. Coming now in sight, though
at distance, the gray church-tower emerged
from the surrounding masses of solemn foliage.
Suddenly, the road curves round, and straight
before her (the rocks cawing above the turrets,
the sun reflected from the vanes) Lucretia gazes
on the halls of Laughton. And didst thou not,
oh Guy‘s Oak, murmur warning from thine
oracular hollows? And thou, who sleepest be-
low the church-tower, ditlst thou not turn, Miles
St. John, in thy grave, when, with such tender
care, the young Lord of Laughton bore that si-
lent guest across his threshold, and with credu-
Ions, moistened eyes, welcomed treason and
murder to his hearch
There, at the porch, paused Helen, gazing
with the rapt eye of the poetess on the broad
landscape, checkered by the vast shadows cast
from the setting sup. There, lot), by her side,
lingered Varney, with an artist's eye for the
stately scene, till a thought, not of art, changed
the face of the earth, and the view without mir-
rored back the Golgotha of his soul.
Leave them thus—we must hurry on.
One day a traveler stopped his gig at a pub-
lic-house in a village in Lancashire. He chuck-
al the rein to the ostler, and in reply to n ques-
tion what oats should be given to the horse,
said—“Hay and water-the beast is on job."
Then sauntering to the bar, he caller] for a glass
of raw brandy for himself; and while the host
drew the spirit forth from the tap, he asked,
carelessly, if, some years ago, a woman of
{he name of Joplin had not resided in the vil-
age.
“ It is strange,” said the host, musingly.
“ \Vhat is strange 1"
“Why, we have just had a gent. asking the
same question. I have only been here nine
year come December, but my old ostler was
born in the village, and never left it. So the
gent. had in the ostlcr, and he is now gone
into the village to pick up what else he can
learn."
This intelligence seemed to surprise and dis-
please the traveler. “What the deuso,” he
muttered, “ does Jason mistrust me'l Has he
set another dog on the scent! Hnmph !" He
drained off his brandy, and sallied forth to con-
fer with the ostler.
“Well, my friend," ' Mr. Grabman, for
the traveler was no oth than that worthy—

“well, so you remember Mrs. Joplin, more than
twenty years ago—eh l"
“Yees, I guess; more than twenty years
since she left the Fleck." *
“ Ah, she seems to have been a restless body
—she had a child with her 1”
“ Yees, I moind that.”
“And I dare say you heard her say the child
was not her own, that she was paid well for it,
eh i"
"Noa; my missus did not loike me to chaf-
fer much with neighbor Joplin, for she was but
a bad ’un—pretty fease, too. She lived agin
the woght yonder, where you see that gent.
coming out."
“Oho! that is the gent. who was asking af'
ter Mrs. Joplin 1."
“ Yces; and he giv’ me half-a-croon," said
the clever 0stler, holding out his hand.
Mr. Grabman, too thoughtful, too jealous of
his rival, to take the hint at that moment. dart-
ed ofl", as fast as his thin legs could carry him,
toward the unwelcome interferer in his own
business.
Approaching the gentleman—a tall, powerful-
looking young man—he somewhat softened his
tune, and mechanically touched his hat, as he
said—-
“What, sir, are you, too, in search of Mrs.
Joplin 1"
“Sir, lam,” answered the young man. ey-
ing Grabman deliberately; “and you, Isuppose,
are the person I have found before me on the
same search - first, at Liverpool ; next, at
0—, about fifteen miles from that town;
thirdly, at L—; and now we meet here.
You have had the start of me. What have you
learned 2”
Mr. Grabman smiled: “Softly, sir, sofily.
May I first ask (since open questioning seems
the order of the day), whether I have the honor
to address a brother practitioner—one of the
law, sir—one ofthe law!”
“I am one of the law."
Mr. Grabman bowed and scowled.
“ And may I make hold to ask the name of
your client 1"
“ Certainly, you may ask. Every man has a
right to ask what he pleases, in a civil way."
“ But you’ll not answer"! Deep! Oh, I un-
derstand ! Very good. But I atn deep, too, sir.
You know Mr. Varney, I suppose l"
The gentleman looked surprised. His bushy
brows met over his steady, sagacious ('ycs ; but
after a moment's pause, the expression of the
face cleared up.
“ It is as I thought," he said half to himself.
“ Who else could have had an interest in simi~
lar inquiries! Sir," he added with a quick and
decided tone, ‘-' you are, doubtless, employed by
Mr. Varney on behalf of Madame Dalibard, and
in search of evidence connected with the loss
of an unhappy infant. Iam on the same quest,
and for the same end. The interests of your
client are mine. Two heads are better than
one; let us unite our ingenuity and endeavors."
“ And share the pee, I suppose I" said Grab-
man, dryly huttoning up his pockets.
“ Whatever fee you may expect, you will

l * Flak, —-Lanctuhlre and Yorkshire synonym fol
0.68.
I Angliu,—Wnll.


MR. GRABMAN‘S ADVENTURES.
1-11
have, anyhow, whether I assist you or not. I
expect no fee—for mine is a personal interest.
which I serve gratuitously; but I can undertake
to promise you, on my own part, more than the
ordinary professional reward for your coopera-
tiOn." '
“ Well, sir,” said Grabman, mollified, “ you
, speak very much like a gentleman. My feelings
were hurt at first, I own. I am hasty, but I
can listen to reason. Will you walk back with
me to the house you have just left! and sup-
posing we then turn in and have a chop together,
and compare notes."
“ Willingly !" answered the tall stranger, and
the two inquisitors amicably joined company.
The result of their inquiries was not, however,
very satisfactory. No one knew Whither Mrs.
Joplin had gone, though all agreed it was in
company with a man of bad character and va-
grant hahits—all agreed, too, in the vague rec-
ollection of the child, and some remembered
that it was dressed in clothes finer than would
have been natural to an infant legally and filially
appertaining to Mrs. Joplin. One old woman
remembered, that on her reproaching Mrs. Jop-
Iiu for some act of great cruelty to the poor
babe, she replied that it was not her flesh and
blood, and that if she had not expected more
than she had got, she would never have under-
taken the charge. On comparing the informa-
tion gleaned at the previous places of their
research, they found an entire agreement as to
the character personally borne by Mrs. Joplin.
At the village to which their inquiry had been
first directed, she was known as a respectable,
precise young woman, one of a small congrega-
tion of rigid dissenters. She had married a
member of the sect, and borne him a child,
which died two weeks after birth. She was
then seen nursing another infant—though how
she came by it, none knew. Shortly after this,
her husband, a journeyman carpenter of good
repute, died ; but to the surprise of the neigh-
bors, Mrs. Joplin continued to live as comforta-
bly as before, and seemed not to miss the wages
of her husband; nay, she rather now, as if
before kept back by the prudence of the de-
ceased, launched iuto a less thrifty mode of life,
and a gayety of dress at variance both with the
mourning her recent loss should have imposed,
and the austere tenets of her sect. This in-
decorum excited angry curiosity, and drew down
stern remonstrance. Mrs. Joplin, in apparent
disgust at this intermeddling with her afi'airs,
withdrew from the village to a small town,
about twenty miles distant, and there set up a
shop. But tier moral lapse became new con-
firmed; hcr life was notoriously abandoned,
and her house the resort of all the reprobates of
the place. Whether her means began to be
exhausted, or the scandal she provoked attracted
the notice of the magistrates, and imposed a
check on her course, was not very certain, but
she sold off her goods suddenly, and was next
tracked to the village in which Mr. Grabman
met his new coadjutor; and there, though her
conduct was less flagrant and her expenses
less reckless, she made but a very unfavorable
impression. which was confirmed by her flight
with an itinerant hawker of the lowest posSIhlo
character. Seated over their port wine, the
two gentlemen compared their experiences,

and consulted on the best mode of re-mending
the broken thread oftheir research ; when M r.
Grabman said, coolly, " But, after all, I think it
most likely that we are not on the right scent.
This bantling may not be the one we search
for."
“ Be not misled by that doubt. To arrive at
the evidence we desire, we must still track this
wretched woman.”
" You are certain of that 1’!
“ Certain."
" Hem ! Did you ever hear ofa Mr. Walter
Ardworth 1!"
“ Yes; what of him 1."
" Why, he can best tell us where to look for
the child."
“I am sure he would counsel as I do."
“ You know him, then l"
“I do."
“ What! he lives still 1.”
“ I hope so."
“ Can you bring me across him?"
" If necessary.” '
“ And that young man, who goes by hil
namc, brought up by Mr. Fielden 1—"
“ Well, sir?"
“Is he not the son of Mr. Braddell 1."
The stranger was silent, and, shading his
face with his hand, seemed buried in thought.
He then rose, took up his candle, and said
quietly—
"Sir, I wish you good evening. I have let-
ters to write in my own room. 1 will consider
by to-morrow, if you stay till then, whether we
can really aid each other further, or whether
we should pursue our researches separately."
\Vith these words, he closed the door; and
Mr. Grabman remained, battled and bewildered
However, he too had a letter to write; so,
calling for pen, ink, and paper, and a pint of
brandy, he indited his complaints and his news
to Varney :
“Jason” (he began), “ are you playing me
false! Have you set another man on the track
with a view to bilk me of my promised fee!
Explain, or I throw up the business."
Herewith, Mr. Grabman gave a minute de-
scription of the stranger, and related pretty
accurately what had passed between that gen-
tleman and himself. He then added the pro-
gress of his own inquiries, and renewed, as
peremptorin as he dared, his demand for can-
dor and plain dealing. Now, it so happened,
that in stumbling up stairs to bed, Mr. Grabman
passed the room in which his mysterious fellow-
seeker was lodged, and, as is the usage in
hostels, a pair of boots stood outside the door,
to be cleaned betimes in the morning. Though
somewhat drunk, Grabman still preserved the
rays of his habitual astuteness. A clever and
a natural idea shot across his brain, illumina-
ting the fumes of the brandy; he stooped, and
while one hand on the wall steadied his footing,
with the other he fished up a boot, and peering
Within, saw leginy written, “ John Ardworth,
Esq., Gray’s Inn.” At that sight, he felt what
a philosopher feels at the sudden elucidation of
a troublesome problem. DoWn stairs again
tottercd Grabman, reopened his letter, and
wrote, " P.S.—l have wronged you, Jason, by
my suspicions; never mind—Jubiiate! This
interloper, who made me so jealous—who, th'mk
o


142
BECK'S DISCOVERY.
you, it is! Why, young Ardworth himself—
that is. the lad who goes by such name. Now,
is it not clear! of course, no one e.se has such
interest in learning his lxirth as the lost child
himself—Here he is l Ifold Ardworth lives (as
he says), old Ardworth has set him to work on
his own business. But then, that Fielden-
rather a puzzler that! Yet, no ;-now I under-
stand -old Ardworth gave the boy to Mrs. Jop-
lin, and took it _away from her again when he
went to the person’s. Now, certainly, it may
be quite necessary to prove—first, that the boy
he took from Mr. Braddell's he gave to Mrs.
Joplin ; secondly, that the boy he left with Mr.
Fielden, was the same that he took again frotn
that woman—therefore, the necessity of finding
out MotherJoplin, an essential Witness: Q. E. D.,
Master Jason !"
It was not till the sun had been some hours
risen that Mr Grabman imitated that luminary‘s
example. When he did so, he found, some-
what to his chagrin, that John Ardworth had
long been gone. In fact, whatever the motive
that had led the latter on the search, he had
succeeded in gleaning from Grabman all that
that person could communicate, and their in-
terview had inspired him with such disgust of
the attorney, and so small an opinion of the
value of his cooperation (in which last belief,
perhaps. he was mistaken), that he had resolved
to continue his inquiries alone, and had already,
in his early morning‘s walk through the village,
ascertained that the man with whom Mrs. Joplin
had quitted the place, had sometime after been
sentenced to six months’ imprisonment in the
county jail. Possibly the prison authorities
might know something to lead to his discovery;
and through him the' news of his paramour
[night be gained.
—.—_
CHAPTER XX.
ascit's DISCOVERY.
UNDER the cedar-trees, at Laughton, sat that
accursed and abhorrent being, who sat there
young, impassioned, hopeful, as Lucretia Claver-
ing—under the old cedar-trees, which, save
that their vast branches cast an imperceptibly
broader shade over the moasy award, the irre~
vocable winters had left the same. Where,
through the nether boughs, the autumn sun-
beams came aslant, the windows, enriched by
many a haughty scutcheon, shone brightly
against the western rays. From the flower-
beds in the quaint garden near at hand, the
fresh yet tranquil air walled faint perfumes
from the lingering heliotrope and fading rose.
The peacoek perched dozineg on the heavy
balustrade; the hlithe rohin hopped busily
along the sun-track on the lawn; in the dis-
tance the tinkliug bells of the flock, the plain-
ing low of some wandering heifer, while, break-
ingthc silence, seemed still to blend with the
repose. All images around lent themselves to
complete that picture of stately calm, which is
the character of those old mansion houses,
which owner after owner has loved and heeded
—leaving to them the graces of antiquity,
guarding them from the desolation of decay.
Alone sat Lucretia, under the cedar-trees,
and her heart made dismal contrast to the

noble tranquillity that breathed around. From
whatever softening or repentant emotions
Which is scene of her youth might first have
awakened—from whatever of less unholy an-
guish which memory might have caused, when
she first, once more, sat under those remem-
bered boughs, and, as a voice from a former
world, some faint whisper of youthful love
sighed across the waste and ashes of her devasJ
tated soul—from all such rekindled humanities
in the past, she had now, with gloomy power,
wrenched herself away. Crime, such as hers,
admits not long the scntimcnt that softens the
remorse 0f gentler error. If there wakes one
motnent from the past the warning and mclan-
cho1y ghost, soon from that abyss rises the
Fury With the lifted scourge, and hunts on the
frantic footsteps toward the future. In the
future, the haggard intellect of crime must
live; must involve itself mechanically in webs
and meshes, and lose past and present in the
welcome atmosphere of darkness.
Thus, while Lucretia sat, and her eyes rested
upon the halls of her youth, her mind overleapcd
the gulf that yet yawned between her and the
object on which she was bent. Already, in fan-
cy, that home was hers again ; its present pos-
sessor swept away, the intorloping race of Ver-
non, ending in one of those abrupt lines familiar
to genealogists, which branch out busily from
the main tree, as if all the pith and sap were
monopolized hythem, continue for a singlegen-
eration, and then shrink into a printer’s brack-
et, with the formal laconism, " Died without
issue." Back, then, in the pedigree would turn
the eye of some curious descendant, and see the
race continue in the posterity of Lucretia Clar-
ering.
With all her inefl‘ahle vices, mere cupidity had
not, as we have often seen, been a main char-
acteristic of this fearful woman; and in her
design to endow, by the most determined guilt,
her son with the heritage of her ancestors, she
had hitherto looked but little to mere mercenary
advantages for herself; but now, in the sight of
that venerable and broad domain, acovetousness,
absolute in itself, broke forth. Could she have
gained it for her own use rather than her son's,
she would have felt a greater zest in her ruth-
less purpose. She looked upon the scene as a
deposed monarch upon his usurped realm; it
was her right. The, early sense of possession
in that inheritance returned to her. Reluctant-
ly would she even yield her claims to her child.
Here, too, in this atmosphere, she tasted once
more what had long been lost to her—the lux-
ury of that dignified respect which surrounds
the well-born. Here, she ceased to be‘the sus-
pected adventuress, the friendless outcast, the
needy wrestler with hostile fortune, the skulk-
ing enemy of the law. She was at once and
without effort, to her original state—the hon-
ored daughter of an illustrious house. The
homeliest welcome that greeted her from some
aged hut unforgotten villager, the salutation oi
homage, the hated breathof humble reverence-
even trifles like these Were dear to her, and
made her the more resolute to retain them. In
her calm, relentless, onward vision, she saw
herself enshrined in those halls, ruling in the
delegated authority of her son, safe eveimom
from prying suspicion and degrading need, and


BECK’S DISCOVERY.
143
miserable guilt for miserable objects. Herc,
but one great crime, and she resumed the ma-
jesty ofher youth. While thus dwelling on the
future, her eye did not even turn from those
sun-lit towers to the forms below, and more im-
mediately inviting its survey. On the very spot
where, at the opening ofthis tale, sat Sir Miles
St. John, sharing his attention between his dogs
and his guest—sat now Helen Mainwaring;
against the balustrade, where had lounged
Chailes Vernon, leant Percival St. John; and
in the same place where he had stationed him-
selftliat eventful evening, to distort, in his ma-
lignant sketch, the features ofhis father, Gabriel
Varney, with almost the same smile of irony on
his lips, was engaged in transferring to his can-
vas a more faithiul likeness ofthe heir’sintend-
ed bride. Alas! Helen Mainwaring was sadly
altered from the evening in which she first fas-
cinated the heart of her youthful lover. And
yet how immeasurably deeper was the love
which he now felt. How more and more, as the
mere sensual beauty fatled,did he grow enamor-
ed and inebriate ofthe diviner beauty of thought
and soul. Helen‘s countenance, indeed, ex-
hibited comparatively but little of the ravages
which the deadly' aliment, administered so
noiselessly, made upon the frame. The eye, it
is true, had sunk, and there was a languid heav-
iness in its look; but the contour of the chtek
was so naturally rounded, and the features so
delicately fine, that the fall of the muscles was
less evident; and the bright, warm hue of the
complexion, and the pearly sparkle of the teeth
still gave a fallacious freshness to the aspect.
But the form was terribly wasted, and the
hands, now lightly crossed on each other. seem-
ed nearly transparent. Out of the infernal va-
riet)‘ of the materials at their command, the
poisoncrs had selected a mixture which works
by sustaining perpetual fever ; which gives
lille pain, little suffering, beyond that of lassi-
tude and thirst; which wastes like consumption,
and yet puzzles the physician by betraying few
or none of its ordinary symptoms. Many ofthe
subtilestdiscoverics of Dalibard were not known
to his terrible inheritors—more especially some
most marvelous application of noxious gases
to the art of death, which, inhaled only at night
and in sleep, kills rapidly (yet not too suddenly)
the victim, and dispenses with all aid from drug
and mineral—a secret, his true, subject to one
hinderance. viz., that it is only in the most inti-
mate household confidence that it can be prac-
ticed, and that, till within the last three or four
inbalations, the continuance has only to be sus-
cndeil for the sufferer still to hope recovery.
oubtless, it was some such preparation of the
finer chemistry that Lucretia had braved, and
escaped by her husband's death.
But in the volume which had fallen into Lu-
cretia‘s hands, there was enough for temptation,
the more seductive to a spirit so atrocious, in-
asmuch as the recipes given were for the coun-
terfeits of natural disease; they aimed at cre-
ating, by artificial means, the maladies that
might seem the most commonly incidental to
our human infirmities. Fever.“ in especial, in
all its gradations, from the slow and wasting to
the rapid and devouring; here, too, for more
immediate purposes, were the ingredients which
strike the heart, produce the anmrism, or de-
stroy at once, by the sudden spasms ofthe im-
fgiiia pcclaris ,- here were the prescriptions which
teach to simulate the edema of pflSMtll'l and
emotion. which send the blood to the brain. call
the laugh from delirium, bid the surgeon moral-
ize on the connection between mind and mat-
ter, and warn his listeners of the peril of all
abrupt shocks upon the nerves. How probable
that the death of that girl should so affect the
young blood of that adoring lover! Eschewing
the revealing minerals, and concocted only from
vegetable venoms which defy all posthumous
examination, and prove the impotence of
1 tests, the science of Murder promised impunity
from law. From this arsenal had been drawn
the means by which Helen‘s death might seem
the least suspicious, from its slowness, yet not
so slow as to tax too long the ingenious study
of the Esculapian, and with suflicient variety,
pause, and freedom from symptoms the most
usually fatal, to sustain hope till the close, when
some sudden chill, some iniliscreet exposure,
might be supposed to hurry off the debilitated
victim.’ And there, in that arsenal, already
selected and prepared, was the single potion,
which should give to the boy-mourncr‘s pangs,
the natural paroxysms of despair, and so sweep
into one unsuspected grave the two obstacles
between the lands of Laughton and the son in
whom Lucretia Clavermg‘s lost rights revived.
Although October was far advanced, the day
was as mild and warm as August. But Per-
cival, who had been watching Helen‘s counte-
nance, with the anxiety of love and fear, now
proposed that the sitting should he adjourned.
The sun was declining, and it was certainly no
longer safe for Helen to be exposed to the air
without exercise. He proposed that they
should walk through the garden, and Helen,
rising cheerfully, placed her hand on his arm.
But she had scarcely descended the steps of
the terrace, when she stopped short, and
breathed hard and painfully. The spasm was
soon over, and, walking slowly on, they passed
Lucretia with a brief word or two, and were
soon out of sight among the cedars.
“ Lean more on my arm, Helen,” said Perci-
val. “ How strange it is, that the change of
air has done so little for you, and our country
doctor still less. I should feel miserable, in-
deed, ifSimmons, whom my mother always con-
sidered very clever, did not assure me that
there was no ground for alarm—that these
symptoms Were only nervous. Cheer up,
Helen—sweet love, cheer up i”-
Heien raised her face, and strove to smile,
but the tears stood in her eyes: "It would be
hard to die nevi, Percival," she said, falteringly.
“To die—oh, Helen ! No; we must not
stay here longer—the air is certainly too keen
for you. Perhaps your aunt will go to Italy-
why not all go there, and seek my mother?
And she will nurse you, Helen.—and—and—”
He could not trust his Voice further.
Helen pressed his arm tenderly; “ Forgive
me, dear Percival—it is but at moments that I
fool so tlesponileni—now, again, it is past. Ah,
" 'l‘lius Archenholz: quoted by Bockmnn. History or
Inventions, Art. “ Secret PoLsnn :"—“ In a word, the noble!
parts lose their tone, become relaxed and affected, and
the lungs particularly, as the most dedicated“ all, and one
of those most employed in the functions of the animal
,economy. The first illness then comes you off," he.


144 BECK‘S DISCOVERY.
Iso long to see your mother! when will you
hear from her! Are you not too sanguine 1-—
do you really feel sure she Will consent to so
lowly a choice i”
“ Ne ‘=:r (lollhl. her afl'ection—her appueciation
of you answered Percival, gladly, and hoping
that Helen‘s natural anxiety might be the lat-
Pnt cause ofher dejected spirits: “ often when
talking of the future, under those very cedars,
my mother has said—‘ You have no cause to
marry for ambition—marry only for your hap-
piness.’ She never had a daughter—in return
for all her love, I shall give her that blessing.”
Thus talking the lovers rambled on till the
sun set, and then, returning to the house, they
found that Varney and Madame Dalibard had
preceded them. That evening Helen‘s spirits
rose to their natural buoyancy. And Percival's
heart was once more set at ease by her silvery
laugh.
When. at their usual early hour, the rest of
the famin retired to sleep, Percival adjourned
to his study, to write again, and at length, to
Lady Mary and Captain Greville. - \Vhilc thus
engaged his valet entered, to say that Beck,
'who had been out since the early morning, in
search of a horse that had strayed from one of
the pastures,had just returned with the animal,
who had wandered nearly as far as Southamp-
ton.
“I am glad to hear it," said Percival, ab-
stractedly, and continuing his letter.
The valet still lingered—Percival looked up
in surprise.
“ If you please, sir, you said you particularly
wished to see Beck, when he came back."
" I—oh. true! Tell him to wait. I will
speak to him by-and-hy—you need not sit up
for me—let Beck attend to the bell."
The valet withdrew. Percival continued his
letter and filled page after page, and sheet after
sheet ; and when at length the letters, not con-
taining 21 tithe of what he wished to convey,
were brought to a close, he fell into a reverie
that lasted till the candles burnt low, and the
clock from the turret tolled one. Starting up
in surprise at the lapse oftime, Percival, then,
for the first time, remembered Deck, and rung
the hell.
The ci-dcvant sweeper, in his smart livery, ap-
peared at the door.
“ Beck, my poor fellow, I am ashamed to
have kept you waiting so long; but I received
a letter this morning which relates to you.
Let me see—I left it in my sleeping-room.
Follow me up stairs—I have some questions to
put to you." ‘
“Nothin’ ngin my carakter, I hopes, your
'oner," said Beck, timidly.
u Oh. no pl .
“ Nous of the matriss, then!" exclaimed
Deck. joyfully.
“ Nor that either," answered Percival,
laughing, as he lighted the chamber candle-
?sticli, and ascended the stairs, followed by
EC .
Percival had, indeed, received that morning
a letter which occasioned him much surprise;
it was from John Ardworth, and ran thus:
" Mv mun PERCIVAL—Il. seems thatyou have
taken into your service a young man known
only by the name of Back. Is he now with you

at Laughton! If so. pray retain him, and suf-
fer him to be in readiness to come to me at a
day's notice, if wanted, though it is probable
enough that I may rather come to you. At
present, strange as it may seem to you, I am
detained in London by business connected with
that important personage. Will you ask him
carelessly as it were, in the mean while, the fol-
lowing questions :
" First : How did he become possessed ofa
certain child‘s coral, which he left at the house
of one Becky Carruthers, in Cole’s-buildings!
" Secondly: Is he aware of any mark on his
arm—if so, will he describe it!
“ Thirdly: How long has he known the said
Becky Carruthcrsl
“ Fourthly: Does he believe her to be honest,
and truth-spoken!
“Take a memorandum of his answers, and
send it to me. I am pretty well aware of what
they are likely to be; but I desire you to put
the questions that I may judge if there be any
discrepancy between his statement and that of
Mrs. Curruthers. I have much to tell you, and
am eager to receive your kind congratulations
upon an event that has given me more happi-
ncss than the fugitive success of my little book.
Tender-est regards to Helen ; and, hoping soon
to see you, ever afl'ectionately yours.
“P. S. Sav not a \"o"l of the contents or
this letter M) madame uanoaru, Helen, or any
one except Beck. Caution him to the same
discretion. If you can‘t trust to his silence,
send him to town."
When the post brought this letter, Beck was
already gone on his errand, and after puzzling
himself with vague conjectures, Percival’s mind
had been naturally too absorbed with his anx-
ieties for Helen, to recur much to the subject.
Now, refreshing his memory with the con
tents of the letter, he drew pen and ink before
him, put the questions scriatim, noted down the
answers as desired, and smiling at Beck’s fright-
ened curiosity to know who could possibly care
about such matters, and feeling confident (from
that very fright) of his discretion dismissed the
groom to his repose. .
Now Beck had never been in that part of the
house before; and when he got into the coni-
dor, he became bewildered, and knew not which
turn to take—~the right or the left. He had no
candle with him ; but the moon came clear
through a high and wide skylight; the light,
however, gave him no guide. While pausing,
much perplexed, and not sure that he should
even know again the door of the room he had
just quitted, if venturing to apply to his young
master for a clue through such a labyrinth, he
was inexpressibly startled and appalled by a sud-
den apparition. A door at one end ofthe corridor
opened noiselessly, and a figure, at first scarcely
distinguishable, for it was robed from head to
foot in a black, shapeless garb. scarcely giving
even the outline of the human form, stole forth.
Beck rubbed his eyes, and crept, mechanically,
close within the recess of one of the doors that
communicated with the passage. The figure
advanced a few steps toward him; and what
words can describe his astonishment, when he
saw thus erect, and in full possession of physi-
cal power and motion, the palsied cripple whole
chair he had often seen wheeled into the garden,


THE TAPESTRY CHAMBER.
145
and whose unhappy state was the common
topic of comment in the servants’ hall. Yes,
the moon from above shone full upon that face
which never, once seen, could be forgotten.
And it seemed more than mortally stern and
pale, contrasted with the sable of the strange
garb, and beheld by that mournful light. Had
a ghost, indeed, risen from the dead, it could
scarcely have appalled him more. Madame
Dalibard did not sce the involuntary spy ; for
the recess in which he had crept, was on that
side of the wall on which the moon’s shadow
was cast. With a quick step, she turned into
another room, opposite that which she had
quilted, the door of which stood ajar, and
Vanished noiselesst as she had appeared.
It was several minutes, however, before
Beck had sufficiently recovered his surprise
and dismay to emerge from his hiding-place.
When he did so, he made one rush in despair
back the way he had come. Luckily, this
brought him at. once to the great stair-case, and,
there, the blood-red stains reflected on the stone
floors from the blazoned easements, daunted
him little less than the sight at which his hair
still bristled. He scarcely drew breath till he
had got into his own little crib, in the wing set
apart for the stablemen, and then, as by degrees
he recovered his self-possession, he continued
to brood and ponder over what he had witnessed,
with that disposition to interpret appearances
for the worst, which his long acquaintance
with the impositions of the fraudulent and the
disguises of the criminal made natural enough.
From the first, we have seen that Beck had
been greatly surprised to recognize as a guest
in his master’s house, that smart-dressed,
mustached visitor to Grabman. who had dared
to beard the resurrection-man in his den,
and who seemed so fearlessly at home in
an abode, where Beck was acute enough to
know the honest never entered, unless they
were protected by their poverty. He knew the
usual clients of Grabman were drawn from that
equivocal class, who do not seek to go to law,
but to get from law; and as one of these he
had naturally set down in his mind the visitor,
of mien and garb so unusually trim and gallant,
whom he had lighted up the stairs. Honest as
Beck himself was, he had a beggarman‘s com-
prehensive charity for less scrupulous outcasts,
and would not have thought the worse of Var-
ney for his acquaintance with Grabman, had he
not seen him now in the guise of a respectable
gentleman. The grateful creature's love for
his young benefactor woke his very conscience
from its lethargy, and made him shudder, lest
the guilt, which before he had regarded with
apathy, should win entrance to a home so inno-
cent. St. John’s youth, too, and consequent
inexperience, inspired him with a compassionate
distrust; so easy to dupe such goodness ! Beck
had been exceedingly curious to learn all he
could in the servants’ hall about Varney’s pro-
ceedings. Mindful of his nurse's sage notions,
as to the easy prey which sharpers find in rich
oung men, he was strongly persuaded that
arney was one of that plausible fraternity;
out his penetration was in fault when he found
that cards and dice were never introduced;
and his fear had been allayed by learning that
Varney seemed the particular confidant and

friend of St. John‘s own kinswoman, Madame
Dalibard. But now that very intimacy filled
him with terror and suspicion. Coupling to-
gether the image of Varney as visitor to Grab-
man, and the detection of Madame Dalibard as
an imposlor of that kind most familiar to his
experience, a pretended cripple, he could not
but think that some scheme hurtful to his mas-
ter was in operation ; and he remained irreso-
lute whether to confide his suspicions and his
discoveries to St. John, or to exert all his vigi-
lance for the confirmation of his surmises.
That kind of astute cunning which the abject
poor, almost in self-defense, acquire, and which
is rather heightened than lessened by the dull-
ness of the nobler faculties, made Beck feel
some confidence in the success of the watch
which be resolved to institute, while it led him
to fear that any premature disclosure to so
young a master might only end in his own de-__
feat—perhaps procure his expulsion. He re-
solved, therefore, to hide his time. So did the
grateful affection that adorned this poor crea-
ture‘s nature, lift him for the moment out of
himself, that he had clean forgotten what other-
wise might Well have puzzled his conjectures—
the letter St. John had received, and the strange
questions put to him by. his master; but when,
at length, he fell into broken and agitated sleep,
the visions of all that had successively dis-
turbed him waking, united confusedly, as in
one picture of gloom and terror. He thought
that he was in his old loft in St. Gilcs’s; that
the grave-stealer was wrestling with Varney
for his body, while he himself, lying powerless
on his pallet, fancied he should be safe so long
as he could retain, as a talisman, his child’s
coral, which he clasped to his heart. Suddenly,
in that black, shapeless garb in which he had
bchcld her, Madame Dulibard bent over him,
with her stern, colorless face, and wrenched
from him his charm. Then ceasing his strug-
gle with his horrible antagonist, Varney laughed
aloud, and the grave-stealer seized him in his
deadly arms. .
__.—.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE TAPESTRY CHAMBER.
The next day, taking advantage of an hour
when he knew the family were out of doors,
Beck contrived to coax the good-natured valet,
who had taken him under his special protection,
to show him over the house. He had heard the
other servants say there was such a power of
fine things, that a peep into the rooms was as
good as a show, and the valet felt pride in being
cicermtz even to Beck. After having stared suf-
ficiently at the banquet-hall and the dining-
room, the armor, the busts and the pictures, and
listened, open-mouthed, to his guidc’s critical
observations, Beck was led up the great stairs,
into the old family picture-gallery, and into Sir
Miles‘s ancient room at the end, which had been
left undisturbed, with the bed still in the angle;
on returning thence, Beck found himself in the
corridor which communicated with the principal
bedrooms, in which he had lost himself on the
night before. I _
“ And vot room he that vitb the httul vita
’ead h-over the door?" asked Beck, pointing to


1-10
ILLUSTRAVIVE EPISTLES.
the chamber from which Madame Dalibard had
emerged.
" That white head, Master Beck, is Floorer
the goddess; but a heathen like you knows
nothing about goddesses. Floorer has a half-
moon in her hair, you see, which shows that
the idolatrous Turks worship her, for the Turk-
ish flag is a half-moon, as I have seen at Con-
stantinople ! I have traveled, Master Beck.”
“ And Vot room be it 1." persisted Beck.
“ Why, the pretty young lady, Miss Mainwar-
ing, has it at present. There is nothing to see
in it. But that one opposite," and the valet
advanced to the door through which Madame
Dalibard had disappeared—'. that is curious;
and as madame is out, we may just take a peep."
He opened the door gently, and Beck looked in.
“This, which is called the turret-chamber, was
madame‘s when she was a girl, I have heard
Old Bessy say; so master pops her there now.
For my part, I'd rather sleep in your little crib,
than have those great, gruff-looking figures
staring at me by the tire-light, and shaking their
heads with every wind on a winter's night.”
And the valet took a pinch of snuff, as he drew
Beck‘s attention to the faded tapestry on the
walls. As they spoke, the draught between the
door and the window caused the gloomy arras
to wave with a life-like motion: and to those
more superstitious than romantic, the chamber
had certainly no inviting aspect.
“I never sees these old tapestry rooms,” said
the valet, “ without thinking of the story of the
lady who, coming from a ball and taking off her
jewels, happened to look up, and saw an eye in
one of the figures which she felt sure was no
peeper in worsted."
“ Vot vas it, thin l" asked Beck, timidly lilting
up the hangings, and noticing that there was a
considerable space between them and the wall,
which was filled up in part by closets and ward-
robes set into the wall, with intervals more
than deep enough for the hiding-place of a man.
" Why," answered the valet, “ it was a thief.
He had come for the jewels; but the lady had
the presence of mind to say aloud, as if to her-
self, that she had forgotten Something, slipped
out of the room, locked the door, called up the
servants, and the thief-who was no less a
person than the under-butler—was nabbed.”
“And the French ‘oman sleeps ’erel" said
Beck, musingly.
“French ’oman ! Master Beck, nothing’s so
vulgar as these nicknames, in a first-rate sitiva-
tion. It is all very well when one lives with
skinflinta; but with such a master as our‘n,
respect 's the go. Beside, madame is not a
French ’oman; she is one of the family—and
as old a family it is, too, as e’er a lord’s in the
three kingdoms. But come, your curiosity is
satisfied now, and you must trot back to your
horses.”
As Beck returned to the stables, his mind yet
more misgave him as to the criminal designs of
his master’s visitors. It was from Helen's room
that the false cripplc had walked. Helen, there-
fore, must no doubt be aware of the impostnre.
Now, the state of Percival’s heart could he no
secret in the servants’ hall; and while the men
united in praise of his supposed selection, the
women thought it would be a great catch, in-
deed for the young lady. That St. John, in

0
some way or other, was duped and deceived by
the whole party, was now Beck’s natural con-
viction. But how could he, as he had hoped,
frustrate their designsi—lhe pour stableman,
who only by chance ever gained access to the
part of the house inhabited by its heads, and
who, rarely even, unless expressly sent for,
came in sight of Percival himself?
The day passed without any other noticeable
occurrence. The doctor called, saw Helen,
slightly'altered his medicines (which on the
main were in conformity with the prescriptions
of the London physician), and was still sanguine
of success.
At the dead of night, when the house seemed
buried in sleep, Beck stole bare-shod from his
dormitory, and having now well impressed on
his memory the way he should take, crept into
the corner of the bed-chamber passage, and,
opening the cloth-door at the end, slunk behind
it, and there watched. About the same hour as
before, he saw the dark, undistinguishahle form
come, this time from Madame Dalibard‘s own
room, enter Helen‘s, stay there little more than
a moment, reappear, and again, dark and silent
as a moving cloud, vanish into the same cham-
ber from which it had come.
The brevity oftbis visit surprised the watcher.
\Vhat could the aunt have to say, that could be
said in so short a time! Satisfied, however, at
the result of his vigil, Beck retreated, and re-
gained his own bed in safety.
-—.___
CHAPTER XXII.
rnws'rnnrvn 371511.58.
Helen Mainwaring to the Rev. 1111'. Fieldm,
Dena into nosonsn ssumn : —Your last
letter reached me on the morning I left Lon-
don; and I kissed with grateful reverence
those affecting and holy passages in which
you soothe my wayward and childish melan-
choly, and encourage my heart in its struggle
toward serenity aud hope. Yes, indeed, I
have many causes for thankfulness to Heaven;
not the least, that in my giddier youth, Heaven
gave me its guide in you. How often, when
my wild fancy has built up a future, and said,
‘Snch shall be my l10me,’-how often, though
Itold not even to you my dreams, have you,
by soft, unexpected words, led me into snrer
paths, and given my soul a loftier impulse.
‘Not on earth, canst thou lay out the future——
not in time, canst thou erect a home !’-so,
listening to you, my heart would whisper, and,
calming back from its visions, it became still.
Then, that which I had called poetry, and
vainly sought to vent in idle fancies, and
worthless rhymes, changed its nature and
melted into religion. You know, how the
nierest forms of our faith affect me—the hell
tolling your little flock into the village church
—thc children‘s voices joining in the simple
hymn—those homely groups, scattered among
the graves after service, till your step came
forth, and your smile, fresh from the solemn
rite, rested on your humble ('hildren. Those
Sabbaths, how profoundly they impressed me.
How sensibly in those days, I felt beneath my
hushed footstep, the bridge between earth and
heaven. Such Sabbath: I have never known


148
ILLUSTRATIVE EPISTLES.
The only being to whom my aunt ever seems
to warm, is my cousin. Isee her eyes sparkle
when he enters. Her voice grows subdued
when she welcomes him; and she is so proud of
his genius! He has, no doubt, told you of his
late brilliant success. His book is always in
reach of my aunt‘s hand; yet it seems to me
strange that, considering her scorn of the
world's opinion, she exults more in the fame
the work has won, than in the merits of the
work itself Of those I am no judge—what
know I of the anxious questions which men
debate! All that I can comprehend are peace,
and love, and beauty. But when amid pages
that appeal in vain to my feeble reason—some
thought, warm with lofty hope and benevolent
aspiration glows forth, oh! then my eyes are
suffused with sweet tears—and I, too, grow
proud in my dear cousin‘s fame. In him, I am
sometimes startled to think—in him, my imagi-
nation lives rnore titan in my noble Percival.
He attracts toward himself that mystic part of
my being—I unite tny fancies, poor visionary
that I am, with his genius—his career. Howl
wish I were his sister, or that I had a sister,
whose fate was bound up in his—to smile on
him through his rough ordeal, bear with him
his hard privations; listen to his hopes—and
share in the triumph—that I know (as by an
unmistakable intuition) his destinies must corn-
mand! So sometimes, as if there were tWo
separate beings within me-while my heart is
at borne with Percival, calm, faithful, and con-
tent, my unquiet thought wanders abroad with
Ardworth; and only in prayer—I unite them
both! But I am at Laughton, which you re-
member, and have often described to me, by
our fireside, or in our village rambles! Ah, if
ever indeed this be my home, how I shall long
to welt-nine you here, and learn from your own
lips how sweet duties may be best fulfilled! It
is natural that this place should have grown
into my love, as if it were a living thing. If
Pereival's home were the rudest cottage, it
would be the same. It is not, you well know,
that the old mansion is grander than your little
Helen, ever found before, out of her fairy tales
—but that here there is a link itself, between
the mansion and the cottage. Percival‘s whole
thought St'BITIS to make those around him happy
-—to relieve the sharpness of the contrast be-
tween poverty and wealth, toil and case. It
seems as if, could you destroy the mansion,
you would invade the cottage. No pnnury is
visible here; one home is humbler than an-
other, but each owner seems equally to have
what he has been bred and nurtured to value
most. And there is an intimacy far beyond
mere condescension and respect, which unites
all that dtvell in this happy place. \Ve enter
some cottage and talk with its owners, as if at
home. Every want is told as to a friend.
Percival‘s wealth seems but a trust held for
the common use. Home a kind of religion
breathes around inc—and good is the atmos-
phere of the place. I-Iis mother—they so love
her! Ah, will that mother be ever mine?
What have I done to merit such a lot! That
tltought alone would disquiet me with humble
doubt in so blest a future. My beloved guardi-
an, do not chide me, if I own, that, struggle as
I Will to obey you, and chase those forebodings

which you rebuke, from my mind—they will
return—they will haunt me! If under your
roof, when my health was so unbroken—when
the cold never seemed to chill, nor the heat to
fever—my eyes in the burst of spring would
wander from the budding leaves, and the dawn-
ing flowers—to rest upon that spot on the land-
scape, where, amid the gloomy evergreens, rose
the distant graves—if, ev‘en then, no talk, no
book, no theme was so cherished. as those
which transported the idea beyond the tomb—-
and my heart fled to the dark bourne as a bird
to its nest :-—if even then thus were the im-
pulses that I could not control, is it so strange
that they should move me now! For truly it
is a strange disease that has fastened upon
me. I suffer little pain. I can detail no pre-
cise complaint, but strength and life are ebbing
from me, day by day. Well, ifit must be so—
if the foreboding I can not check, be but the
heavenly summons—kindly meant to detach
the chains that bind me too much to the earth,
I am doode to leave—let me die at least, with
all my life of life undcstroyed; before my errors
have made me one foe, before one grief has
weakened my trust in God, or one deceit my
belief in burnan hearts !— loving all things, let
me fade into the source of love! Above, per-
haps, what here dwells within me incomplete,
may find development and scope—and my own
soul, now dim and troubled, grow clear to me,
in the smile of God. To our reunion—If I go
before you, to your reunion, O my earthly father.
HELII.
Letter from John Ardworlh to the Ru).
M. Futilen.
\Vhen, dear-friend and tutor—in my moody
and fretful boyhood—you bade me. reluctantly,
lay aside Newton and Tlrucydides, and wall:
out with you—when, making me observe, in
the great system of nature, how all things wait-
ed their allotted time—how the withered herb-
age tarried forthe spring, and the blade of corn
for the autumn harvest, you impressed on me
the law of Pursues—you little knew, perhaps,
the ungraeious soil on which the lesson was
imprinted, or how much the impetuous rebell-
ion within me resisted the curb imposed. When,
growing older and more sensible of those Eleu-
sinia that lurk under the plain doctrines of
Christian faith, you explained to me how won-
derfully harmonious to the systems which per-
vade the universe are the injunctions ot that re-
ligion so unspeakably wise—how in what seem
at first but duties to God, in obedience to direct
commands, dwells a philosophy best adapted to
educate mind to the utmost, and mature all the
nobler faculties; how in faith, as an essential
habit of the reverent intellect, we keep alive,
through all the deceits and disappointments of
life, belief not only in a divine future, but in the
inherent good and improvahility of men, who
with us are destined to that future; and so, still
linking us with our fellows, make our efforts
cheerful, give impetus to our powers, and prac-
tical goals to our ambition; how, in patience
under trial and suffering, we purge our passions
oftheirdelusions, and silently completethe man-
hood within us by its hardy and hopeful war with
adverse fortune; even then you little guessed
how reluctantly I admitted your arguments and


ILLUSTRATIVE EPISTLES.
I49
yielded to their truth. But, Heaven be praised,
the lessons took root at last. If my dreams of
the future ever are fulfilled, I owe it to those
precepts which warmed stoicism into Christi-
anity. and gave more than the authority of
Epictetus to the twofold aphorism—“ Bear and
forbear."
Since I wrote last, I have known two great
trials—a success for the intellect, a Woe for the
heart. I have applied to earthly practice the
two divine tenets, and I have come at last calm
through both. More strong, if more sad, I go
on, up the toll of my career. And at the mo-
ment when perhaps my fontstcp was least
steady, a great good has hefallcn me. Mists
that for an instant bewildered me, have van-
ished from the past. Knowing now what and
whoI am, I can measure better the path to
What I would he.
Among my late trials, one thought. that per-
haps excited the to that convulsive and erratic
eflbrt Which has given an episode of crude ce-
lebrity to the Slt'l'llt'l" epic, which the life of a
man, seeking tiue distinction and utility, should
be—one thought. that most excited and onset-
tled, rose from the doubt Willl'll your written
narrative respecting my hirtli naturally instilled.
Was I at once latheih'ss and nalnci'rss? one of
those outcasts from the pale of Law “hunt I.
myselfa lawyer, was taught by all artin'ce to
exclude! 'l'hat doubt has vanished. Long
and painful is the history you Will hear from
my lips, or aiioilicr‘s, from whom the tale more
appropriately may come. As soon as I have
completed a certain mission that I have under-
taken, I Will come to your quiet roof, and, as
in the old days, when alter bewildering my con-
victions hy the jargon of metaphysical specula-
tions, 1 hiirst rudely into your little study and
cried—“ Lay aside your Greek poets, shut up
your Bi'ausobre-Jl‘cll me whence idea comes,
and what his is!“ so, now again, I will pour
out all the late troubles of my breast, happy to
be a child at your knees once more.
You ask me meaningly, it I know Percival
St. John, and what l'ihink of him! 'l‘hose
questions are so interwoven with your theme
of Helen, that you betray at once the secret of
your interest. Let. your fears cease; Helen
has obtained one worthy of her. You know
how hard I find it to admire my cotempora-
ries. This Percival, a mere boy, unlearned as
he is, I do more than admire—l reverence him.
Out of his frank youth shines, like a visible be-
ing, manly honor. I strive—I, hard, laborious
workman—after some distant good. He stands
before me like good itself. You Will know,
when we meet, what trust to give to these
words from my lips.- Yes, he. and he only, is
Worthy that angel child. How youth becomes
them both! What pity that they should ever
row old! She, with her poet-soul—hc, with
is human heart—the Psyche and the Eros!
No; ambition. and care, and age are not meant
for them ! Adieu, Ever your grateful pupil,
Gray's Inn, October, 1831. Joan Asowoa'rn.


Letter from Gabriel Varnry to —- .*
Dull living in the country, dear ; sad
waste of the hours which never return ! I am

" This letter is addressed to one of Vurney‘s l'nuiilinr
mqunlntnnevs, an usmclate in his more vciiiiil vices, but
wtw'ly unacunan with his darker crhnea.

quite of young Rapid's philosophy—J Push on,
keep moving!'-—the better fit for our steam-
carriage, railway, company b'nbble-times! Life,
old fellow, is a shuttlecock, brisk and soaring
enough when in the full excitement of a brace
of hattledorcs, but only a cork and a few rag-
ged feathers when it takes am of repose! -\
line place this, ofmy friend Percival St. John's !
lspi-nt my boyhood here; and dull as it is now,
I should not dislike it for a piCIl-iIC-Itrl’t. with
half-a-dozen friends like yourself, half-a-dozen
lasses like Celeste, and wine and dice as our
pis-aller. But you never saw wealth so thrown
away as on this young gentleman! Ah! if
that wealth were mine for a year, how the
gossips should talk, and the grave bigots shru
up their shoulders! Do you know, ;'I
have always been gnawed with the longing to
be rich enough, though only for a year-to let
my desires loose in the space of one of those
colossal fortunes, which humble, by contrast,
the paltry extravagances of us poor vauriens to
the dust. Somehow_or other, I am always a
millionaric in fancy. I run riot in luxuries,
when I sit alone smoking my cigar—then comes
a d dun, and all my wits are set to work to
pay for a miserable pair of vanished boots!
How can a man‘s genius grow up lustily in such
a crihbed little flowerpot! You must give
room to the roots of a sickly orange-tree: but
fate never widens the tub in which man’s
genius is once set! Apropos, that cursed wine
merchant is insolent—pressing! call and tell
him accidenily that I am hand in glove with
young St. John,just coming of age, and with
cellars as vast as the catacombs! What the
devil are these rich friends good for, if not to
prop up one's credit! Don't you miss me in
B * * * * St. l—Who consoles little Julie !—
By the way, Sophy writes me a sermon. Tell
her that I am very much flattered if] have
really ‘brokon her heart and ruined her peace.’
When a man is past forty, such reproaches are
very complimentary! You set my teeth on
edge by your stupid praise of M——’s last ar-
ticle. I am not jealous—not I. But when I
know what is in me, and hear boobies like you
prate of a sublime picture by Martin, or abril-
liant composition by Donizetti, or M—’s
wonderful essay in the Edinburgh, my gorge
rises. What a hard lot is mine, -—! At
Rome, C——i would stand for hours before
my easel. At Berlin, S-—g would select me
from all the samm to discuss metaphysics.
Rossini has called me his future successor.
And with all these gifts, I stand barren and 0b-
scure in this damuable atmosphere of chance
and cant. Oh, but they say, ' He wants appli-
cation!’ Yes, because I have a gentleman’s
spirit, and must enjoy life. Application ! merit
of blockheads! No, my star shall shine out
yet! Mine be the hold, the rapid, the startling
inspirations of wit or fortune, no mattcr which!
‘The world‘s mine oyster, which I with sword
Will open.’ There‘s a long letter for you ! It
has done me good, for I was horribly hipped
when I sat down to write. Now I have coax-
ed myself into thinking of the lost time I shall
have to regain when Isee you all once more.
What toasts, andwhat songs, and whatdark-eyed
glances! Oh, yes ! all this is nznenary to me;


land for all this, a still, small voice whispers,


150
MORE OF MRS. JOPLIN.
Money, money, money, Gabriel Varney !’
D—n it, —, money we tnust have, that’s poz!
Tout d not“,
And a fig for the commander's statue of stone!
Dos J on.
_—__.__
CHAPTER XXIII.
ment: or IRS. JOPLIN.
Our: day, at the hour of noon, the court boast-
ing the tall residence oer. Grabman, was start-
led from the quiet usually reigning there at broad
daylight, by the appearance oftwo men, evident-
1y no inhabitants of the place. The squalid,
ill-favored denizens, lounging before tlte doors,
stared hard; and, at the fuller view of one of
the men, most of them retreated hastily within.
Then, in those houses, you might have heard
a murmur of consternation and alarm. The
ferret was in the burrow-a Bow-street officer
in the court! The two men paused, looked
round, and, stopping before the dingy tower-like
house, selected the hell which appealed to the
inmates of the ground floor, to the left. At
that summons, Bill the cracksman imprudently
presented a full view ofhis countenance through
his barred window; he drew it back with as-
tonishing celerity; but not in time to escape
the eye of the Bow-street runner.
“ Open the door, Bill—there's nothing to
fear-I have no summons against you, 'pon
honor. You know I never deceive. Why
should I 1 Open the door, I say !"
No answer.
The officer tapped with his cane at the foul
Window.
"Bill! there’s a gentleman who comes to
you for information, and he will pay for it hand-
somely."
Bill again appeared at the casement, and
peeped forth, very cautiously through the bars.
‘ Bless my vitals, Mr. R—! and it is you,
is it? “hot were you saying about 'paying
handsomely ’l’ "
“ That your evidence is wanted—not against
a pal, man. It will hurt no one, and put at
least five guineas itt your pocket."
“ Ten gttineas !" said the Bow-street officer’s
companion.
“ You he's a man of 'onor, Mr. R— I" ,said
Bill, emphatically ; “ and I scorns to doubt you
-—so here goes.”
With that, he withdrew from the window,
and in another minute or so the door was open-
ed, and Hill, with a superb bow, asked his vis-
itors into his room.
In the interval, leisure had been given to the
crackstnan to remove all trace of the wonted
educational employment ofhis hopeful children.
The urchins were seated on the floor, playing
at push-pin; and the Bow-street officer he-
nignly patted a pair of curly heads as he passed
them, drew a chair to the table, and, wiping
his forehead, sat dovvn, quite at home. Bill
then deliberately seated himself, and, unhutton-
ing his waistcoat, permitted the butt-ends of a
brace of pistols to be seen by his guests. Mr.
R’s companion seemed very unmoved by this
significant action. He bent one inquiring,
steady look on the cracksman, which, as Bill
afterward said, went through him ‘liko a gim~

let through a panny,’ and, taking out a purse
through the net-work of which the sovereigns
gleamed pleasantly, placed it on the table, and
said :
“ This purse is yours, if you will tell me what
has become of a woman named Joplin, with
whom you left the village of——, in Lanca-
sltire, in the year 18—."
"And," put in Mr. R-—, “ the gentleman
wants to know, with no view of harming the
woman. It will be to her owa advantage to
let us know where she is."
“ ’Pon onor, agin 'l” said Bill.
“ 'Pon honor !”
“Well, then, I has a heart in my buzzom,
and if so he I can do a good turn to the 'oman
wotql has loved—and kep company with,—why
not ."
“ Why not, indeed 1." said Mr. R——. “ And
as we want to learn, not only what has become
of Mrs. Joplin, but what site did with the child
she carried off from —, begin at the begin-
ning. and tell us all you know.”
Bill mused. ‘
“ How much is there in the pus 'l"
“ Eighteen sovereigns."
“ Make it twenty—you nod—twenty then 1.—
a bargain! Now, I‘ll go on right ahead. You
sees as how, some months arter wc—that is,
Peggy Joplin and self, left —, I was put in
quod in Lancaster jail—so I lost sight of the
blowen. “"hen Igot out, and came to Lunnon
—it was a matter of seven year, afore, all of
a sudding, I come hang up agin her—at the cor-
ner of Common Garden. ‘Why, Billt' says
she. WVhy, Peggy !’ says l—and we bussed
each other like wiuky. ‘ Shall us come togeth-
er agin '4’ says she. ‘Why, no,’ says I—' I has
a wife wots a good un—and gets hcr bread by
setting up as a widder with seven small chil-
dren ! By-the-by, Peg, what‘s a come of your
brat?‘—for, as you says, sir, Peg had a child
put out to her to nurse. Lor! how she cufl'ed
it l ‘The brat !' says she. laughing like mad—-
‘Oh, I got rid 0' that, when you were in jail,
Bill.’ ' As howl‘ says I. ‘Vt’hy, there was a
woman begging agin St. Poll‘s churchyard—so
l purtonded to see a frind at a distance—"old
the babby a moment,” says I, puffing and pant-
ing—'whilel ketches my friend yonder.’ So
she 'olds the brat, and I never sees it agin ,—
and there's an ind of the bother l’ ‘ But won't
they ever art for the child—them as giv‘ it you 1.’
‘Oh, no,’ says Peg, ‘they left it too long for
that, and all the tin was a-gone ; and one rnoutb
is hard enough to feed in these daysl—let by
other folks' bantlings.’ ‘ \Vell,’ says I, 'where
do you hang out 1 I’ll pop in, in a friendly way.‘
So she tells me—som'arc in Lambeth, I forgets
bexacltly—and tnany'a the good piece of work
we ha‘ done togither."
" And where is she now i" asked Mr. R—‘s
companion.
“ I doesn‘t know purcisely, but I can corn’ at
her: you see, when my poor wife died, four
year oom‘ Cltris‘mas, and left me with as tine
a famuly, tho' I says it, as bold King Georgy
himself walked afore, with his gold-’eaded cane,
on the terrisat Vindsor,all heightsantl allh-ages,
to the hobby in arms (for the littel on there
warn't above a year old, and had been a-brot'ght
up upon spoon-meat), with a dash o’ blue-ruin


THE SHADES ON ,THE DIAL.
151
to make him slim and ginteel; as for the big-
ger uns wot you don‘t see, they be doin‘ well
In forin parts, Mr. R——.'
Mr. R—-— smiled, significantly.
And Bill resumed. “Where was I! Oh,
when my Wife died, I wanted sum on to take
care of the childern, so I takes Peg into the
’ous. But lor! how she larrupped ’em—she
has a cruel heart—hasn’t she, Bob! Bob is a
cute child, Mr. R—. Just as I was a-think-
ing of turning her out neck an‘ crop, a gemman
what lodges aloft, what he a laryer, and what
had just saved my nick, Mr. R—--, by proving
a h-alibi, said, ‘ That’s a tidy body, your Peg l‘
(for you see he was often a-wisiting here, an‘
h-indeed, sin' thin, he has taken our third floor,
No. 9). ‘ l‘ve bin 21 speakin‘ to her, and I find
she has been a nuss to the sick. I has a frind
wot‘s a h-uncle that’s ill; can you spare her,
Bill, to attind him!’ That I can, says I, any
thing to obleege. So Peg packs ofl‘ bag and
baggidge.”
“And what was the sick gentleman‘s name i”
asked Mr. R—‘s companion.
“ It was one Mr. Warney. a painter, wot lived
at Clap'am. Since thin I‘ve lost sight of Peg;
for we had 'igh Words about the childern—and
she‘s a spiteful 'oman. But you can larn where
she be at Mr. \Varney‘s—if so be he‘s still
above ground.”
“ And did this woman still go by the name
of Joplin i"
Bill grinned. “ She warn't such a spooney
as that—that name was in your black books too
much, Mr. R——, for a 'spcctable nuss for sick
bodies ; no, she was then called Martha Skeggs,
what was her own mother's name afurc mar-
ridge. Any thing more, gcmmen 1."
“I am satisfied." said the younger visitor,
rising; “ there is the purse, and Mr. R— will
bring you ten sovereigns in addition. Good-day
to you."
Bill, with superabundant bows and flourishes,
showed his visitors out, and then, in high glee,
he began to romp with his children; and the
whole family circle was in a state of nproarious
enjoyment, when the door flew open, and in en-
tered Grabman, his brief-bag in hand, dust-soil-
ed, and unshaven.
“A-ha, neighbor} your servant—your ser-
vant—just come back! always so merry—for
the life of me, I couldn’t help looking in ! Dear
me, Bill! why you are in luck !" and Mr. Grab-
mnn pointed to a pile of sovereigns which Bill
had emptied from the purse to count over, and
weigh on the tip of his forefinger.
“ Yes," said Bill, sweeping the gold into his
corduroy pocket; “ and who do you think
brought me these shinersl Why, who but
old Peggy, the ’oman wot you put out at
Clap'am."
“ Well, never mind Pegb , now, Bill ; Iwant
to ask you what you have done with Margaret
Joplin-Whom, sly scducer that you are, you
carried off from-—-"
“ Why, man, Peggy he Joplin, and Joplin be
Peggy! and it’s for that piece of noos, that I
got all them pretty new picters of his majesty,
Bill, my namesake, God hliss ‘im !”
“ D—n," exclaimed Grahman, aghast ; “ the
young chap's spoiling my game again!" And
seizing up his brief-bag, be darted out of the

house, in the hope to arrive, at least, athlap
ham before his competitors.
. _ _.__
CHAPTER XXIV.
'm: SHADES on Tue out.
Tne following morning was, indeed, eventful
to the family at Laughton; and, as if conscious
of what it brought forth, it rose dreary and
sunless; one heavy mist covered all the land-
scape, and a raw drizzling rain fell pattering
through the yellow leaves.
Madame Dalibard, pleading her infirmities,
rarely left her room before noon, and Varney
professed himself very irregular in his hours of
rising; the breakfast, therefore, afforded no
social assembly to the family, but each took that
meal in the solitude of his or her own chamber.
Percival, in whom all habits partook of the
healthfnlness and simplicity of his character,
rose habitually early ; and that day, in spite ot
the weather, walked forth betimes to meet the
person charged with the letters from the post.
He had done so for the last three or {our days,
impatient to hear from his mother, and calcu-
lating that it was full time to receive the ex-
pected answer to his confession and his prayer.
He met the messenger at the bottom of the
park, not far from Guy's Oak. This day he
was not disappointed. The letter~bag contain-
ed three letters for himself, two with the foreign
post-mark—the third in ArdWorth's hand. It
contained also a letter for Madame Dalibard,
and two for Varney.
Leaving the messenger to take these last to
the hall, Percival, with his own prizes, plunged _
into the hollow of the glen before him, and,
seating himselfat the foot oquy‘s Oak, through
the vast branches of which the rain scarcely
came, and only in single, mournful drops, he
opened first the letter in his mother's hand,
and read as follows :—
“ My dear, dear son,—How can I express to
you the alarm your letter has given to me l So
these then, are the new relations you have dis-
covered! ! fondly imagined that you were al-
luding to some of my own family, and conjec-
turing who among my many cousins could have
so captivated your attention. These the new
relations! ‘Lucretia Dalibard—Helen Mainwar-
ing; Percival, do you not know— No, you
can not know—that Helen Mainwaring is the
daughter ofa disgraced man—0f one who (more
than suspected of fraud in the bank in which
he was a partner) left his country, condemned
even by his own father. Ifyou doubt this, you
have but to inquire at * * * *, not ten miles
from Laughton, where the elder Mainwaring
resided. Ask there, what became of William
Mainwaring ! And Lucretia, you do not know
that the dying prayer of her uncle, Sir Miles
St. John, was that she might never enter the
house he bequeathed to your father. Not till
after my poor Charles‘s death did I know the
exact cause of Sir Miles's displeasure, though
confident it wasjust; but then among his pa-
pers I found the ungrateful letter which betray—
ed thoughts so dark, and passwns so im-
womanly, that I blushed for my sex to read it.-
Could it be possible that that poor old man's
prayers were unheeded—that that treacherous


THE SHADES ON THE DIAL.
153
and leading him into the garden, said, after a!
painful pause, l
“ Yarncy, Iam about to ask you two ques-l
tions, which your close connection with Ma-l
dame Dalihard may enable you to answer; but '
in which, from obvious motives, I must demand 1
the strictest confidence. You will not hint to'
her or to Helen what I am about to say !"
Varney stared uneasily on Percival's serious
countenance, and gave the promise required.
“ First, then, for what otI‘ense was Madame
Dalibard expelled her uncle’s house—this house
of Laughton!
'“ Secondly, what is the crime with which
Mr. Mainwaring, Helen's father, is charged 1"
“ With regard to the first," said Varncy, re-
covering his composure, “I thought I had al-
ready told you that Sir Miles was a proud man,
and that, in consequence of discovering a girl-
ish flirtation between his niece Lucretia (now
Madame Dalibard) and Mainwaring, who after-
ward jilted her for Ilclen's mother, he altered
his will-‘expelled her his house.’ is too harsh
a phrase. This is all Iknow. With regard to
the second question, no crime was ever brought
home to \Villiam Mainwaring. He was sus-
pected of dealing improperly with the funds of
the bank, and be repaid the alledged deficit by
the sacrifice of all he possessed."
“ This is the truth I” exclaimed Percival,
joyfully.
“The plain truth, I belietje; but why these
questions at this moment. Ah, you too, I see,
have had letters—I understand! Lady Mary
gives these reasons for withholding her con-
sent.” '
“ Her consent is not withheld," answered
Percival; ubut, shall I own it l—rememher, I
have your promise not to wound and otl'end
Madame Dalihard by the disclosure: my moth-
er does refer to the subjects above alluded to,
and Captain Greville, my old friend and tutor,
is on his way to England—perhaps, to-morrow
he may arrive at Laughton."
" Ha !" said Varney, startled—“ to-morrow !
--and what sort of man is this Captain Gre-
ville 'i"
"The best man possible for such a case as
mine—kind-hearted, yet cool, sagacious, the
finest observer, the quickest judge of character
—nothing escapes him. Oh, one interview will
suflice to show him all Helen's innocent and
matchless excellence !"
“ To-morrow ! this man comes to-moriow !"
"All that lfear is—for he is rather rough
and blunt in his manner—all that I fear is, his
first surpnse—and, dare I say, displeasure, at
seeing this poor Madame-Dalibard, whose faults,
I fear, were graver than you suppose, at the
house from which her uncle—to whom, indeed,
I owe this inheritance—”
"I see—l see !" interrupted Varney, quickly.
“And Madame Dalibard is the most suscepti-
ble of women-so well born, and so poor, so
gifted, and so helpless—it is natural. Can you
not write, and put of!“ this Captain Greville for
a few days ‘1 until, indeed, I can find some ex-
cuse for terminating our visit."
“But my letter may be hardly in time to
reach him; he may be in town to-day."
“ Go then to town at once; you can be back
late at night, or at least to-morrow. Any thing

better than wounding the pride ofa woman, on
whom, after all, you must depend for free and
open intercourse with Helen."
“ That is exactly what I thought of; but what
excuse!—-"
“Exeuse !—a thousand! Every man com-
ing of age into such a property, has business
with his lawyers; or why not say simply that
you want to meet a friend of yours, who has
just left your mother in ltalyl—in short, any
excuse suffices, and none can be ufil‘nsive.”
"I Will order my carriage instantly.”
“Right!” exclaimed Varney; and his eye
followed the receding form of Percival with a
mixture of fierce exultation and anxious fear.
Then turning,r toward the window ofthe turret-
chamhcr, in which Madame Dalihard reposed,
and seeing it still closed, he muttered an impa-
tient oath; but even while he did so, the shut-
ters were slowly opened, and a footman, step-
ping from the porch, approached Varney with
a message, that Madame Dalibnrd would see
him in five minutes, if he Would then have the
goodness to ascend to her room.
Before that time was- well expired, Varney
was in the chamber. Madame Dalibartl was
up, and in her chair; and the unwanted joy
which her countenance evinced, was in strong
contrast with the somber shade upon her son-
in-law's brow, and the nervous quiver of his
lip. ,
“ Gabriel," she said, as he drew near to her,
“my son is found !"
“I know it,” he answered, petulantly.
“ You !--from whom!
“ From Grabman."
“And I from a still better authority—n'om
\‘Valter Ardworth himself! He lives; he will
restore my child !" She extended a letter
while she spoke. He, in return, gave her, not
that still crumbled in his hand, but one which
he drew from his breast. These letters sev~
erally occupied both, begun and finished almost
in the same moment.
That from Grabman ran thus :—
“DEAR Imam—Toss up your hat, and cry
hip-hip! At last, from person to person, I have
tracked the lost Vincent Braddell, He lives
still! \Ve can maintain his identity ingany
court of law. Scarce in time for the post, I
have not a moment for further particulars. I
shall employ the next two days in reducing all
the evidence to a regular digest, which I will
dispatch to you. Meanwhile, prepare, as soon
as may be, to put me in possession of my fee,
£5000, and my expedition merits something
more. - Yours,
“ NICHOLAS GRABMAN.”
The letter from Ardworth was no less posi-
tive :—
“ Manson—In obedience to the commands of
a dying friend, I took charge of his infant, and
concealed its existence from his mother—your-
self. On returning to England, I need not say
that l was not unmindful oi~ my trust. Your
son lives; and, after mature reflection, I have
resolved to restore him to your arms. In this
I have been decided by what I have heard from
one whom I can trust, of your altered habits,
your decorous life, your melancholy infirmities,
and the generous protection you have guien to


154
THE SHADES ON THE DIAL.
the orphan of my poor cousin Susan, my old
friend Mainwaring. Alfred Braddell himself, if
it be permitted to him to look down and read
my motives, will pardon me, I venture to feel
assured, this departure from his injunctions.
Whatever the faults which displeased him, they
have been amply chastised; and your son, grown
to man, can no longer be endangered by exam-
ple, in tending the couch or soothing the repent-
ance, of his mother.
“ These words are severe; but you will par-
don them in him who gives you back your child.
I shall venture to wait on you in person, with
such proofs as may satisfy you as to the iden-
tity ofyour son. I count on arriving at Laugh-
ton to-morrow. Meanwhile, I simply sign my-
self hy a name in which you will recognize the
Itinsman to one branch of your family, and the
friend of your dead husband,
“ J. Warn-en Annwon'rn.
“Craven Hotel, October, 1831."
“ Well! and you are not rejoiced !“ said Lu-
cretia, gazing surprised on Varney’s sullen and
unsyinpathizing face.
“ No! because time presses—because, even
while discovering your son you may fail in se-
curing his heritage—heoause, in the midst of
your triumph, I see Newgate opening to my-
self! Look you! I, too, have had my news—
lcss pleasing titan yours. This Stubmore (curse
him!) writes me word that he shall certainly
be in town next month at farthest, and that he
meditates, immediately on his arrival, transfer-
ring the legacy from the Bank of England to an
excellent mortgage of which he has heard.
Were it not for this scheme of ours, nothing
would be left for me but flight and exile '."
“A month !—-that is a long time. Do you
think, now that my son is found, and that son
one like John Ardworth (for there can be no
doubt that my surmise was right), with genius
to make station the pedestal to the power I
dreamed of in my youth, but which my sex for-
bade me to attain--do you think I will keep
him a month from his inheritance! Before the
month is out you shall replace what you have
taken, and buy your trustee’s silence, if needs
be, q'ther from the sums you have insured or
from the rents of Laughton."
“Lucretia!” said Varney, whose fresh color
had grown livid, “what is to be done must be
done at once! Percival St. John has heard
from his mother. Attend !” And Varney_rap'
idly related the questions St. John had put to
him, the dreaded arrival of Captain Greville,
the danger of so keen an observer—the neces-
sity, at all events, of abridging their visit—the
urgency of hastening the catastrophe to its
close.
Lucretia listened in ominous and steadfast
silence.
“ But," she said, at last, “ you have persuad-
ed St. John to give this man the meeting in
London—to put off his visit for the time ! St.
John will return to us to-rnorrow. Well! and
if he finds his Helen is no more—grief some-
times kills the mourner suddenly!"
“ Yet, yet, this rapidity, if necessary, is peril-
ous. Nothing in Helen's state forebodes sudden
death by natural means. The strangeness of
We deaths—both so young—Greville in Eng-

land, if not here—hastening doWn to examtnc,
to inquire, with such prepossessions against
you: there must be an inquest l" .
" Well, and what can be discovered! It was
I who shrunk before—it is I who urge now dis-
patch. I feel as in my proper home in these
balls. I Would not leave them again but to my
grave! I stand on the hearth of my youth. I
fight for my rights, and my son‘s. Perish those
who oppose me !"
A fell energy and power were in the aspect
ofthe murderess as site thus spoke; and while
her determination awed the inferior villainy of
Varney, it served somewhat to mitigate his
fears.
As in more detail they began to arrange their
execrahle plans, Percival, while the horses
were being harnessed to take him to the near-
est post-town, sought Helen, and found her in
the little chamber Which he had described and
appropriated as her own, when his fond fancy
had sketched the fair outline of the future.
This room had been originally fitted up for
the private devotions of the Roman Catholic
wife of an ancestor, in the reign of Charles IL;
and in a recess, half-veiled by a curtain, there
still stood that holy symbol, which, whether
Protestant or Roman Catholic, no one sincerely
penetrated with the solemn pathos of sacred
history can behold unmoved—the Cross of the
Divine agony. Before this holy symbol, Helen
stood in earnest reverence. She did not kneel
(for lhe forms of the religion in which she had
been reared were opposed to that posture of
worship before the graven image), but you
could see in that countenance, eloquent at once
with the enthusiasm and the meekness of piety,
that the soul was filled with the memories and
the hopes, which, age after age, have consoled
the sufferer, and inspired the martyr. The
soul knelt to the idea, if the knee bowed not to
the image. embracing the tender grandeur of
the sacrifice, and the vast inheritance opened
to faith in the Redemption.
The young man held his breath while he
gazed. He was moved, and he was awed.
Slowly Helen turned toward him, and, smiling
sweetly, held out to him her hand. They seated
themselves in silence in the depth of the over-
hanging casement, and the mournful character
of the scene without, where, dimly through the
misty rains, gloomed the dark foliage of the
cedars, made them insensibly draw closer to
each other, in that instinct of love when the
World frowns around it. Percival wanted the
courage to say that he had come to take fare-
well, though but for a day, and Helen spoke
first.
" I can not guess why it is, Percival, but I
am startled at the change I feel in myself—no,
not in health, dear Percival, I mean in mind—
during the last few months; since, indeed, we
have known each other. I remember so well
the morning in which my aunt‘s letter arrived
at the dear vicnrage. We were returning from
the village fair, and my good guardian was
smiling at my notions of the World. I was then
so giddy, and light, and thoughtless—every
thing presented itself to me in such gay colors,
I scarcely believed in sorrow—I forgot that to
all life there is a grave. And now I feel as it
I were awakened to a truer sense of nature—of


156
MURDER, TOWARD HIS DESIGN,
der anywhere rather than to that crippled and
helpless kinswoman, who could not rise from
her bed without aid.
And, hitherto, so gradually had the poison
been administered—so well had it feigned the
fluctuating progress of some natural malady,
that suspicion could scarcely enter into the
mind of the most suspicious. professional at-
tendant; all moral evidence would have re-
pelled it. She, Helen Mainwaring, surrounded
only by kindred and love, she marked out for
revenge, seemingly without cause, the victim
of schemes traceable to no object, who could
harbor so monstrous an ideal ’
But now this patience was to be abandoned,
the folds of the serpent were to coil in one
fell clasp upon its prey. It became difficult, as
Varney had observed, to give to a sudden death,
for which no previous symptoms had prepared
the way, the likeness of natural disease. Yet
that difficulty had been foreseen; in the chances
of this desperate game the probable expediency
ofsome stroke more prompt and abrupt than at
first contemplated, had not been overlooked by
calculators so cold-blooded and resolved. Of
our mortal diseases that which assails us,
young and old. with the least forewarning, is
the terrible agma pectoris. Its causes are often
unseen, its approach undivined by the leach who
attends us daily. The simulation, or artifical
production, of this disease, was among those
we have cited as the masterpieces of Dalibard's
devilish art. And the ingredients from which
to obtain it were now prepared. Even in case
ofsurgical examination, the fatal seizure Would
seem accounted for, by the appearance of the
heart‘s muscular substance, which the previous
poisons had effected, paling its hues and soft-
ening its fibers. And though that mortal mal-
ady is more common in middle age than youth
—more common still in men than in females—
still, instances enow of its occurrence in per-
sons of nervous temperament, and affected
easily by mental emotions (no matter what
the age or sex), could be found in medical ex-
porience, to authorize the verdict of “Natural
Death."
Fiend as Lucretia had become, and hardened
as were all her resolves by the discovery of her
son, and her impatience to endow him with her
forfeited inheritance, she yet shrank from the
face of Helen that day; on the excuse of ill-
ness, she kept her room, and admitted only
Varney, who stole in from time to time, with
creeping step and haggard countenance, to sus-
tain her courage or his own. And every time
he entered, he found Lucretia sitting with Wal-
ter Ardworth's open letter in her hand, and
turning with a pretcrnatural excitement, that
seemed almost like aberration of mind, from
the grim and horrid topic which he invited, to
thohghts of wealth. and power, and triumph,
and exulting prophecies of the fame her son
should achieve ;-—he looked but on the black-
ness of the gulf, and shuddered; her vision
overleaped it, and smiled on the misty palace
her fancy built beyond.
Not displeased to be so left alone, that day,
to her own thoughts, Helen passed the hours
tid night. And what were those thoughts!
Perhaps, as in some natural diseases, the im-
agination takes higher flights, or the very reasun

acquires a more lucid clearncss, so the opera
tion of the deadly drugs might have had an ef-
fect upon the lofticr organs of the brain; but,
in the complete solitude in which the greater
part of that day was passed, Helen’s reverie:
took a snblimer character than had ever been
imparted to them before. Even her tenderness
for Percival arose far and far above the senti~
merit, pure and noble as it had ever been, with
which his image had heretofore been cherish-
ed ; it became unspeakany solemn ; it ceased,
wholly and abruptly, to mingle with the pros
pects of earth. In a kind of ecstasy, or vision,
she seemed to see his Future spread before
her, in its various revolutions of thought and
action ; saw him in his useful manhood—in his
declining age; stooped over his bed of death,
and heard the knell tolling for his grave. Yet
even in these darker visions, there seemed n0
sorrow. She saw herself, as it were, living
with him, yet detached from life; not as one
dead, but one whom no death could reach ;--
hovering over him, whispering, soothing, enno-
bling, elevating, as waiting for indissuluhle
union. Then, at moments, that genius within
her, which had never found audible voice or
fitting sphere, seemed to commune with her as
a separate being from herself. It became a dis-
tinct and living thing; it penetrated her soul
with a language, not of words, but of Wordless
melodies. And on that music, as on what the
Germans so beautifully call the “ tone-ladder,"
or scale of sound, she seemed borne aloft, step
after step, till, like some mighty landscape from
a hill-top, Creation lay stretched below. and she
recognized the sphere which that genius had
not found before. It was, indeed, as if some
sort of spiritual magnetism was in the atmos-
phere, calling up that hidden life within life, an-
imating that world of coherent sleep, which the
disciples of Mcsmer bid us mark in some gifted
somnambule. A Wondrous poetry floated over
the universe, round, below, and aloft; and of
this poetry she felt as if she were not a voice,
but a part. It was, that day, as if those singu-
lar powers, that, in her immaturity of youth and
experience, had but fluttered vaguely, were sud-
dcnly released; as if, for one day, she might
know and feel, upon earth, what those powers,
the inheritors of heaven, symbolize and fore-
tell ;—their combination ofintelligence and af-
fection, tender with the love of the cherub,
mighty with the knowledge of the seraph—so
serene, yet so exquisite in their inetfable enjoy-
ment—so full of hope, that all sorrow is defied
—-so strong in the sense of vitality. that tho
falsehood ofthat non-existent thing called dunk,
became clear, as by a revelation !
Gradually, as night settled over the world,
this trance, if so it may be called, ceased—and
was succeeded first by a sense of exhaustion—
next by an indescribable melancholy. As she
turned from the chamber in which Percival had
left her (and in which she had passed the chief
part of the day), to retire to rest. she stopped
involuntarily ; scarcely knowing what she did,
she drew aside the curtain from the easement,
and looked long and fondlyon the scene below.
The rain had ceased—the clouds vanished from
the sky. The garden. the groves beyond, were
seen pale and dimly distinct in the tranquil stab
light. Her eye rested sadly on the terrace


MOVES LIKE A GHOST.
157
where she had so often 'sat with her young
lover,-—-sadly, but she knew not why. Then,
turning within, her gaze dwelt lingerineg on
the little room, noting, as if to remember it for-
ever, each familiar household thing. Slowly,
at length, site moved away, and lingering still
as site went, seemed to treasure in her memory
every spot which her footstep passed. So,
along the corridor she glided—and, pausing at
her aunt‘s door, knocked gently: a voice, quick
and startled, bade her enter: she came in, with
her swset, caressing look, and took anretia's
hand, which struggled from the clasp. Bending
over tltat haggard brow, she said, simply, yet
to Lucretia's ear the voice seemed that of com-
mand : “ Let me kiss you, this night!" and her
lips pressed that brow. The murderess shud-
dered, and closed lter eyes ; when she opened
them, the angel visitor was gone.
Night deepened and deepened into those
hours from the first of which wa number the
mom, though night still is at her full. Moon-
beam and star-beam came through the case-
ment, shyly and fairy-like, as on that night,
when the murdercss was young and crimeless
—in deed, if not in thought—that night, when
in the book of Lecchcralt, she meted out the
hours, in which a human life might still inter-
pose betWeen her passion and its end. Along
the stairs, through the ltall, marched the armies
of light—noiseless, and still and clear, as the
judgments of God, amid the darkness and sha-
dow of mortal destinies. In one chamber aione,
the folds, curtained close, forbade all but a sin~
gle ray—that ray catne direct, as the stream
from a lantern, as the beam reflected back from
an eye—as an eye it seemed watchful, and
steadfast, through the dark—it shot along the
floor; it fell at the foot oftlte bed.
Suddenly, in the exceeding hush, there was
a strange and ghastly sound—it was the howl
of a dog! Helen started from her sleep. Per-
cival‘s dog had followed her into her room ; it
had coiled itself, grateful for the kindness, at
the foot of the bed. Now, it was on the pillow;
she felt its heart beat against her hand ; it was
trembling; its hairs bristled up, and the howl
changed into a shrill bark of terror and wrath.
Alarmed, she looked round; quickly between
her attd that ray from the crevice, a shapeless
darkness passed, and was gone! So undis-
tinguishable, so without outline, that it had no
likeness of any living form—like a cloud, like a
thought, like an omen, it gloomed and it van-
ished. The girl ntttrntured a prayer ; and the
ray, no longer obscured, seemed to rest upon
her with a melancholy smile. The dog licked
her face, and heaving a deep sigh as of relief,
nestled itself again to sleep. She listened, bttt
all was still—she gazed, but nothing save the
ray, narrow and aslant, and steadfast, was visi-
ble; her fears ceased—she thought what she
had seen was but the delusion ofthe sense be-
tween sleep and waking; and, in the courage
and trust of innocence, her eyes closed in
dreams—perhaps of happiness and love.
+
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE MESSENGER 5PEED8~THE SPY FLIEB.
Townnn the afternoon of the following day,
an elderly gentleman was seated in the cotter:-

room of an hotel at Southampton, engaged in
writing a letter, while the waiter in attendance
was employed on the wires that fctterml the pet-
ulant spirit contained in a bottle of Schweppe's
soda water. There was something in the as-
pect of the old gentlem- , antl in the very tone
of his voice, .that ins red respect, and the
waiter had cleared the other tables of their la-
test newspapers to place before him. He had
only just arrived by the packet from llavrc, and
even the newspapers had not boon to hint that
primary attraction which they generally afford
to the Englishman returning to his bustling na-
tive land, which, somewhat to his surprise, has
contrived to go on tolerably well during his ab-
sence.
We use our privilege of looking over his
shoulder while he writes.
“ Here I am, then, dear Lady Mary, at
Southampton, and within an easy drive of the
old Hall ! A file of Galignani's Journals, which
[found on the road between Marseilles and Pa-
ris, informed me, under the head of “fashiona-
ble movements,” that " Percival St. John, Esq,
was gone to his seat at Laughton." According
to my customary tactics of marching at once to
the seat of action, I therefore made direct for
Havre, instead of crossing frotn Calais, and I
suppose I shall find our young gentleman en-
gaged in the slaughter of hares and partridges.
You see, it is a good sign that he can leave
London. Keep up your spirits, my dear friend.
If Force has been really duped and taken in—as
all you mothers are so apt to fancy—rely upon
an old soldier to defeat the enemy. and expose
the run. But if, after all, the girl is such as
he describes and believes—innocent, artless,
and worthy his atTection—oh, then I range my-
self, with your own good heart, upon his side.
Never will I run the risk of unsettling a man‘s
whole character for life by wantonly interfering
with his affections. But there we are agreed.
“ In a few hottrs I shall be with our dear boy,
and his whole heart will cotne out clear and
candid as when it beat under his tnitlshipman‘s
true blue. lit a day or two, I shall make him
take me to town, to introduce me to the whole
nest of them. Then I shall report progress.
Adieu, till then! Kind regards to your poor
sister. I think we shall have a mild winter.
Not one warning twinge, as yet, of the old
rheumatism.
" Ever your devoted old friend
“ and prcuz cbzvalier,
" H. GREYll-LI."
The captain had completed his letter, sipped
his soda water, and was affixing to his com
munication his seal, when he heard the rattle
ofa post‘chaiso without. Fattcying it was the
one Its had ordered, he went to the open win-
dow which looked on the street ; but tltc chaise
contained travelers, only halting to change
horses. Somewhat to his surprise, and a little
to his chagrin—for the captain did not count
on finding company at the Hall—he heard one
of the travelers in the chaise ask the distance
to Laughton. The countenance of the ques-
tioner was not familiar to him. But, leaving
the worthy captain to question the landlord,
without any satisfactory information. and to
hasten the chaise for himself, we accompany
the travelers on their way to Laughton. The;


158
THE MESSENGER SPEEDS :—THE SPY FLIES.
were but two-“the proper complement. of a post-
chaise—nnd they were both of the ruder sex.
The elder of the two was a man of middle age,
but whom the wear and tear of active life had
evidently advanced toward the state called el-
derly. But there wa still abundant life in his
quick, dark eye; an that meiqcurial youthful-
ness of character, which, in some happy con-
stitutions, seems to defy years and sorrows,
evinced itself in a rapid play of countenance,
and as much gesticulation as the narrow con-
fines of the vehicle, and the position ofa trav-
eler, will permit. The younger man, far more
grave in aspect and quiet in manner, leaned
back in the corner with folded arms, and
lislened with respectful attention to his com-
panion.
r “ Certainly, Dr. Johnson is right—great hap-
piness in an English post-chaise properly driv-
en !—more exhilarating than a palanqnin : "Post
cguilrrm sedet alru cum"—true only ofsuch scrub-
by hacks as old Horace could have known.
Black Care does not sit behind English posters
—eh, my boy!" As he spoke this, the gentle-
man had twice let down the glass of the vehi-
cle, and twice put it up again.
“Yet,” he resumed, without noticing the
brief, good-humored reply of his companion—
"yet this is an anxious business enough that
we are about. I don't feel quite easy in my
conscience. Poor Braddell's injunctions were
very strict, and I disobey them. It is on your
responsibility, John !”
“I take it without hesitation. All the mo-
tives for so stern a severance niiisthave ceased,
and is it not a sufficient punishment to find in
that hoped-for son, a—"-
" Poor woman !”_interrupted the elder gen-
tleman, in whom we begin to recogniza the :oi-
disanl Mr. 'I‘onikins—“ true, indeed—too true.
How well I remember the impression Lucretia
Clavering first produced on me; and to think
of her now as a miserable cripple! By Jove,
you are right, sir! Drive on, postboy—quick,
quick !"
, \There was a short silence.
The elder gentleman, abruptly, put his hand
upon his coinpanion‘s arm.
“ Whatconsunimate acuteness—wbat patient
research you have shown ! \Vhat could I have
done in this business without you! How often
had that garrulous Mrs. Mivcrs bored me with
Becky Carruthers, and the coral, and St. Paul's,
and not a suspicion came across me; a word
was sufficient for you; and then to track this
unfeeling old Joplin, from place to place, tilli
you find her absolutely a servant under the very
roof of Mrs. Braddell herself! Wonderful !
Ah, boy, you will be an honor to the law, and
to your country. And, what a hard-hearted
rascal you must think me, to have deserted you
so long !" 0
“My dear father," said John Ardworth, ten-
derly, ‘* your love now recompenses me for all.
And ought I not rather to rejoice not to have
lrnoWn the tale of a mother’s shame, until I
could half-forget it on a father's heart 1.”
" John," said the elder Ardworth, with a chok-
ing voice, "I ought to wear sackcloth all my
life, for having given you such a mother. When
I think what l have sufi'ered from the habit of
carelessness in those confounded money inat-
ters—(‘i'rri'lamcnta malorum,’ indeed!) I have
only one consolation, that my patient, noble
son, is free from my vice. You would not
believe, what a well-principled, honorable fol-
low I was at your age, and yet, how truly I
said to_my poor friend, William Mainwaring,
one day at Laughton (I remember it now)-
‘Trnst me with any thing else but half-:-
guinca l’ \Vhy, sir, it was that fault that threw
me into low company—that brought me in con-
tact with my innkeeper’s (laughter at Limerick
I fell in love, and I married (for, Willi all my
faults, I was never a seducer, John). I did not
own my marriage, why should I I my relatives
had cut me already. You Were born, and,
hunted poor devil as I was, I forgot all by your
cradle. Then, in the midst of my troubles, that
ungrateful woman deserted me—then, I was
led to believe, that it was not my own son,
whom I had kissed and blessed. Ah, but for
that though slionld I have left you as I did!
And even in infancy, you had the features only
of your mother. Then when the death of the
adulteress set me free, and years afterward, in
India, I married again, and had new tics—my
heart grew still harder to you. I excused my-
self by knowing that at least you were cared
for, and trained to good by a better guide than
I. But when, by so strange a hazard. the
very priest who had confessed your mother
on her death-bed (she was a Catholic) came
to India, and (for he had known me at Lim-
erick) rccognizvd my altered person, and obey-
ing his penitent‘s last injunctions, assured
me that you were my son—oh, John, then, be-
lieve me, I hastened back to England, on the
wings of remorse! Love you, boy! I have
left at Madras, three children, young and fair, by
a woman, now in heaven, who never wronged
me, and, by my soul, John Ardworth, you are
dearer to me than all !”
Tho father‘s head drooped on his son‘s breast
as he spoke ; then, dashing away his tears, he
resumed :
" Ah, why would not Braddcll permit me, as
I proposed, to find for his son the same guard-
ianship as that to which I intrustcd my own;
but his bigotry besotted him ; a clergyman of
the high church,that was worse than an atheist!
I had no choice left to me but the roof of that
she-hypocrite. Yet I ought to have come to
England when I heard of the child's loss, braved
duns and all ; but I was money-making, money-
making—retribution for money-wasting; and
—-well, it's no use repenting! and—and—lhere
is the lodge, the park, the old trees ! Poor Sir
Miles!”
Meanwhile, at Laughton, all was in the great-
est confusion and alarm. At the early morn-
ing, Helen was found by the maid in a state of
insensibility. From this, she was awakened
by sharp spasms in the regions of the heart.
Madame Dalibard, on being apprised of her
niece's seizure, evinced great anxiety and ap-
prehension. Varney, himself, rode in search
of Dr. Simmons, the usual medical attendant.
When the doctor arrived, he made no secret of
his serious alarm—the symptoms were unques-
tionably those of angina pectoris. The accus-
tomed remedies were promptly appiied. and
jprocured a respite from pain. which sfl'ordcd
,brief hopes; but before noon, the spasms caiuo


THE MESSENGER SPEEDS z—THE SPY FLIES.
159
on with renewed violence. Madame Dalibard
at first abstained from entering the sick room ;
but after a short, private interview with Var-
ncy, who was supposed to report the increasing
gravity of the case, she was wheeled in her
chair to her niece‘s bedside ; and her colorless
countenance, more like that of one dead than
alive, with her intense silence, broken only by
hurried questions, gasped forth as her anxious
eye followed the physician, at times almost
shared the sympathy of the spectators with the
fast-sinking niece.
Varney waited without, pacing to and fro the
corridor, sometimes entering the sick chamber
for a moment, then returning to his sentry-like
pace and post. The servants passed through
gallery, hall, and chamber, lingering and whis-
pering in groups—the whole stately economy
of the household was disorganized. The pity
for Helen—the terrible sympathy felt for Per-
cival, reached even the lowest menials. The
very scullions gathered at the head of the
stairs, or crept to the entrance of the corridor.
Horses were saddled, grooms in waiting, lest
fresh advice should be needed, or fresh medi-
cines sent for. In the midst of this confusion,
Beck, who had been dispatched in the earlier
part of the day, in search of another physician
(unluckin from home), wandered through the
corridor, or stood near the bedchamber door,
unnoticed even by Varney. At length, a little
after noon, Varney stopped one of the women
hurrying into the chamber, and said, “ Tell
poor Madame Dalibard to come out for a minute.
The scene will be too much for her. I have
just thought of a new remedy; pray have her
Wheeled back into her own room ; I will speak
to her there." The woman nodded, and en~
tered. Varney turning round then, for the first
time, noticed Beck, and said, roughly—
“ What do you do here! Wait below till
you are sent for."
Beck pulled his forelock, and retreated back,
not in the direction of the principal stair-case,
but toward that used by the servants, and
which his explorations into the topography of
the mansion had now made known to him. To
gain these back stairs he had to pass Lucretia's
- room ; the door stood ajar ; Varney‘s face was
turned from him. Beck breathed hard, looked
round, then crept within, and, in a moment,
was behind the folds of the tapestry.
Soon the chair in which sat Madame Dali-
bard—(her posture unusually erect—the ex-
pression of her countenance preternaturally
locked and rigid)—was drawn by Varney him-
self into the room.
Shutting the door with care, and turning the
key, Gabriel said, with low, suppressed pas-
ston-
“Is your courage gone! Does your mind
wander! I have seen you in trials as dread
as this, and where less was to be gained; and
never before have I seen you thus!"
Lucretia's lips moved. and she raised her
hand to her brow, with wandering fingers, as if
to wipe from it a stain. “ it is the kiss here !“
she muttered—“the kiss burns!" then, with
'an effort, recovering some. of her wunted self-
possession, she said, “ What do you complain
of! the Work is done! She kissed me last
night; butI read again her father‘s protesta-
i tions of faith and love—I read again the letter
announcing the discovery of my son; and I
'mixed the poison with an unlremhling hand!
, I stole in! The light came from God‘s heaven
—-it was God’s eye! And the dog howled as
at a visitor from the grave—a fiend from an-
other World! And she started from sleep—
and—what matter! to-night the slumber Wilt
be more sound !"
“ Rouse yourself, rouse !" exclaimed Var-
ney, almost rudely grasping her arm. "l{e~
member how much we have yet to prepare for
—how much to do ! Percival‘s return—per-
haps, this Greville‘s! Percival! Give me
the drug for him! The key ! the key!"
“Enough of murder for one day—”
“ And that murder, then, has been com-
mitted in vain for you, if not for myself. If we
lose the first occasion of the boy‘s shock and
grief, what other, to make sudden death proba-
ble, will occur! Your son, soon you will clasp
him in your arms—as a beggar, or as the Lord
of Laughton !"
Lucretia rose abruptly from her seat at those
words ; she went at once to her secretary, un-
locked it—drew forth the fatal casket, opened
it, returned to the table, and sat down quietly
before it, motioning to Varney to seat himsetl
also. This done, for a few moments they bent
in silence over the contents.
When the selection was made, and Varney
had secreted it on his person, he approached
the fire in the grate, and blew the Wood embers
to a blaze.
“And now,” he said, with his icy irony or
smile, " we may dismiss these useful instru‘
ments, perhaps forever. Though Walter Ard-
Worth, in restoring, himself, your son, leaves
us dependent on that son‘s filial affection, and
I may have therefore little to hope for from the
succession, to secure which I hate risked, and
am again to risk my life, I yet trust to that in-
fluence which you never fail to obtain over
others. I take it for granted, that, when these
halls are Vincent Braddell’s, we shall havc no
need of gold, nor of these pale alchemies.
Perish, then, the mute witnesses of our acts!
the elements we have bowed to our will 5 No
poison shall be found in our hoards! Fire,
consume your consuming children !'
As he spoke, he threw upon the hearth the
contents of the casket, and set his heel upon
the logs. A bluish flame shot up, breaking
into countless sparks, and then died.
Lucretia watched him, without speaking.
In coming back toWard the table, Varney felt
something hard beneath his tread ; he stooped,
and picked up the ring which has before been
described as among the ghastly treasures ot
the casket, and which had rolled on the floor,
almost to Lucretia‘s feet, as he had emptied the
contents on the hearth.
" This, at least, need tell no tales," said he,
“ a pity to destroy so rare a piece of workman-
ship—one, too, which we never can replace!"
“ Ay," said Lucretia, abstractedly, “ and, if
detection comes, it may he a refuge from the
gibbet : give me the ring !" _
“ A refuge more terrible than the detection,”
said Varney, “ beware of such a thought !" as
Lucretia, taking it from his hand, placed the
ring on her finger.


160
THE MESSENGER SPEEDS: THE SPY FLIES.'
“ And now, I leave you for a while to re-col-
lect yourself—to compose your countenance,
and your thoughts. Iwill go back into Helen’s
room, and urge fresh advice from Southamp-
toil."
LttciT'tia, with her eyes fixed on the floor,
did not bet-d bitn, and he withdrew.
So motionless was her attitude—so still her
very breathing—that the unseen witness behind
the tapestry, who. while struck with horror at
vibat be bad overheard (the general purport of
which it was impossible that he could misun-
derstand), was parched \Vllll impatience to es-
cupe—to rescue his beloved master from his
impending late—ventured to creep along the
wall to the threshold—to peer forth from the
arras, and Sf'Qlflg her eyes still downcast, to
emerge, and place his hand on the door.
At that very moment Lucretia looked up, and
saw him gliding from the tapestry—their eyes
met—bis vierc fascinated as the bird's by the
snake's. At the sight, all her craft—her intel-
lect returned. With a glance she comprehend-
ed the terrible danger that awaited her. Be-
fore be was aware of her movement, she was
at his side—her hand on his own—her voice
in his ear.
“ Stir not a step—utter not a sound—or you
are—"
Beck did not suffer her to proceed. \Vith
the violence rather of fear than of courage, he
struck her to the ground—but she clung to him
still—and, though rendered for the moment
speechless by the sutldcnness of the blow, her
eyes touk_nn expression of unspeakable cruel-
ty, and tiert-eness. He struggled with all his
might to shake beroff; as he did so. she placed
fet‘ltly her other band upon the wrist of the lift-
ed arm that had smitten her,andhe felt a sharp
pain as if the nails had fastened into the flesh.
This hot exasperated him into new efforts. He
extricated bimselffrom her grasp, which relax--
ed, as her lips writhed into a smile of scorn
and triumph, and, spurning her while she lay
before the threshold, he opened the door, sprang
foiward, and escaped. No thought had he of
tarrying in that house of Pelops, those human
shambles, of denouncing murder in its lair :—
to fly, to reach his master. warn and shield him
-that was the sole thought which crossed his
confused, bevi'ildered brain.
It might be from four to five minutes, that
Lucretia, half-stunned. half-senseless, lay upon
those floors, for, beside the violence of her fall,
the shock of the struggle, upon nerves weak-
ened by crime so recent, and the agony of ap-
prehension, occasioned by the imminent and
unforeseen chance of detection, paralyzed her
“‘Olitlmtls vigor of mind and frame, when Var-
ney entered.
“The spasms have ceased," he said, in hol-
low accents, before he saw the prostrate form
at his very feet. But Varney’s step, Varney‘s
voice, had awakened Lucretia‘s reason to con-
sciousness and the sense of peril. Rising,
though with efl'ort, she related, hurriedly, what
had passed.
" Fly-fly !" she gasped, as she concluded.
“Fly—to detain, to secrete him somewhere,
for the next few hours. Silence him but till
then-l have done the rest!" and her finger
pointed to the fatal ring.

i help him up the step—sees him enter.
Varney waited for no furthervt'ords; he bur
ricd out, and made at once to the stables: his
shrcwdness conjectured at once that Beck
would carry his tale elsewhere. The groom
was already gone (his fellows said) without a.
word, but toward the lodge that led to the
Southampton road. Varney sprang upon one
of the horses that had been kept saddled since
morning.
“ I, too, must go toward Southampton—the
poor young lady !--I must prepare your master .
-—be is on his road bck to us ;" and the last
word was_scarce out of his lips, as the sparks
flew from the hints under his horse‘s boots,
and he spurred from the yard.
As he rode at full speed through the park, the
villain's mind sped more rapidly than the ani-
mal he bestrode—sped from fear to hope—hope
to assurance. Grant that the spy lived to tell
his tale—incoherent, improbable as the tale
would be—who would believe it? How easy
to meet tale by talc ! The man must own that
he was secreted behind the tapestry—where-
forc, hut, in the confusion that prevailed
throughout the house, to rob'! Detected by
Madame Dalibard, he had coined this wretched
fable. Examination of the dead would be court-
‘ed; that examination betraying no signs of
poison, would contradict, of itself, the charge.
And the spy, too, could not live through the
day—he bore death with him as he rode—he
fed its force by his speed—and the effects of
the venom itself Would be those of frenzy.
Tush! his tale, at best, would seem but the
ravings of delirium. Still, it was well to track
him where he went, delay him, if possible ; and
Varney’s spurs plunged deep and deeper into
the bleeding flanks; on desperately scoured the
horse. He passed the lodge—ho was on the
road—a chaise and pair dashed by him—he
heard not a voice exclaim “ Varney !"--he saw
not the wondering face of John Ardworth—
bending over the tossing mane—he was deaf,
he was blind, to all without and around. A
milestone glides by, another, and a third. Ha!
his eyes can see now. The object of his chase
is before him—he views distinctly, on the brow
of yon bill, the horse and the rider, spurring
fast, like himself. They descend the hill, horse
and horsemzln, and are snatched from his sight.
Up the steep strains the pursuer. He is at the
summit. He sees the fugitive before him, at-
most within hearing. Beck has slackened his
speed; he seems swaying to and fro in the
saddle. Ho, ho! the barbed ring begins to
Work in his veins! Varney looks round—not
another soul is in sight—a deep wood skirts
the road. Place and time seem to favor—Beck
has reined in his horse—he bends low over the
saddle, as if about to fall. Varncy utters a
half-suppressed cry of triumph, shakes his reins,
and spurs on—when, suddenly (by the curve 0!
the road, hid before), another chaise comes in
sight, close where Beck had wearin halted.
The chaise stops—Varncy pulls in and draws
aside to tho hedge-row ! Some one within the
vehicle is speaking to the fugitive! May it
not be St. John himself? To his rage and his
terror, he sees Beck painfully dismount from
his horse—sees him totter to the door of the
chaise—sees a servant leap from the box, and
It "I


~ LUCRETIA REGAINS HER SON. 1d!


he Percival on his return ! Percival, to whom
he tells that story of horror! Varney's brute-
like courage forsook him—his heart was appall-
ed. In one of those panics so common with
that boldness which is but animal, his sole
thought becnmethat of escape. He turned his
horse‘s head to the fence—forced his way des-
perately through the barrier—made into the
wood, and set them, cowering and listening,
till in another minute he heard the wheels rat-
tle on, and the horses gallop hard down the hill
toward the park. .
The autumn wind swept through the trees—
it shook the branches of the lofty ash that over-
hung the murderer. What observer of nature
knows not that peculiar sound which the ash
gives forth in the blast—not the solemn groan
ofthe oak—not the hollow murmur of the beech,
but a shrill wail—a shriek, as ofa human voice
in sharp anguish. Varney shuddered, as if he
had heard the death-cry of his victim! Through
briers and thickets, torn by the thorns, bruised
by the boughs, he plunged deeper and deeper
into the Wood -gained at length the main path
cut through it—found himself in a lane, and
rode on, careless whither, till he had reached a
small town, about ten miles from Laughton,
Where be resolved to wait tell his nerves had
recovered their tone, and he could more calmly
calculate the chances of safety or—the gibbet !
..__.__.
CHAPTER XXVII.
LUCRETIA RBGAINS HER SON.
I1- seemed as if now. when danger became
most imminent and present—that that very
danger served to restore to Lucretia Dalibard
all her faculties, which during the earlier day
had been steeped in a kind ofdreary stupor. The
absolute necessity of playing out her execrable
part with all suitable and consistent hypocrisy,
braced her into iron. But the disguise she as-
sumed was a supernatural effort—it stretched
to cracking every fiber of the brain. It seemed
almost to herself, as if, her object once gained,
either life or consciousness could hold out no
more !
A chaise stopped at the porch—two gentle-
men descended. On the first few words inter-
changed with the servant who appeared to their
summons, the elder drew back, as if he felt his
visit unseasonnble, but the younger, after stand-
ing motionles for a moment, as with the shock
of amaze and grief, pushed aside the servant,
and rushed into the house. The elder paused
irresolutely, and at length, taking out a card, in-
scribed " Mr. Walter Ardworth," said, “ if Ma-
dame Dalihard can be spoken to for a moment,
will you give her this card, and say that I will
wait her summons at Southampton forthe next
few days; a line addressed to the post-oflice
will reach me."
The footman hesitatingly stared at the card,
and then invited Walter Ardworth into the ball,
while he sent up the message.
the visitor to wait, pacing the dark oak floors
and gazing on the faded banners, before the
servant reappeared—Madame Dalibard Would
see him. He followed his guide up the stairs.
Entering the corridor, he saw his young com-
panion, engaged in earriest conversation with a
Not long had ‘



man whose air and dress bespoke the physician.
He seemed to he urging some prayer—which
the assenting nod of the physician granted—the
last opened a door, and the young man crept in
after him.
Impressed with that awe which breathes
through the house over which hover the wings
of Death, Walter Ardworih felt his own step
grow stealthy, and his breath come quick, as
the servant opened the door of a room opposite
to that which his companion had entered.
Grasping the arms of her chair with both
hands, her eyes fixed eagerly on his face,
Lucretia Dalibard awaited the welcome visitor.
Prepared as he had been for change, Walter
was startled by the ghastly alteration in Lucre-
tia‘s features, increased, as it was that mo-
ment, by all the emotions which raged with-
in. He sank into the chair placed for him op-
posite Lucretia, and, clearing his throat, said,
falteringly—
“I grieve indeed, madam, that my visit, in-
tended to bring but joy, should chance thus
inopportunely. Let me trust, that the servant
has exaggerated the state of your niece, and
that you will have two to comfort your declining
years—Susan‘s only child, too—poor Susan E"
“ Sir," said Lucretia, in a hollow voice,
“ these moments are precious. You will judge
of my anxiety to hear you, by receiving you at
such a time. Sir—sirl—iny son! My son!"
and her eyes glanced to the door. “ You have
brought with you a companion—does he wait
without l—My son !”
"Madam, give me a moment's patience. I
will be brief, and compress What, in other mo-
ments, might be a long narrative, into a few
sentences."
Rapidly, then, Walter Ardworth passed over
the details, unnecessary now to repeat to the
reader; the injunctions ofBraddell, the delivery
of the child to the woman selected by his fellow-
sectarian (who, it seemed by John Ardworth's
recent inquiries, was afterward expelled the
community, and who, there was reason to be-
lieve, had been the first seducer of the woman
thus recommended). No clue to the child's
parentage had been given to the woman,
with the sum intrusted for his maintenance,
and which sum had perhaps been the main
cause of her reckless progress to infamy and.
ruin. The narrator passed lightly over the
neglect and cruelty of the nurse, to her aban-
donment of the child when the money was ex-
hausted. Fortunately she had overlooked the
coral round its neck. By that coral, and by the
initials, V. B., which Ardworih had had the
precaution to have burned into the child's wrist,
the lost son had_ been discovered; the nurse
herself (found in the person of Martha Skeggs,
Lucretia‘s own servant) had been confronted
with the woman to whom she gave the child,
and recognized at once. Nor bad it been diffi-
cult to obtain from her the confession which
completed the evidence.
“ In this discovery," concluded Ardworth,
"the person I employed met your own agents,
and the last links in the chain they traced to-
gether. But to that person—to his zeal and in-
telligence—you owe the happiness I trust to
give you. He sympathized With me the more
that he knew you personally, felt for your sor-


162 THE LOTS VANISH
WITHIN THE URN.

rows, and had a lingering belief that you sup~
posed him to be the child you yearned for. Mad-
am, thank my son for the restoration of your
owu !"
Without sound, Lucretia had listened to these
details, though her countenance changed fear-
fully as the narrator proceeded. But now she
groaned aloud in agony.
“ Nay, madam," said Ardwnrth, feelineg and
in some surprise, ‘~ surely the discovery of your
sun should create gladdcr emotions. Though,
indeed, you will be prepared to find that the
poor 'youtb so reared wants education and re-
finement, I have heard enough to convince me
that his dispositions are good and his heart
grateful. Judge of this yourself; he is in these
walls—he is—"
“ Abandoned by a harlot—reared by a beggar!
My son!" interrupted Lucretia, in broken sen-
tences. " Well, sir, have you discharged your
task! Well have you replaced a mother!"
Before Ardo‘orth could reply, loud and rapid
steps were heard in the corridor, and a voice,
cracked, indistinct, but. vehement. The door
was thrown open, and, half-supported by Cap-
tain Greville, half-dragging him along — his
features convulsed, whether by pain or passion
-the spy upon Lucretia‘s secrets, the dcnouncer
ofher crime, tottered t0 the threshold. Pointing
to where she sat with his long, lean arm, Beck
exclaimed—“Seize her! I ’cuse her, face to
face, of the murder of her niece !—of—of—I
told you, sir—I told you—"
“ Madam,“ said Captain Greville, " you stand
charged by this witness with the most terrible
of human crimes. Pray God, that you may he
innocent! Your niece, I rejoice to hear, yet
lives! Pray God that her death he not traced
to those kindred hands !"
Turning her eyes from one to, the other with
a wandering stare, Lucretia Dalibard remained
silent. But there was still scorn on her lip,
and defiance on her ow. At last she said,
slowly, and to Ardwo h—
“ Where is my sort! You say, he is within
these walls—call him forth to protect his mother!
Give me, at least, my son—my son !”
Herlast words Were drowned by a fresh burst
of fury from her denouncer. In all the coars-
est inveclive his education could supply—in
all the hideous vulgarities of his untutored dia-
lect—in that uncurbed licentiousness of tone.
look, and manner which passion, once aroused,
gives to the dregs and scum of the populace,
Beck poured forth his frightful charges—his
frantic execrations. In vain Captain Greville
strove to check him. In vain Walter Ardworth
sought to draw him from the room. But while
the poor wretch—maddening not more with the
consciousness of the crime, than with the ex-
citement of the poison in his blood—thus raved
and stormed, a terrible suspicion crossed \Valter
Ardworth: mechanically—as his grasp was on
the accuser‘s arm—he barred the sleeve, and on
the wrist were the dark blue letters, burned into
the skin, and witnessing his identity with the
lost Vincent Braddell.
“Hold, hold!" he exclaimed then—“hold,
unhappy man !—-it is your mother whom you
denounce."
Lucretia sprang up erect—her eyes seemed
starting from her head ; she caught at the arm ‘

pointed toward her in wrath and menace—and
there amid those letters that proclaimed her
son, was the small puncture surrounded by:
livid circle that announced her victim. In the
same instant she discovered her child in the
man who was dooming her to the scaffold, and
knew herself his murderess.
She dropped the arm, and sank back on the
chair; and, whether the poison had now reach-
ed to the vitals, or whether so unwanted a pas-
sion in so frail a frame, sufficed for the death-
stroke, Beck himself, with a low, stifl'ocated cry,
slid from the hand of Ardworth, and, totteringa
step or so, the blood gushed from his mouth,
over Lucretia‘s robe ;—his head drooped an in-
stant, and falling, rested first upon her lap—then
struck heavily upon the floor. The two men
bent over him, and raised him in their arms-—
his eyes opened and closed—his throat rattled,
and, as he fell back into their arms a corpse, a
laugh rose close at hand—it rang through the
walls, it was heard near and afar—above and
below. Not an ear in that house that heard it
not. In that laugh fled forever, till the Judg-
ment-day, from the blackened ruins of her lost
soul, the reason of the rnurdcress-mother.
—.-__.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
'mn Lo'rs vamsrr WITHIN was our.
Fm other—oh, far other—tire holy scene in
the adjoining room. When that laugh rang
through the ancient halls, Helen, in a sweet in-
terval of pain, was murmuring comfort and
smiling saint-like hope, on the strong son of
earth, who knelt by her side. The ghastly mer-
riment arrested her murmured words, and chill-
ed her gentle smile.
“ It is but your aunt's burst of joy," said
young Ardworth: " my father has, doubtless,
just restored her son to her arms !"
“ How happy that thought has made rue—you
have given me your tidings so hurriedly—that
lcould wish to learn more. But my time, I feel
is short. At least, may I see my aunt before I
die—if not, tell her I prayed for her while my
lips pressed her forehead, last night—last night!
Ah, indeed, the last !”_
“Talk not thus, Helen, beloved !—talk not
thus—your pain is over—you will recover—you
will live yet."
The physician approached and held up his
warning finger to the young man——“ Curb your-
self,“ he whispered ; “ she must be kept calm."
John Ard tvorth looked up—turned his face to
Helen and smiled.
The physician placed his hand on Ardworth‘s
shoulder, and motioned him to withdraw.
" Not yet—not quite yet," said Helen—“one
word more, and in private.”
The doctor moved reluctantly to the win-
dow.
" Cousin," she then whispered, while a blush
broke over her face, and gave to it the false glow
of health and virgin youth. “ Comfort Percival
—you are strong and wise—watch over him.
Perhaps in that watch we shall unite!"
So saying, she pressed his hand, and. hcr
‘ eyes turning upward—her thoughts passed into
prayer.
7 .. . a _,
But one human joy, at least, mouruful if it i


THE LOTS VANISH
WITHIN THE URN. 163


was, Fate yet reserved to that serene death-bed t chaise had stopped at the iron gates of a large
—Percival returned before all was over. As if
in one of those trances she had lately known,
she foresaw and felt his approach for an hour
before he arrived. And as be rushed into the
room, she opened her arms, and said—“I have
tarried but for this."
And Percival‘s hand was the last she clasp-
ed—and on Percival's face dwelt her last smile
F ——and on that devoted faithful heart, scarcely
less pure than her own, was breathed, without
a pang, the young saint's parting sigh.
I“ i i ‘I *-
x Q Q 'I Q Q I-
._ Varney returned to the house at nightfall,
and held along conference with Greville and
the elder Ardworth. He himself pressed for
r all possible investigation that an inquest could
afford. and his representations. and the manner
in which they were made, shook the acute sol-
dier’s beliefin Beck's monstrous tale. On the
i inquest, no facts were discovered that could
attribute to Helen‘s death, any but a natural
cause. No poison could be detected, no see-
Ondary evidence that could accuse, in the least,
either Varney or Madame Dalibard of even ad-
, ministering the usual medicaments, appeared.
Recognizing on Beck the St. John livery, Cap-
tain Greville had (as we have seen) stopped his
chaise, to inquire simply if Percival were at the
Hall, and when, causing him to enter the ve-
hicle to explain the hideous import of the bro-
i_ ken sentences by which the poor creature had
replied. Grcville was thrilled by his revelations,
the listener had been too much impressed with
horror to question their truth. But the tale so
incoherently related, so hurriedly received, suc-
ceeded by a death that. betokened the disor-
dered brain of the narrator, was now set incred-
uloust aside. Surgical examination, indeed,
discovered the membranes of the brain, and
the brain itself, surcharged with blood, as in
cases of delirium or feverish irritation in that
organ; the slight puncture in the wrist, ascrib-
ed to the prick of some rusty nail, in one of a
constitution thoroughly imparied and unsound,
provoked no suspicion, even if connected with
the primary causes of the fatal shock. The
verdicts upon both the dead were therefore as
Varney had not too sanguiner anticipated. If
some doubt still remained in Greville‘s mind,
he was not eager torexpressthem. Why so
needlessly add horror to Percival’s despair, or,
without results from the chastisement ofjus-
tice, atlix so foul a stain to the honored family
of St. John! As soon as the verdicts were
given, Varney took formal leave of Greville,
and removed from the house the form of Lu‘
cretia Dalibard: the form, for the mind was
goue~lhat teeming, restless, and fertile intel-
lect. which had carried along the projects, with
the preter-human energies, of the fiend, was
_ 'hurlcd into night and chaos. Manacled and
l bound, for at times her paroxysms were tcr-
rible, _and all partook of the destructive and
murderous character, her faculties, when pres-
ent, had betrayed, she was placed in the vehicle


't y the shrinking side of her accomplice. As
5 the horses shot through the arch of the lodge,
the death knell for a twofold burial tolled.
f Long before he arrived in London, Varney
had got rid of his fearful companion. His

building, somewhat out of the inain road, and
the doors of the Madhouse closed on Lucretia
Dalibard.
With the audacity of his temperament, and
urged'by the desperate state, both of his affairs
and of his apprehensions, Varney, on reaching
London, set himself to work to recover the
sums insured upon Helen's life. Lucretia for
whose benefit the trust had been made, being
incapacitated by her lunacy, the law awarded
the benefit ofsuch sums as she was entitled to,
according to the disposition of any Will she
might have made during the possession of her
intellects. By the help of Grabman, such a
will in favor of Varney was easily forged and
attested, and Varney proceeded to claim the
debts due from the offices. But the first office
be appealed to resisted the claim. There
seemed strong legal doubts whether the parties
comprehended by the Insurance had that inter-
est in the life of Helen which the prudent scru-
ples of the law demand—the strangeness of
investing sums so large on the improbable
chance of death in one so young and healthful
-the sudden decease so soon following the
insurances—some rumors picked up in the
neighborhood of Laughton, the result of minute
inquiries into the past career of Varney him-
self, and suspicious circumstances connected
with his uncle‘s death, ingeniously hunted out
and adroitly put together, all induced the legal
advisers of the office to hazard a trial on the
claim. Presser] by his debts—harassed night
and day by the fear of the detection of his for-
gery on the Bank of England, Varuey resolved
to betake himself to France while the law-suit
was carried on. He made his preparations ac-
cordingly, intrustcd his case to Grabman, who
foiled of the reward on Beck’s discovery, was
promised remuneration from the recovery of
the insurances—when, as he was stepping into
the vessel that was to conduct him to Boulogue,
he was tapped rudely on the shoulder, and a
determined voice said—"Mr. Gabriel Varney,
you are my prisoner l” _
" For what—some paltry debt '4” said Varney,
haugbtily.
“For forgery on the Bank of England !"
Varney’s hand plunged into his vest. The
ofiicer seized it in time, and wrested the blade
from his grasp. Once arrested for an offense
it was impossible to disprove, although the very
smallest of which his conscience might charge
him, Varney sank into the blackest despair.
Though he had often boasted, not only to others,
but to his own vain breast. of the easy courage
with which, when life ceased to yield enjoy-
ment, he could dismiss it by the act of his own
will—though he had possessed himself of Lu-
cretia‘s murderous ring, and death, though fear- ‘
ful, was therefore at his command, self-destruc-
tion was the last thought that occurred to him
—that morbid excitability of fancy, which,
whether in his art or in his deeds, had led him
to strange delight in horror, now served but to
haunt him with the images of death in those
ghastliest. shapes familiar to them who look
only into the bottom of the chamel, and see but
the rat and the worm, and the loathsome agen-
cies of corruption. It was not the despair of
conscience that seized him—it was the atom:


164
EPILOGUE T0 PART THE SECOND.
clinging to life ;—not the remorse of the soul,
--llutt still slept within him, too noble an agency
for one so debased, but the gross physical terror.
As the fear of the tiger, once aroused, is more
paralyzing than that of the deer, proportioned to
the savageness ofa disposition to which- fear is
a novalty. so the very boldness of Varney, com-
ing only from the perfection of the nervous or-
ganization, and unsupported by one moral sen-
timent, once struck down, was corrupted into
the vilest cowardice. With his audacity, his
shrewdncss forsook him. Advised by his law-
yer to plead guilty, he obeyed, and the sentence
of transportation for life, gave him, at first, a
feeling of reprieve; but when his imagination
began to picture, in the darkness of his cell, all
the true tortures of that penalty, not so much,
perhaps, to the uneducated peasant felon, inured
to toil, and familiarized with coarse compan-
ionship, as to one pampered like himself by all
soft and half-womanly indulgences—the shaven
hair—the convict‘s dress—the rigorous priva-
tion—thc drudging toil ;—the exile seemed as
grim as the grave. In the dotage of faculties
smitten into driveling—he wrote to the Home
Office, offering to disclose secrets connected
with crimes that had hitherto escaped or baf-

fled justice, on condition that his sentence
might be repealed, or mitigated into the gentler
forms of ordinary transportation. No answer
was returned to him—but when some acquaint-
ances whom his art had made for him, and who,
while grieving for his crime, saw in it some ex.
cuses (ignorant of his feller deeds), sought to
intercede in his behalf, the reply was obvious,
“ Shall we let ofl'the forger, because in his own
letter he will confess himself an accomplice in
murder!" Various particulars connected with
his past career, brought to light by the indefat-
igable researches his demand on the insurance
companies had provoked, strengthened against
him the dispositions of the Home Ofl'ice. Not
one indulgence that could distinguish him from
the most execrable rufl‘ian, condemned to the
same sentence, was conceded.
The idea of the gibbet lost all its horror.
Here was a gibbet for every hour! No hope—
no escape. Already that Future Doom which
comprehends the “ Forever" opened upon him,
black and fathomless. The hour-glass was
broken up—the hand of the timepiece was ar-
rested. The Beyond sketched before him,
without limit, without goal—0n into Annihila-
tion or into Hell.
EPILOGUE TO PART THE SECOND.
STAND, 0 man! upon the hill top—in the
stillness of the evening hour—and gaze, not
with joyous, but with contented eyes, upon the
beautiful world around thee! See, where the
mists, soft and dim, rise over the green mea-
dovvs, through which the rivulet steals its way!
See where, broadest and stil!est, the wave ex-
pands to the full smile of the setting sun—and
the willow that tremhles on the breeze—and
the oak that stands firm in the storm, are re-
flected back, peaceful both, from the clear glass
of the tides! See, where, begirt by the gold
of the harvests, and backed by the pomp ofa
thousand groves—the roofs of the town, bask,
noiseless, in the calm glow of the sky. Not a
sound from those abodes floats in discord to
thine ear—only from the church tower, soaring
high above the rest, perhaps, faintly,heard
through the stillness, swells the note of the
holy bell. Along the mead low skims the
swallow—on the wave, the silver circlet,
breaking into spray, shows the sport of the
fish.. See, the earth, how serene, though all
eloquent of activity and life! See the heavens,
how benign, though dark clouds, by you moun-
tain, blend the purple with the gold! Gaze
contented, for good is around thee—not joyous,
for evil is the shadow of good! Let thy soul
pierce through the veil of the senses, and thy
sight plunge deeper than the surface which
gives delight to thine eye. Below the glass
of that river, the pike darts on his prey; the
circle in the wave, the soft plash among the
reeds, are but signs of destroyer and of victim.
In the ivy round the oak by the margin, the
owl hungers for the night. Which shall give its
beak and its talons, living food for its young;
and the spray of- the willow trernblcs with the

wing of the red-breast, whose bright eye sees
the worm on the sod. Canst thou count too,
0 man ! all the cares—all the sins—that those
noiseless roof-tops conceal? With every curl
of that smoke to the sky, a human thought
soars as dark, a human hope melts as briefly.
And the bell from the church town, that to thy
ear gives but music, perhaps kuolls for the
dead. The swallow but chases the moth, and
the cloud that deepens the glory of the heaven.
and the sweet shadows on the earth, nurses
but the thunder that shall rend the grove, and
the storm that shall devastate the harvests.
Not with fear, not with doubt, recognize, O
mortal, the presence of evil in the world.
Hush thy heart in the humblencss of awe, that
its mirror may reflect as serenely the shadow
as the light. Vainly, for its moral, dust. thou
gaze on the landscape. if thy soul puts no check
on the dull delight of the senses. Two wings
only raise thee to the summit of truth—where
the cherub shall comfort the sorrow, wherethc
seraph shall enlighten the joy. Dark as ebon,
spreads the one wing, white as snow gleam:
the other—mournful as thy reason when it
descends into the deep—exulting as thy faith
when it springs to the day-star.
In the churchyard at Laughton, there is a
tomb apart from the rest. It stands between
the church and the yew tree; and, in the small
inclosure, within the fence which surrounds
it, low shrubs, and some flowers, have been
trained to grow. There, once in every year,
since Helen died, comes a pilgrim from the
great city—there, the hard man pausosf
his toil—there, ambition forgets its dreams—-
there, as in one arch-sabbath, a laboring and
earnest soul returns to its childhood, and vol-Its


EPILOGUE TO PART THE SECOND.
165


FL


muons, through death, with God—and there,
not yearly, hut often—(oh, how often !)—nor
more rarva as lime fleets on. and the cares of
man deepen around him—comes the gentler
and tenderer mourner. Upon those two na-
turos, so opposite, yet so united in love and
sorrow for the lost, the influence of Hclcns
. memory remains still—stronger, more endur-
ing, perhaps. tltan the influence of the living
Helen could have been.
John Ardworth has not paused in his career,
nor hi-licd the promise of his youth. Though,
partly by his own exertions, partly by his
second marriage with the daughter of the
French merchant, (through whose agency he
had corresponded with Fielden), the elder
.Ardwmth had realich a moderate fortune, it
but sufficed for his own wants, and for the
children of his later nuptials, upon whom the
bulk of it was settled. Hence. happily. per-
haps, for himself and others, the easy circum-
stances of his father allowed to John Ardworth
no exemption from labor. His success in the
single episode frotn active life to literature,
did not intuxicate or mislead him. He knew
that his real element was not in the field of
letters, but in the world of men. Not under-
valuing the. noble destinies of the author, he
felt that those destinies, if realized to the
utmost, demanded poweis other than his own ;
and tltat man is only true to his genius when
that genius is at home in its career. He
would not renounce for a briefcelebrity distant
and solid fame. He continued for a few years
in patience and privation. and confident self-
reliance,,to drudgc on till the'ocnupation for
the intellect fed by restraint. and the learning
accumulated by study, came and found the
whole man developed and prepared. Then. he
rose rapidly from step to step—then, still re-
taining his high enthusiasm. he enlarged his
sphere of action from the cold practice of law,
into those vast social improvements which law,
rightly regarded, should lead, and vivify, and
create. Then, and long before the twenty
years he had imposed on his probation had
aspired, he gazed again upon the senate and
the ahhi-y, and saw the doors of the one open
to his resolute tread, and anticipated the glo-
rlous sepulchcr, heart and brain should win
him in the other.
But often, when he felt the harshness of ex-
perience creep over him—when that cold skep-
ticism, which experience of men and profes-
sional distrust tend to inspire—made the old
generous poetry of ambition fade into that ego-
tisni which is the prose of action, the image of
that fair child, with whom all his earliest aspi-
rations had been linketl—froin whose simple
lips, noble and lovely thoughts had flowed—as
bright waters from untroubled Wells—hovered
over him; and the very air grewiwarnier, as if
with aliving breath. This image—the holy as-
sociations that were blended with it—the sol-
emn regrets it bequeathed—seemed to dwell for
ever beside him, like the visible spirit of his
own youth—banishing with its pure eyes the
colder and harder shapes in which ideas clothe
themselves. as we advance in years: and in the
noble thought, and the lofty deed, it smiled upon
him with a sister's approving joy.
Far longer was it. before Percival St. John


could return to the duties of real life. Object-
less, and hopeless, he fled from his native land
—as if he could fly himself! But gradually
over him, too, the memory of Helen extended,
and strengthened, its true and predestined in-
fluence. He returned to England ; and, in the
fulfilment of human duties. felt his best union
with an immortal soul. His mother is still
spared to him—to soothe and comfort; Gre-
ville long survived—to encourage and to guide.
Those vague indications oftalent, and those des-
ultory promises to distinction, which his boy-
hood had known, have as yet deepened only
into one channel—that ofthoughtful, beneficent
goodness. As Ardworth, in those vast aims
which advance an age, or exaltt-a race, so Per-
cival, in the narrower, but mori'sintense circle
of individual sympathy and charitable purpose,
has found his fittest sphere—the one fulfilling
the ends of intellect—the other of the heart.
Godlike the destiny to both, and each in its
sphere must mingle; for the intellect runs to
evil without the heart guide it, and the heart
ever has a genius of its own, when it loves and
pities. The center ofthat noiseless good, which
wealth can difl‘use around it, Percival St. John
is beloved as a child, and yet reverenced as a
sage: and from that circle, as from a glory, he
sees with the eyes of his soul one angel’s happy,
applauding face! Oh, what a temple of the
whole universe is made by one tomb which is
duly honored !
The closest brotherhood between Percival
and Ardworth exists. in their rare meetings
they warm to each other, as members of the
same house, meeting upon the same hearth.
Neither, as yet, has formed new ties: but Per-
cival, at least, is still young, nor ArdWQrth too
old to hope for happiness at the altar; yet
neither has complained that his lot is lonely,
and his affections void. For him who aspires
and for him who loves, the world may have sor-
rows, but never solitude.
0n the minor personages involved in this his-
tory, there is little need to dwell. We know
that, whatever the good pastor‘s grief at the
death of Helen, be but considered that a new
joy was added to the future heaven, in the grief]
entailed on earth. In his simple piety he was
armed in the only sublime philosophy:—the
rainbow was reflected in the cloud, and the to-
ken of the shower was but the promise of de-
liverance from the deluge.
We may feel satisfied that the Mivcrs will
go on much the same while trade enriches
without refining, and while, nevertheless, right
feelings in the common paths of duty may unite
charitable emotions with graceless language.
We may rest assured that the poor widow
who had reared the lost son of Lucretia receiv-
ed from the bounty of Percival all that could
comfort her for his death.
We have no need to track the dull crimes of
Martha, or the quick, cunning vices of Grabman
to their inevitable goals, in the hospital or the
prison, the dungbill or the gibbet.
Of the elder Ardworth our parting notice
may be less brief. We first saw him in san-
guine and generous youth, with higher princi
pies and clearer insight into honor than William
Mainwaring. We have seen him next a spend-
tlirit't and a fugitive, his principles dcbascd,


,EPILOGUE TO PART THE SECOND. 167


71— '»,u 414~
n-mr
’ .
"etnrn of the shipwrecked lover—or gravely
shake the head and hurry on, where the fanatic
raves his Apocalypse, and 'reigns in judgment
on the world; you pass by strong grates into
corridors gloomier and more remote. Nearer
and nearer, you hear the yell, and the oath and
blaspheming curse—you are in the heart ofthe
mad-house, where they chain those at once
cureless and dangerous—who have but sense
enough left them to smite, and to throttle, and
to murder. Your guide opens that door, mas-
sive as a wall, you see (as We, who narrate,
have seen her) Lucretia Dalihard; a grisly,
shualid, ferocious mockery ofa human being—-
more appalling and more fallen, than Dante
ever fabled in his specters, than Swift ever
scoffed in his Yahoos! Only where all other
feature seems to have lost its stamp of human-
ity, still burns with unquenchahle fever—the
red devouring eye. That eye never seems to
sleep, or, in sleep, the lid never closes over
it. As you shrink from its light, it seems t'o
you as if the mind that had lost coherence and
harmony, still retained latent and incommuni-
cable consciousness as its curse. For days, for
weeks—that awful maniac will preserve obsti-
nate, unbroken silence; but, as the eye never
closes, so the hands never rest—they open and
grasp, as if at some palpable object, On which
they close, vice-like, as a bird‘s talons on its
prey—sometimes they wander over that brow,
where the furrows seem torn as the thunder
soars, as if to wipe from it a stain, or charm
from it a pang—sometimes they gather up the
hem of that sordid robe, and seem, for hours
together, striving to rub from it a soil. Then,
out from prolonged silence, without cause or
warning, will ring, pcal after pea] (till the frame
exhausted with the effort, sinks senseless into
stupor) the frightful laugh. But speech, intel-
ligible and coherent, those lips rarely yield.
There are times, indeed, when the attendants
are persuaded, that her mind in part returns to
her; and those times, experience has taught
them to watch with peculiar caution. The
crisis evinccs itself by a change in the manner
_by a quick apprehension of all that is said—
by a straining anxious look at the dismal walls
—hy a soft fawning docility—by murmured com-
plaints ofthe chains that fetter; and though, but
very rarely, by prayers, that seem rational, for
greater ease and freedom.
In the earlier time of her dread captivity,
perhaps, when it was believed at the asylum
that she was a patient of condition, with friends
who cared for her state, and would liberally re-
ward her cure, they, in those moments, relax-
ed her confinement. and sought the gentler
remedies their art employs; but then invari-
ably, and, it was said, with a cunning that sur-
passed all the proverbial astuteness of the mad,
she turned this indulgence to the most deadly
uses—she crept to the pallet of some adjacent
sufferer, Weaker than herself, and the shrieks
that brought the attendants into the cell scarcely
saved the intended victim from her hands. It
seemed, in those imperfectly lucid intervals, as
if the reason only returned to guide' her to des-
troy-only to animate the broken mechanism
into the beast of prey.
Years have now passed since her entrance

within those walls. He who placed her there
never had returned—he had given a false name
—no clue to him was obtained ; the gold he had
left was but the quarter's pay. When Varney‘
had been first apprehended, John Ardworth,
then at Laughton, vainly striving to comfort
Percival, who was almost insensiblc to the ex-
ternal world, wrote to his' father to seclt the
forger in prison—to question him as to Madame
Dalibard; but Varney was then so apprehensive
that, even if still insane, her very ravings might
betray his share in her crimes, or still more, if
she recovered, that the remembrance of her
son‘s murder would awaken the repentance and
the confession of crushed despair, that the
wretch had judged it wiser to say that his ac-
complice was no more—that her insanity had
already terminated in death. Compelled to
abandon his claim on the Insurance Companies,
the place of her confinement (which otherwise
such litigation would have made known) con-
tinued a secret locked in his own breast. Ego-
tist to the last, she was henceforth dead to him
-why not to the world! The elder Ardworth,
without pressing for the details that might have
occurred to his more penetrating son, implicitly
believed the story, and the shock Lucretia had
undergone rendered it sufficiently probable to
be received by John without suspicion. Thus,
though, then, but slight inquiry might have
sufficed to track her—that inquiry was with-
held—thus the partner of her crimes had cut off
her sole resource, in the compassion of her un-
conscious kindred; thus the gates of the living
world were shut to her for cvermore. Still, in
a kind of compassion, or as an object ofexperi-
ment—as a suhjoct to be dealt with unscru-
pulously in that living dissection-hall—her grim
jailors did not grudge her an asylum. But, year
after year, the attendance was more sloveuly—
the treatment more harsh ; and, strange to say,
while the features wcr scarcely recognizable ;
while the form underw ‘nt all the change which
the shape suffers when mind deserts it, that
prodigious vitality, which belonged to the tem-
perament, still survived. No signs of decay
are yet visible. Death, as if spurning the car-
cass, stands ineXorably afar off. Baffler of
man‘s law, thou, too, hast escaped with life!
Not for thee is the sentence, " Blood for blood l"
Thou livest—thou mayst pass the extremest
boundaries of age. Live on, to wipe the kiss
from thy brow, and the blood from thy robe !—
uvs on!
Not for the manic object of creating an idle
terror—not for the shock upon the nerves and
the thrill of the grosser interest which the nar-
rative of crime creates, has this book been com-
piled from the facts and materials afforded to
the author. When the great German poet de-
scribes, in not the least noble of his lyrics, the
'sudden apparition of some Monster Fate in the
circles of careless joy, he assigns to him who
teaches the world through parable or song the
right to invoke the specter. It is well to be
awakened at times from the easy commonplace
that surrounds our habitual life—to cast broad,
and steady, and patient light on the darker se~
crets of the heart—on the vaults and caverns
of the social state, over which we build the
market place and the palace. We recover from


168 EPILOGUE 'I‘O PART THE SECOND.
the dread, and the aWe, and the hal'Fincredulous i would sweep without scrnple from the aim to
wonder, to set closer wateh upon our inner and ‘ the end -- who, trampling beneath their foot-
hidden selves. In him who cultivates only the
reason, and suffers the heart and spirit to lie
waste and dead, who schemes, and constructs,
and revolves round the axle of self—unwarmed
by the affections, unpoised by the attraction of
right—lies the germ Fate might ripen into the
guilt of Olivier Dalibard. Let him who but
lives through the senses, spreads the wings of
the fancy in the gaudy glare of enjoyment cor-
rupted, avid to seize and impatient to toil—
whose faculties are curbed but to the range of
physical perception, whose very courage is but
the strength of the nerves, who deVelopes but
the animal as he stifles the man,--let him gaze
on the villainy of Varney, and startle to see
some magnified shadow of himself thrown dim-
ly on the glass! Let those who, with powers
to command and passions to wing the powers,

print of iron the humanities that bloom up in
their path, would march to success with the
proud stride of the destroyer-4mm, in the laugh
of yon maniac murderess, the glee of the fiend
they have Wooed to their own souls! Guard
well, 0 Heir of Eternity, the portal of sin—the
thought! From the thought to the deed, the
suhtler thy brain and the holder thy courage,
the briefer and straighter is the way. Dos;
thou count on a death for the accession to gold,
or the crown to a passion l—thy thought is a
war with a life, though thy hand may shriné
back from its murder. Read these pages in
disdain of self-commune, and they shall hut re~
volt theer ltead them, and look steadily within,
and thou shalt be better, and purer, and wiser
to thy grave !
'I'IB BUD.


GUDULPHIN.
BY
SIR E. L. BULWER, BART., M.P., M.A.,
AUTHOR OF “ ZANONI," " NIGHT AND MORNING," “ PELHAM,” “ EUGENE
ARAM,” “ THE CAXTONS," ETC.
“ Sleep,
Voluptuous Cmsar, and security
I I ' Seize on thy powurs !“—BEN JossoN—Fall of Sejanua.
I
.1;
’1'

COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME.

PUBLISHED BY
L.ORENZO STRATTON,
NO. 131 MAIN ST., CINCINNATI.
1851.


GODOLPHIN.

,W-Vv
“ Sleep,
Voluptuous Cesar, and security
Seize on thy powers !”—BsN Jonson-Fall of Sejanus.
CHAPTER I.
THE DEATH-BED OF JOHN VERNON—HIS DYING WORDS—DESCRIPTION OF
HIS DAUGHTER, THE HEROXNE—THE OATH.
“ Is the night calm, Constance '1”
“ Beautiful! the moon is up.”
“0 en the shutters wider—there. It
is a eautiful night. How beautiful!
Come hither, my child.”
The rich moonlight that now shone
through the windows streamed on little
that it could invest with poetical attrac-
tion. The room was small, though not
squalid in its character and appliances.
The bed-curtains, of adull chintz, were
drawn back, and showed the form of a
man, past middle age, propped by pillows,
and hearing on his countenance the marks
of approaching death. But what a coun-
tenance it still was! The broad, pale,
lofty brow; the fine, straight, Grecian
nose; the short, curved lip; the full,
dimpled chin; the stamp of genius in
every line and lineament—these still de-
fied disease, or, rather, borrowed from
its very ghastliness a more impressive
majesty. Beside the bed was a table
s read with books of a motley character.
ere an abstruse system of Calculations
on Finance; there a volume of wild Bae-
ehanalian Songs; here the lofty aspira-
tions of Plato s “Phaedon;” and there
the last speech of some County Paris on
a Malt Tax; old newspapers and dusty
pamphlets completed the intellectual lit-
ter; and above them rose, mournfully
enough, the tall, spectral form of a half-
emptied vial, and a chamber-candlestick
crested by its extinguisher.
A light ste approached the bedside,
and opposite the dying man now stood a
girl w 0 might have seen her thirteenth

year. But her features—of an exceed- '
ing, and what may be termed a regal
beauty—were as fully developed as those
of one who had told twice her years; and
not a trace of the bloom or the softness of
girlhood could be marked on her counte-
nance. Her complexion was pale as the
whitest marble, but clear and lustrous;
and her raven hair, parted over her brow
in a fashion then uncommon, increased
the statue-like and classic effect of her
noble features. The eXpression of her
countenance seeme'd cold, sedate, and
somewhat stern: but it might, in some
measure, have belied her heart ; for, when
turned to the moonlight, you might see
that her eyes were filled with tears, though
she did not weep; and you might tell, by
the quivering of her lip, that a little hesi-
tation in replying to any remark from the
sufferer arose from her diflieulty in com-
manding her emotions.
“ Constance,” said the invalid, after a
pause, in which he seemed to have been
gazing with a quiet heart on the soft skies,
that, blue and eloquent with stars, he be-
held through the unclosed windows, “Con-
stance, the hour is coming; I feel it by
signs which I cannot mistake. I shall
die this night.”
“Oh, Godl—my fatherl—my dear,
dear father !” broke from Constance’s lips;
“ do not speak thus—do not—I will go to
Doctor—"
“No child, no; I loathe, I detest the
thought of help! They denied it me
while it was yet time. They left me to
starve, or to rot in jail, or to( £1308 my~


8
GODOLPHIN.
self! They left me like a dog, and like
a dog I will die ! I would not have one
iota taken from the justice—the deadly
and dooming weight of my dying curse.”
Here violent spasms broke on the speech
of the sufferer; and when, by medicine
and his daughter’s attentions, he had re-
covered, he said, in a lower and calmer
key, "Is all quiet below. Constance ?—
Are all in bed? The landlady—the ser-
vants—our fellow-lodgers ?”
“All, my father.”
“ Ay—then I shall die happy. Thank
God, you are my only nurse and atten-
dant. I remember the day when I was
ill after one of their rude debauches. Ill
—a sick headache—a fit of spleen—a
spoiled lap~dog's illness! \Vell, they
wanted me that night to support one of
their paltry measures—their parliament-
ary measures. And I had a prince feel-
ing my pulse, and a duke mixing my
draught, and a dozen earls sending their
doctors to me. I was of use to them
then ! Poor me ! Road that note, Con-
stance—Flamborongh’s note. Do you
hesitate? Read it, I say!”
Constance trembled, and complied.
1
“ MY DEAR VERNON—
“I am really au desespoir to hear of your
melancholy state—so sorry I cannot as~
sist you: but you know my embarrassed
circumstances. By-the-bye, I saw his
royal highness yesterday. ‘Poor Ver-
non!’ said he; ‘ would a hundred pounds
do him any good ?’ So we don’t forget
you, man cher. Ah ! how we missed you
at the Beefsteak! Never shall we know
again so glorious a ban vivant. You would
laugh to hear L attempting to echo
your old jokes. But time resses: I
must be off to the House. You know
what a motion it is. Would to God you
were to bring it on instead of that ass
T Adieu! I wish I could come
and see you; but it would break my heart.
Can I send you any books from Hook-
ham’s? Yours ever,
Fuunoaoneu.”


“ This is the man whom I made Secre-
tary of State," said Vernon. “Very
well l—oh, it’s very well—very well, in-
deed! Let me kiss thee, my girl. Poor
Constance! You will have good friends
when I am dead! they will be proud
enough to minister to Vernon's daughter,
055. You are very handsome. Your
poor mother’s eyes and hair—my father’s
splendid brow and li ; and your figure,
even now so stately.
you—you will have lords and great men
enough at your feet-but you will never
forget this night, or the agony of your
father's death~bed face, and the brand
they have burned in his heart.
now, Constance, give me the Bible in
which you read to me this morning—that
will do—stand away from the light, and
They will court
And
fix your eyes on mine, and listen as if
your soul were in your ear.
“ When I was a young man, toiling my
way to fortune through the labors of the
bar — prudent, cautious, indefatigable,
confident of success—certain lords, who
heard I possessed genius, and thought I
might become their tool, came unto me, and
bcsought me to enter Parliament. I told
them I was poor—was lately married—
that my public ambition must not be en-
couraged at the expense of my private for-
tunes. They answered, that they pledged
themselves those fortunes should be their
care. I yielded; I deserted my profes-
sion; I obeyed their wishes; I became
famous—and a ruined man! They could
not dine without me; they could not su
without me; they could not get drunk
without me; no leasure was sweet but
in my company. hat mattered it that,
while I ministered to their amusement, I
was necessarily heaping debt upon debt
—aceumulating miseries for future years
——laying up bankruptcy, and care, and
shame, and a broken heart, and an early
death ‘2 But listen, Constance! Are
you listening? attentively? Well! note
now, I am a just man. I do not blame
my noble friends, my gentle patrons, for
this. No: if I were forgetful of my in-
terests, if I preferred their pleasure to my
happiness and honor, that was my crime,
and I deserve the punishment! But,
look you—time went by, and my consti-
tution was broken ; debts came upon me;
I could not pay; men mistrusted my word;
my name in the country fell ! With my
health, my genius deserted me; I was no
longer useful to my party; I lost my seat
in Parliament ; and, when I was on a sick-
bed—you remember it, Constance—the
bailiffs came, and tore me away for a
paltry debt—the value of one of those
suppers the prince used to beg me to give
him. From that time my familiars for-

when Death has shown that Vernon is a
sock me I not a visit, not a kind act, not


GODOLPEIN.
9
a. service for him whose day of work was
over! Poor Vernon’s character was gone!
‘ Shockingly involved—could not perform
his promises to his creditors—always o
extravagant—quite unprincipled — must
give him up l"
“ In those sentences lies the secret of
their conduct. They did not remember
that for them, by them, the character was
gone, the promises broken, the ruin in-
curred! They thought not how I had
served them; how my best years had been
devoted to advance them—to ennoble their
cause in the lying age of History! All
this was not thought of; my life was re-
duced to two epochs-that of use to them,
that not. During the first I was honored;
during the last I was left to starve, to
rot! Who freed me from prison? who
protects me now? One of my ‘party’—
my ‘ noble friends’—my ‘ honorable, right
honorable friends?’ No! a tradesmen
whom I once served in my holyday, and
who alone, of all the world, forgets me not
in my penance. You see gratitude, friend-
ship, spring up only in middle life; they
grow not in high stations I
“ And now come nearer, for my voice
falters, and I would have these words dis-
tinctly heard. Child, girl as you are—
—you I consider pledged to record, to
fulfill my desire, my curse ! Lay your
hand on mine: swear that through life to
death—swear! You speak not ! Re-
peat my words after me.” Constance
obeyed—“ Through life to death; through
good, through ill, through weakness,
through power, you will devote yourself
to humble, to abase that party from whom
your father received ingratitude, mortifi-
cation, and death! Swear that you will
not marry a poor and powerless man, who
can minister not to the ends of that solemn
retribution I invoke ! Swear that you
will seek to marry from among the great;
not through love, not through ambition,
but through hate and for revenge ! You
will seek to rise that you may humble
those who have betrayed me ! In the
social walks of life you will delight to gall
their vanities; in state intrigues you will
embrace every measure that can brin
them to their eternal downfall. For this
great end you will pursue all means—
(What! you hesitate? Repeat, repeat,
repeat!)-—You will lie, cringe, fawn, and
think vice not vice if it bring you one jot
nearer to revenge! With this curse on
my fees I entwine my blessing, dear, dear

Constance, on you—yon, who have nursed,
watched, all but saved me! God—God
bless you, my child !" And Vernon burst
into tears.
It was two hours after this singular
scene, and exactly in the third hour of
morning, that Vernon woke from a short
and troubled sleep. The gray dawn (for
the time was the height of summer) al.
ready began to labor through the shades
and against the stars of night. A raw
and comfortless chill crept over the earth,
and saddened the air in the death-cham-
ber. Constance sat by her father’s
bed, her eyes fixed upon him, and her
cheek more wan than eVer by the pale
light of that crude and cheerless dawn.—
When Vernon woke, his eyes, glazed with
death, rolled faintly toward her, fixing
and dimming in their sockets as they
gazed; his throat rattled. But for one
moment his voice found vent ; a ray shot
across his countenance as he uttered his
last words—words that sank at once and
eternally to the core of his daughter’s
heart—words that ruled her life and
sealed her destiny: “ Constance, remem-
ber—the oath—revenge !”

CHAPTER II.
REMARK ON THE TENURE 0F LIFE—THE COF-
PINS OF GREAT MEN SELDOM NEGLECTED
-—-CONSTANCE TAKES REFUGE WITH LADY
ERPINGHAM —- THE IIEROINE'S ACCOM—
PLISHMENTS AND CHARACTER—THE MA'
NEUVEBING TEMPERAMENT.
“THAT a strange life this is ! what pup-
pets we are! How terrible an enigma is
Fate! I never set my foot without my
door, but what the fearful darkness that
broods over the next moment rushes upon
me. How awful an event may hang over
our hearts! The sword is always above
us, seen or invisible.
And with this life—this scene of dark-
ness and dread—some men would have
us so contented as to desire, to ask for
no other! ‘
Constance was now without a near re-
lation in the world. But her father pre-
dicted rightly: vanity supplied the place
of affection. Vernon, who for eighteen
months preceding his death had strug-
gled with the sharpest afilictions of want


10
GODOLPHIN .
--Vernon, deserted in life by all, was in-
terred with the insulting ceremonials of
pomp and state. Six nobles bore his
all: long trains of carriages attended
his funeral: the journals were filled with
outlines of his biography and lamenta-
tions at his decease. They buried him
in \Vestminster Abbey, and they made
subscriptions for a monument in the very
best sort of marble. Lady Erpingham,
a distant connection of the deceased, in-
vited Constance to live with her; and
Constance, of course, consented, for she
had no alternative.
On the day that she arrived at Lady
Erpingham’s house in Hill-street, there
were several persons present in the draw-
ing-room.
“ I fear, poor girl,” said Lady Erpin -
ham—for they were talking of Constance s
expected arrival—“I fear that she will
be quite abashed by seeing so many of
us, and under such unhappy circum-
stances.”
“ How old is she ‘3” asked a beauty.
“ About thirteen, I believe.”
“ Handsome '3”
“I have not seen her since she was
seven years old. She promised then to
be very beautiful : but she was a remark-
ably shy, silent child.”
“ Miss Vernon,” said the groom of the
chamber, throwing open the door.
With the slow step and self-possessed
air of womanhood, but with a far haugh-
tier and far colder mien than women
commonly assume, Constance Vernon
walked through the long apartment and
greeted her future guardian. Though
every eye was on her, she did not blush;
though the queens of the London world
were round her, her gait and air were
more royal than all. Every one present
experienced a revulsion of feeling. They
were prepared for pity; this was no case
in which pity could be given. Even the
words of protection died on Lady Er-
pingham’s li), and size it was who felt
bashful and isconcerted.
I intend to pass rapidly over the years
that elapsed until Constance became a
Woman. Let us glance at her education.
Vernon had not only had her instructed
in the French and Italian, but, a (ice
and impassioned scholar himself, he had
taught her the elements of the two great
languages of the ancient world. The
treasures of those languages she after-
ward conquercd of her own accord.

Lady Erpingham had one daughter,
who married when Constance had reached
the age of sixteen. The advantages
Lady Eleanor Erpingham possessed in
her masters and her governess, Constance
shared. Miss Vernon drew well and
sang divinely, but she made no very great
proficiency in the science of music. To
say truth, her mind was somewhat too
stern, and somewhat too intent on other
subjects, to surrender to that most jeal-
ous of accomplishments the exclusive de-
votion it requires. ,
But of all her attractions, and of all
the evidences of her cultivated mind,
none equaled the extraordinary grace of
her conversation. Wholly disregarding
the conventional leading-strings in which
the minds of young ladies are accustomed
to be held—leading-strings disguised by
the name of “proper diflidenee " and
“becoming modesty”-—she never scru-
pled to share, nay, to lead, discussions
even of a grave and solid nature. Still
less did she seruple to invest the common
trifles that make the sum of conversation
with the fascinations of a wit, which,
playful yet deep, rivaled even the pater-
nal source from which it was inherited.
It seems sometimes odd enough to me,
that, while young ladies are so sednlously
taught all the accomplishments that a
husband disregards, they are never taught
the great one he would prize. They are
taught to be exhibitors ,' he wants a compan-
ion. He wants neither a singing animal,
nor a drawing animal, nor a dancing ani-
mal; he wants a talking animal. But to talk
they are never taught; all they know of
it is slander, and that “comes by nature.”
But Constance did talk beautifidly:
not like a pedant, or a blue, or a French-
woman. A ‘child would have been as
much charmed with her as a savanl; but
both would have been charmed. Her
father’s eloquence had descended to her;
but in him eloquence commanded, in her
it won. There was another trait she
possessed in common with her father:
Vernon (as most disappointed men are
wont) had done the world injustice by
his accusations. It was not his overty
and his distresses alone which rad in-
duced his party to look coolly on his de-
clining day. They were not without
some apparent excuse for desertion: they
doubted his sincerity. It is true that it
was without actual cause. N 0 modern
politician had ever been more consistent.


UODOLPKIN .
11
He had refused bribes, though poor; and
place, though ambitious. But he was es-
sentially—hers is the secret—essentially
an intriguant. Bred in the old school of
policy, he thought maneuvering wisdom,
and duplicity the art of governing. Like
Lysander,* he loved plotting, yet ne-
glected self-interest. There was not a
man less open or more honest. This
character, so rare in all countries, is es-
pecially so in England. Your blunt
squires, your politicians at Bellamy’s, do
not comprehend it. They saw in Vernon
the arts which deceive enemies, and they
dreaded lest, though his friends, they
themselves should be deceived. This
disposition, so fatal to Vernon, his daugh-
ter inherited. With a dark, bold, and
assiouatc genius, that in a man would
have led to the highest enterprises, she
linked the feminine love of secrecy and
scheming. To borrow again from Plu-
tarch and Lysander, “ When the skin of
the lion fell short, she was quite of
opinion that it should be eked out with
the fox’s."

CHAPTER III.
THE HERO INTRODUCED TO OUR BEADEB’S
NOTICE—DIALOGUE BETWEEN HIMSELF
AND HIS FATHER—PERCY GODOLPHIN’S
CHARACTER AS A BOY—THE CATASTBOPHE
OF HIS SCHOOL LIFE.
“PERCY, remember that it is to-mor-
row you will return to school,” said Mr.
Godolphin to his only son.
Percy pouted, and, after a momentary
silence, replied, “No, father, I think I
shall go to Mr. Saville’s. He has asked
me to spend a. month with him; and he
says rightly that I shall learn more with
him than at Dr. Shallowell’s, where I am
already head of the sixth form.”
“Mr. Ssville is a. coxcomb, and you
are another!” replied the father, who,
dressed in an old flannel dressing-gown,
with a worn velvet cap on his head, and
cowering gloomily over a. wretched fire,
seemed no bad personification of that
mixture of half-hypochondriac, half-
miser, which he was in reality. “Don’t
talk to me of going to town, sir, or—”
“Father,” interrupted Percy, in a cool

" Plutarch’s “ Life of Lysandsr."

and nonchalant tone, as be folded his
arms and looked straight and shrewdly
on the paternal face, “ father, let us un-
derstand each other. My schooling, I
suppose, is rather an expensive affair 'l”
“ You may Well say that sir! Expen-
sivel—it is frightful, horrible, ruinous!
Expensive! Twenty pounds a-year,
board and Latin; five guineas washing;
five more writing and arithmetic. Sir, if
I were not resolved that. you should not
want education, though you may want
fortune, I should—yes, I should—What
do you mean, sir l—you are laughing!
Is this your respect, your gratitude to
your father l”
A slight shade fell over the bright and
intelligent countenance of the boy.
“ Don’t let us talk of gratitude,” said -
be sadly; “ God knows what either you
or I have to be grateful for! Fortune
has left to your proud name but these
bare walls and a handful of barren acres;
to me she gave a father’s afl'ection—not
such as Nature had made it, but cramped
and soured by misfortunes.”
Here Percy paused, and his father
seemed also struck and afl‘ected. “Let
us,” renewed, in a lighter strain, this
singular boy, who might have passed, by
some months, his fifteenth year, “let us
see if we cannot accommodate matters to
our mutual satisfaction. You can ill af-
ford my schooling, and I am resolved
that at school I will not stay. Seville is
a relation of ours; he has taken a fancy
to me; he has even hinted that he may
leave me his fortune; and he has pro-
mised, at least, to afford me a home and
his tuition as long as I like. Give ‘me
free passport hereafter to come and go
as I list, and I in turn will engage never
to cost you another shilling. Come, sir,
shall it be a. compact ?”
“ You wound me, Percy,” said the
father, with a mournful pride in his tone:
“ I have not deserved this, at least from
you. You know not, boy—you know
not all that; has hardened this heart; but
to you it has not been hard; and a taunt
from you —ycs, that is the serpent’s
tooth!”
Percy in an instant was at his father’s
feet; be seized both his hands, and
burst into a passionate fit of tears. “ F or-
give me,“ he said, in broken words; “I
--I meant. not to taunt you. I am but a
giddy boy! send me to school! do with
me as you will!”


12
GODOLPHIN.
“Ay,” said the old man, shaking his
head gently, “you know not what pain a
son’s bitter word can send to a parent's
heart. But it is all natural, perfectly
natural! You would reproach me with a
love of money; it is the sin youth is least
lenient to. But what! can I look round
the world, and not see its value, its ne-
cessity? Year after year, from my first
manhood, I have toiled and toiled to pre-
serve from the hammer these last rem-
nants of my ancestors’ domains. Year
after year fortune has slipped from my
grasp; and, after all my efforts, and to-
ward the close of a long life. I stand on
the very verge of penury. But you can-
not tell—no man whose heart is not
seamed with many years can tell, or can
appreciate the motives that have formed
my character. You, however ”——-and his
voice softened as he laid his hand on his
son’s head—“ you, however—the gay,
the bold, the young—should not have
your brow crossed and your eye dimmed
by the cares that surround me. Go! I
will accompany you to town; I will see
Saville myself. If he be one with whom
my son can, at so tender an age, be safely
trusted, you shall pay him the visit you
Wish.”
Percy would have replied, but his father
checked him; and, before the end of the
evening, the father had resolved to forget
as much as be pleased of the conversa-
tion.
The elder Godolphin was one of those
characters on whom it is vain to attempt
making a permanent impression. The
habits of his mind were durably formed;
like waters, they yielded to any sudden
intrusion, but closed instantly again.
Early in life he had been taught that he
ought to marry an heiress for the benefit
of his estate—his ancestral estate; the
restoration of which he had been bred to
consider the grand object and ambition
of life. His views had been strangely
bafiled; but, the more they were thwart-
ed, the more pertinaciously he clung to
them. Naturally kind, generous, and
/soeial, he had sunk at length into the
anchorite and the miser. All other pe-
culations that should retrieve his ances-
tral honors had failed: but there is one
speculation that never fails—the specu-
lation of saving .’ It was to this that he
now indissoluhly attached himself. At
moments he was open to all his old ha.-
bits, but those moments were rare and

few. A cold, hard, frosty penurionaneas
was his prevalent characteristic. He
had sent his son, with eighteen pence in
his pocket, to a school of twenty pounds
a-year, where, naturally enough, he learn-
ed nothing but mischief and cricket; yet
be conceived that his son owed him eter-
nal obligations.
Luckily for Percy, he was an especial
favorite with a certain not uncelehrated
character of the name of Seville; and
Saville claimed the privilege of a relation
to supply him with money and receive
him at his home. Wild, passionate, fond
to excess of pleasure, the young Godol-
phin caught eagerly at these occasional
visits; and at each, his mind, keen and
penetrating as it naturally was, too]:
new flights and reveled in new views
He was already the leader of his school,
the torment of the master, and the lover
of the master’s daughter. He was fifteen
years old, but a character. A secret
pride, a secret bitterness, and an open
wit and recklessness of bearing, rendered
him, to all seeming, a boy more endowed
with energies than affections. Yet a
kind word from a friend’s lips was never
without its effect on him, and he might
have been led by the silk while he would
have snapped the chain. But these
were his boyish traits of mind: the world
soon altered them.
The subject of the visit to Saville was
not again touched upon. A little reflec-
tion showed Mr. Godolphin how nuga-
tory were the promises of a schoolboy
that he should not cost his father another
shilling; and he knew that Saville’s
house was not exactly the spot in which
economy was best learned. He thought
it, therefore, more prudent that his son
should return to school.
To school went Percy Godolphin ; and,
about three weeks afterward, Percy G0-
dolphin was condemned to expulsion for
returning, with considerable nnction, a
slap in the face that he had received
from Dr. Shallowell. Instead of waiting
for his father’s arrival, Percy made up a
small bundle of clothes, and let himself
drop, by the help of the bed-curtains
from the window of the room in which
he was confined, and toward the close of
a fine summer’s evening found himself on
the high road, between * * * * and Lon-
don, with independenee at his heart, and
(Saville’s last gift,) ten guineas in his
pocket.


GODOLPHIN.
13
CHAPTER IV.
rkncv’s rmsr anvns'ruaa as A
sass sonar.
IT was a fine, picturesque outline of
road on which the young outcast found
himself journeying, whither be neither
knew nor cared. His heart was full of
enterprise and the unfleshed valor of
inexperience. He had proceeded several
miles, and the dusk of the evening was
setting in, when he observed a stage-
coach crawling heavily up a bill a little
ahead of him, and a tall, well-shaped
man walking alongside of it, and gesticu-
lating somewhat violently. Godolphin
remarked him with some curiosity; and
the man, turning abruptly round, per~
ceived, and in his turn noticed very in-
quisitively, the person and aspect of the
young traveler.
“And how now T” said he, presently,
and in an agreeable though familiar and
unceremonious tone of voice, “whither
are you bound this time of day 'l”
“It is no business of yours, friend,”
said the boy, with the proud petulanee
of his age; “ mind what belongs to your~
self.”
“You are sharp on me, young sir,” re-
turned the other: “ but it is our business
to be loquacious. Know sir,”—and the
stranger frowned—“ that we have ordered
many a taller fellow than yourself to
execution for a much smaller insolence
than you seem capable of.”
A laugh from the coach caused G0-
dolphin to lift up his eyes, and he saw
the door of the vehicle half open, as if
for coolness, and an arch female face
looking down on him.
“You are merry on me, I see,” said
Percy: “ come out, and I’ll be even with
you, pretty one.”
The lady laughed yet more loudly at
the premature gallantry of the traveler;
but the man, without heeding her, and
laying his hand on Pcrcy’s shoulder,
said:
“ Pray, sir, do you live at B * * * *‘Z”
naming the town they were now ap-
preaching.
“Not I,” said Godolphin, freeing him-
self from the intrusion.
“You will, perhaps, sleep there?”
“ Perhaps I shall.”
“ You are too young to travel alone.”
it was at first, pressed upon him.

“ And you are too old to make such
impertinent remarks,” retorted Godol-
phin, reddening with anger.
“ Faith, I like this spirit, my Hotspur,”
said the stranger coolly. “If you are
really going to put up for the night at
B ****, su pose we sup together.”
“ And w o and what are you ?” asked
Percy, bluntly.
“Anything and everything; in other
words, an actor !”
“ And the young lady—l"
“ Is our prima donna. In fact, except
our driver, the coach holds none but the
ladies and gentlemen of our company.
We have made an excellent harvest at
A , and we are now on our way to
the theater at B ; pretty theater
it is, too, and has been known to hold
seventy-one pounds eight shillings.”
Here the actor fell into a reverie; and
Percy, moving nearer to the coach door,
glanced at the damsel, who returned the


I look with a laugh which, though coquet-
tish, was too low and musical to be called
bold. -
“ So that gentleman, so free and easy
in his manners, is not your husband 17”
“ Heaven forbid! Do you think I
should be so gay if he were ? But, pooh!
what can you know of married life? No !"
she continued, with a pretty air of mock
dignity, “ I am the Belvidera, the Calista
of the company; above all control, all
husbanding. and reaping thirty- three
shillings a-week."
“ But are you above lovers as well as
husbands '?” asked Percy, with a rakish
air, borrowed from Seville.
“ Bless the boy! No: but then my
lovers must be at least as tall, and at
least as rich, and, I am afraid, at least as
old. as myself.”
“ Don’t frighten yourself, my dear,”
returned Percy; “ I was not about to
make love to you.”
“ Were you not ‘?
you know it.
with us Y”
“Why not, indeed?” thought Percy,
as the idea, thus more enticingly put than
“H
Yes you were, and
But why won’t you sup
you ask me,” said he, “ I will.”
“I do ask you, then,” said the actress;_
and here the hero of the company turned
abruptly round with a theatrical start—
said he to Godolphiu, “ To sup or not to
sup? that is the question.”
“To sup, sir,” said Godolphin.


14
GODOLPHXN.
“Very well; I am glad to hear it.
Had you not better mount, and rest
yourself in the coach? You can take
my place; I am studying a new part.
We have two miles farther to B
et.”
y “Percy accepted the invitation, and
was soon by the side of the pretty ac-
tress. The horses broke into a slow trot,
and thus delighted with his adventure,
the son of the ascetic Godolphin, the
pupil of the courtly Saville, entered the
town of B , and commenced his first
independent campaign in the great world.



CHAPTER V.
THE MUMMEKS—GODOLPHIN IN LOVE—THE
EFFECT OF FANNY MILLINGER’S ACTING
UPON HIM—THE TWO OFFERS—COBOL-
PHIN QUITS THE PLAYERS.
Oua travelers sto ped at the first inn
in the outskirts of t e town. Here they
were showa into a large room on the
ground floor, sanded, with a. long table
in the center; and, before the supper was
served, Percy had leisure to examine all
the companions with whom he had asso-
ciated himself.
In the first place, there was an old
gentleman of the age of sixty-three, in a
bob-wig, and inclined to be stout, who
always played the lover. He was equally
excellent in the pensive Romeo and the
bustling Rapid. He had an ill way of
talking off the stage, partly because he
had lost all his front teeth; a circum-
stance which made him avoid, in general,
those parts in which he had to force a
great deal of laughter. Next, there was
a little girl of about fourteen, who played
angels, fairies, and at a pinch, was very
effective as an old woman. Thirdly,
there was our free-and-easy cavalier, who,
having a loud voice and a manly presence,
usually performed the tyrant. He was
great in “Macbeth,” greater in “Bom-
bastes Furioso.” Fourthly came this
gentleman’s wife, a pretty, slatternish
woman, much painted. She usually per-
formed the second fcmalc—the confidant,
the chambermaid—the Emilia to the
Desdemona. And, fifthly, was Percy’s
new inamorata—a girl of about one-and
tiful auburn hair, that was always a little
disheveled; the prettiest mouth, teeth,
and dimple imaginable; a natural color,
and a person that promised to incline
hereafter toward that roundness of pro-
portion which is more dear to the sensual
than the romantic. This girl, whose
name was Fanny Millinger, was of so
frank, good-humored, and lively a turn,
that she was the idol of the whole com-
pany, and her superiority in acting was
never made a matter of jealousy. Actors
may believe this or not, as they please.
“ But is this all your company ?" said
Percy.
-“ All! No!” replied Fanny, taking
off her bonnet, and curling up her tres-
ses by the help of a dim lass. “The
rest are provided at the theater along
with the candle-snufier and scene-shifters
—-part of the fixed property. \Vhy won't
you take to the stage ? I wish you would!
you would make a very respectable—
page.”
“ Upon my word!” said Percy, exceed-
ingly ofi'ended.
“Come, come !" cried the actress,
slapping her hands, and perfectly un-
heeding his displeasure, “ why don’t you
help me elf with my cloak? why don’t
you set me a chair ? why don’t you take
this great box out of my way? why don't
you—Heaven help me l” and she stamp-
ed her little foot quite seriously on the
flow". “ A pretty person for a lover you
are .”
“ Oho! then I am a lover, you ac-
knowledge '1”
“Nonsense! get a chair next me at
sup er.”
'lhe young Godolphin was perfectly
fascinated by the lively actress; and it was
with no small interest that be stationed
himself the following night in the stage-
box of the little theater at , to see
how his Faun acted. The house was
tolerably well filled, and the play was
“She Stoops to Conquer.” The male
parts were, on the whole, respectany
managed; though Percy was somewhat
surprised to observe that a man, who had
joined the corps that morning, blessed
with the most solemn countenance in the
world—a fine Roman nose, and a fore-
head like a sage’s—was now dressed in
naukeen tights, and a coat without skirts,
splitting the sides of the gallery in the
part of Tony Lumpkin. But into the


twenty, fair, with a me retroussé: beau-
heroine Fanny Millingcr threwa grace,


GODOLPHIN.
15
a sweetness, a simple yet dignified spirit
of true love, that at once charmed and
astonished all present. The applause
was unbounded; and Percy Godolphin
felt proud of himself for having admired
one whom every one else seemed also re-
solved upou admiring. ,
When the comedy was finished he went
behind the scenes, and for the first time
felt the rank which intellect bestows.
This idle girl, with whom he had before
been so familiar; who had seemed to
him, boy as he was, only made for jest-
ing, and coquetry, and trifling, he now
felt to be raised to a sudden eminence
that startled and abashed him. He he-
came shy and awkward, and stood at a
distance stealing a glance toward her,
but without the courage to approach and
compliment her.
The quick eye of the actress detected
the effect she had produced. She was
naturally pleased at it, and, coming up to
Godolphin, she touched his shoulder, and
with a smile rendered still more brilliant
by the rouge yet unwashed from the
dim led cheeks, said, “ Well, most awk-
ward swain! no flattery ready for me?
Go to! you won’t suit me: get yourself
another empress !”
“You have pleased me into respecting
you,” said Godolphin.
There was a delicacy in the expression
that was very characteristic of the real
mind of the speaker, though that mind
was not yet developed; and the pretty
actress was touched by it at the moment,
though, despite the grace of her acting,
she was by nature far too volatile to
think it at all advantageous to be re-
spected on the long run. She did not act
in the afterpiecc, and Godolphin escorted
her home to the inn.
So long as his ten guineas lasted—
which the reader will conceive was not
very long—Godolphiu stayed with the
gay troop as the welcome lover of its
chief ornament. To her he confided his
name and history; she laughed heartily
at the latter, for she was one of Venus’s
true children, fond of striking mirth out
of all subjects. “ But what,” said she,
pat-ting his cheek affectionately, “what
should hinder you from joining us for a
little while? I could teach you to be an
actor in three lessons. Come now, at-
tend! It is but a mere series of tricks,

this art that seems to you so admira-
ble.”
Godolphin grew embarrassed. There
was in him a sort of hidden pride that
could never endure to subject itself to the
censure of others. He had no propensity
to imitation, and he had a strong suscep-
tibility to the ridiculous. These traits of
mind, thus early developed—which in
later life prevented his ever finding fit
scope for his natural powers, which made
him too proud to hustle and too philoso-
phical to shine—were of service to him
on this occasion, and preserved him from
the danger into which he might otherwise
have fallen. He could not be persuaded
to act: the fair Fanny gave up the at-
tempt in despair. “Yet stay with us,”
said she, tenderly, “ and share my poor
earnings.”
Godolphin started ; and in the wonder-
ful contradictions of the proud human
heart, this generous offer from the poor
actress gave him a distaste, a displeasure,
that almost reconciled him to parting
from her. It seemed to open to him at
once the equivocal mode of life he had
entered upon. “ No, Fanny,” said be,
after a pause, “ I am here because I re-
solved to be independent : I cannot, there-
fore, choose dependence.”
“Miss Millinger is wanted instantly for
rehearsal,” said the little girl who acted
fairies and old women, putting her head
suddenly into the room.
“Bless me I” cried Fanny, starting up;
“is it so late? Well, I must go now.
Good-by l look in upon us—do.”
But Godolphin, moody and thoughtful,
walked into the street; and, lo! the first
thing that greeted his eyes was a hand-
bill on the wall, describing his own person,
and offering twenty guineas reward for
his detention. “ Let him return to his
afllicted parent,” was the conclusion of
the bill, “ and all shall be forgiven.”
Godolphin crept back to his apartment;
wrote a long affectionate letter to Fanny;
inclosed her his watch, as the only keep-
sake in his power; gave her his address
at Saville’s; and then, waiting until dark,
once more sallied forth, and took a place
on the mail for London. He had no
money for his passage, but his appearance
was such that the coachmau readily trust-
ed him; and the next morning at day-
break he was under Saville’s roof.


16
GODOLPHI N.
CHAPTER VI.
PERCY GODOLPIIIN, THE GUEST OF SAVILLE
-—HR ENTERS THE LIFE-GUARDS AND BE-
COMES DU BON TON.
“ AND so,” said Saville, laughing, “you
really gave them the slip: excellent ! But
I envy you your adventures with the
player-folk. Gad! if I were some years
ounger, I would join them myself; I
should act Sir Perlinaa: jllacsycopbam
famously; I have a touch of the mime in
me. \Vell! but what do you propose to
do? Lch with me ? eh !”
“ Why, I think that might be the best,
and certainly it would be the pleasantcst
mode of passing my life. But-—”
“ But what “.1”
“ Why, I can scarcely quarter myself
on your courtesy; I should soon grow
discontented. So I shall write to my
father, whom I, kindly and eonsiderately,
by-the~way, informed of my safety the
very first day of my arrival in B****.
I told him to direct his letters to your
house ; but I regret to find that the hand-
bill which so frightened me from my pro-
priety is the only notice he has deigned
to take of my whereabout. I shall write
to him, therefore, again, begging him to
let me enter the army. It is not a pro-
fession I much fancy; but what then ? I
shall be my own master.”
“Very well said 1” answered Saville;
“and here I hope I can serve you. If
your father will pay the lawful sum for a
commission in the Guards, why, I think I
have interest to get you in for that sum
alone—no trifling favor.”
Godolphin was enchanted at this pro-
posal, and instantly wrote to his father,
urging it strongly upon him; Saville, in
a separate epistle, seconded the motion.
“ You see,” wrote the latter, “you see,
my dear sir, that your son is a wild, reso-
lute scapegrace. You can do nothing
with him by schools and coercion; put
him to discipline in the king’s service, and
condemn him to live on his pay. It is a
cheap mode, after all, of providing for a
reprobate; and as he will have the good
fortune to enter the army at so early an
age, by the time he is thirty he may be a
colonel on full-pay. Seriously, this is the
best thing you can do with him, unless
ed by these letters and by his son’s previ-
ous elopement. He could not, however,
but foresee that, if be resisted the boy’s
wishes. he was likely to have a troublesome
time of it. Scrape after scrape, difficulty
following difiiculty, might ensue, all costing
both anxiety and money. The present
ofl'er furnished him with a fair excuse for
ridding himself, for a long time to come,
of farther provision for his offspring; and
now growing daily more and more attached
to the indolent routine of solitary econo-
mies in which he moved, he was glad of
an opportunity to deliver himself fr: on
future interruption, and surrender his
whole soul to his favorite occupation.
At length, after a fortnight’s delay and
meditation, he wrote shortly to Saville
and his son; saying, after much reprinch
to the latter, that if the commission could
really be purchased at the sum specified,
he was willing to make a sacrifice, for
which he must pinch himself, and conclude
the business. This touched the son, but
Saville laughed him out of the twinge of
good feeling; and very shortly afterward
Percy Godolphin was gazetted as a comet
in the Life Guards.
The life of a soldier, in peace, is indo-
lent enough, Heaven knows! Percy liked
the new uniforms and the new horses—-
all of which were bought on credit. He
liked his new com anions; he liked balls;
he liked flirting; e did not dislike Hyde
Park from four o’clock until six; and he
was not very much bored by drills and
parade. It was much to his credit in the
world that he was the prote'gé of a man
who had so great a character for profii-
gacy and gambling as Augustus Saville;
and, under such auspices, he found him-
self launched at once into the full tide of
“good society.”
Young, romantic, high-spirited—with
the classic features of an Antinous, and a
very pretty knack of complimenting and
writing verses—Percy Godolphin soon
became, while yet more fit in years for
the nursery than the world, “the curled
darling” of that wide class of highborn
women who have nothing to do but to
hear love made to them, and who, all ar-
tifice themselves, think the love sweetest
which springs from the most natural
source. They like boyhood when it is
not bashful; and from fifteen to twenty.
a Juan need scarcely go to Seville to find


you have a living in your family.”
The old gentleman was much discompos- i
a Julia.
But love was not the worst danger that
___ »~ n! ‘AI-I-


eononrnm. '1 17
e‘—_-—--I'-‘='I'vre
menaced the intoxicated boy. Saville,
the most seductive tutors—Saville, who,
in his wit, his ban ton, his control over
the great world, seemed as a god to all
less elevated and less aspiring—Saville
was Godolphin’s constant companion ; and
Saville was Worse than a profligate—he
was a gambler! One would think that
gaming was the last vice that could fasci-
nate the young: its avarice, its grasping,
its hideous selfishness, its cold, calculat-
ing meanness, would, one might imagine,
scare away all who have yet other and
softer deities to worship. But, in fact,
the fault of youth is, that it can rarely
resist whatever is the Mode. Gaming,
in all countries, is the vice of an aristoc-
racy. The young find it already estab-
lished in the best circles ; they are enticed
by the habit of others, and ruined when
the habit becomes their own.
“You look feverish, Percy,” said Sa-
ville, as he met his pupil in the Park.
“ I don’t wonder at it: you lost infernally
last night.”
“ More than I can pay,” replied Percy,
with a quivering lip.
“No! you shall pay it to-morrow, for
you shall go shares with me to-night.
Observe,” continued Saville, lowering his
voice, “ I never lose.”
“ How I never?”
“ Never, unless by design. I play at
no game where chance only presides.—
Whist is my favorite game: it is not popu-
lar: I am sorry for it. I take up with
other games—I am forced to do it; but,
eVen at 'rouge et noir, I carry about with
me the rules of whist. I calculate—I re-
member.” '
“ But hazard .9"
“ I never play at that !" said Saville,
solemnly. “It is the devil’s game; it
defies skill. Forsake hazard, and let me
teach you ecarte ,' it is coming into fash-
ion.”
Saville took great pains with Godol-
phin; and Godolphin, who was by nature
of a contemplative, not hasty mood, was
no superficial disciple. As his biogra-
pher, I grieve to confess that he became,
though a. punctiliously honest, a wise and
fortunate gamester; and thus he eked
out by times the slender profits of a sub-
altern’s pay.
This was the first great moral deteriora-
tion in Percy’s mind : a mind which ought
to have made him a very different being
from what he became, but which no vice,

no evil example, could ever entirely per-
Vert.
CHAPTER VII.
SAVILLB BXCUSED FROM HAVING HUMAN AF-
FECTIONS—GODOLPHIN SEES ONE WHOM
HE NEVER SEES AGAIN—THE NEW AC-
TRESS.
SAVILLE was deemed the consummate
man of the world—wise and heartless.
How came he to take such gratuitous
pains with the boy Godolphin? In the
first place, Saville had no legitimate child-
ren; Godolphin was his relation: in the
second place, it may be observed, that
hackneyed and blasés men of the world
are fond of the young, in whom they re-
cognize something—a better something--
belonging to themselves. In Godolphin’s
gentleness and courage, Saville thought
he saw the mirror of his own crusted ur-
banity and scheming perseverance; in G0-
dolphin’s fine imagination and subtile in-
tellect he beheld his own cunning and
hypocrisy. The boy's popularity flatter-
ed him; the boy’s conversation amused.
N 0 man is so heartless but that he is ca-
pable of strong likings when they do not
put him much out of his way: it was this
sort of liking that Saville had for Godol-
phin. Beside, there was yet another
reason for attachment, which might at
first seem too delicate to actuate the re-
fined volu tuary; but, examined close-
ly, the delicacy vanished. Saville had
loved—at least, had ofl'ered his hand to—
Godolphin's mother (she was supposed
an heiressl). He thought he had just
missed being Godolphin’s father: his van—
ity made him like to show the boy what
a much better father he would have been
than the one that Providence had given
him. His resentment, too, against the
accepted suitor made him love to exercise
a little spiteful revenge against Godol-
phin’s father: he was glad to show that
the son preferred where the mother re-
jected. All these motives combined made
Saville take, as it were, to the young
Percy; and being rich, and habitually
profuse, though prudent, and a shrewd
speculator withal, the pecuniary part of
his kindness cost him no pain. But Go-
dolphin, who was not ostentatious, did not
trust himself largely to the capricious
fount of the worldling’s generosity. For-


18
GODOLPHIN.
Q.
tune smiled on her boyish votary; and,
during the short time he was obliged to
cultivate her favors, showered on him at
least a suflicieney for shpport, or even for
dis lay.
(growded with fine people and blazing
with light were the rooms of the Count-
ess of B , as, flushed from the late
dinner at Saville’s, young Godolphin
made his appearance in the scene. He
was not of those mimerous gentlemen,
the stock-flowers of the parterrc, who
stick themselves up against walls in the
pan0ply of neckclothed silence. He came
not to balls from the vulgar motive of
being seen there in the most conspicuous
situation—a motive so apparent among
the stiff exquisites of England. He
came to amuse himself; and if he found
no one capable of amusing him, he
saw no necessity in staying. He was
always seen, therefore, conversing, or
dancing, or listening to music—0r he was
not seen at all.
In exchanging a few words with a C01-
onel D , a noted roué and gamester,
he observed. gazing on him very intently
-—and, as Percy thought, very rudely—
an old gentleman in the dress of the last
century. Turn where he would, Godol-
phin could not rid himself of the gaze;
so at length he met it with a look of
equal scrutiny and courage. The old
entleman slowly approached. “Percy
Godolphin, I think '1" said he.
“ That is my name sir," replied Percy.
“Yours—”
“No matter! Yet stay! you shall
know it. I am Henry Johnstone—old
Harry Johnstone. You have heard of
him i—your father’s first cousin. Well,
I grieve, young sir, to find that you as-
sociate with that rascal Saville. Nay,
never interrupt me, sir !—I grieve to find
that you, thus young, thus unguarded, are
left to be ruined in heart and corrupted
in nature by any one who will take the
trouble! Yet I like your countenance!
—-I like your countenance !--it is open,
yet thoughtful; frank, and yet it has
something of melancholy. You have not
(Jbarles’s colored hair; but you are much
younger—much. I am glad I have seen
you: I came here on purpose: good-
night! ” and, without waiting for an an-
swer, the old man disappeared.
Godolphin, recovering his surprise,
reoollectcd that he had often heard his


named Johnstone: this singular inter-
view made a strong but momentary im-
pression on him. He intended to seek
out the old man's residence, but one thing
or another drove away the fulfillment of
the intention, and in this world the rela-
tions never met again.
Percy, now musingly gliding throu b
the crowd, sank into a seat beside a la y
of forty-five, who sometimes amused her-
self in making love to him—because
there could be no harm in such a mere
boy! and presently afterward, a Lord
George Somebody, sauntering up, asked
the lady if he had not seen her at the
play on the previous night.
“Oh yes! we went to see the new ac-
tress. How pretty she is !—so unafl'ect-
ed too—how well the sings! "
“ Pretty well—er! " replied Lord
George, passing his hand through his
hair. “ Very nice girl—er! good ankles.
Devilish hot—er, is not it—er—er?
What a bore this is: ch! Ah! Godol-
phin! don’t forget \Vattier's—er ! ” and
his lordship er’d himself off.
“ What actress is this? "
“Oh, a Very good one, indeed !--—come
out in ‘ The Belle’s Stratagem.’ \Vc are
going to see her to-morrow: will you
dine with us early, and be our cavalier 1'”
“Nothing will please me more! Your
ladyship has dropped your handkerchief.”
“ Thank you!” said the lady, bend-
ing until her hair touched Godol-
phin’s cheek, and gently pressing the
hand that was extended to her. It w
a wonder that Godolphin never became a
ooxcomh.
He dined the next day according to
appointment: he went to the play; and,
at the moment his eye first turned to the
stage, a universal burst of applause indi-
cated the cntrée of the new actress—
Fanny Millinger !
CHAPTER VIII.
GODOLPHIN’S PASSION FOR TIIF.‘ STAGE—-
THE DIFFERENCE IT ENGENDERED IN HIS
HABITS OF LIFE.
New this event produced a great influ-
ence over Godolphin’s habits—and I sup-
pose, thereforc, I may add, over his char-
acter. He renewed his acquaintance with

d‘athor speak of a rich eccentric relation
the lively actress.


OODOLPHIN.
19
“ What a change!” cried both.
“ The strolling player risen into celeb-
rity.” -
“And the runaway boy polished into
fashion ! ”
“ You are handsomer than ever, Fan-
n I!)
“ I return the compliment," replied
Fanny, with a courtesy.
And now Godol hin became a constant
attendant at the t eater. This led him
into a mode of life quite difierent from
that which he had lately cultivated.
There are in London two sets of idle
men: one set, the butterflies of balls;
the loungers of the regular walks of so-
ciety; diners-out ; the “ old familiar
faces,” seen everywhere, known to every
one: the other set, a more wild, irregular,
careless race, who go little into parties,
and vote balls a nuisance; who live in
clubs, frequent theaters, drive about late
0’ nights in mysterious looking vehicles,
and enjoy a vast acquaintance among the
Aspasias of pleasure. These are the men
who are the critics of theatricals: black-
neckclothed and well-booted, they sit in
their boxes and decide on the ankles of a
dancer or the voice of a singer. They
have a smattering of literature, and use
a great deal of French in their conversa-
tion; they have something of romance in
their composition, and have been known
to marry for love. In short, there is in
their whole nature a more roving, liberal,
Continental character of dissipation than
belongs to the cold, tame, dull, prim,
hedge-clipped indolence of more national
exquisitism. Into this set, out of the
other set, fell' young Godolphin; and
oh! the merry mornings at actresses'
houses; the jovial suppers after the
play; the buoyancy, the brilliancy, the
esprit, with which the hours, from mid-
night to cockcrow, were often pelted with
rose leaves and drowned in Rhenish.
By degrees, however, as Godolphin
warmed into his attendance at the play-
houses, the fine intellectual something that
lay yet undestroyed at his heart stirred
up emotions which he felt his more vul-
gar associates were unfitted to share.
There is that in theatrical representa-
tion which erpetually awakens whatever
romance be ongs to our character. The
magic lights; the pomp of scene; the
palace, the camp; the crest; the mid-
night world; the imaged moonlight on the
water; the melody of the tragic rhythm;

the grace of the comic wit; the strange
art that gives such meaning to the
poet’s lightest word; the fair, false, excit-
ing life that is detailed before us—crowd-
ing into some three little hours all that
our most busy ambition could desire—
love, enterprise, war, glory! the kindling
exaggeration of the sentiments which
belong to the stage—like our own in our
boldest moments; all these appeals to
our finer senses are not made in vain.—
Our taste for castle-building and visions
deepens upon us; and we chew a mental
o ium, which stagnates all the other fac-
ties, but wakens that of the ideal.
Godolphin was peculiarly fascinated by
the stage; he loved to steal away from
his companions, and, alone and unheeded,
to feast his mind on the unreal stream of
existence that mirrored images so beauti-
ful. And oh! while yet we are young—
while yet the dew lingers on the green leaf
of spring—while all the brighter, the
more enterprising part of the future is to
come—while we know not whether the
true life may not be visionary and excited
as the false—how deep and rich a trans-
port is it to see, to feel,to hear Shakspeare’s
conceptions made actual, though all im-
perfectly, and only for an hour! Sweet
Arden ! are we in thy forest? thy
“ shadowy groves and unfrequented
glens 'l ” Rosalind, J aques, Orlando,
have you indeed a being upon earth 1—
Ah! this is true enchantmentl and,
when we turn back to life, we turn from
the colors which the Claude glass breathes
over a winter’s landscape to the naked-
ness of the landscape itself!

CHAPTER IX.
THE LEGACY—A NEW DEFORMITY IN EA-
VILLE—TIIE NATURE OF WORLDLY LIAI-
SONS—GODOLPHIN LEAVES ENGLAND.
Bu'r then it is not always a sustainer
of the stage delusion to be enamored of
an actress: it takes us too much behind
the scenes. Godolphin felt this so
trongly that he liked those plays least
in which Fanny erformed. Off the
stage her character had so little romance,
that he could not deceive himself into
the romance of her character before the
lamps. Luckily, however, Fanny did
not attempt Shakspeare. She was inimi-


20
GODOLPHIN.
table in vaudeville, in farce, and in the
lighter comedy; but she had prudently
abandoned tragedy in deserting the barn.
She was a girl of much talent and quick-
ness, and discovered exactly the paths in
which her vanity could walk without be—
ing wounded. And there was a simplicity,
a frankness about her manner, that made
her a most agreeable companion.
The attachment between her and Go-
dolphin was not very violent; it was a
silken tie, which opportunity could knot
and snap a hundred times over without
doing much wrong to the hearts it so
lightly united. Over Godolphin the at-
tachment itself had no influence, while
the gfects of the attachment had an influ-
ence so great.
One night, after an absence from town
of two or three days, Godolphinreturned
home from the theater, and found among
the letters waiting his arrival one from
his father. It was edged with black ; the
seal, too, was black. Godolphin’s heart
misgave him: tremblingly he opened it,
and read as follows:
“ Dam Psacr,
“ I have news for you, which I do not
know whether I should call good or bad.
On the one hand, your cousin, that old
oddity, Harry J ohnstone, is dead, and has
left you, out of his immense fortune, the
goor sum of twenty thousand pounds.—
ut mark! on condition that you leave
the Guards, and either reside with me,
or, at least, leave London until your ma-
jority is attained. If you refuse these
conditions, you lose the legacy. It is
rather strange that this curious charac-
ter should take such pains with your
morals, and yet not leave me a single
shilling. But justice is out of fashion
nowadays; your showy virtues only are
the rage. I beg, if you choose to come
down here, that you will get me twelve
yards of house-flannel; I inclose a pat-
tern of the quality. Smugg, in Oxford-
street, near Tottenham Court Road, is
my man. It is certainly a handsome
thing in old Johnstone: but so odd to
omit me. How did you get acquainted
with him? The twenty thousand pounds
will, however, do much for the poor prop-
erty. Pray take care of it, Percy—pray
do.
“I have had a touch of the gout for
the first time. I have been too luxu-
rious: by proper abstinence, I trust to

bring it down. Compliments to that
smooth rogue Saville.
“ Your afl'ectionate
“ A. G.
“ P.S.—Discharged old Sally for dirt-
ing with the butcher’s boy: flirtations of
that sort make meat weigh much heavier.
Bess is my only she helpmate now, be-
side the old ereature who shows the
ruins: so much the better. What an
eccentric creature that J ohnstone was!
I hate eccentric people.”
The letter fell from Percy’s hands.
And this, then, was the issue of his single
interview with the poor old man? It
was events like these, wayward and
strange (events which checkered his
whole life), that, secretly to himself,
tinged Godolphin’s character with super-
stition. He afterward dealt con amore
with fatalities and influences.
You may be sure that he did not sleep
much that night. Early the next morn-
ing he sought Saville, and imparted to
him the intelligence he had received.
“Droll enough !” said Saville, lan-
guidly, and more than a little displeased
at this generosity to Godolphin from
another; for, like all small-hearted per-
sons, he was jealous; “ droll enough!
hem! and you never knew him but once,
and then he abused me? I wonder at
that; I was very obliging to his vulgar
son."
“ What! he had a son, then?”
“ Some two-legged creature of that
sort, raw and bony, dropped into London
like a ptarmigan, wild, and scared out of
his wits. Old Johnstone was in the
country, taking care of his wife, who had
lost the use of her limbs ever since she
had been married: caught a violent—
husband—the first day of wedlock! The
boy, sole son and heir, came up to town
at the age of discretion; got introduced
to me; I patronized him; brought him
into a decent degree of fashion; played a
few games at cards with him; won some
money; would not win any more; ad-
vised him to leave off; too young to
play; neglected my advice; went on.
and, d—n the fellow! if he did not cut
his throat one morning; and the father,
to my astonishment, laid the blame upon
me I”
Godolphin stood appalled in speechless
disgust. He never loved Savillc from
that hour.


GODOLPHIN.
- _"—_‘-"&‘-
“ In fact,” resumed Saville, carelessly,
“he had lost very considerably. His
father was a stern, hard man, and the
poor boy was frightened at the thought
of his displeasure. I suppose Monsieur
Papa imagines me a sort of moral ogre,
eating up all the little youths that fall in
my way! since he leaves you twenty
thousand pounds, on condition that you
take care of yourself, and shun the castle
I live in. Well, well! ’tis all very flat-
tering! And where will you go'.’ To
Spain?"
This story affected Percy sensibly.
He regretted deeply that he had not
sought out the bereaved father, and been
of some comfort to his later hours. He
appreciated all that warmth of sympathy,
t at delicacy of heart, which had made
the old man compassionate his young re-
lation’s unfriended lot, and couple his
gift with a condition, likely, perhaps, to
moderate Percy’s desires to the inde-
pendence thus bestowed, and certain to
remove his more tender years from a
scene of constant contagion. Thus mel~
ancholy and thoughtful, Godolphin re-
paired to the house of the now famous,
the now admired Miss Milliuger.
Fanny received the good news of his
fortune with a smile, and the bad news
of his departure from England with a
tear. There are some attachments, of
which we so easily sound the depth that
the one never thinks of exacting from the
other the sacrifices that seem inevitable
to more earnest affections. Fanny never
dreamed of leaving her theatrical career
and accompanying Godolphin; Godolphin
never dreamed of demanding it. These
are the connections of the great World:
my good reader, learn the great world as
you look at them!
All was soon settled. Godolphin was
easily discmbarrasscd of his commission.
Six hundred a year from his fortune was
allowed him during his minority. On
this he might well play a decorous part,
not, indeed, as the English seigncur, but
as the citizen of the World. At the age
of little more than sixteen, but with a
character which premature independence
had half formed and also half enervated,
the young Godolphin saw the shores of
England recede before him, and felt him-
self alone in the universe—the lord of
his own fate.

C H A P T E R X.
we unuca'rron or consumer’s man.
Mnmwuxuc, Constance Vernon grew
up in womanhood and beauty. All around
her contributed to feed that stern remem-
brance which her father’s dyin words
had bequeathed. Naturally prou , quick,
susceptible, she felt slights, often merely
incidental, with a deep and breeding re-
sentment. The forlorn and dependent
girl could not, indeed, fail to meet with
many bitter proofs that her situation was
not forgotten by a world in which pros-
perity and station are the cardinal virtues.
Many aloud whisper, many an intentional
“aside,” reached her haughty ear and
colored her pale cheek. Such accidents
increased her early-formed asperity of
thought; chilled the gushing flood of her
young affections; and sharpened, with a
relentless edge, her bitter and caustic
hatred to a society she deemed at once
insolent and worthless. To a taste in-
tuitively fine and noble, the essential
vulgarities—the fierceness to-day; the
cringing to-morrow; the veneration for
power; the indifference to virtue, which
characterized the framers and rulers of
“ society "-eould not but bring contempt
as well as anger; and, amid the brilliant
circles to which so many aspirers looked
up with hopeless ambition, Constance
moved only to ridicule, to loathe, to
despise.
So strong, so constantly nourished was
this sentiment of contempt, that it lasted
with equal bitterness when Constance
afterward became the queen and presider
over that great world in which she now
shone—to dazzle, but not to rule. \Vhat
at first might have seemed an exaggerated
and insane prayer on the part of the
father, grew. as her experience ripened, a
natural and laudable command. She was
thrown entirely with that party amid
whom were his early friends and his late
deserters. She resolved to humble the
crested arrogance around her, as much
from her own desire as from the wish to
obey and revenge her father. From con-
tempt for rank rose naturally the ambi-
tion of rank. The young beauty resolved
to banish love from her heart; to devote
herself to one aim and object; to win
title and station, that she might be able
to give power and permanence to her


GODOLPHIN.
23
“ Not be! But his father had exceeded
a patrimony greatly involved, and greatly
reduced from its ancient importance. All
the lands we see yonder—those villages,
those woods—once belonged to the Godol-
phins. They were the most ancient and
the most powerful family in this part of
England; but the estates dwindled away
with each successive generation; and
when Arthur Godolphin, my Godolphin,
succeeded to the property, nothing was
left for him but the choice of three evils
-—a profession, obscurity, or a wealthy
marriage. My_ father, who had long
destined me for Lord Erpingham, insinu-
ated that it was in me that Mr. Godolphin
wished to find the resource I have last
mentioned, and that in such resource was
my only attraction in his eyes. I have
some reason to believe he proposed to the
duke; but he was silent to me, from
whom, girl as I was, he might have been
less certain of refusal.”
“ What did he at last? ”
“ Married a lady who was supposed to
be an heiress ; but he had scarcely enjoy-
ed her fortune a year before it became
the subject of a lawsuit. He lost the
cause and the dowry; and, what was
worse, the expenses of litigation, and the
sums he was obliged to refund, reduced him
to what, for a man of his rank, might be
considered absolute poverty. He was
thoroughly clia-grined and soured by this
event; retired to those ruins, or, rather,
to the small cottage that adjoins them,
and there lived to the day of his death,
shunning society, and certainly not ex-
ceeding his income.”
“I understand you: he became parsi-
momous."
“ To the excess which his neighbors
called miserly.”
“ And his wife 7 ”
“Poor woman! she was a more fine
lady, and died, I believe, of the same
vexation which nipped, not the life, but
the heart of her husband."
“ Had they only one son? ”
“Only the present owner: Percy, I
think—yes, Percy; it was his mother’s
surname—Percy Godolphin.”
“And how came this poor boy to be
thrown so early on the world? Did
he quarrel with Mr. Godolphin '2”
“ I believe not: but when Percy was
about fifteen, he left the obscure school
at which he was educated, and resided
for some little time with a relation, Au-

gustus Saville. He stayed with him in
London for about a year, and went every-
where with him, though so more a boy.—
His manners were, I well remember, as-
sured and formed. A relation left him
some moderate legacy, and afterward he
went abroad alone.”
“But the ruins! The late Mr. Go-
dolphin, notwithstanding his reserve, did
not object to indulging the curiosity of
his neighbors '1”
“ No! he was roud of the interest the
ruins of his hereditary mansion so gener-
ally cxcited—proud of their celebrity in
print-shops and in tours; but he himself
was never seen. The cottage in which
he lived, though it adjoins the ruins,
was, of course, sacred from intrusion,
and is so walled in that that great
delight of English visitors at show-
laces—peeping-iu at windows—was
utterly forbidden. However that be,
during Mr. Godolphin’s life I never had
courage to visit what, to me, would have
been a melancholy scene: now the pain
would be somewhat less; and, since you
wish it, suppose we drive over and visit
the ruins to-morrow. It is the regular
day for seeing them, by-the-by.’.’
“Not, dear Lady Erpingham, if it
give you the least ”
“My sweet girl,” interrupted Lady
Erpingham, when a servant approached
to announce visitors at the castle.
“Will you go into the saloon, Con~

stance, said the elder lady, as, thinking
still of love and Arthur Godolphin, she
took her way to her dressing-room to
renovate her rouge.
It would have been a pretty amuse-
ment to one of the lesser devils, if, dur-
ing the early romance of Lady Erping-
ham’s feelings toward Arthur Godolphin,
he had foretold her the hour when she
would tell how Arthur Godolphin died a
miser—just five minutes before she repair-
ed to the toilet to decorate the cheek of age
for the heedless eyes of a common acquain-
tance. ’Tis the world’s way 1— For my
part, I would undertake to find a better
world in that rookery opposite my win-
dows.
CHAPTER XII.
DESCRIPTION or oonoLrqu's uoosn—
'rus rmsr INTERVIEW—ITS earners
0N censuses.
“ Bur,” asked Constance, as the next
day Lady Erpingham and herself were


24
GODOLPHIN .
performing the appointed pilgrimage to
the ruins of Godolphin Priory, “if the
late Mr. Godolphin, as he grew in years,
acquired a turn of mind so penurious,
was he not enabled to leave his son some
addition to the pied de terre we are about
to visit '3 ”
“He must certainly have left some
ready money,” answered Lady Erping-
ham. “But is it, after all, likely that
so young a man as Percy Godolphin
could have lived in the manner he has
done without incurring debts ? It is most
probable that he had some recourse to
those persons so willing to encourage the
young and extravagant, and that repay-
ment to them will more than swallow up any
savings his father might have amassed.’ ’
“ True enough! ” said Constance; and
the conversation glided into remarks on
avarieious fathers and prodigal sons.—
Constance was witty on the subject, and
Lady Erpingham laughed herself into ex-
cellent humor.
It was considerably past noon when
they arrived at the ruins. The carriage
stopped before a small inn at the entrance
of a dismantled park; and, taking advan-
tage of the beauty of the day, Lady Er-
pingham and Constance walked slowly
toward the remains of the Priory.
The scene, as they approached, was
wild and picturesque in the extreme. A
wide and glassy lake lay stretched be-
neath them: on the opposite side stood
the ruins. The large oriel window—the
Gothic arch—the broken, yet still majes-
tic column, all imbrowned and messed
with age, were still spared, and now mir-
rored themselves in the waveless and si-
lent tide. Fragments of stone lay around
for some considerable distance, and the
whole was hacked by hills, covered with
gloomy and thick \VOOdS of larch and fir.
To the left they saw the stream which
fed the lake, stealing away through gras-
sy banks overgrown with willow and
pollard oak: and there, from one or two
cottages, only caught in glimpses, thin
wreaths of smoke rose in spires against
the clear sky. To the right the ground
was broken into a thousand glens and
hollows: the deer-loved fern, the golden
broom. Were scattered about profusely;
and here and there were dense groves of
pollards; or, at very rare intervals, some
single tree decaying (for all round bore
the seal of vassalage to Time), but
mighty, and grecnly venerable in its decay.

As they passed over a bridge that, on
either side of the stream, emerged, as it
were, from a thick copse, they caught a
view of the small abode that adjoined the
ruins. It seemed covered entirely with
ivy; and, so far from diminishing, tended
rather to increase the romantio and im-
posing eifeet of the crumbling pile from
which it grew.
They opened a little gate at the other
extremity of the bridge, and in a few mo-
ments more they stood at the entrance to
the Priory.
It was an oak door studded with nails.
The jessamine grew upon either side;
and, to descend to a commonplace mat-
ter, they had some diflieulty in finding
the bell among the leaves in which it was
imbedded. \Vhen they had found and
touched it, its clear and lively sound rang
out in that still and lovely, though deso-
late spot, with an effect startling and im-
pressive from its contrast. There is
something very fairy-like in the cheerful
voice of a bell sounding among the wild-
er scenes of nature, particularly where
Time advances his claim to the sovereign-
ty of the landscape; for the cheerfulness
is a little ghostly, and might serve well
enough for a tocsin to the elvish hordes
whom our footsteps may be supposed to
disturb.
An old woman, in the neat peasant
dress of our country, when, taking a lit-
tle from the fashion of the last century
(the cap and the kerohief), it assumes no
ungraceful costume, replied to their sum-
mons. She was the solitary cioeroue of
the place. She had lived there a lone
and childless widow, for thirty years;
and, of all the persons I have ever seen,
would furnish forth the best heroine to
one of those pictures of homely life which
\Vordsworth has dignified with the patri-
archal tenderness of his genius.
They wound a narrow passage. and
came to the ruins of the great hall. Its
Gothic arches still sprang lightly upward
on either side; and, opening a large
stone box that stood in a recess, the
old woman showed them the gloves, and
the helmet, and the tattered banners
which had belonged to that Godolphin
who had fought side by side with Sidney,
when he, whose life—as the noblest of
British lyrists hath somewhere said—was
“ poetry put into action,“l received his
death-wound in the field of Zntphen.
__— Tomas".


26
GODOLPHIN.
the merits of the late lord of Godolphin
Priory.
“ For, though they called him close,
and so forth, my lady, yet he was gener-
ous to others; it was only himself he
pinched. But, to be sure, the present
squire won’t take after him there. ’
“ Has Mr. Percy Godolphiu been here
lately 'l” asked Lady Erpingham.
“ He is at the cottage now, my lady,”
replied the old woman. “ He came two
days ago.”
“Is he like his father 1”
“ Oh! not near so fine-looking a
gentleman! much smaller, and quite pale-
like. He seems sickly: them foreign
parts do nobody no good. He was as
fine a lad at fifteen years old as ever 1
seed; but now he is not like the same
thing.”
So, then, it was evidently Percy Go-
dolphiu whom Constance had seen by the
brook—the owner of a home without cof-
fers, and estates without a rent roll—the
Percy Godolphin of whom, before he had
at attained the age when others had
eft the college, or even the school, every
one had learned to speak—some favor-
ably, all with eagerness. Constance felt
a vague interest respecting him spring
up in her mind: she checked it, for it
was a sin in her eyes to think with inter-
est on a. man neither rich nor powerful;
and, as she quitted the ruins with Lady
Erpin ham, she communicated to the
latterier adventure. She was, however,
disingenuous; for, though Godolphin’s
countenance was exactly of that cast
which Constance most admired, she de-
scribed him just as the old woman had
done; and Lady Erpingham figured to
herself, from the description, a little
yellow man. with white hair and 0. turned-
up nose. Oh Truth! what a hard path
is thine! Does any keep it for three
inches together in the commonest trifle?
and yet two sides of my library are filled
with histories!
Wha-HIAM
CHAPTER XIII.
A BALL ANNOUNCED—*ODOLPHIN’S VISIT
TO WENDOVER CASTLE—HIS MANNERS
AND CONVERSATION.
LADY Earmcuan (beside her daugh-
ter, Lady Eleanor, married to Mr. Clare,
\

a county member of large fortune) was
blessed with one son.
The present earl had been for the last
two years abroad. He had never, since
his accession to his title, visited Wen-
dover Castle; and Lady Erpingham one
morning experienced the delight of re-
ceiving a letter from him, dated Dover,
and signifying his intention of paying her
a visit. In honor of this event, Lady
Erpingham resolved to give a grand ball.
Cards were issued to all the families in
the county, and, among others, to Mr.
Godolphin.
On the third day after this invitation
had been sent to the person I have last
named, as Lady Erpingham and Con-
stance were alone in the saloon, Mr. Percy
Godolphin was announced. Constance
blushed as she looked up, and Lady Er-
pingham was struck by the nobleness of
his address, and the perfect self-posses-
sion of his manner. And yet nothing
could be so different as was his deport-
ment from that which she had been ac-
customed to admire—from that manifest-
ed by the exquisites of the day. The
calm, the nonehalance, the artificial smile
of languor, the evenness, so insipid, yet
so irreproachable, of English manners
when considered most polished—all this
was the reverse of Godolphin’s address
and air. In short, in all he said or did,
there was something foreign, something
unfamiliar. He was abrupt and enthu-
siastic in conversation, and used gestures
in speaking. His countenance lighted
up at every Word that broke from him on
the graver subjects of discussion. You
felt, indeed, with him, that you were with
a man of genius—a wayward and a spoil-
ed man, who had acquired his habits in
solitude, though his graces in the world.
They conversed about the ruins of the
Priory, and Constance expressed her ad-
miration of their romantic and pictur-
esque beauty. “Ah!” said be, smiling,
but with a slight blush, in which Con~
stance detected something of pain, "I
heard of your visit to my poor heaps of
stone. My father took great pleasure in
the notice they attracted. When a
proud man has not riches to be proud of.
he grows proud of the signs of his poverty
itself. This was the ease with my poor
father. Had he been rich, the ruins
would not have existed: he would have
rebuilt the old mansion. As he was
poor, be valued himself on their existence,


GODOLPHIN .
27
and fancied magnificence in every hand- ,I
ful of moss. But all life is delusion: all
pride, all vanity, all pomp, are equally
deceit. Like the Spanish hidalgo, we
put on spectacles when we eat our cher-
ries, in order that they may seem ten
times as big as they are !”
Constance smiled; and Lady Erping-
ham, who had more kindness than deli-
cacy, continued her praises of the Priory
and the scenery round it.
“ The old park,” said she, “with its
wood and water, is so beautiful! It wants
nothing but a few deer, just tame enough
to come near the ruins, and wild enough
to start away as you approach.”
“ N ow you would borrow an attraction
from wealth,” said Godolphin, who, un-
like English persons in general, seemedI
to love alluding to his poverty: “it ist
not for the owner of a ruined Priory to
consult the aristocratic enhancements of
that costly luxury, the picturesque. Alas!
I have not even wherewithal to feed a
few solitary partridges ; and I hear that,
if I go beyond the green turf once apark,
I shall be warned off forthwith, and my
very qualification disputed.”
“ Are you fond of shooting?” said
Lady Erpingham.
“I fancy I should be; but I have
never enjoyed the sport in England.”
“ Do pray, come, then,” said Lady
Erpingham, kindly, “ and spend your first
week in September here. Let me see:
the first of the month will be next Thurs-
day; dine with us on Wednesday. We
have keepers and dogs here enough,
thanks to Robert; so you need only
bring your gun.”
“ You are very kind, dear Lady Er-
pingham," said Godolphin, warmly; “I
accept your invitation at once.”
“ Your father was a very old friend of
mine,” said the lady with a sigh.
“ He was an old admirer,” said the
gentleman, with a bow.

CHAPTER XIV.
CONVERSATION BETWEEN GODOLPHIN AND
CONSTANCE—TIIE COUNTRY LIFE AND
THE TOWN LIFE.
AND Godolphin came on the appointed
Wednesday. He was animated that day
even to brilliancy. Lady Erpingham

thought him the most charming of men,
and even Constance forgot that he was no
match for herself. Gifted and cultivated
as she was, it was not without delight
that she listened to his glowing descrip-
tions of scenery, and to his playful yet
somewhat melancholy strain of irony upon
men and their pursuits. The peculiar
features of her mind made her, indeed,
like the latter more than she could appre-
ciate the former; for in her nature there
was more bitterness than sentiment.
Still his rich language and fluent periods,
even in description, touched her ear and
fancy, though they sank not to her
heart; and she yielded insensiny to the
spells she would almost have despised in
another.
The next day. Constance, who was no
very early riser, tempted by the beauty
of the noon, strolled into the gardens.
She was surprised to hear Godolphin’s
voice behind her; she turned round, and
he joined her.
“ I thought you were on your shooting
expedition Y”
“I have been shooting, and I am re-
turned. I was out by daybreak, and I
came back at noon, in the hope of being
allowed to join you in your ride or walk.”
Constance smilingly acknowledged the
compliment; and as they passed up the
straight walks of the old-fashioned and
stately gardens, Godolphin turned the
conversation upon the varieties of garden
scenery; upon the poets who have de-
scribed those varieties best; upon that
difference between the town life and the
country, on which the brothers of the
minstrel craft have, in all ages, so glow-
ingly insisted. In this conversation, cer-
tain points of contrast between the char-
acters of these two young persons might
be observed.
“I confess to you,” said Godolphin,
“ that I have little faith in the erman-
ence of any attachment professe for the
country by the inhabitants of cities. If
we can occupy our minds solely with the
objects around us—i'r' the brook, and the
old tree, and the golden sunset, and the
summer night, and the animal and homely
life that we survey—if these can fill our
contemplation, and take away from us
the feverish schemes of the future—4km,
indeed, I can fully understand the reality
of that tranquil and happy state which
our elder poets have described as incident
to a country life. But if we carry with


28
GODOLPHIN.
us to the shade all the restless and per-
turbed desires of the city—if we only em-
ploy present leisure in schemes for an
agitated future—then it is in vain that
we affect the hermit and fly to the re-
treat. The moment the novelty of green
fields is over and our projects are formed,
we Wish to hurry to the city to execute
them. \Ve have, in a word, made our
retirement only a nursery for schemes
now springing up and requiring to be
trans lanted.”
“ ou are right,” said Constance,
quickly; “and who would pass life as if
it were a dream? It seems to me that
we put retirement to the right use when
we make it only subservient to our aims
in the world.”
“A strange doctrine for a young beau-
ty,” thought Godolphin, “whose head
ought to be full of groves and love.
Then,” said he aloud, “I must rank
among those who abuse the purposes of
retirement; for I have hitherto been flat-
tered to think that I enjoy it for itself.
Despite the artificial life I have led,
everything that speaks of nature has a
voice that I can rarely resist. What
feelings created in a city can compare
with those that rise so gently and so un-
bidden within us when the trees and the
waters are our only companions -— our
only sources of excitement and intoxica-
tion? Is not contemplation better than
ambition ?”
“ Can you believe it ‘2” said Constance,
ineredulously.
“I do.”
Constance smiled; and there would
have been contempt in that beautiful
smile, had not Godolphin interested her
in spite of herself.

CHAPTER XV.
'I‘IIE FEELINGS OF CONSTANCE AND GODOLPIIIX
TOWARD EACH OTHER—THE DISTINCTION
IN THEIR CHARACTERS—REMARKS ON THE
EFFECTS PRODUCED BY Till-Z WORLD UPON
GODOLPIIIN—THE RIDE—RURAL DESCRIP~
TIONS—OMENS -——TIIE FIBS'I‘ INDISTINCT
CONFESSION.
Evsar day, at the hour in which Con-
stance was visible, Godolphin had loaded
the keeper, and had returned to attend
upon her movements. They walked and
rode together; and in the evening Godol-
phin hung over her chair and listened to
her songs; for though, as I have before
said, she had but little science in instru-
mental music, her voice was rich and soft
beyond the pathos of ordinary singers.
Lady Erpingham saw what she believ-
ed a growing attachment with secret de-
light. She loved Constance for herself,
and Godolphin for his father’s memory.
She thought again and again what a
charming couple they would make—so
handsome—so gifted: and if Prudence
whispered also—so poor, the kind countess
remembered that she herself had saved
from her ample jointure a sum which she
had always designed as a dowry for Con-
stance, and which, should Godolphin be
the bridegroom, she felt she should have
a tenfold pleasure in bestowing. With
this fortune, which would. place them, at
least, in independence, she united in her
kindly imagination the importance which
she imagined Godolphin’s talents must
ultimately acquire; and for which, in her
aristocratic estimation, she conceived the
Senate the only legitimate sphere. She
said, she hinted noting to Constance; but
she suffered nature, youth, and compan-
ionship to exercise their sway.
And the complexion of Godolphin’s
feelings for Constance Vernon did indeed
resemble love—was love itself, though
rather love in its romance than its reality.
What were those of Constance for him ‘3
She knew not herself at that time. Had
she been of a character one shade less am-
bitious or less powerful, they would have
been love, and love of no common char-
acter. But within her musing, and self-
possessed, and singularly constituted
mind, there was, as yet, a limit to every
sentiment, a chain to the wings of every
thought,“ save those of one order; and
that order was not of love. There was a
marked difference, in all respects, between
the characters of the two; and it was
singular enough that that of the woman
was the less romantic, and composed of
the simpler materials.
A volume of \Vordsworth’s most ex-
quisite poetry had then just appeared.
“ Is not this wonderful ‘1” said Godolphin,
reciting some of those lofty, but refining
and subtile thoughts which characterize
the most pastoral yet the most intellectual
of all modern poets.
Constance shook her head.

" What! you do not admire it '3”


GODOLPHIN.
29
" I do not understand it.”
“ What poetry do you admire.”
“ This.”
It was Pope’s translation of the “Iliad.”
“ Yes, yes, to be sure,” said Godol-
phin, a little vexed; “ we all admire this
in its way: but what else T’
Constance pointed to a passage in the
“ Palamon and Arcite” of Dryden.
Godolphin threw down his Wordsworth.
“ You take an ungenerous advantage of
me,” said he. “Tell me something you
admire, which, at least, I may have the
privilege of disputing ----something that
you think generally neglected.”
“ I admire few things that are general-
ly neglected,” answered Constance, with
her bright and proud smile. " Fame gives
its stamp to all metal that is of intrinsic
value.”
This answer was quite characteristic of
Constance: she worshiped fame far more
than the genius which won it.
“Well, then,” said Godolphin, “let us
see now if we can come 'to a compromise
of sentiment ;” and he took up the “ Co-
mus” of Milton.
N 0 one read poetry so beautifully: his
voice was so deep and flexible, and his
countenance answered so well to every
modulation of his voice. Constance was
touched by the reader, but not by the
verse. Godolphin had great penetration;
be perceived it, and turned to the speeches
of Satan in “Paradise Lost.” The noble
countenance before him grew luminous at
once: the lip quivered, the eye sparkled;
the enthusiasm of Godolphin was not com-
parable to that of Constance. The fact
was, that the broad and common emotions
of the intellectual character struck upon
the right key. Courage, defiance, ambi-
tion, these she comprehended to their ful-
lest extent; bnt the rich subtilties of
thought which mark the cold and bright
age of the “Comus”-—the noble Platon-
ism—the high and rare love for what is
abstractedly good, these were not “so-
norous and trumpet-speaking ” enough
for the heart of one meant by Nature for
a heroine or a queen, not a poetess or a
philosopher.
But all that in literature was delicate,
and half seen, and abstruse, had its pe-
culiar charm for Godolphin. Of a re-
flective and refining mind, he had early
learned to despise the common emotions
of men; glory touched him not, and to
ambition he had shut his heart. Love

with him —- even though he had been
deemed, nor unjustly, a man of gallantry
and pleasure—love was not compounded-
of the ordinary elements of the passions.
Full of dreams, and refinements, and in-
tense abstractions, it was a love that
seemed not homely enough for endurance,
and of too rare a nature to hope for sym-
pathy in return.
And so it was in his intercourse with
Constance; both were continually disap-
pointed. “ You do not feel this,” said
Constance. “She cannot understand me,”
sighed Godolphin.
But we must not suppose—des ite his
refinements, and his reveries, and is love
for the intellectual and the ure—that
Godolphin was of a stainless c aracter or
mind. He was one who, naturally full of
decided and marked qualities, was, by the
peculiar elements of our society, rendered
a doubtful, motley, and indistinct char-
acter, tinctured by. the frailtics that leave
us in a wavering state between vice and
virtue. The energies that had marked
his boyhood were dulled and crippled in
.the indolent life of the world. His wan-
dering habits for the last few years—the
soft and poetical existence of the South—
had fed his natural romance, and nourish-
ed that passion for contemplation which
the intellectual man of pleasure so com-
monly forms; for pleasure has a philoso-
phy of its own—a sad, a fanciful, yet
deep persuasion of the vanity of all things
—-a craving after the bright ideal—
“ The deire of the moth for the star.”
Solomon’s thirst for pleasure was the
companion of his wisdom: satiety was the
offspring of the one, discontent of the
other. But this philosophy, though se-
ductive, is of no wholesome or useful
character: it is the hilosophy of feelings,
not princi les—of t e heart, not the head.
So with odolphin: he was too refined
in his moralizing to cling to what was
moral. The simply good and the simply
had he left for us plain folks to discover.
In politics he was a tory, in theology a
transcendental. He was unattracted by
the doctrines of Socrates or Bentham,
because they will serve for all men ; but
he had some obscure and shadowy stand-
ard in his own mind by which be com-
pared the actions of others. He had
imagination, genius, even heart ; was bril-
liant always, sometimes profound; grace-
ful in society, yet seldom social; a lonely


3O GODOLPBIN.
man, yeta man of the World; generous to in- “ Godolphin smiled. “ You take the
dividuals, selfish to the mass. How many course of the world less smoothly than I
fine qualities worse than thrown away! do,” said he, avoiding the chance (as gen-
th0 will not allow that he has met tlemen are apt to do with ladies) of a
many such men '2 and who will not follow political dispute. “ I perceive that small
this man to his end? things fret you; I laugh at them. I can
One day (it was the last of Godolphin’s be offended, but not galled. No man has
protracted visits), as the sun was waning it in his power to mortify me. You have
to its close, and the time was unusually scorn for fools, I only indifference. You
soft and tranquil, Constance and Godol- waste too much feeling upon stones and
phin were returning slowly home from straws.”
their customary ride. They passed by a Thus talking, they passed a shallow
small inn, bearing the common sign of the ford in the stream. “ We are not far
“Checkers,” round which a crowd of from the Priory,” said Godolphin, point-
peasants were assembled, listening to the ing to its ruins, that rose grayly in the even-
rude music which a wandering Italian boy ing skies from the green woods around it.
drew from his guitar. The scene was Constance sighed involuntarily. She
rustic and picturesque; and, as Godol- felt pain in being reminded of the slender
phin reined in his horse and gazed on the fortunes of her companion. Ascending
oup, be little dreamed of the fierce and the gentle hill that swelled from the
ark emotions with which, at a far dis- stream, she now, to turn the current of
tant period, he was destined to revisit her thoughts, pointed admirineg to the
that spot. blue course of the waters. as they wound
“Our peasants,” said he, as they rode through their shagged banks. And deep,
on, “require some humanizing relaxation , dark, rushing, even in that still hour, went
like that we have witnessed. The music ‘the stream through the boughs that swe t
and the morris~dance have gone from over its surface. Here and there t e
England; and instead of providing, as banks suddenly shelved down, mingling
formerly, for the amusement 0f the grind- iwith the waves; then abru tly they rose,
ed laborer, our aristocracy now regardIoverspread with thick an tangled um-
with the most watchful jealousy his most I brage, several feet above the level of the
distant approach to festivity. They can- ‘ river.
not bear the rustic to be merry: disorder] “ How strange it is,” said Godolphiu,
and amusement are words for the same,“ that at times a feeling comes over us,
ofiense.” as we gaze upon certain places, which as
“Oh, that aristocracy !”said Constance, sociates the scene either with some dim—
bitterly; “ so mean, so sordid, so insolent! [remembered and dreamlike images of the
the day must come when we shall see itipast, or with a prophetic and fearful
morally trampled down. It has lived i omen of the future. As I gaze now upon
without dignity, it will fall without valor. ‘ that spot, these banks, that whirling
At present, how startlingly hollow is its river, it seems as if my destiny claimed a
real power! It has no vassals, no armed , mysterious sympathy with the scene;
force. To-day opinion supports it: if toe i when—how—whercforc I know not, guess
morrow opinion veer round, to-morrow it 1‘ not: only this shadowy and chilling senti-
is weaker than an infant. It is the pup- ment unaccountably creeps over me.—
pet, the weathercock of every accident!" Every one has known a similar strange.
“Your sentiments surprise me,” said indistinct feeling at certain times and
Godolphin, who was, in truth, somewhat places, and with a similar inability to
startled. “ Is this from the courtly and trace the cause. And yet, is it not singu-
courted Miss Vernon 'f" lar, that in poetry, which wears most feel-
“ Believe me,” said Constance, with ings to an echo, I have never met with
quickness, “it is among the aristocracy any attempt to describe it i”
themselves that their bitterest contemners “ Because poetry,” said Constance,
are found. Those who sufl'er under the “is, after all, but a hackneyed imitation
system every day are more likely to loathe of the most common thoughts, giving
it than the mass, who seldom palpably them merely a gloss by the brilliancy of
come in contact with it. Its constant verse. And yet how little poets know!
meanness is more sickening than its occa- They imagine and they inu‘tate : behold
Biolml Violence” all their secrets 1”


GODOLPHIN.
31
“ Perhaps you are right," said Godol-
phin, musingly; “ and I, who have often
vainly fancied I had the poetical tempera-
ment, have been so chilled and sickened
by the characteristics of the tribe, that I
have checked its impulses with a sort of
disdain; and thus the Ideal, having no
vent in me, preys within, creating a
thousand undefined dreams and unwilling
superstitions, making me enamored of
the shadowy and unknown, and dissatisfy-
ing me with the petty ambitions of the
world.”
“ You will awake hereafter,” said
Constance, earnestly.
Godolphin shook his head and replied
not.
Their way now lay along a green lane
that gradually wound round a hill com-
manding a view of great richness and
beauty. Cottages, and spires, and groves
gave life, but it was a scattered and re-
mote life, to the scene; and the broad
stream, whose waves, softened in the
distance, did not seem to break the even
surface of the tide, flowed onward, glow-
ing in the sunlight, until it was lost among
dark and luxuriant woods.
Both once more arrested their horses
by a common impulse, and both became
suddenly silent as they gazed. Godol-
phin was the first to speak: it brought
to his memory a scene in that delicious
land, whose Southern loveliness Claude
has transfused to the canvas and De
Staél to the page. With his own impas-
sioned language, he spoke to Constance
of that scene and that country. Every
tree before him furnished matter for his
illustration or his contrast; and Constance,
as she heard that magic voice, and speak-
ing, too, of a country dedicated to love-—
Constance listened with glistening eyes,
and a check which he—consummate mas-
ter of the secrets of womanhood—Per-
ceived was eloquent with thoughts which
she knew not, but which be interpreted
to the letter.
“ And in such a spot,” said hc,continuing
and fixing his deep and animated gaze on
her, “ in such a spot I could have stayed for
ever but for one recollection, one feeling
—I should have been too much alone! In
lnow”-—his‘voiee trembled as he spoke—
“ that any secret we may before have
,nnrsed, though hitherto unacknowledged,
‘makes itself at length a Voice. “’e are
oppressed with the desire to be loved;
we long for the courage to say we love.”
Never before had Godolphin, though
Iconstantly verging into sentiment, spoken
lto Constance in so plain a language.
lEye, voice, eheek—-ull spoke. She felt
Tthat he had confessed he loved her]
’And was she not happy? She was; it
was her happiest moment. But, in that
sort of vague and indistinct shrinking
from the subject with which a woman
uth loves hears a disclosure of love from
5him on whose lips it is most sweet, she
muttered some confused attempt to change
the subject, and quickened her horse’s
pace. Godolphin did not attempt to re-
‘new the topic so interesting and so dan-
gerous; only, as with the winding of the
yroad the landscape gradually faded from
their view, he said, in a low voice, as if
to himself, " How long, how fondly shall
’7)
I remember this day.


CHAPTER XVI.
GODOLPHIN’S RETURN HOME—HIS SOLI-
LOQUY—LORI') ERPINGHAM’S ARRIVAL AT
WENDOVER CASTLE—THE EARL DE-
SCRIBED~HIS ACCOUNT OF GODOLPHIN’8
LIFE AT HOME.
Win; a listless step Godolphin re-
entered the threshold of his cottage-
home. He passed into a small chamber,
which was yet the largest in his house.
The poor and scanty furniture scattered
around; the old, tuneless, broken harpsi-
chord; the worn and tattered carpet; the
tenantless birdcage in the recess by the
window; the book-shelves, containing
some dozens of worthless volumes; the
{sofa of the last century (when, if people
knew comfort, they placed it not in
lounging), small, narrow, high-backed,
hard, and knotted: these, just as his
ifather had left, just as his boyhood had
seen them, greeted him with a comfortless

a wild, or a grand, or even a harreniand chill, thoughfamiliarwelcome. It was
country, we may live in solitude, and find :evening: he ordered a fire and lights;
fit food for thought; but not in one so ,and, leaning his face on his hand as be-
soft, so subduing as that which I savv‘contemplated the fitful and dusky up-
and see. Love comes over us then in breakings of the flame through the bars
spite of ourselves; and I feel—I feel \Of the niggard and contracted grate, he


32
GODOLPHIN .
sat himself down to hold commune with
his heart.
“ So I love this woman,” said he, “ do
I! Have I not deceived myself? She
is poor—no connection; she has nothing
whereby to reinstate my house’s fortunes,
to rebuild this mansion, or repurchase
yonder demesnes. I love her! I, who
have known the value of her sex so well,
that I have said, again and again, I
would not shackle life with a princess!
Lovo may withstand possession—true—
but not time. In three years there
would be no glory in the face of Con-
stance, and I should be—what? My
fortunes, broken as they are, can support
me alone, and with my few wants. But
if married! the haughty Constance my
wife! Nay, nay, nay! this must not
be thought of ! I, the hero of Paris!
the pupil of Seville! I, to be so beguiled
as even to dream of such a madness!
“ Yet I have that within me that
might make a stir in the world—I might
rise. Professions are open; the Diplo-
macy, the House of Commons. \Vhat!
Percy Godolphin be ass enough to grow
ambitious! to toil, to fret, to slave, to
answer fools on a first principle, and die
at length of a broken heart or a lost
place! Pooh, pooh! I, who despise
your prime ministers, can scarcely stoop
to their apprenticeship. Life is too
short for toil. And what do men strive
for'!—-to enjoy: but why not enjoy with-
out the toil'! And relinquish Constance '2
Ay, it is but one woman lost!”
So ended the soliloquy of a man
scarcely of age. The world teaches us
its last lessons betimes; but then, lest
we should have nothing left to acquire
from its wisdom, it employs the rest of
our life in unlearning all that it first
taught.
Meanwhile, the time approached when
Lord Erpingham was to arrive at Wen-
dover Castle, and at length came the day
itself. Naturally anxious to enjoy as
exclusively as possible the company of
her son the first day of his return from soy
long an absence, Lady Erpingham had
asked no one to meet him. The earl's
heavy traveling-carriage at length rolled
clattering up the court-yard, and in a
few minutes a tall man, in the prime of
life, and borrowing some favorable effect
as to person from the large cloak of
velvet and furs which hung round him,
entered the room, and Lady Erpingham

embraced her son. The kind and fami-
liar manner with which he answered her
inquiries and congratulations was some-
what changed when he suddenly perceived
Constance. Lord Erpingham was a cold
man, and, like most cold men, ashamed
of the evidence of affection. He greeted
Constance very quietly, and, as she
thought, slightly: but his eyes turned to
her far more often than any friend of
Lord Er ingham’s might ever have re-
marked t ose large, round, hazel eyes
turn to any one before.
When the earl withdrew to adjust his
toilet for dinner, Lady Erpingham, as
she wiped her eyes, could not help ex-
claiming to Constance, “ Is he not hand-
some? What a figure!”
Constance was a little addicted to
flatttery where she liked the one to be
flattered, and she assented readily enough
to the maternal remark. Hitherto, how-
ever, she had not observed anything more
in Lord Erpingham than his height and
his cloak: as he re-entered and led her
to the dining-room, she took a better,
though still but a casual survey.
Lord Erpingham was of that descrip-
tion of person of which men always say,
“ What a prodigiously fine fellow!" He
was about six feet high, stout in propor-
tion: not, indeed, accurately formed, nor
graceful in hearing, but quite as much so
as a man of six feet high need be. He
had a manly complexion of brown, yellow,
and red. His whiskers were exceedingly
large, black, and well-arranged. His
eyes, as I have before said, were round,
large, and hazel; they were also unmean-
ing. His teeth were good; and his
nose, neither aquiline nor Grecian, was
yet a very showy nose upon the whole.
All the maid-servants admired him; and
you felt, in looking at him, that it was a
pity our army should lose so good a
grenadier. ~
Lord Erpingham was a “'hig of the
old school: he disliked free trade, but he
thought the Tory boroughs ought to be
thrown open. He was generally consi-
dered a sensible man. He had read
Blackstone,Montesquieu,Cowper’s Poems,
and “ The Rambler;" and he was always
heard with great attention in the House
of Lords. In his moral character he was
a bun vivant, as far as wine is concerned;
for choice caliny he cared nothing. He
was good-natured, but close; brave
1enough to fight a due], if necessary: and


GODOLPHIN.
33
religious enough to go to church once a
week—in the country.
So far Lord Erpingham might seem
modeled from one of Sir \Valter’s heroes;
we must reverse the medal, and show the
points in which he differed from these
patterns of propriety.
Like the generality of his class, he was
peculiarly loose in his notions of women,
though not ardent in pursuit of them.
His amours had been among opera-
dancers, “because,” as he was wont to
say, “ there was no d—d bore with them ;”
thou h be had seen too much of his own
WOI'l not to know that great ladies sel-
dom value themselves on too fastidious a
prudery. Lord Erpingham was always
considered a high-minded man. People
chose him as an umpire in quarrels; and
told a story (that was not true) of his
having held some state oflice for a whole
year, and insisted on returning the emolu-
mentsl
Such was Robert Lord Erpingham.
During dinner, at which he displayed, to
his mother’s great delight, a most excel-
lent appetite, he listened, as well he
might, considering the more legitimate
occupation of the time and season, to
Lady Er ingham’s recitals of county
history; liar long answers to his brief
inquiries whether old friends were dead
and young ones married; and his coun-
tenance brightened up to an expression
of interest—almost of intelligence—when
he was told that birds were said to be
plentiful.
As the servants left the room and
Lord Erpingham took his first glass of
claret, the converation fell upon Percy
Godolphiu.
“ He has been staying with us a whole
fortnight,” said Lady Erpingham; “ and,
by-the-by, he said he had met you in
Italy, and mentioned your name as it
deserved.”
“ Indeed! And did he really conde-
scend to praise me '2” said Lord Erping-
ham, with eagerness; for there was that
about Godolphin, and his reputation for
fastidiousness, which gave a‘rarity and a
value to his praise, at least to lordly ears.
“ Ah! he’s a queer fellow: he led a very
singular life in Italy.”
“ So I have always heard,” said Lady
Erpingham. “ But of what description?
was he very wild ‘2”
“No, not exactly: there was a good
deal of mystery about him: he saw very

few English, and those only men who played
high. He was said to have a great deal
of learning, and so forth.”
“Oh! then he was surrounded, I sup!
pose by those medalists, and picture-
sellers, and other impostors, who live
upon such of our countrymen as think
themselves blessed with a taste or afiiict-
ed with a genius,” said Lady Erpingham ;
who, havinw lived with the wits and ora-
tors of the' time, had caught mechani-
cally their way of rounding a period.
“ Far from it!” returned the earl.
“ Godolphin is much too deep a fellow for
that: he’s not easily taken in, I assure
you. I confess I don’t like him much
the worse for that,” added the close noble.
“But he lived with the Italian doctors
and men of science; and encouraged in
particular, one strange fellow, who affect-
ed sorcery, I fancy, or something very
like it. Godolphin resided in a very
lonely spot at Rome; and I believe labo-
ratories, and caldrons, and all sorts of
devilish things, were always at work
there—at least, so people said.”
“ And yet,” said Constance, “ you
thought him too sensible to be easily
taken in ?” >
“ Indeed I do,” Miss Vernon; and the
proof of it is, that no man has less for-
tune or is more made of. He plays, it is
true, but only occasionally; though, as a
player at games of skill—piquet, billiards,
whist—he has no equal, unless it be Sa-
ville. But then Saville, enlre nous, is
suspected of playing unfairly.”
“And on are quite sure,” said the
placid Lady Erpingham, “that Mr. Go'
dolphin is only indebted to skill for his
success?”
Constance darted a glance of fire at the
speaker.
“Why, faith, I believe so! No one
ever accused him of a single shabby or
even suspicious trick: and, indeed, as I
said before, no one was ever more sought
after in society, though he shuns it; and
he’s devilish right, for it’s a cursed
bore!”
“ My dear Robert! at your age '3” ex-
claimed the mother.
“ But,” continued the earl, turning to
Constance, "but, Miss Vernon, a man
may have his weak point; and the cun-
ning Italian may have hit on Godolphin’s,
clever as he is in general: though, for
my part, I will tell you frankly, I think
he only encouraged him to mystify and


GODOLPHIN .
35
resolved to conquer. Despising glitter,
and gayety, and show, she burned, she
thirsted for power—a power which could
retaliate the insults she fancied she had
received, and should turn the condescen-
sion of the great into homage. This ob-
ject, which every casual word, every
heedless glam-e from another fixed deeper
and deeper in her heart, took a sort of
sanctity from the associations with which
she linked 1t—-her father’s memory and
his dying breath.
At this moment in which we have por-
trayed her, all these restless, and sore,
and haughty feelings were busy within;
but they were combated, even while the
more fiercely aroused, by one soft and
tender thought-_the image of Godolphin
—of Godolphin, the spendthrift heir of a
broken fortune and a fallen house. She
felt too deeply that she loved him; and,
ignorant of his worldlicr qualities, ima-
gined that he loved her with all the de-
votion of that romance, and the ardor of
that genius, which appeared to her to
compose his character. But this persua-
sion gave her now no delightful emotion.
Convinced that she ought to reject him,
his image only colored with sadness those
objects and that ambition which she had
hitherto regarded with an exulting pride.
She was not the less bent on the lofty
ends of her destiny; but the glory and
the illusion had fallen from them. She
had taken an insight into futurity, and
felt that to enjoy power was to lose hap-
piness. Yet, with this full conviction,
height. Beauty is so truly the weapon
of woman, that it is as impossible for her,
even in grief, wholly to forget its effect,
as it is for the dying warrior to look with
indifference on the sword with which he
has won his trophies or his fame. Nor
was Constance that evening disposed to
be indifferent to the effect she should pro-
duce. She looked on the reflection of
herself with a feeling of triumph, not aris-
ing from vanity alone.
And when did mirror ever give back a
form more worthy of a Pericles to wor-
ship or an Apelles to paint ? Though but
little removed from the common height,
the impression Constance always gave
was that of a person much taller than she
really was. A certain majesty in the
turn of head, the fall of the shoulders,
the breadth of the brow, and the exceed-
ing calmness of the features, invested her
with an air which I have never seen
equaled by any one, but which, had Pasta
been a beauty, she might have possessed.
But there was nothing hard or harsh in
this majesty. Whatsoever of a mascu-
line nature Constance might have inherit-
ed, nothing masculine, nothing not ex-
quisitely feminine was visible in her per-
son. Her shape was rounded, and sufli-
ciently full to show that in middle ago its
beauty would be preserved by that rich—
‘ness and freshness which a moderate in-
crease of the proportions always gives to
the sex. Her arms and hands were, and
are, even t'o this day, of a. beauty the
more striking because it is so rare. N0-

she forsook the happiness and clung to;thing in any European country is more
the power. Alas! for our best and wisest l uncommon than an arm really beautiful
theories, our problems, our systems, ourlboth in hue and shape. In any assem-
philosophy! Human beings will never ‘ bly we go to, what miserable bones, what
cease to mistake the means for the end; | angular elbows, what red skins, do we see
and, despite the dogmas of sages, our ' under the cover of those capacious sleeves,
conduct does not depend our on convic- which are only one whit less ugly. At
tions.
Carriage after carriage had rolled be-
neath the windows of the room where
Constance sat, and still she moved not;
the time I speak of, those coverings were
not worn; and the white, round, dazzling
arm of Constance, bare almost to the
shoulder, was girded by dazzling gems,
until, at length, a certain composure, as . which at once set off, and were foiled by,
if the result of some determination, stole the beauty of nature. Her hair was of
over her features. The brilliant and the most luxuriant and of the deepest
transparent hues returned to her cheeks; ,i black; and it was worn in a fashion-—
and, as she rose and stood erect, with a then uncommon, without being bizarre—
certain calmness and energy on her lip now hackncyed by the plainest faces,
and forehead, perhaps her beauty hadgthough adapted only to suit the highest
never seemed of so lofty and august acast. ] order of beauty—I mean that simple and
In passing through the chamber, she l classic fashion to which the French have
topped for a moment opposite the mirror l given a name borrowed from Calypsm but
that reflected her stately shape in its full 1 which appears to me suited rather to an


36
GODOLI’IIIN.
intellectual than a voluptuous goddess.
Her long lashes, and a brow delicately
but darkly penciled, gave additional elo-
quence to an eye of the deepest blue, and
a classic contour to a profile so slightly
aquiline that it was commonly considered
Grecian. That necessary completion to
all real beauty of either sex, the short
and curved upper lip, terminated in the
most dazzling teeth, and the ripe and
dewy under lip added to what was noble
in her beauty that charm also which is
exclusively feminine. Her complexion
was capricious; now pale, now tinged
with the pink of the sea-shell, or the soft-
est shade of the rose-leaf: but in either
it was so transparent, that you doubted
which became her the most. To these
attractions add a throat, a bust of the
most dazzling whiteness, and the justest
and most chiseled proportions; a foot
whose least beauty was its smallness; and
a waist narrow—not the narrowness of
tenuity or constraint—but round, gra-
dual, insensibly less in its complression-
and the person of Constance ernon, in
the bloom of her youth, is before you.
She passed with her quiet and stately
step from her room through one adjoining
it, and which we stop to notice, because
it was her customary sitting-room when
not with Lady Erpingham. There had
Godolphin, with the foreign but courtly
freedom, the respectful and chivalrie
ease of his manners, often sought her;
there had he lingered in order to detain
her yet a moment and a moment longer
from other company, seeking a sweet ex-
euse in some remark on the books that
strewcd the tables, or the music in that
recess, or the forest-scene from those
windows through which the moon of au-
tumn now stole with its own peculiar
power to soften and subdue. As these
recollections came across her, her step
faltered and her color faded from its
glow; she paused a moment, cast a
mournful glance round the room, and
then tore herself away, descended the
lofty staircase, passed the stone-hall lnel~
ancholy with old banners and rusted
crests. and bore her beauty and her busy
heart into the thickening and gay crowd,
Her eye looked once more round for
the graceful form of Gndol hin: but he
was not visible; and she lied scarcely
satisfied herself of this before Lord Er-
pingham, the hero of the evening, ap-
proached and claimed her hand.
\

“I have just performed my duty,"
said he, with a gallantry of speech not
common to him, “ now for my reward. I
have danced the first dance with Lady
Margaret Midgceombez' 1 come, accord-
ing to your promise, to dance the second
with you."
There was something in these words
that stung one of the morbid remem-
brances in Miss Vernon’s mind. Lad
Margaret Midgecombe, in ordinary life,
would have been thought a good-looking,
vulgar girl: she was a duke's daughter,
and she was termed a Hebe. Her little
nose, and her fresh color, and her silly
but not unmalicions laugh, were called
enchanting; and all irregularities of fea-
ture and faults of shape were absolutely
turned into merits by that odd commen-
dation, so common with us—“A deused
fine girl; none of your regular beau-
ties.”
Not only in the county of ***shire,
but in London, had Lady Margaret
Midgecombe been set up as the rival
beauty of Constance Vernon. And Con-
stance, far too lovely, too cold, too proud
not to acknowledge beauty in others
when it really existed, was nevertheless
unafi'eetedly indignant at a comparison
so unworthy: she even, at times, de-
spised her own claims to admiration, since
claims so immeasurably inferior could be
put into competition with them. Added
to this sore feeling for Lady Margaret
was one for Lady Margaret’s mother.—
Thc Duchess of Winstoun was a woman
of ordinary birth—the daughter of a
peer of great wealth but new family.—
Shc had married, however, one of the
most powerful dukes in the peerage; a
stupid, heavy, pompous man, with four
castles, eight parks, a coal mine, a tin-
inine, six boroughs, and about thirty liv-
ings. Inactive and reserved, the duke
was seldom seen in public; the care of
supporting his rank devolved on the
duchess; and she supported it with as
much solemnity of purpose as if she had
been a cheesemonger’s daughter. State-
ly, insolcnt, and coarse—asked every-
where—insulting all—hated and courted
—such was the Duchess of Winsioun.
and such, perhaps, have been other dueli-
esses before her.
Be it understood that, at that day.
fashion had not risen to the despotism it
now enjoys: it took its coloring from
power, not controlled it. I shall show,


sononrum. 37
indeed, how much of its present condi- tage the attentions with which one of the
tion that fashion owes to the heroine of greatest of England’s earls honored the
these memoirs. The Duchess of Wins- daughter of one of the greatest of Eng-
toun could not now be that great person land’s orators. They where shocked at
she was then: there is a certain goodlhis want of dignity. Constance perceiv-
taste in fashion which repels the mere in- 3 ed their chagrin, and she lent a more
solence of rank—which requires persons i pleased and attentive notice to Lord Er-
to be either agreeable, or brilliant, or, at \ pingham’s compliments: her eyes sparkled
least, original - which weighs stupid i and her cheek blushed: and the good folks
dukes in a righteous balance, and finds
vulgar duchesses wanting. But in lack
of this new authority—this moral sebas_
tocrator between the sovereign and the
dignity hitherto considered next to the
sovereigu’s—her Grace of Winstoun ex-
ercised with impunity the rights of inso-
lencc. She had taken an especial dislike
to Constance: partly because the few
good judges of beauty, who care neither
for rank nor report, had very unreserved-
ly placed Miss Vernon beyond the reach
of all competition with her daughter;
and principally because the high spirit
and keen irony of Constance had given
more than once to the duchess’s efl'ront-
ery so cutting and so public a check, that
she had felt with astonishment and rage
there was one woman in that world—that
woman, too, unmarried—who could re-
tort rudeness to the Duchess of Wins-
toun. Spiteful, however, and numerous
were the things she said of Miss Vernon
when Miss Vernon was absent; and
haughty beyond measure were the incli-
nation of her head and the tone of her
voice when Miss Vernon was present.—
If, therefore, Constance was disliked by
the duchess, we may readily believe that .
she returned the dislike. The very name
roused her spleen and her pride; and it
was with a feeling all a woman’s, though
scarcely feminine in the amiable sense of
the word, that she learned to whom the
honor of Lord Erpingham's precedence
had been (though necessarily) given.
As Lord Erpingham led her to her'
place, a buzz of admiration and enthusi-
asm followed her steps. This pleased
Erpingham more than, at that moment, it
did Constance. Already intoxicated by
her beauty, he was proud of the effect it
produced on others, for that effect was a
compliment to his taste. He exerted
himself to be agreeable; nay, more, to
be fascinating: be affected a low voice ;
and he attempted— poor man Z—to flatter.
The Duchess of Winstoun and her
daughter sat behind on an elevated
bench. They saw with especial advan-
3
‘around, admiring Lord Erpingham’s im-
‘ mense whiskers,thought Constance in love.
It was just at this time that Percy
Godolphin entered the room.
Although Godolphin’s person was not
of a showy order, there was something
about him that always arrested atten-
tion. His air—his carriage—his long,
fair locks—his rich and foreign habit of
dress, which his high bearing and intel-
ilectual countenance redeemed from cox-
Icombry — all united, gave something
remarkable and distinguished to his ap-
pearance; and the interest attached to his
fortunes, and to his social reputation for
genius and eccentricity, could not fail of
increasing the effect he produced when
his name was known.
From the throng of idlers that gath-
ered around him—from the bows of the
great and the smiles of the fair, Godol-
phin, however, directed his whole notice,
his whole soul, to the spot which was
, hallowed by Constance Vernon. He saw
her engaged with a man rich, powerful,
and handsole. He saw that she listened
to her partner with evident interest, that
he addressed hcr with evident admira-
tion. His heart sank within him; he
felt faint and sick; then came anger,
mortification; then agony and despair.
All his former resolutions—all his pru-
dence, his worldliness, his caution, van-
ished at once; he felt only that he loved,
that he was supplanted, that he was un-
done. The dark and fierce passions of
his youth, of a nature, in reality, wild
and vehement, swept away at once the
projects and the fabrics of that shallow
and chill philosophy he had borrowed
from the world, and deemed the wisdom
of the closet. A cottage and a desert
with Constance—Constance all his, heart
and hand—would have been Paradise:
he would have nursed no other ambition,
nor dreamed of a reward beyond. Such
effect has jealousy upon us. We confide,
and we hesitate to accept a boon; we
are jealous, and we would lay down life
to attain it.

ifl


38
GODOLPHIN.
“ What a handsome fellow Erpingham
is !" said a young man in a cavalry regi-
ment.
Godolphin heard, and groaned audi-
bl .
y“And what a devilish handsome girl
he is dancing with I” answered another
young man from Oxford.
“ Oh, Miss Vernon! By Jove, she
seems smitten. What a capital thing it
would be for her!”
“And for him, too!” cried the more
chivalrous Oxonian.
“ Humph !” said the officer.
“I heard,” renewed the Oxonian,
“that she was to be married to young
Godolphin. He was staying here a
short time ago. They rode and walked
together. What a lucky fellow he has
been! I don’t know any one I should
like to see so much.”
“Hush l” said a third person, looking
at Godolphin.
Percy moved on. Accomplished and
self-collected as he usually was, he could
not wholly conceal the hell within. His
brow grew knit and gloomy: he scarcely
returned the salutations he received; and,
moving out of the crowd, he stole to a
seat behind a large pillar, and, scarcely
seen by any one, fixed his eyes on the
form and movements of Miss Vernon.
It so happened that he had laced
himself in the vicinity of the ueh-
ess of Winstoun, and within hearing of
the conversation, that I am about to re-
cord.
The dance being over, Lord Erping-
ham led Constance to a seat close by
Lady Margaret Midgecombe. The dnoh-
ess had formed her plan of attack; and
rising as she saw Constance within reach,
approached her with an air that afl'ected
civility.
“How do you, Miss Vernon! I am
hap y to see you looking so well. What
trut in the report, eh ‘?” And the duch-
ess showed her teeth—Malian, smiled.
“What report does your grace allude
to ? ”
“ Nay, nay, I am sure Lord Erpingham
has heard it as well as myself; and I
wish, for your sake ( a slight emphasis),
indeed, for both your sakes, that it may
be true.”
" 'I‘o wait until the Duchess of Wins-
toun speaks intelligibly would be a waste
of her time and my own,” said the haugh-
ty Constance, with the rudeness in which

she then delighted, and for which she has
since become known But the duchess
was not to be ofl'ended until she had com-
pleted her maneuver.
“ Well, now,” said she, turning to
Lord Erpingham, “I appeal to you: is
not Miss Vernon to be married very soon
to Mr. Godolphin? I am sure (with an
affected good-nature and compassion that
stung Constance to the quick), I am sure
I hope so."
“Upon my word, you amaze me,” said
Lord Erpingham, opening to their fullest
extent the large, round hazel eyes for
which be was so justly celebrated. “I
never heard this before."
“ Oh! a secret as yet ?” said the duel:-
ess: “very well! I can keep a secret.”
Lady Margaret looked down and laugh-
ed prettily.
“ I thought until now,” said Constance,
with grave composure, “that no person
could be more contemptible than one who
collects idle reports: I now find I was
wrong: a person infinitely more contempt-
ible is one who invents them.”
The rude duchess, beat at her own
weapons, blushed with anger even through
her rouge: but Constance turned away,
and, still leaning on Lord Erpingham’s
arm, sought another seat, that seat on the
opposite side of the pillar behind which G0-
dolphin sat, was still within his hearing.
“ Upon my word, Miss Vernon,” said
Erpingham, “ I admire your spirit.
Nothing like setting down those absurd
people who try to tease one, and think
one dares not retort. But pray—I hope
I’m not impertinent—pray, may I ask if
this rumour have any truth in it ?"
“ Certainly not,” said Constance, with
great effort, but in a clear tone.
“ No; I should have thought not—I
should have thought not. Godolphin’s
much too poor—much too poor for you.
Miss Vernon is not born to marry for love
in a cottage—is she?”
Constance sighed.
That soft, low tone thrilled to Godol-
phin’s very heart. He bent forward—be
eld his breath—he thirsted for her voice
—for some tone, some word in answer;
it came not at that moment.
“ You remember,” renewed the earl,
“ you remember Miss L : no, she was
before your time. Well! she married
S , much such another fellow as Godol-
phin. He had not a shilling,but he lived well
—had a house in Mayfair—gave dinners—


*4_.I¢-


GGDOLPHHI.
39
hunted at Melton, and so forth—in short,
he played high. She had about ten
thousand pounds. They married, and
lived for two years so comfortably, you
have no idea. Every one envied them.
They did not keep a close carriage, but
he used to drive her out to dinners in his
French cabriolet.* There was no show,
no pomp—everything deused neat, though
—quite love in a cottage, only the cottage
was in Curzon-street. At length, how-
ever, the cards turned—S lust every-
thing—owed more than he could ever
pay—we were forced to cut him—and his
relation, Lord— —, coming into the minis-
try a year afterward, got him a place in
the Customs. They live at Brompton:
he wears a pepper-and-salt coat, and she
a mob-cap with pink ribands: they have
five hundred a-year, and ten children.
Such was the fate of S ’s wife—such
may be the fate of Godolphin’s. Oh,
Miss Vernon could not marry Mm!”
“You are right, Lord Erpingham,”
said Constance, with emphasis; “ but you
take too much license in expressing your
opinion.”
Before Lord Erpingham could stammer
forth his apology, they heard a slight
noise behind: they turned; Godolphin
had risen. His countenance, always in-
clined to a calm severity—for thought is
usually severe in its outward aspect—
bent now on both the speakers with so
dark and menacing an aspect, that the
stout earl felt his heart stand still for a
moment; and Constance was appalled as
if it had been the apparition, an not the
living form, of her lever that she beheld.
But scarcely had they seen this expres-
sion of countenance ere it changed.
With a cold and polished smile, a relaxed
brow, and a rofound inclination of his
form, Godolphin greeted the two: and,
paSsing from his seat with a slow step,
glided among the crowd and vanished.
What a strange thing, after all, is a
great assembly! An immense mob of
persons, who feel for each other the pro-
oundest indifi'erenee, met together to
join in amusements which the large
majority of them consider wearisome
beyond conception. How unintellectual,
how uncivilized such a scene and such
actors! What a. remnant of barbarous
times, when people danced because they
had nothing to say! \Vere there nothing
ridiculous in dancing, there would be
° Then uncommon.




nothing ridiculous in seeing wise men
dance. But that sight would be ludi-
crous, because of the disparity between
the mind and the occupation. However,
we have some excuse; we go to these
assemblies to sell our daughters or flirt
with our neighbors’ wives. A ballroom
is nothing more nor less than a great
market-place of beauty. For my part,
were I a buyer, I should like making my
purchases in a less public mart.
“Come, Godolphin, a glass of Cham-
pagne,” cried the young Lord Belvoir,
as they sat near each other at the splen-
did supper.
“With all my heart; but not from
that bottle! We must have a new one;
for this glass is pledged to Lady Del-
mour, and I would not drink to her
health but from the first sparkle! Nothing
tame. nothing insipid, nothing that has
lost its first freshness, can be dedicated
to one so beautiful and young.”
The fresh bottle was opened, and G0-
dolphin bowed over his glass to Lord
Belvoir’s sister—a beauty, and a Blue.
Lady Delmour admired Godolphin, and
she was flattered by a compliment that
no one wholly educated in England would
have had the gallant courage to utter
across a crowded table.
“ You have been dancing ?” said she.
“ N 0 l"
“ What then ?”
“ \Vhat then '2” said Godolphin. “ Ah,
Lady Delmour, do not ask.” The look
that accompanied the words an plied them
with a meaning. “ Need I ad ,” said he,
in a lower voice, “that I have been think-
ing of the most beautiful person present?”
“Pooh 1” said Lady Delmour, turning
away her head.
Now that pooh is a very significant
word. On the lips of a man of business
it denotes contempt for romance; on the
lips of a politician it rebukes a theory.
With that monosyllable a philosopher
massacres a fallacy: by those four letters
a rich man gets rid of a beggar. But in
the rosy mouth of a woman, the harsh‘
ness vanishes, the disdain becomes en-
couragement. “ Pooh l” says the lady
when you tell her she is handsome; but
she smiles when she says it. With the
same reply she receives your protestation
of love, and blushes as she receives it.
With men it is the sternest, with women
the softest, exclamation in the language.
“ Pooh I” said Lady Delmour, turning


GODOLPHIN.
41
his erson might eminently display itself.
La y Margaret was at least as well ac-
quainted with the dance; and the couple
altogether so immeasurably excelled all
competitors, that the rest, as if sensible
of it, stopped one after the other; and
when Godolphin perceiving that they
were alone, stopped also, the spectators
made their approbation more audible
than approbation usually is in polished
society.
As Godolphin paused his eyes met
those of Constance. There was not
there the expression he had anticipated ;
there was neither the anger of jealousy,
nor the restlessness of offended vanity,
nor the desire of conciliation, visible in
those large and speaking orbs. A deep,
a penetrating, a sad inquiry seemed to
dwell in her gaze—seemed anxious to
pierce into his heart, and to discover
whether there she possessed the power to
wound, or whether each had been de-
ceived r so at least seemed that fixed and
melancholy intonseness of look to Godol-
phin. He left Lady Margaret abruptly:
in an instant he was by the side of Con-
stance.
“ You must be delighted with this
evening,” said he, bitterly: “ wherever I
go I hear your praises: every one ad-
mires you; and he who does not admire
so much as worship you, he alone is be-
neath your notice. He—born to such
shattered fortunes——he indeed might never
aspire to that which titled and wealthy
idiots deem they may command—the
hand of Constance Vernon.”
It was with a low and calm tone that
Godolphin s oke. Constance turned
deadly pale: er frame trembled, but she
did not answer immediately. She moved
to a seat retired at little from the busy
crowd: Godolphin followed, and sat him-
self beside her; and then, with a slight
effort, Constance spoke.
“You heard what was said, Mr. Go-
dolphin, and I grieve to think you did.
If I ofi'cnded you, however, forgive me, I
pray you; I pray it sincerely, warmly.
God knows I have suffered myself enough
from idle words, and from the slighting
Opinion with which this hard world visits
the poor, not to feel deep regret and
shame if I wound, by like means, another,
more especially——”Constance’s voice trem-
bled—“ more especially you I”
As she spoke she turned her eyes on
Godolphin, and they were full of tears.
The tenderness of her voice, her look,
lmclted him at once. Was it to him,
iindecd, that the haughty Constance
,addressed the words of kindness and
yapology 2 to him, whose extrinsic circum-
“stances she had heard described as so un-
iworthy of her, and, his reason told him,
with such justice?
“ Oh, Miss Vernon!” said he, passion-
ately, “ Miss Vernon—Constance—dear,
dear Constance! dare I call you so ? hear
me one word. I love you with a love
which leaves me no words to tell it. I
*know my faults, my poverty, my unworthi-
ness: but—but—may I—may I hope ‘2”
And all the woman was in Constance's
cheek as she listened. That cheek, how
richly was it dyed! Her eyes droo ed,
her bosom heaved. How every word) in
these broken sentences sank into her
heart! never was a tone forgotten. The
child may forget its mother, and the
mother desert the child ; but never, never
from a woman’s heart departs the memory
of the first confession of love from him
whom she first loves! She lifted her
eyes, and again withdrew them, and again
azed.
“ This must not he,” at last she said;
“ no, no! it is folly, madness, in both!”
“ Not so; nay, not so !” whispered Go-
dolphin, in the softest notes of a voice
that could never be harsh. “It ma
seem folly—madness if you will, that the
‘brilliant and all-idolized Miss Vernon
should listen to the vows of so lowly an
adorer: but try me, prove me; and own
—yes, you will own. some years hence,
that that folly has been happy beyond
the happiness of prudence 0r ambition.”
“This!” answered Constance, strug-
gling with her emotions, “ this is no spot
or hour for such a conference. Let us
meet to-morrow—the western chamber.”
“ And the hour?”
“ Twelve 1”
“ And I may hope—until then !"
Constance again grew pale; and ina
voice that, though it scarcely left her lips,
struck coldness and dismay into his sud-
den and delighted confidence, answered,
“ No, Percy, there is no hope l—nonel”

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE INTERVIEW—THE CRISIS OF A LIFE.
THE western chamber was that I have
mentioned as the one in which Constance


GODOLPHIN. 43
countenance with a look so full of an im-
ploring and earnest meaning, so expres-
sive of the passion, the suspense of his
heart, that Constance felt her voice cease
at once. But he saw as he gazed, how
powerful had been his influence. Not a
vestige of bloom was on her check: her
very lips were colorless: her eyes were
swollen with weeping; and, though she
seemed very calm and self-possessed, all
her wonted majesty of mien was gone!
The form seemed to shrink within itself.
Humbleness and sorrow—deep, passion-
ate, but quiet sorrow—had supplanted
the haughtiness and the elastic freshness
of her beauty. “Mr. Godolphin,” she
repeated, after a pause, “answer me truly
and with candor; not with the world’s
gallantry, but with a sincere, a plain
avowal. Were you not, in your unguard-
ed expressions last night—were you not
excited by the surprise, the passion of
the moment? Were you not uttering
what, had you been actuated only by a
calm and premeditated prudence, you
would at least have suppressed ?"
“Miss Vernon,” replied Godolphin,
“ all that I said last night I now, in calm-
ness and with deliberate premeditation,
repeat: all that I can dream of happiness
is in your hands.”
“ I would, indeed, that I could disbe-
lieve you," said Constance, sorrowfully:
“ I have considered deeply on your words.
I am touched—made grateful—proud—
yes, truly proud—by your confessed af-
fection—but—"
“ Oh, Constance I” cried Godolphin, in
a sudden and agonized voice; and, rising,
he flung himself impetuously at her feet
—-“ Constance! do not reject me E”
He seized her hand: it struggled not
with his. He gazed on her countenance:
it was dyed in blushes; and before those
blushes vanished, her agitation found
relief in tears, which flowed fast and
full.
“ Beloved I” said Godolphin, with a
solemn tenderness, “why struggle with
your heart? That heart I read at this
moment : that is not averse to me.” Con-
stance wept on. “I know what you

dent—lavish—selfish, if you will. You
recoil before you intrust your happines
to a man who, if he wreck that, can offer
you nothing in return: no rank—no station
—nothing to heal a bruised heart, or
cover its wound, at least, in the rich dis-
guises of power and wealth. Am I not
right, Constance? Do I not read your
mind ?"
“No!” said Constance, with energy.
“ Had I been born any man’s daughter
but his from whom I take my name ; were
I the same in all things—mind and heart,
save in one feeling, one remembrance, one
object--that I am now, God is my wit-
ness that I would not cast a thought upon
poverty, u on privation: that I would
—-nay, I o—do confide in your vows,
your afi'ection. If you have erred, I
know it not. If any but you tell me
you have erred, I believe them not. You
I trust wholly and implicitly. God, I
say, is my witness that, did I obey the
voice of my selfish heart, I would gladly,
proudly share and follow your fortunes.
You mistake me if you think sordid and
vulgar ambition can only influence me.
No! I could be worthy of you! The daugh-
ter of John Vernon could be a worthy
wife to the man of indigencc and genius.
In your poverty I could soothe you; in
your labors I could support you; in your
reverses console, in your prosperity tri-
umph. But—but, it must not be. Go,
Godolphin—dear Godolphin 1 There are
thousands better and fairer than lam,
who will do for you as I Would have done;
but who possess the power I have not-
who, instead of sharing, can raise your
fortunes. Go! and if it comfort, if it
soothe you, believe that I have not been
insensible to your generosity, your love.
My best wishes, my fondest prayers, my
dearest hopes, are yours.”
Blinded by her tears, subdued by her
emotions, Constance was still herself.—
Sbe rose—-she extricated her hand from
Godolphin’s—she turned to leave the
room. But Godolphin, still kneeling,
caught hold of her robe, and gently, but
cfi'eetually, detained her.
“ The picture you have painted,” said
would say and what you feel,” continued] he, “do not destroy at once. You have
Godolphin: “you think that I—that we ,‘ portrayed yourself my soother, guide,
both are poor: that you could ill bear the
humiliations of that haughty poverty‘ this.
which those born to higher fortunes so
irksomely endure. You tremble to link
your fate with one who has been impru-
irestorer. You can, indeed you can, be
You do not know me, Constance.
Let me say one word for myself. Hith~
erto I have shunned fame and avoided
ambition. Life has seemed to me so


46
GODOLPHIN.
plainness. He seldom appeared at
races, and never hunted; though he was
profound master of the calculations in
the first, and was, as regarded the sec-
ond, allowed to be one of the most per-
fect masters of horsemanship in his time.
So, in his dress, while he chose even sed-
ulously what became him most, he avoid-
ed the appearance of coxcombry by a
disregard to minutia). He did not value
himself on the perfection of his boot,
and suffered a wrinkle in his coat with-
out a sigh: yet even the exquisites of
the time allowed that no one was more
gentleman-like in the teat ensemble; and
while he sought by other means than dress
to attract, he never, even in dress, offend-
ed. Carefully shunning the character of
the professed wit or the general talker, he
was yet piqnant, shrewd, and animated
to the few persons whom he addressed or
with whom he associated: and, though
he had refused all offers to enter public
life, he was suificiently master of the
graver subjects that agitated the times
to impress even those best acquainted
with them with a belief in his information
and his talents.
But he was born poor, and yet he had
lived for nearly thirty years as a rich
man! What was his sccret ? he had liv-
ed upon others! At all games of science
he played with a masterly skill; and in
those wherein luck preponderates, there
are always chances for a cool and sys-
tematic calculation. He had been, in-
deed, suspected of unfair play; but the
charge had never cooled the eagerness
'with which he had been courted. With
far better taste, and far more popularity
and estimation than Brummell, he ob-
tained an equal though a more secret
sway. Every one was desirous to know
him: without his acquaintance, the young
débulant felt that he wanted the qualifica-
tion to social success; by his intimacy,
even vulgarity became the rage. It was
true that, as no woman’s disgrace was
confesscdly traced to him, so neither was
any man‘s ruin—save only in the doubt-
ful instance of the unfortunate John-
stone. Ho nevm won of any person,
however ardent, more than a certain por-
tion of his fortune; the rest of his un-
doing he left to his satellites; nay, even
those who had in reality most reason to
complain of him, never perceived his due
share in their impoverishment. It was
common enough to hear men say, “Ah!

Saville, I wish I had taken your advice,
and left 05 while I had yet half my for-
tune !" They did not accurately heed
that the first half was Saville’s, because
the first half had excited, not ruined
them. '
Beside this method of making money,
so strictly social, Saville had also applied
his keen intellect and shrewd sense to
other speculations. Cheap houses, cheap
horses, fluctuations in the funds, all de-
scriptions of property (except, perhaps,
stolen goods) had passed under his ear-
nest attention; and, in most cases, such
5 eculations had eminently succeeded.—
ge was therefore now, in his middle age,
and still unmarried, a man decidedly
wealthy; having, without ever playing
the miser, without ever stinting a luxury
or denying a wish, turned nothing into
something, poverty into opulence.
It was noon; and Saville was slowly
finishing his morning repast, and convers-
ing with a young man stretched on a
sofa opposite in a listless attitude. The
room was in perfect keeping with the
owner; there was neither velvet, nor
gilding, nor bulil, nor marguem'e—all of
which would have been inconsistent with
the moderate size of the apartment. But
the furniture was new, massive, costly,
and luxurious without the ostentatiou of
luxury. A few good pictures, and seve-
ral exquisite busts and figures in bronze,
upon marble pedestals, gave something
classic and graceful to the aspect of the
room. Annexed to the back drawing-
room, looking over Lord Chester-field‘s
gardens, a small conservatory, filled with
rich exotics, made the only feature in the
apartment that might have seemed, to a
fastidious person, efl'eminate or unduly
voluptuous. Saville himself was about
forty-seven years of age: of a person
slight and thin, without being emaciated:
a not ungraccful, though habitual stoop,
diminished his height, which might be a
little above the ordinary standard. In
his youth he had been handsome. but in
his person there was new little trace of
any attraction beyond that of a manner
remarkably soft and insinuating: yet in
his narrow though high forehead; his
sharp, aquiline nose, gray eye, and
slightly sarcastic curve of lip. something
of his character betrayed itself. You
saw, or fancied you saw in them, the
shrewdness, the delicacy of tact, the con-
sciousness of duping others; the subtile


“DOLPHIN.
47
and intuitive, yet bland and noiseless
penetration into the characters around
im, which made the prominent features
of his mind. And, indeed, of all quali-
ties, dissimulation is that which betrays
itself the most often in the physiognomy.
.A fortunate thing, that the long habit of
betraying should find at times the index
in which to betray itself.
“ But you don’t tell me, my dear Go-
dolphin,” said Seville, as he broke the
toast into his chocolate,” “you don’t tell
me how the world employed itself at
Rome. Were there any of the true ca-
liber there ‘I—steady fellows, yet ardent,
like myself ?—men who make us feel our
strength and put it forth—with whom we
cannot dally or idle—who require our
coolness of head, clearness of memory, in-
genuity of stratagem—in a word, men of
my ART—the art of play: were there any
such ‘2”
“Not many, but enough for honor,”
said Godolphin: “for myself, I have long
forsworn gambling for profit.”
“Ah! I always thought you wanted
that perseverance which belongs to
strength of character. And how stand
your resources now? Sufiicient to re-
commenee the world here with credit and
éclal .2”
“ Ay, were I so disposed, Saville. But
I shall return to Italy. Within a month
hence I shall depart.”
“ What ! and only just arrived in town!
An heir in possession!”
“ Of what ?”
“ The reputation of having succeeded
to a property, the extent of which, if
wise, you will tell no one! Are you so
young, Godolphin, as to imagine that it
signifies one crumb of this bread what he
the rent-roll of your estate, so long as
you can obtain credit for any sum to
which you are pleased to extend it?
Credit! beautiful invention! the moral
new world to which we fly when banished
from the old. Credit! the true charity
of Providence, by which they who other-
wise would starve, live in plenty, and de-
spise the indigent rich. Credit! admir-
able system, alike for those who live on
it and the wiser few who live by it. Will
_ you borrow some money of me Godol-
phin ?”
“ At what per cent-age Y”
“ Why, let me see : funds are low ; I’ll
be moderate. But stay; be it with you
as I did with George Sinelair._ You

shall have all you want, and pay me with
a premium when you marry an heiress.
Why, man, you wince at the word
‘marry 1””
“ 'Tis a sore subject, Seville: one that
makes a man think of halters.”
“ Your are right: I recognize my
young pupil. Your old play-writers
talked nonsense when they said men lost
liberty of person by marriage. Men lose
liberty, but it is the liberty of the mind.
We cease to be independent of the world’s
word when we grow respectable with a
wife, a fat butler, two children, and a fa-
mily coach. It makes a gentleman a
little better than a grocer or a king 1
But you have seen Constance Vernon.
Why, out on this folly, Godolphin! You
turn away. Do you fancy that I did not
penetrate your weakness the moment you
mentioned her name? still less, do you
fancy, my dear young friend, that I, who
have lived through nearly half a century,
and know our nature, and the whole ther-
mometer of our blood, think one jot the
worse of you for forming a caprice—or a
passion, if you will—for a woman that
would set an anchoret, or what is still
colder, a worn-out debauchee on fire?
Bah! Godolphin, I am wiser than you
take me for. And I will tell you more.
For your sake, I am happy that you have
incurred already this our common folly
(which we all have once in a life), and
that the fit is over. I do not pry into
your secrets; I know their delicacy. I
do not ask which of you drew back; for
to have gone forward, to have married,
would have been madness in both. Nay
it was an impossibility: it could not have
happened to my pupil; the ablest, the
subtilest, the wisest of my pupils. But,
however it was broken 05, I repeat that
I am glad it happened. One is never
sure of a man’s wisdom until he has been
really and vainly in love. You know
what that moralizing lump of absurdity,
Lord Edouard, has said in the Julie—‘ the
path of the passions conducts us to phi-
losophy!’ It is true, very true: and,
now that the path has been fairly trod,
the goal is at hand. Now I can confide
in your steadiness: now I can feel that
you will run no chance, in future, of over-
appreciating that bawble, Woman. You
will beg, borrow, steal, and exchange or
lose the jewel with the same delicious ex-
citement, coupled with the same steady
indifl'erence with which we play at a more


48
GODOLPHIN.
scientific game, and for a more compre-
hensive reward. I say more comprehen-
sive reward; for how many women may
we be able to buy by a judicious bet on
the Odd trick 1"
“ Your turn is sudden,” said Godol-
phin, smiling; “and there is some jus-
tice in your reasoning. The fit is over:
and, if ever I can be wise, I have entered
on wisdom now. But talk of this no more.”
“ I will not,” said Saville, whose un-
erring tact had reached just the point
where to stop, and who had led Godol-
phin through just that vein of conversa-
tion, half sentimentalizing, half sensible,
all profligate, which seldom fails to win
the ear of a man both of imagination and
of the world. "I will not, and to vary
the topic, I will turn egotist, and tell you
my adventures.”
With this, Saville began a light and
amusing recital of his various and singu-
lar life for the last three years. Anec-
dote, jest, maxim, remark, interspersed,
gave a zest and piquancy to the narra-
tion. An accomplished roue’ always af-
fects to moralizc ; it is a part of his cha-
racter; There is a vague and shrewd
sentiment that pervades his morale and
his system. Frequent excitement, and
its attendant relaxation; the conviction
of the folly of all pursuits; the insipidity
of all life; the hollowness of all love;
the faithlessness in all ties; the disbe-
lief in all worth; these consequences of
a dissipated existence on a thoughtful
mind, produce some remarkable, while
they make so many wretched characters.
They colored some of the most attractive
prose among the French, and the most
fascinating verse in the pages of Byron.
It might be asked by a profane inquirer
(and I have touched on this before), what
effect a life nearly similar—a life of lux-
ury, indolenee, lassitnde, profuse but
heartless love—imparted to the deep and
touching wisdom in his page whom we
consider the wisest of men, and who has
left us the most melancholy of doctrines?
It was this turn of mind that made Sa-
ville’s conversation peculiarly agreeable
to Godolphin in his present humor; and
the latter invested it, from his own mood,
with a charm which in reality it wanted.
For, as I shall show in Godolphin what
deterioration the habits of frivolous and
worldly life produce on the mind of a man
of genius, I show only in Saville the ef-
fect they produce on a man of sense.

“ Well, Godolphin,” said Saville, ashe
saw the former rise to depart, “ you will
at least dine with me to-day—a punctual
eight. I think I can promise you an
agreeable evening. The Linettini, and
that dear little Fanny Millinger (your
oldflame), are coming; and I have asked
old Stracey, the poet, to say 6012.? mots for
them. Poor old Stracey! He goes about
to all his former friends and fellow-liber-
als, boasting of his favor with the great,
and does not see that we only use him as
we would a puppet-show or a dancing-
dog.”
“What folly," said Godolphin, “ it is
in any man of genius (not also of birth)
to think the great of this country can
possibly esteem him! Nothing can equal
the secret enmity with which dull men
regard an intelliact above their compre-
hension. Party politics, and the tact,
the shifting, the commonplace that party
politics alone require, these they can ap-
preciate; and they feel respect for an
orator, even though he be not a county
member; for he can assist them in their
paltry ambition for place and pension :
but an author or a man of science, the
rogues positively jeer at him!”
“ And yet,” said Saville. “ how few
men of letters perceive a truth so evident
to us, so hackneyed even in the conver-
sations of society! For a little reputa-
tion at a dinner-table, for a coaxing note
from some titled demirep affecting the
De Stael, they forget not only to be glo-
rious, but even to be respectable. And
this, too, not only for so petty a gratifi-
cation, but for one that rarely lasts above
a London season. \Ve allow the low-
born author to be the lion this year, but
we dub him a bore the next. \Ve shut
our doors upon his twice-told jcsts. and
send for the Prague minstrels to sing to
us after dinner instead.”
“ However," said Godolphin, "' it is
only poets you find so foolish as to be de-
ceived by you. There is not a single
prose writer of real genius so absurd.”
“And why is that ?”
“ Because,” replied Godolphin, philo-
sophizing, “ poets address themselves
more to women than men, and insensiny
they acquire the weaknesses which they
are accustomed to address. A poet
whose verses delight the women will be
found, if we closely analyze his character.
to be very like a woman himself."
“ You don’t love poets ‘5" said Saville.


eononrmn. 49
“ The glory of old has departed from
them. I mean, less from their pages
than their minds. “To have plenty of
beautiful poets, but how little poetry
breathing of a great soul!”
Here the door opened, and a Mr.
Glosson was announced. There entered
a little, smirking, neat-dressed man, prim
as a lawyer or a house-agent.
“ Ah, Glosson, is that you 'i" said Sa-
ville, with something like animation:
“sit down, my good sir, sit down.
what news ‘1”
\Vellliwith Fanny Millinger.
Well! (rubbing his hands) what news? unmarried, and still the fashion.
was a sort of allegory of real life—like
CHAPTER XX.
FANNY MILLINGEB ONCE MORE—LOVE—
WOMAN—BOOKS—A HUNDRED TOPICS
TOUCHED ON THE SUBFACE—GODOLPHIN’S
STATE OF MIND MORE MINUTELY EXAM-
INED—TIIE DINNER. AT SAVILLE’S.
GODOLPIIIN went to see and converse
She was still
There
“ Why, Mr, Saville, I think we may get that which Goethe would efi'eet—in the

the land from old
He has the manner in which, at certain epochs of his
right of the job, I have been with him existence, our Idealist was brought into
all this morning, He asks six thousand contact with the fair actress of ideal
pounds for it.”
“ The unconscionable dog!
from the crown for two."
creations.
He got it thing of a moral in the way these two
streams of existence—the one belonging
There was, in short, some-
“Ah, very true, very true: but you to the actual, the other to the imaginary
don’t see, sir, you don’t see, that it is well —flowed on, crossing each other at stated
worth nine.
Sad times, sad times: jobs times-
Which was the more really ima-
from the crown are growing scarcer every ginatiVe—the life 0f the stage, 01‘ that Of
day, Mr. Saville.”
“ Humpb! that’s all a chance, a spe-
cnlatiou.
Times are had, indeed, as you 1180]; again her early lover-
the world’s stage '!
The gay Fanny was rejoiced to welcome
She ran on,
say: no money in the market; g0, G105- talking of a thousand topics, without re-
son, offer him five;
your percentage marking the absent mind and musing eye
shall be one per cent. higher than if I pay of Godolphin, until he himself stopped her
six thousand, and shall be counted up to somewhat abruptly:
the latter sum."
“ He ! he! be! sirl” grinned Glosson: know 0f Swine?
" you are fond of your joke, Mr. Saville.” mate with him, 611?
“Well, Fanny, well, and what do you
You have grown inti-
We shall meet at
“ \Vell, now, what else in the market ? hi8 1101158 this evening”
Never mind my friend: Mr. Godolphin
“ Oh, yes, he is a charming person in
_Mr_ 910850“; mm 91195118 is over; his little way; and the only man who
proceed—proceed.”
Glosson bummed,
bummed again, and then glided on to
speak of houses, and crown lands, and
properties in Wales, and places at court
(for some of the subordinate posts at the
palace were then, perhaps are now, regu-
lar matter of barter; and Saville, bend-
ing over the table, with his thin, delicate
hands clasped intently, and his brow de-
noting his interest, and his sharp, shrewd
eye fixed on the agent, furnished to the
contemplative Godolphin a picture which
he did not fail to note, to moralize on, to
and bowed,
despise!
What a spectacle is that of the pro-
digal rake, hardening and sharpening
into the grasping speculator!

allows me to be a friend without dreaming
of becoming a lover. Now that’s what
I like. We poor actresses have so much
would-be love in the course of our lives,
that a little friendship now and then is a
novelty which other and soberer people
can never enjoy. On reading ‘ Gil Blas ’
the other day—I am no great reader, as
you may remember—I was struck by that
part in which the dear Santillane assures
us that there was never any love between
him and Laura the actress. I thought it
so true to nature, so probable, that they
should have formed so strong an intimacy
for each other, lived in the same house,
had every opportunity for love, yet never
loved. And it was exactly because she
was an actress, and a light, good-for—no-
thing creature, that it so happened; the
very multiplicity of lovers prevented her
falling in love: the very carelessness of


GODOLPHIN.
51
ceive it, that I am older than I was when
we last met. I reflect where I then felt.
Beside, the stage fills our heads with
a half sort of wisdom, and gives us that
strange milangc of shrewd experience and
romantic notimrs which is, in fact, the
real representation of nine human hearts
out of ten. Talking of books, my dear
Gil Blas, l want some one to write a
novel which shall be a metaphysical Gil
Blas: which shall deal more with the
mind than Le Sage’s book, and less with
the actions; which shall make its hero
the creature of the world, but a different
creation, though equally true; which
shall give a faithful picture in the char-
acter of one man of the aspect and the
effects of our social system; making that
man of a better sort of clay than the
amusing lackey was, and the product of
a more artificial grade of society. The
book I mean would be a sadder one than
Le Sage’s but equally faithful to life.”
“ And it would have more of romance,
if I rightly understand what you mean i"
“Precisely: romance of idea as well as
incident—natural romance. By-the-way.
how few know what natural romance is:
so that you feel the ideas in a book or
play are true and faithful to the charac-
ters they are ascribed to, why mind
whether the incidents are probable?
Yet common readers only go by the inci-
dents; as if the incidents in three-fourths
of Shakspeare’s plays were even ordinarily
possible! But people have so little
nature in them, that they don’t know
what is natural!”
Thus Fanny ran on, in no very con-
nected manner; stringing together those
remarks which, unless I am mistaken,
show how much better an uneducated,
clever girl, whose very nature is a quick
perception of art, can play the critic,
than the pcdants who assume the oflice.
But it was only for the moment that
the heavy heart of Godolphin could forget
its load. It was in vain that he sought
to be amused while yet smarting under
the freshness of regret.
A great shock had been given to his
nature; he had loved against his will;
and, as we have seen, on his return to
the Priory he had even resolved on curin
himself of a passion so unprofitable and
unwise. But the jealousy of a night had
shivered into dust prudence which never
of right belonged to a very ardent and
generous nature: that jealousy was

soothed, allayed; but how fierce, how
stunning was the blow that succeeded it!
Constance had confessed love: to herself
the motives which actuated her might seem
to justify that refusal. Clear and noble
as these motives were it was impossible
that they should appear in the same
light to Godolphin. Unable to penetrate
into the effect which her father’s death-
bed and her own oath had produced on
the mind of Constance; how indissolubly
that remembrance had united itself with
all her schemes and prospects for the
future; how marvelously, yet how natu-
rally it had converted worldly ambition
into a sacred duty; unable, I say, to
comprehend all these various, and power-
ful, and governing motives, Godolphin
beheld in her refusal only the aversion to
share his slender income, and the desire
for lofticr station. He considered, there-
fore, that sorrow was a tribute to her
unworthy of himself; he deemed it a
part of his dignity to strive to forget.
That balmy and hallowed sentiment which,
in some losses of the heart, makes it a
duty to remember, and preaches a sooth-
ing and soft lesson from the very text of
regret, was not for the wrung and strick-
en soul of Godolphin. He only strove to
dissipate his grief, and shut out from his
mental sight the charmed vision of the
first, the only woman he had deeply
loved.
Godolphin felt, too, that the sole im-
pulse which could havc united the fast-
expiring energy and enterprise of his
youth to the ambition of life was forever
gone. With Constance—with the proud
thoughts that belonged to her—the aspir-
ings after earthly honors were linked,
and with her were broken. He felt his
old philosophy—the love of ease, the pro-
found contempt for fame—close, like the
deep waters over those glittering hosts
for whose passage they had been severed
for a moment, whelming the crested and
gorgeous visions for ever beneath the
wave! Conscious of his talents—nay,
swayed to and fro by the unquiet stir-
rings of no common genius—Godolphin
yet foresaw that he was not henceforth
destined to play a shining part in the
crowded drama of life. His career was
already closed: he might be contented,
prosperous, happy, but never great. He
had seen enough of authors, and of the
thorns that beset the paths of literature,
to experience none of those delusions


52
GODOLPHIN.
which cheat the blinded aspirer into the
wilderness of publication; that mode of
obtaining fame and hatred to which those
who feel unfitted for more bustling con-
cerns are impelled. Write he might: and
he was fond (as disappointment increased
his propensities to dreaming) of brighten-
ing his solitude with the golden palaces
and winged shapes that lie glassed within
the fancy—the soul’s fairy-land. But
the vision with him was only evoked one
hour to be destroyed the next. Happy
had it been for Godolphin, and not un-
fortunate, perhaps, for the world, had he
learned at that exact moment the true
motive for human action .which he after-
ward, and too late, discovered. Happy
had it been for him to have learned that
there is an ambition toldogood—an am-
bition to raise the wretched as well as to
rise.
Alas! either in letters or in politics,
how utterly poor, barren, and untcmpting
is every path that points upward to the
mockery of public eminence, when looked
upon hya soul that has any real elements
of wise or noble, unless we have an im-
pulse within which mortification chills
not; a reward without, which selfish de-
feat does not destroy.
But, unblessed by one friend really
wise or good, spoiled by the world, soured
by disappointment, Godolphin’s very fac-
ulties made him inert, and his very wis-
dom taught him to be useless. Again
and again—as the spider in some cell
where no winged insect ever wanders,
builds and rebuilds its mesh—the schem-
ing heart of the Idealist was doomed to
weave net after net for those visions of
the Lovely and the Perfect which never
can descend to the gloomy regions where-
in mortality is east. The most common
disease to genius is nympholepsy-—the sad-
dening for a spirit that the world knows
not. Ah ! how those outward disap-
pointments which should cure, only feed
the disease!
The dinner at Savillc’s was gay and
lively, as such entertainments with such
participators usually are. If nothing in
the world is more heavy than your for-
mal banquet, nothing, on the other hand,
is more agreeable than those well-chosen
laisscz al/er feasts at which the guests are
as happily selected as the wines ; where
there is no form, no reserve, no effort;
and people, having met to sit still for a
few hours, are willing to be as pleasant

to each other as if they were never to
meet again. Yet the conversation in all
companies not literary turns upon per-
sons rather than things, and your wits
learn their art only in the School for
Scandal.
“ Only think, Fanny,” said Saville,
“ of Clavers turning bean in his old age!
He commenced with being a jockey;
then he became an .electioneerer; then a
Methodist person; then a builder of
houses; and now he has dashed sudden-
ly up to London, rushed into the clubs,
mounted a wig, studied an ogle, and
walks about the Opera House swinging a
cane, and, at the age of fifty-six, punch-
ing young minors in the side, and saying
tremulously, ‘ We young fellows l ’ ”
“ He hires pages to come to him in the
Park with three-cornered notes,” said
Fanny: “he opens each with affected
nonclzalance; looks full at the bearer; and
cries aloud, ‘Tell your mistress I cannot
refuse her: ’ then canters off with the air
of a man persecuted dla mart!”
“But did you see what an immense
pair of whiskers Chester has mounted '2"
“ Yes,” answered a. Mr. De Lacy ;
“A says he has cultivated them in
order to ‘plant out ’ his ugliness."
“ But vy you no talk, Monsieur de
Dauphin?” said the Linettiui, gently,
turning to Percy; “ you ver silent.”
“ Unhappily, I have been so long out
of town, that these anecdotes of the day
are all caviare to me."
“ But so,” cried Saville, “ would a vol-
ume of French Memoirs be to any one
that took it up for the first time; yet the
French Memoirs amuse one exactly as
much as if one had lived with the per-
sons written of. Now that ought to be
the case with conversations upon persons.
I flatter myself, Fanny, that you and I
hit off characters so well by a word or
two, that no one who hears us wants to
know anything more about them.”
“ I believe you,” said Godolphin;
“and that is the reason you never talk
of yourselves.”
“ Bah! Apropos of egotists, did you
meet Jack Barabel in Rome ‘5”
“ Yes, writing his travels. ‘ Pray,’
said he to me (seizing me by the button),
in the Coliseum, ‘what do you think is
the highest order of literary composi-
tion ?’ ‘Why, an epic, I fancy,’ said I;
‘ or perhaps a tragedy, or a great histo-
ry, or a novel like Don Quizoae.’ ‘ Pooh l'


GODOLPEIN.
55
your eye? Alas! are not the blessings
of the world like the enchanted bullets ?
that which pierces our heart is united
with the gift which our heart desired!
Lord Erpingham entered the room.
“ Well, Constance,” said he, “ shall you
ride on horseback to-day '3”
“ I think not."
“ Then I wish you would call on Lady
Delville. You see, Delville is of my party:
we set together. You should be very
civil to her, and I did not think you were
so the other night.”
“You wish Lady Delville to support
your political interest; and, if I mistake
not, you think her at present lukewarm?”
“ Precisely.”
“Then, my dear lord, will you place
confidence in my discretion ? I promise
you, if you will leave me undisturbed in
my plans, that Lady Delville shall be the
most devoted of your party before the
season is half over: but then the means
will not be those you advise.”
“ Why, I advised none.”
“ Yes—civility; a very poor policy.”
“D——n it, Constance! Why, you would
not frown a great person like Lady Del-
ville into afiection for us ‘1”
“ Leave it to me.”
“Nonsense !”
“ My dea'r lord, only try. Three months
is all 1 ask. You will leave the manage-
ment of politics to me ever afterward!
I was born a schemer. Am I not John
Vernon’s daughter Y”
“ Well, well, do as you will!” said
Lord Erpingharn: “ but I see how it will
end. However, you will call on Lady
Delville to-day Y”
“ If you wish it, certainly."
“ I do.”
Lady Delville was a proud, great lady;
not very much liked, and not so often in-
vited by her equals as if she had been
agreeable and a flirt.
Constance knew with whom she had to
treat. She called on Lady Delville that
day. Lady Delville was at home: a pret-
ty and popular Mrs. TreVOr was with her.
Lady Delville received her coolly :
Constance was haughtiness itself.
“ You go to the Duchess of Daubigny’s
' to-night ?” said Lady Delville, in the
course of their broken conversation.
“ Indeed I do not. I like agreeable
society. It shall be my object to form a
circle that not one displeasing person
shall obtain access to. Will you assist

me, my dear Mrs. Trevor ‘3” and Con-
stance turncd, with her softest smile, to
the lady she addressed.
Mrs. Trevor was flattered: Lady Del-
ville drew herself up.
“ It is a small party at the duchess’s,”
said the latter, “ merely to meet the Duke
and Duchess of 0—."
“ Ah ! few people are capable of giving
a suitable entertainment to the royal
family.”
“But surely none more so than the
Duchess of Daubigny : her house so large,
her rank so great I”
“These are but poor ingredients to-
ward the forming of an agreeable party,"
said Constance, coldly. " The mistake
made by common minds is to suppose
titles the only rank. Royal dukes love,
above all other persons, to be amused;
and amusement is the last thing general-
ly provided for them.”
The conversation fell into other chan-
nels. Constance rose to depart. She
warmly pressed the hand of Mrs. Trevor,
whom she had only seen once before.
“ A few persons come to me to-morrow
evening;” “ do wave ceremony and join
us. I can promise you that not one dis-
agreeable pcrson shall be present; and
that the Duchess of Daubigny shall write
for an invitation, and be refused."
Mrs. Trevor accepted the invitation.
Lady Delville was enraged beyond
measure. Never was female tongue more
bitter than hers at the expense of that
insolent Lady Erpingharn! Yet Lady
Delville was secretly in grief; for the first
time in her life, she was hurt at not hav-
ing been asked to a party: and, being
hurt because she was not going, she
longed most eagerly to go.
The next evening came. Erpingham
House was not large, but it was well
adapted to the description of assembly its
beautiful owner had invited. Statues,
busts, pictures, books, scattered or ar-
ranged about the apartments, furnished
matter for intellectual conversation, 01'
gave, at least, an intellectual air to the
meeting.
About a hundred persons were present.
They were culled from the most distin-
guished ornaments of the time. Musi-
cians, painters, authors, orators, fine gen-
tlemen, dukes, princes, and beauties.—
One thing, however, was im eratively
necessary in order to admit t em—the
profession of liberal opinions. No tory,


56
GODOLI' KIN .
however wise, eloquent, or beautiful, could
have obtained the sesame to those apart-
ments.
Constance never seemed more lovely,
and never before was she so winning.
The coldness and the arrogance of her
manner were wholly vanished. To every
one she spoke, and to every one her voice,
her manner, were kind, cordial, familiar;
but familiar with a soft dignity that
heightened the charm. Ambitious not
only to please but to dazzle, she breathed
into her conversation all the grace and
culture of her mind. They who admired
her the most were the most accomplished
themselves. N ow exchanging with foreign
nobles that brilliant trifling of the world
in which there is often so much penetra-
tion, wisdom, and research into character;
new with a. kindling eye and animated
cheek commenting with poets and critics
on literature and the arts; now, in amore
remote and quiet corner, seriously discus~
sing, with hoary politicians, those affairs
in which even they allowed her shrewd-
ness and her grasp of intellect; and com-
bining with every grace and every accom-
plishment a rare and dazzling order of
eauty—we may readily imagine the sen-
sation she created, and the sudden and
novel zest which so splendid an Armida
must have given to the tameness of so-
ciety.
The whole of the next week the party
at Erpingham House was the theme of
every conversation. Each person who
had been there had met the lion he had
been most anxious to see. The beauty
had eonversed with the poet who had
charmed her; the young debulant in
science had paid homage to the great pro-
fessor of its loftiest mysteries; the states-
man had thanked the author who had de-
fended his measures; the author had been
delighted with the compliment of the
statesman. Every one then agreed that,
while the highest rank in the kingdom
had been there, rank had been the least
attraction; and those who before had
found Constance rcpellant, were the very
persons who now expatiated with the
greatest rapture on the sweetness of her
manners. Then, too, every one who had
been admitted to the rotcrz'e dwelt on the
rarity of the admission; and thus all the
world were dying for an introduction to
Erpingham House—partly because it was
agreeable, principally because it was dif»
ficult.

It soon became a compliment to the
understanding to say of a person, “ He
goes .to Lady Erpingham’s I" They who
valued themselves on their understand-
ings moved heaven and earth to become
opular with the beautiful countess.—
Lady Delville was not asked; Lady Del-
ville was furious; she afl'eeted disdain,
but no one gave her credit for it. Lord
Erpingham teased Constance on this
point.
“ You see I was right, for you have af-
fronted Lady Delville. She has made
Delville look coolly on me; in a few
weeks he will be a tory: think of that,
Lady Erpingham !”
“One month more," answered Con-
stance, with a smile, “and you shall see.”
One night Lady Delville and Lady
Erpingham' met at a large party. The
latter seated herself by her haughty
enemy: not seeming to heed her coolness,
Constance entered into conversation with
her. She dwelt upon books, pictures,
music: her manner was animated, and her
wit playful. Pleased in spite of herself,
Lady Delville warmed from her reserve.
“ My dear Lady Delville,” said (lon-
stance, suddenly turning her bright coun-
tenance on the whig countess with an ex-
pression of delighted surprise, “ will you
forgive me? I never dreamed before that
you were so charming a person! I never
conceal my sentiments: and I own, with
regret and shame, that, until this moment,
I had never seen in your mind, whatever
I might in your peron, those claims to
admiration which were constantly dinned
into my ear."
Lady Delville actually colored.
“Pray,” continued Constance, “con-
descend to permit me to a nearer ac-
quaintance. Will you dine with us on
Thursday Y \Ve shall have only nine
persons beside yourself; but they are the
nine persons whom I most esteem and ad-
mire. ’
Lady Delville accepted the invitation.
From that hour Lady Delville—who had
at first resented, from the deepest recess
of her heart, Constance Vernon’s acces-
sion to rank and wealth—who, had Con-
stance deferrcd to her early acquaintance,
would have always found something in
her she could have afi‘ected to despise—
from that hour Lady Delville was the
warmest advocate, and, a little time after,
the sincerest follower, of the youthful
countess.


58
GODOLPHIR.
the suitor more than severity could pos-
sibly have done,
“My dear Lord Dartington, do not let
us mistake each other. I live in the
world like other women, but I am not
altogether like them. N at another word
of gallantry to me alone, as you value
my friendship. In a crowded room, pay
me as many compliments as you like. It
will flatter my vanity to have you in my
train. And now, just do me the favor to
take these scissors and cut the dead
leaves 08' that plant.
Lord Dartington, to use a common
hrase, “bummed and hawcd." He
ooked, too, a little angry. An artful
and shrewd politician, it was not Con-
stance’s wish to cool the devotion, though
she might the attachment, of a single
member of her husband’s party. With
a kind look—but a look so superior, so
queenlike, so free from the petty and co-
quettish condescension of the sex, that
the gay lord wondered from that hour how
he could ever haw dreamed of Constance
as of certain other ladies of rank (id as!
of pleasure)—shc stretched her hand to
him.
“\Ve are friends, Lord Dartington?
and, now we knew each other, we shall
be so always.” -
Lord Dartington bowed confusedly
over the beautiful hand he touched; and
Constance walking into the drawing-
room, sent for Lord Er ingham on busi‘
ness: Dartington took 1is leave.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE .usnruso sure or coxsrsncs.
CONSTANCE, countess of Erpingham,
was young, rich, lovely as a dream, wor-
shiped as a goddess. \Vas she happy?
and was her whole heart occupied with
the trifles that surrounded her?
Deep within her memory was buried
one fatal image that she could not exer-
cise. The reproaching and mournful
countenance of Godolphin rose before

which he a plied its graces to some sen-
timent dedicated to her (delicious flat-
tery, of all flatteries the most attractive
to a sensitive and intellectual woman 1)—
these occurred to her again and again,
and rendered all she saw around her flat,
wearisome, insipid. Nor was this deep-
seatcd and tender weakness the only ser-
pent—if I may use so confused :1. meta-
phor—in the roses of her lot.
And here I invoke the reader’s graver
attention. The fate of women in all the
more polished circles of society is emi-
nently unnatural and unhappy. The
peasant and his dame are on terms of
equality—equality even of ambition: no
career is open to one and shut to the other
—equality even of hardship, and hard-
ship is employment: no labor occupies
the whole energies of the man, but leaves
those of the woman unemployed. Is this
the ease with the wives in a higher sta-
tion? the wives of the lawyer, the mer-
chant, the senator, the noble? There
the men have their occupations, and the
women (unless, like poor Fanny, work-
bags and parrots can employ them) none.
They are idle. They employ the ima-
gination and the heart. They fall in
love and are wretched; or they remain
virtuous, and are either wearied by an
eternal monotony, or they fritter away
intellect,.mind, character, in the minutest
frivolities—frivolities being their only
refuge from stagnation. Yes! there is
one very curious curse for the sex which
men don’t consider! Once married, the
more aspiring of them have no real scope
for ambition: the ambition gnaws away
their content, and never finds elsewhere
wherewithal to feed on.
This was Constance’s especial misfor-
tune. Her lofty, and restless, soar-
ing spirit pined for a sphere of action,
and ballrooms and boudoirs met it on
every side. One hope she did indeed
cherish; that hope was the source of her
intriguings and schemes, of her, care for
seeming trifles, the waste of her 'as
on seeming frivolitics. This hope, 's
object, was to diminish, to crush, not only
the party which had forsaken her father,
her at all times and seasons. The charm but the power of that order to which she
of his presence no other human being
could renew. His eloquent and noble
features, living and glorious with genius
and with passion; his sweet, deep voice;
‘belonged herself—which she had entered
only to humble. But this hope was a
distant and chill vision. She was too
rational to anticipate an early and dice-
his conversation, so rich with mind and trial change in our social state, and too
knowledge, and the subtile delicacy with
rich in the treasuresjmind to be the


GODOLPHIN. 59
creature of one idea. Satiety—the com- I was, however, sensible that he had been _
mon curse of the great—crept over hemfortnnate in the choice of a wife. His
day by day. The powers within her lay 1 political importance the wisdom of Con-
stagnant—the keen intellect rusted instance had quadrupled, at the least; his
its sheath. l house she had rendered the most brilliant
“How is it,” said she to the beautiful i in London, and his name the most courted
Countess of , “ that you seem alwaysl in the lists of the peerage. Though mn-
so gay and so animated; that, with all ; nifieent, she was not extravagant; though
your vivaeity and tenderness, you are a beauty, she did not intrigue; neither,
never at a loss for occupation? You} though his inconstaney was open, did she
never seem weary -—ennuyée —wby is appear jealous; nor, whatever the errors

this?”
“I will tell you,” said the retty coun-
tess arehly; “I change my overs every
month.” Constance blushed, and asked{
no more. 1
Many women in her state, influenced|
by contagious exam le, wearied by a lifei
in which the heart ad no share; with-i
out children, without a guide; assailed
and wooed on all sides, in all shapes—
many women might have ventured, if not
into love, at least into coquctry. But
Constance remained as bright and cold
as ever—“ the unsunned snow.” It
might be, indeed, that the memory of
Godolphin preserved her safe from all
lesser dangers. The asbestos, once eon-
quered by fire, can never be consumed by
it; but there was also another cause in
Constanee’s very nature—it was pride!
Oh! if men could but dream of what a
proud woman endures in those caresses
which humble her, they would not won-
der why proud women are so ditiicult to
subdue. This is a matter on which we
all ponder much, but we dare not write
honestly upon it. But imagine a young,
haughty, guileless beauty, married to a
man whom she neither loves nor honors;
and so far from that want of love render-
ing her likely to fall hereafter, it is more
probable that it will make her recoil
from the very name of love.
About this time the Dowager Lady
Erpingham died; an event sincerely
mourned by Constance, and which broke
the strongest tie that united the young
countess to her lord. Lord Erpingham
and Constance, indeed, now saw butlittlc
of each other. Like most men six feet
high, with large black whiskers, he was
vain of his person; and, like most rich
noblemen, he found plenty of ladies who
assured him he was irresistible. He had
soon grown angry at the unadmiring and
calm urbanity of Constance; and, livin
a great deal with single men, he formed

liaisons of the same order they do. He
1.
of his conduct, did she ever disregard his
interest, disobey his wishes, or waver
from the smooth and continuous sweet-
ness of her temper. Of such a wife Lord
Erpingham could not complain: he as-
teemed her, raised her, asked her advice,
and stood a ittle in awe of her.
Ah, Constance! had you been the
daughter of a noble or a peasant—had
you been the daughter of any man but
John Vernon—what a treasure beyond
price, without parallel, would that heart,
that beauty, that genius have been.

CHAPTER XXV.
THE PLEASURE OF RETALIATING HUMILIA-
TION—CONSTANCE'S DEFENSE OF FASH-
ION—REMARKS 0N FASHION—GODOL-
PBIN’S WIIEREADOUT -—— FANNY MILLIN-
GER’S CHARACTER 0F llERSELF—WANT
OP COUBAGE IN MOB-ALISTS.
IT was a proud moment for Constance
when the Duchess of Winstoun and Lady
Margaret Midgecombe wrote to her,
worried her, beset her, for a smile, a cour-
tesy, an invitation, or a ticket to Al-
mack’s.
They had at first thought to cry her
down; to declare that she was plebeian,
mad, bizarre, and a Blue. It was all in
vain. Constance rose every hour. They
struggled against the conviction, but it
would not do. The first person who con-
founded them with the sense of their
error was the late king, then regent ; he
devoted himself to Lady Erpingham for
a Whole evening at a ball given by him-
self. From that hour they were assured
they had been wrong: they accordingly
called on her the next day. Constance
received them with the same coldness
she had always evinced; but they went
away declaring they never saw any one
whose manners were so improved. They
then sent her an invitation! she refused


60
GODOLPHIN.
_ it; asccond! she refused; a third, beg-
ging her to fix the day! ! ! she fixed the
day, and disappointed them. Lord bless
us! how sorry they were, how alarmed,
how terrified! their dear Lady Erping-
ham must be ill! they sent every day for
the next week to know how she was!
“Why,” said Mrs. Trevor to Lady
Erpingham, “why do you continue so
cruel to these poor people ? I know they
were very impertincnt, and so forth, once;
but it is surely wiser and more dignified
now to forgive; to appear unconscious of
the past: people of the world ought not
to quarrel with each other.”
“ You are right, and yet you are mis-
taken,” said Constance: “I do forgive,
and I don’t quarrel; but my opinion, my
contempt, remain the same, or are, rather,
more disdainful than ever. These peo-
ple are not worth losing the luxury we all
experience in expressing contempt. I
continue, therefore, but quietly and with-
out afl'ectation, to indulge that luxury.—
Beside, I own to you, my dear Mrs. Tre-
vor, I do think that the mere insolenee
of titles must fairly and. thoroughly be
put down, if we sincerely wish to render
society agreeable ; and where can we find
a better example for punishment than
the Duchess of Winstoun !”
“But, my dear Lady Erpingham, you
are thought insolent: your friend, Lady
, is called insolent too: are you sure
the charge is not merited '3”
“I allow the justice of the charge;
but, you will observe, ours is not the in-
solenee of rank: we have made it a point
to protect, to the utmost, the poor and
unfriendcd of all circles. Are we ever
rude to governesses or companions, or
poor writers or musicians ? When a man
marries below him, do we turn our backs
on the poor wife? Do we not, on the
contrary, lavish our attention on her, and
throw round her equivocal and joylcss
state the protection of Fashion? No,
no! our insolenee is JUSTICE! it is the
chalice returned to the lips which pre-
pared it ; it is insolenee to the insolent:
reflect, and you will allow it."
The fashion that Constance set and
fostered was of a generous order, but it
was not suited to the majority: it was
corrupted by her followers into a thou-
sand basenesses. In vain do we make a
law if the general spirit is averse to the
law. Constance could humble the great,
could loosen the links of extrinsic rank,


and undermine the power of titles, but
that was all! She could abase the proud,
but not elevate the general tone: for one
slavery she only substituted another;
people hugged the chains of Fashion, as
before they hugged those of Titular Ar-
rogance.
Amid the gossip of the day, Constance
heard much of Godolphin, and all spoke
of him with interest—even those who
could not comprehend his very intricate
and peculiar character. Separated from
her by lands and seas, thcre seemed no
danger in allowing herself the sweet
pleasure of hearing his actions and his
mind discussed. She fancied she did not
permit herself to love him: she was too
pure not to start at such an idea; but
her mind was not so regulated, so trained
and educated in sacred principle, that
she forbade herself the luxury to num-
ber. Of his present mode of life she
heard little. He was traced from city
to city: from shore to shore; from the
haughty noblesse of Vienna to the gloomy
shrines of Memphis, by occasional re-
port, and seemed to tarry long in no
place. This roving and unsettled life,
which secretly assured her of her power,
sufi'used his image in all tender and re—
morseful dyes. Ah! where is that one
person to be envied; could we read the
heart?
The actress had heard incidentally
from Saville of Godolphin’s attachment
to the beautiful countess. She longed to
see her; and when, one night at the the-
ater, she was informed that Lady Er-
pingham was in the lord-chamberlain's
box close before her, she could scarcely
command her self-possession sufficiently
to perform with her wonted brilliancy of
effect.
She was greatly struck by the singular
nobleness of Lady Erpingham's face and
person; and Godolphin rose in her esti-
mation, from the justice of the homage
he had rendered to so fair a shrine.—
that a curious trait, by-thc-by, that is
in women; their exaggerated anxiety to
see one who has been loved by the man
in whom they themselves take interest: and
the manner in which the said man rises
or falls in their estimation, according as
they admire, or are disappointed in, the
object of his love.
“And so,” said Saville, supping one night
with the actress, “you t ink the world
does not overland Lady Erpingham ?"
M_—- “m “M


GODOLPHIN .
61
“ No: she is what Medea would have
been, if innocent—full of majesty, and
yet of sweetness. It is the face of a
queen of some three thousand years back.
I could have worshiped her.”
" My little Fanny, you are a strange
creature. Methinks you have a dash of
poetry in you.”
“ Nobody who has not written poetry
could ever read my character,” answered
'Fanny, with na'iveté, yet with truth.
“ Yet you have not much of the ideal
about you, pretty one.”
“No; because I was so early thrown
on myself that I was forced to make in-
dependence my chief good. I soon saw
that, if I followed‘my heart to and fro
wherever it led me, I shouldbe the crea-
ture of every breath, the victim of every
accident: I should have been the very
fool of romance; lived on a smile; and
died, perhaps, in a ditch at last. Ac-
cordingly, I set to work with my feelings,
and pared and cut them down to a con-
venient compass. Happy for me that I
did so! \Vhat would have become of
me if, years ago, when I loved Godolphin,
I' had thrown the whole world of my
heart upon him 17”
“Why, he has generosity: he would
not have deserted you.”
“ But I should have wearied him,” an-
swered Fanny, “and that would have
been quite enough for me. But I did
love him well, and purely—(ah ! you may
smile !)—and disinterestedly. I was only
fortified in my reSolution not to love any
one too much, by perceiving that he had
afection but no sympathy for me. His
nature was different from mine. I am
woman in everything, and Godolphin is
always sighing for a goddess l”
" I should like to sketch your charac-
ter, Fanny. It is original, though not
strongly marked. I never met with it in
any book, yet it is true to your sex and
to the world.”
“ Few people could paint me exactly,"
answered Fanny. “ The danger is, that
they~would make too much or too little
of me. But, such as I am, the world
ought to know what is so common, and,
as you think, so undescribcd.”
And now, beautiful Constance, farewell
for the present! I leave you surrounded
by power, and pomp, and adulation.—
Enjoy, as you may, that for which you
sacrificed afl'ection!
“-3. q
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE VXSIONARY AND HIS DAUGHTER—AN
ENGLISHMAN, SUCH AS FOREIGNEBS IM-
AGINE THE ENGLISH.
WE must now present the reader to
characters very different from those
which have hitherto passed before his
eye.
Without the immortal city, along the
Appia Via, there dwelt a singular and
romantic visionary, of the name of Volkt~
man. He was by birth 21. Dane; and
Nature had bestowed on him that frame
of mind which might have won him a dis-
tinguished life, had she placed the period
of his birth in the eleventh century.—
Volktman was essentially a man belong-
ing to the past time: the character of his
enthusiasm was weird and Gothic; with
beings of the present day he had no
sympathy; their loves, their hatreds,
their politics, their literature, awoke no
echo in his breast. He did not affect to
herd with them; his life was solitude, and
its occupation study—a study of that na-
ture, which every day unfitted him more
and more for the purposes of existence.
In a word, he was a reader of the stars;
a dreamer in the occult and dreamy sci-
ence of astrology. Bred up in the art
of sculpture, he had early in life sought
Rome as the nurse of inspiration; but
even then he had brought with him the
dark and brooding temper of his northern
tribe. The images of the classic world
—the bright, and cold, and beautiful di-
vinities, whose natures as well as shapes
the marble stimulation of life is so espe-
cially adapted to represent—spoke but
little to V olktman’s preoccupied and
gloomy imagination. Faithful to the su-
perstitions and the warriors of the North,
the loveliness and majesty of the South-
,ern creations but called forth in him the
{desire to, apply the principles by which
lthey were formed to the imbodying those
stern visions which his haggard and dim
fancies only could evoke. This train of
inspiration preserved him, at least, from
the deadliest vice in a worshiper of the
arts—commonplace. He was no servile
laud trite imitator; his very faults were
solemn and commanding. But, before
he had gained that long experience which
can alone perfect genius, his natural en-
ergies were directed to new channels. In


62
G ODOLPHI N.
an illness which prevented his applying
to his art, he had accidentally sought en-
tertainment in a certain work upon as-
trology. The wild and imposing theories
of the science—if science it may be call-
ed—especially charmed and invited him.
The clear bright nights of his fatherland
were brought back to his remembrance;
he recalled the mystic and analyzed im-
pressions with which he had gazed upon
the lights of heaven; and he imagined
that the very vagueness of his feelings
was a proof of the certainty of the sci-
ence.
The sons of the North are pre-emi-
nently liable to be afl'ected by that ro-
mance of emotion which the hushed and
starry aspect of night is calculated to
excite. The long-unbroken, luxurious
silence that, in their frozen climate,
reigns from the going down of the sun to
its rise; the wandering and sudden me-
teors that disport, as with an impish life,
along the noiseless and solemn heaven;
the peculiar radiance of the stars, and
even the sterile and severe features of the
earth, which they light up with their
chill and ghostly serenity, serve to deep-
en the efiect of the wizard tales which
are instilled into the ear of childhood,
and to connect the less known and more
visionary impulses of life with the influ-
ences, or, at least, with the associations
of Night and Heaven.
To Volktman, more alive than even
his countrymen are wont to superstitious
impressions, the science on which he had
chanced came with an all-absorbing in-
terest and fascination. He surrendered
himself wholly up to his new pursuit.—
By degrees, the block and the chisel
were neglected; and, though he still
worked from time to time, he ceased to
consider the sculptor’s art as the voca-
tion of his life and the end of his ambi-
tion. Fortunately, though not rich,
Volktman was not without the means of
existence, nor even without the decent
and proper comforts; so that he was en-
abled, as few men are, to indulge his
ardor for unprofitable speculations, albeit
to the exclusion of lucrative pursuits. It
may be noted, that when a man is ad-
dicted to an occupation that withdraws
him from the world, any great afiliction
tends to confirm, without hope of cure,
his inclinations to solitude. The world,
distasteful in that it gave no leasure,
becomes irremedinbly hateful w on it is

coupled with the remembrance of pain,-
Volktman had married an Italian, a we-
man who loved him entirely, and whom
he loved with that strong though unen-
ressing affection common to men of his pe- _
culiar temper. 0f the gay and social
habits and constitution of her country,
the Italian was not disposed to sutTer the
astrologer to dwell only among the stars.
She sought, playfully and kindly, to at-
tract him toward human society; and
Volktman could not always resist—as
what man earthborn can do ?—the influ-
ence of the fair presider over his house
and hearth. It happened that, on one
day in which she peculiarly wished his
attendance at some one of those parties
in which Englishmen think the notion of
festivity strange—for it includes conver-
sation—Volktman had foretold the men-
ace of some great misfortune. Uncer-
tain, from the character of the prediction,
whether to wish his wife to remain at
home or to go abroad, he yielded to her
wish, and accompanied her to her friend’s
house. A young Englishman lately ar-
rived at Rome, and already celebrated in
the circles of that city for his eccentri-
city of life and his assion for beauty,
was of the party. Tile appeared struck
with the sculptor’s wife; and in his at-
tentions Volktman for the first and the
last time experienced the pangs of jeal-
ousy : he hurried his wife away.
On their return home, whether or not
a jewel worn by the signora had attracted
the cupidity of some of the lawless race
who live through gaining, and profitin
by, such information, they were attacked
by two robbers in the obscure and ill~
lighted suburb. Though Volktman 0f-
fcred no resistance, the manner of their
assailants was rude and violent. The
signora was fearfully alarmed; her shrieks
brought a stranger to their assistance; it
was the English youth who had so alarmed
the jealousy of Volktman. Aceustomed
to danger in his profession of a gallant,
the Englishman seldom, in those foreign
lands, went from home at night without
the protection of pistols. At the sight
of firearms the ruflians felt their courage
evaporate; they fled from their prey;
and the Englishman assisted Volktman in
conveying the Italian to her home. But
the terror of the encounter operated
fatally on a delicate frame, and within
three weeks from that night Volktman
was a widower.
~___a___g_'


GODOLPHIN .
6?.»
His'marriage had been blessed with
but onedaughter, who, at the time of
this catastrophe, was about eight years
of ago. His love for his child in some
measure reconciled Volktman to life; and
as the shock of the event subsided, he
returned, with a pertinacity which was
-now subjected to no interruption, to his
beloved occupations and mysterious re-
searches. ()ne visitor alone found it
possible to win frequent ingress to his
seclusion; it was the young Englishman.
A sentiment of remorse at the jealous
feelings he had experienced, and for
which hi wife, though an Italian, had
never given him even the shadow of a
cause, had softened into a feeling ren-
dered kind by the associations of the
deceased, and a vague desire to atone to
her for an unacknowledged error, the dis-
like he had at first conceived against the
young man. This was rapidly confirmed
by the gentle and winning manners of
the stranger, by his attentions to the de-
ceased, to whom he had sent an English
physician of great skill (perhaps the only
practitioner in the city not ignorant);
and, as their acquaintance expanded, by
the animated interest which he testified
in the darling theories of the astrologer.
It happened also that Volktman’s m0-
ther had been the daughter of Scotch
parents. She had taught him the En-
glish tongue; and it was the only lan-
guage, save his own, which he spoke as a
native. This circumstance tended greatly
to facilitate his intercourse with the tra-
veler; and he found in the society of a
man ardent, sensitive, melancholy, and
addicted to all abstract contemplation, a
pleasure, which among the keen but un-
cultivated intellects of Italy, he had
never enjoyed.
Frequently, then, came the young En:
glishman to the lone house on the Appia
Via; and the mysterious and unearthly
conversation of the starry visionary af-
forded to him, who had early learned to
scrutinize the varieties of his kind, a
strange delight, heightened by the con-
trast it presented to the worldly natures
with which he usually associated, and the
commonplace occupations of a life in par-
suit of pleasure.
And there was one who, child as she
was, watched the coming of that young
and beautiful stranger with emotion be-
yond her years. Brought up alone;
mixing, since her mother’s death, with no


companions of her age; catching dim and
solemn glimpses of her father’s wild but
lofty speculation; his books, filled with
strange characters and imposing “ words
of mighty sound,” open forever to her
young and curious gaze; it can scarce
be matter of wonder that something
strange and unworldly mingled with the
elements of character which Lucilla Volkt-
man early developed—a character that
was nature itself, yet of a nature erratic
and bizarre. Her impulses she obeyed
spontaneously, but none fathomed their
origin. She was not of a quiet and meek
order of mind, but passionate, changeful,
and restless. She would laugh and weep
without apparent cause; the color on her
cheek never seemed for two minutes the
same; and the most fitful changes of an
April heaven were immutability itself
compared with the play and luster of
expression that undulatcd her features,
and her wild, deep, eloquent eyes.
Her person resembled her mind; it
was beautiful; but the beauty struck
you less than the singularity of its char-
acter. Her eyes were of a darkness that
at night seemed black, but her hair was
of the brightest and purest auburn; her
complexion, sometimes pale, sometimes
radiant even to the flush of a fever, was
delicate and clear; her teeth and mouth
were lovely beyond all words; her hands
and feet were small to a fault; and as
she grew up (for we have forcstalled her
age in this description), her shape,
though wanting in height, was in such,
harmony and proportion, that the mind
of the sculptor would sometimes escape
from the absorption of the astrologer, and
Volktmah would gaze u on her with the
same admiration that 1he would have
bestowed, in despite of the subject, on the
goddess-forms of Phidias or Canova.
But then this beauty was accompanied
with such endless variety of gesture, often
so wild, though always and necessarily
graceful, that the eye aehed for that re-
pose requisite for prolonged admiration.
When she was spoken to she did not
often answer to the purpose, but rather
appeared to reply as to some interroga-
tory of her own; in the midst of one 00-
eupation she would start up to another;
leave that, in turn, undone, and sit down
in a silence lasting for hours. Her voice,
in singing, was exquisitely melodious; she
had, too, an intuitive talent for painting;
and she read all the books that came in


64
GODOLI’HIN .
her way with an avidity that bespoke at
once the restlessness and the genius of
her mind.
This description of Lucille. must, I need
scarcely repeat, be considered as applicable
to her at some years distant from the
time in which the young Englishman first
attracted her childish but ardent imagina-
tion. To her, that face, with its regular
and harmonious features, its golden hair,
and soft, shy, melancholy aspect, seemed
as belonging to a higher and brighter
order of beings than those who, with ex-
aggerated lineaments and swarthy hues,
surrounded and displeased her. She
took a strange and thrilling pleasure in
creeping to his side, and looking up, when
unobserved, at the countenance which, in
his absence, she loved to imitate with
her pencil by day, and to recall in her
dreams at night. But she seldom spoke
to him, and she shrank, covered with
painful blushes, fr0m his arms whenever
he attempted to bestow on her those
caresses which children are wont to
claim as an attention. Once, however,
she summoned courage to ask him to
teach her English, and he complied. She
learned that language with surprising
facility; and, as Volktman loved its
sound, she grew familiar with its difiicul-
ties by always addressing her father in a
tongue which became inexpressibly dear
to her. And the young stranger delighted
to hear that soft and melodious voice,
with its trembling Italian accent, make
music from the nervous and masculine
language of his native land. Scarce ac-
countany to himself, a certain tender and
peculiar interest in the fortunes of this
singular and bewitching child grew up
within him—peculiar, and not easily ac-
counted for, in that it was not wholly the
interest we feel in an engaging child, and
yet was of no more interested or sinister
order. “’ere there truth in the science
of the stars, I should say that they had
told him her fate was to have affinity
with his; and in that persuasion, some-
thing mysterious, and more than ordina-
rily tender, entered into the affection he
felt for the daughter of his friend.
The Englishman himself was of a ro-
mantic character. He had been self-
taught; and his studies, irregular, though
often deep, had given directions to his in-
tellect frequently enthusiastic and un-
Lm‘Q—‘ki 'Mr-ga ' '14 A"_.

e
sound. His imagination preponderated
over his judgment; and it was enough to
arrest the former to win his entire devo—
tion to any pursuit, until his natural
sagacity proved it deceitful. If at times,
living as he did in that daily world which
so sharpens our common sense, he smiled
at the persevering fervor of the astrologer,
he more often shared it; and he became
his pupil in “the poetry of heaven," with
a secret but deep belief in the mysteries
cultivated by his master. Carrying the
delusion to its height, I fear that the en~
thusiasts entered upon ground still more
shadowy and benightcd—thc old secrets
of the alchemist, and, perhaps, even of
those arcana yet more gloomy and less
rational, were subjected to their serious
contemplation; and night after night
they delivered themselves wholly up to
that fearful and charmed fascination
which the desire and etiort to overleap
our mortal boundaries produce even in
the hardest and best-regulated minds.
The train of thought so long nursed by
the abstruse and solitary Dane was per-
haps a better apology for the weaknes
of credulity than the youth and wander-
ing fancy of the Englishman. But the
scene around, not alluring to the one, fed
to overflowing the romantic aspirations
of the other.
On his way home, as the stars (which
night had been spent in reading) began
to wink and fade, he crossed the haunted
Almo, renowned of yore for its healing
virtues, and in whose stream the far-
famed simulacrum (the image of Cybele),
which fell from Heaven, was wont to be
laved with every coming spring; and
around his steps, until he gained his home,
were the relics and monuments of that
superstition which sheds so much beauty
over all, that in harsh reasoning it may
be said to degrade; so that his mind,
always peculiarly alive to external impres-
sions, was girt, asit were, with an at-
mosphere favorable both to the lofty
speculation and the graceful credulities
of romance.
The Englishman remained at Home,
with slight intervals of absence, for nearly
three years. On the night before the
day in which he received intelligence of an
event that recalled him to his native coun-
try, he repaired at an hour accidentally
later than usual to the astrologer’s abode.
_.__ m. .._ .A


66
GODOLPHIN.
pleasing that sex which alone sweetens
our human misfortunes. That gift I
would sooner have, even accompanied as
it is, than all the benign influences with-
out it."
“Yet,” said the astrologer, “shalt
thou even there be met with afiiiction;
for Saturn had the power to thwart the
star Venus, that was disposed to favor
thee, and evil may be the result of the
love thou inspirest. There is one thing
remarkable in our science, which is es-
pecially worthy of notice in thy lot. The
ancients, unacquaintcd with the star Her-
schel, seem also scarcely acquainted with
the character which the influence of that
wayward and melancholy orb creates.
Thus the aspect of Herschel neutralizes,
in great measure, the boldness, and am-
bition, and pride of heart thou wouldst
otherwise have drawn from the felicitous
configuration of the stars around the
Moon and Mercury at thy birth. That
yearning for something beyond the nar-
row bounds of the world, that love for
reverie, that passionate romance, yea, thy
very starry mysteries—all are bestowed
on thee by this new and potential planet.”
“And hence, I suppose,” said the
Englishman, interested (as the astrologer
had declared) in spite of himself, “ hence
that opposition, in my nature, of the
worldly and romantic; hence, with you,
I am the dreaming enthusiast; but, the
instant I regain the living and motley
crowd, I shake off the influence with
ease, and become the gay pursucr of so-
cial pleasures."
“Never at heart gay," muttered the
astrologer; “ Saturn and Herschel make
not sincere mirth-makers.” The En-
glishman did not hear, or seem to hear
1m.
“ No,” resumed the young man, mus-
ingly, “ no! it is true that there is some
counteraction of what, at times. I should
have called my natural bent. Thus I am
bold enough, and covetous of knowledge,
and not deaf to vanity; and yet I have
no ambition. The desire to rise seems
to me wholly unalluring: I scorn and
contemn it as a weakness. But what
matters it ? so much the happier for me
if, as you predict, my life be short. But
how, if so unambitious and so quiet of
habit, how can I imagine that my death
will be violent as well as premature 1"
It was as he spoke that the young
Lueilla, who, with fixed eyes and lips

apart, had been drinking in their conver-
sation, suddenly rose and left the room.
They were used to her comings in and
her goings out without cause or speech,
and continued their conversation.
“ Alas !” said the visionary, “can tran-
quillity of life, or care, or prudence, pre-
serve us from our destiny? No sign is
more deadly, whether by accident or
murder, than that which couples Hylcg
with Orion and Saturn. Yet thou mayst
pass the year in which that danger is
foretold thee; and, beyond that time,
peace, honor, and good fortune await
thee. Better to have the menace of ill
in early life than in its decline. Youth
bears up against misfortune; but it
withers the heart, and crushes the soul
of age!”
“After all,” said the young guest,
haughtily, “ we must do our best to
contradict the starry evils by our own
internal philosophy. \Vc can make
ourselves independent of fate; that
independence is better than prosperity !”
Then, changing his tone, he added, “ But
you imagine that, by the power of other
arts, we may control and counteract the
prophesies of the stars—"
“ How meanest thou ‘2” said the astro-
loger, hastily. “ Thou dost not suppose
that alchemy, which is the servant of the
heavenly host, is their opponent?"
“Nay,” answered the disciple; “ but
you allow that we may be enabled to
ward off evils and to cure diseases. other-
wise fatal to us, by the gift of Uriel and
the charm of the Gabala ?”
“ Surely," replied the visionary; “ but
then I opine that the discovery of these
precious secrets was foretold to us by the
Omniscicnt Book at our nativity; and,
therefore, though the menace of evils be
held out to us, so also is the probability
of their correction or our escape. AndI
must own,” pursued the enthusiast, “ that
to me, the very culture of those divine
arts hath given a consolation amid the
evils to which I have been fated: so true
seems it, that it is not in the outer nature,
in the great elements, and in the bowels
of the earth, but also within ourself, that
we must look for the preparations where-
by we are to achieve the wisdom of Zo-
roaster and Hermes. “re must abstract
ourselves from passion and earthly desire.
Lappcd in a celestial reverie, we must
work out by contemplation, the essence
from the matter of things: nor can we dart


GODd'LPHIN.
67
into the soul of the Mystic World until those on whom they dWelt. No painter
We ourselves have forgotten the body; could have devised, nor even Volktman
and by fast, by purity, and by thought, himself, in the fullness of his Northern
have become, in the flesh itself, a living phantasy, have sculptured forth a better
soul.” iimage of those pale and unearthly stu-
Much more, and with an equal wild- ldents who, in the darker ages, applied
ness of metaphysical eloquence, did the llife and learning to one unhallowed vigil,
astrologer declare in praise of those artslt-he Hermes or the Gebir of the alche-
condemned by the old church; and it ‘mist’s empty science—dreamers, and the
doth indeed appear, from reference to the {martyrs of their dreams.
numerous works of the alchemists andl In the discussion of mysteries which
magians yet extant, somewhat hastily and would only weary, while they perplexed
unjustly. For those books all unite in
dwelling on the necessity of virtue, sub-
dued passions, and a clear mind, in order
to become a fortunate and accomplished
cabalist— a precept, by-the-way, not
without its policy; for, if the disciple
failed, the failure might be attributed to
his own fleshly imperfections, not to any
deficiency in the truth of the science.
The young man listened to the vision-
ary with an earnest and fascinated atten-
tion. Independent of the dark interest
- always attached to discourses of super-
natural things, more especially, we must
allow. in the mouth of a fervent and rapt
believer, there was that in the language
and very person of the astrologer which
inexpressibly enhanced the effect of the
theme. Like most men conversant with
the literature of a country, but not ac-
customed to daily conversation with its
natives, the English words and fashion
of periods that occurred to Volktman
were rather those used in books than in
colloquy; and a certain solemnity and
slowness of tone, accompanied with the fre-
quent, almost constant use of the pronoun
singular—the thou and the time (so com—
mon in other languages, so rare in ours),
gave a strangeness and unfami 'ar ma-
jesty to his dialect that suited l with
the subjects on which he so loved to
dwell. Himself was lean. gaunt, and
wan ; his cheeks were drawn and hollow;
and thin locks, prematurely bleached to
gray, fell in disorder round high, bare
temples, in which the thought that is not
of this world had paled the hue and fur-
rowed the surface. But, as it may be
noted in many imaginative men, the life
that seemed faint and chill in the rest of
the frame collected itself, as in a citadel,
within the eye. Bright, wild, and deep,
the expression of those large blue orbs
told the intense enthusiasm of the mind
within; and, even somewhat thrillingly.
communicated a part of that emotion to
the. reader to attempt to detail, the en-
thusiasts passed the greater ortion of
the night; and when at lengt the Eu-
} glishman rose to depart, it cannot be de-
‘nied that a solemn and boding emotion
agitated his breast.
“ We have talked,” said he, attempt-
ing a smile, “ of things above this nether
life; and here we are lost, uncertain.
On one thing, however, we can decide;
life itself is encompassed with gloom;
sorrow and anxiety await even those
upon whom the stars shed their most
golden influence. We know not one day
,what the next shall bring! no, I repeat
it; no—in pite of your scheme, and
your ephemeris, and your election of
happy moments. But, come what will,
Volktman, come all that you foretell to
me—crosses in my love, disappointment
in my life, melancholy in my blood, and a
violent death in the very flush of my
manhood—ME at least, Ms! my soul, my
’heart, my better part, you shall never
cast down, or darken. or deject. I move
in a certain and serene circle; ambition
cannot tempt me above it, nor misfortune
cast me below.”
Volktman looked at the speaker with
surprise and admiration; the enthusiasm
of a brave mind is the only fire broader
and brighter than that of a fanatical one.
“Alas! my young friend,” he said,
as he clasped the hand of his guest; “I
would to heaven that my predictions may
be wrong: often and often they have
been erroneou,” added he, bowing his
head humbly; “ they may be so in refer-,
ence to thee. So young, so brilliant, so
beautiful too; so brave, yet so romantic
of heart, I feel for all that may happen
to thee—ay, far, far more deeply than
aught which may be fated to myself; for
I am an old man now, and long inured to
disappointment; all the grecnness of my
life is gone: even could I attain to the
Grand Secret, the knowledge, methinks,


\ GQDOLPHIN.
69
The world to him was less as a theater!
on which he was to play a part, than nsi
a book in which he loved to decipher the;
enigmas of wisdom. He observed all,
that passed around him. No sprightlyl
cavalier at any time, the charm that be
exercised .at will over his companions was
that of softness, not vivacit-y. But, amidi
that silken blandness of demeanor, the
lynx eye of remark never slept. Hel
penetrated character at a glance, but hei
seldom made use of his knowledge. He
found a pleasure in reading men, buts
fatigue in governing them. And thus,
consninmately skilled as he was in the
science du mwule, he often allowed him-
self to appear ignorant of its practice.—
Forming in his mind a beau idéal of
friendship and of love, he never found
.enough in the realities long to engage his
affection. Thus, with women he was con-
sidered fickle, and with men he had no
intimate companionship. This trait of
character is common with persons of
genius; and, owing to too large an over-
flow of heart, they are frequently consid-
ered heartless. There is always, how-
ever, dangcr that a character of this
kind should become with years what it
seems—what it soon learns to despise.—
Nothing steels the affections like eon-
tempt.
The next morning an express from Eng-
land reached the young traveler. His
father was dangerously ill; nor was it
expected that the utmost diligence would
enable the young man to receive his last
blessing. The Englishman, appalled and
terror~strieken, recalled his interview
with the astrologer. Nothing so effectu-
ally dismays us as to feel a confirmation
of some idea of supernatural dread that
has already found entrance within our
reason; and of all supernatural belief,
that of being compelled by a pro-decree,
and thus being the mere tools and pup-
pets of a dark and relentless fate, seems
the most fraught at once with abascment
and with horror.
The Englishman left Home that morn-
ing, and sent only a verbal and hasty
message to the astrologer, announcing
the cause of his departure. Volktman
was a man of excellent heart: but one
would scarcely like to inquire whether
exultation at the triumph of his predic-
tion was not with him a far more power-
ful sentiment than grief at the misfortune

to his friend!
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE YOUTH OF LUCILLA VOLKTMAN—A
MYSTERIOUS CONVERSATION—THE BE~
TURN 01' ONE UNLOOKLD FOR.
TIMI went slowly on, and Lucilla grew
up in beauty. The stranger traits of her
character increased in strength, but per-
haps in the natural bashfulness of maid-
cnhood they became more latent. At
the age of fifteen, her elastic shape had
grown round and full, and the wild girl
had already ripened to the woman. An
expression of thought, when the play of
her features was in repose, that dwelt
upon her lip and forehead, gave her the
appearance of being two or three years
older than she was: but again, when her
natural vivacity returned—when the
clear and buoyant music of her gay laugh
rang out, or when the cool air and bright
sky of morning sent the blood to her
cheek and the zephyr to her step, her
face became as the face of childhood, and
contrasted with a singular and dangerous
loveliness the rich development of her
form,
And still was Lucille Volktman a
stranger to all that savored of the world;
the company of others of her sex and
age never drew forth her emotions from
their resting-place :
“ And Nature said, a lovelier flower
On earth was never sown :
u n: * a t
Myself will to my darling be
Both law and impulse ; and with me
The girl, in rock and plain,
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
Shall feel an overseeing power
To kindle or restrain.
*
The stain of midnight shrill be dear
To her ; and she shall lean her car
In many a secret place;
Where rivnlels dance their wayward round,
And beauty, born of mnrmurlng sound,
Shall pass into her face."—Wonnswon'ril.
These lines have occurred to me again
and again as I looked on the face of her
to whom I have applied them. And rc-
membering, as I do, its radiance and glo-
ry in her happier moments, I can scarcely
persuade myself to notice the faults and
heats of temper which at times dashed
away all its luster and gladness. Unre-
straincd and fervid, she gave way to the
irritation or grief of the moment with a
5


70
GODOLPHIH.
violence that would have terrified any
one who beheld her at such times. But
it rarely happened that the scene had its
witness even in her father, for she fled to
the loneliest spot she could find to indulge
these emotions; and perhaps even the
agony they occasioned—an agony con-
vulsing the heart and whole of her im-
assioned frame—took a sort of luxury
gem the solitary and unchecked nature
of its indulgence.
Volktman continued his pursuits with
an ardor that increased—as do all species
of monomania—with increasing years;
and in the accidental truth of some of
his predictions, he forgot the erroneous
result of the rest. He corresponded at
times with the Englishman, who, after a
short sojourn in England, had returned
to the Continent, and was now making a
prolonged tour through its northern cap-
itals. '
Very difl'erent, indeed, from the astrol-
oger’s occupations were those of the
wanderer; and time, dissipation, and a
maturer intellect had cured the latter of
his boyish tendency to studies so idle and
so vain. Yet he always looked back
with an undefined and unconquered inter-
est to the period of his acquaintance with
the astrologer; to their long and thrilling
watches in the night season; to the con-
tagious fervor of faith breathing from the
visionary; his dark and restless excur-
sions into that remote science associated
with the legends of eldest time, and of
" The crew, who, under names of old renown,
Osiris, Isis, Orus, and their lruin,
With monstrous shapes and sorceries,ahused
Fanatic Egypt and her priests.”
One night, four years after the last
scene we have described in the astrolo-
ger’s house, Volktman was sitting alone
in his favorite room. Before him was a
calculation on which the ink was scarcely
dry. His face leaned on his breast, and
he seemed buried in thought. His
health had been, of late, gradually de-
clining; and it might be seen upon his
worn brow and attenuated frame, that
death was already preparing to withdraw
the visionary from a world whose substan-
tial enjoyments he had so sparingly
tasted.
Lueilla had been banished from his
chamber during the day. She now know
that his occupation was over, and enter-
ed the room with his evening repast ; that

frugal meal, common with the Italians—
the polenta (made of Indian corn), the
bread and the fruits, which, after the
fashion of students, he devoured uncon-
sciously, and would not have remembered
one hour after whether or not it had been
tasted! p
“Sit thee down, child," said he to
Lucilla, kindly; “ sit thee down.”
Lueilla obeyed, and took her seat upon
the very stool on which she had been
seated the last night on which the En-
glishman had seen her.
“I have been thinking,” said Volkt-
man, as he placed his hand on his daugh-
ter’s head, “ that I shall soon leave thee;
and I should like to see thee protected
by another before my own departure.”
“Ah, father,” said Lucille, as the
tears rushed to her eyes, “do not talk
thus! indeed, indeed, you must not in-
dulge in this perpetual gloom and seclu-
sion of life. You promised to take me
with you, some day this week, to the
Vatican. Do let it be to-morrow: the
weather has been so fine lately; and who
knows how long it may last ‘2”
“True,” said Volktman; “ and to-
morrow will not, I think, he unfavorable
to our stirring abroad, for the moon will
be of the same age as at my birth—an
accident that thou wilt note, my child, to
be especially auspicious toward any en-
terprise.”
The poor astrolo er so rarely stirred
from his home, that e did well to cousi-
der 9. walk of a mile or two in the light
of an enterprise. “ I have wished,” con-
tinued he, after a pause, “ that I might
see our English friend once more—that
is, erelong. For, to tell thee the truth,
Lucilla, certain events happening unto
him do, strangely enough, occur about
the same time as that in which events,
equally boding, will fall to thee. This
coincidence it was which contributed to
make me assume so warm an interest in
the lot of a stranger. I would I might
see him soon.” ‘
Lucilla’s beautiful breast heaved, and
her face was covered with blushes: these
were symptoms of a disorder that never
occurred to the recluse.
“Thou rememberest the foreigner ‘2"
asked Volktman, after a ause.
“Yes,” said Lucilla, half inaudibly.
“ I have not heard from him of late: I
will make question concerning him we
the cock crow.”


GODOLPIIIN.
71
7,4”
“ Nay, my father!” said Lucilla,
quickly: “ not to-night: you want rest;
your eyes are heavy.”v
“Girl,” said the mystic, “ the soul
sleepeth not, nor wanteth sleep: even as
the stars, of which (as the Arabian saith)
there is also a soul, with the which an in-
tent passion of our own doth make a
union—so that we, by an unslumbering
diligence, do constitute ourselves a part
of the heaven itself l—even, I say, as the
stars may vanish from the human eye, nor
be seen in the common day, though all
the while their course is stopped not, nor
their voices dumb»even so doth the soul
of man retire, as it were, in a seeming
sleep and torpor; yet it worketh, all the
same, and perhaps with a less impeded
power, in that it is more free from com-
mon obstruction and trivial hinderance.
And if I purpose to confer this night
with the ‘ [nte/ligence’ that ruleth earth
and earth’s beings concerning this stran-
ger, it will not be by the vigil and the
scheme, but by the very sleep which thou
imaginest, in thy mental darkness, would
deprive me of the resources of my art.”
“ Can you really, then, my father,”
said Lucilla, in a tone half anxious, half
timid, “can you really, at will, conjure
up in your dreams the persons you wish
to see; or draw from sleep any oracle
concerning their present state i”
“ Of a surety,” answered the astrolo-
ger; it is one of the great, though not, per-
chance,the most gift cd,ofourendowments."
“ Can you teach me the method i”
asked Lucilla, gravely.
“ All that relates to the art I can,”
rejoined the mystic: “ but the chief and
main power rests with thyself. For
know, my daughter, that one who seeks
the wisdom that is above the earth, must
cultivate and excite, with long labor and
deep thought, his least earthly faculty.”
Here the visionary, observing that the
countenance of Lucilla was stamped with
a. fixed attention, which she did not often
bestow upon his metaphysical cxordiums,
paused for a moment, and then pursued
the theme with the tone of one desirous
of making himself at once as clear and
impressive as the nature of an abstruse
science would allow.
“ There are two things in the outer
motion, which, according to the great
Hermes, sufiice for the operation of all
that is wonderful and glorious—Fire and
Earth. Even so, my child, there are in

the human mind tva powers that efi'ect
all of which our nature is capable—
REASON and IMAGIMTION. N ow mankind,
less wise in themselves than in the outer
world, have cultivated, for the most part,
but one of these faculties; and that the
inferior and more passive, muses. They
have tilled the earth of the human heart,
but sufi‘ered its fire to remain dormant, or
waste itself in chance and frivolous direc-
tions. Hence the insuflicienc of human
knowledge. Inventions founded only on
reason move within a circle from which
their escape is momentary and trivial.
When some few, endowed with a juster
instinct, have had recourse to the diviner
clement, IMAGINATION, thou wilt observe
that they have used it only in the service
of the lighter arts, and those chiefly dis-
connected from REASON. Such is poetry,
and music, and other delicious fabrica-
tions of genius, that amuse'men, soften
men, but advance them not. They have,
with but rare exceptions, left this glorious
and winged faculty utterly assive in the
service of philosophy. here REASON
alone has been admitted, and IMAGINA-
rros hath been carefully banished, as an
erratic and deceitful meteor. Now mark
me, child: I, noting this our error in
early youth, did resolve to see what
might be effected by the culture of this
renounced and maltreated element; 'and
finding, as I proceeded in the studies that
grew from this desire, by the occult yet
guiding writings of the great philosophers
of old, that they had forestalled me in
this discovery, I resolved to learn, from
their experience, by what means, the
imagination is best fostered, and, as it
were, sublimed.
“ Anxiously following their precepts—
the truth of which soon appeared—I
found that solitude, fast, intense reverie
upon the one theme on which we desired
knowledge, were the true elements and
purifiers of this glorious faculty. It was
by these means and by this power that
men so far behind us in lesser lore,
achieved, on the mooned plains of Chal-
dea and by the dark waters of Egypt,
their penetration into the womb of Event:
by these means and this power the soli-
tarics of the Gothic time not only at-
tained to the most riddled arcana of the
stars, but to the empire of the s irits
about, above, and beneath the cart : a
power, indeed, disputed by the presump—
tuous sophists of the present time, but


72
OODOLPHIN.
of which their writings yet contain ample
proof. Nay, by the constant feeding,
and impressing, and molding, and re-
fining, and heightening the imaginative
power, I do conceive that even the false
rophets and the evil practitioners of the
blacker cabala elomb unto the power
seemingly inconceivable—the power of
accomplishing miracles and prodigies,
that to appearance belie, but'in truth
verify, the course of nature. By this
spirit within the flesh we grow from the
flesh, and may see, and at length invoke,
the souls of the dead, and receive warn-
ings, and hear omens, and girdle our
sleep with dreams.
“ Not unto me,” continued the cabalist,
in a lowlier tone,_“ have been vouehsafed
all these gifts; for I began the art when
the first fire of youth was dim within
me; and it was'therefore with duller and
already earth-clogged pinions that I
sought to rise. Something, however, I
have Won as a recompense for austere
abstinence and much labor; and this
power over the land of dreams is at least
within my command.”
“ Then,” said Lueilla, in a disappointed
tone, “ it is only by a long course of in-
dulgence to the fervor of the imagination,
and not by spell or charm, that one can
ain a similar power 1”
“ Not wholly so, my daughter,” replied
the mystic; “ they who do so excite, and
have so raised the diviner faculty, can
alone possess the certain and invariable
power over dreams, even without charms
and talismans: but the most dull or idle
may hope to do so with just confidence
(though not certainty) by help of skill,
and by directing the full force of their
half-roused fancy toward the person or
object they wish to see reflected in the
glass of Sleep.”
“ And what means should the uniniti-
ated employ i" asked Lueilla, in a tone
betokening her interest.
“ I will tell thee,” answered the astro-
loger. “ Thou must inscribe on a white
parchment an image of the sun.”
“ As how 1'" interrupted Lucille.
“ Thus!” said the astrologer, drawing
from among his papers one inscribed with
the figure of a man asleep on the bosom
of an angel. “ This was made at the
potential and appointed time, when the
sun was in the Ninth of the Celestial
Houses, and the Lion shook his bright
mane as he ascended the blue mount.

Observe, that on the figure must be
written thy desire—the name of the
person thou wishest to see, or the thing
thou wouldst have foreshown: then, hav-
ing prepared and brought the mind to a
faith in the effect—for, without- faith, the
imagination lies inert and lifeless—this
image will be placed under the head of
the invoker, and when the moon goeth
through the sign which was in the Ninth
House of his nativity, the Dream will
glide into him, and his soul walk with the
spirit of the vision."
“Give me the image,” said Lucilla,
eagerly.
The mystic hesitated. “ N o, Lucilla,’7
said he, at length ; “ no, it is a dark and
comfortless path, that of preseience and
unearthly knowledge, save to the few
that walk it with a gifted light and a
fearless soul. It is not for women or
children—nay, for few among men: it
withers up the sap of life, and makes the
hair gray before its time. No, no; take
the broad sunshine, and the brief but
sweet flowers of earth; they are better
for thee, my child, and for thy years. than
the fever and hope of the night-dream
and the planetary influence.”
So saying, the astrologer replaced the
image within the leaves of one of his
books; and,‘with a. prudence not common
to him, thrust the volume into a drawer,
which be locked. The fair face of Lu-
cilln became clouded, but the ill health
of her father imposed a restraint on her
wild temper.
Just at that moment the door slowly
opened, and the Englishman stood before
the daughter and sire. They did not
note him at first. The solitary ser~
vant of the sage had admitted him; he
had proceeded, without ceremony, to the
well-remembered apartment.
As he now stood gazing on the pair, he
observed with an inward smile how ex-
actly their present attitudes (as well as
the whole aspect of the scene) resembled
those in which he had broken upon them
on the last evening he had visited that
chamber; the father bending over the
old, worn, quaint table; and the daughter
seated beside him on the same low stool.
The character of their eountenances
struck him, too, as wearing the same
ominous expression as when those coun-
tenance-s had chilh-d him on that evening.
For Volktman’s features were ipresaad
with the sadness that breathed from, and


GODOLPHIN.
73
caused, his prohibition to his daughter:
and that prohibition had given to her
features an abstraction and shadow simi-
lar to the dejection they had worn on the
night we recur to.
This remembered coincidence did not
cheer the spirits of the young traveler;
he muttered to himself; and then, as if
anxiouslto break the silence, moved for-
ward with a heavy step.
Volktman started at the sound; and,
looking up, seemed literally electrified by
this sudden apparition of one whom he
had so lately expressed his desire to see.
His lips muttered the intruder’s name,
one well known to- the render (it was the
name of Godolphin), and then closed:
but Lucilla sprang from her seat, and,
clasping her hands joyously together,
darted forward until she came within a
foot of the unexpected visitor. There
she abruptly arrested herself, blushed
deeply, and stood before him humbled,
agitated, but all vivid with delight.
“What, is this Lucilla? ” said Godol-
phin, admiringly: “how beautiful she
has grown! ” and, advancing, he saluted,
with alight and fraternal kiss, her girlish
and damask check: then, without heed-
ing her confusion, he turned to the as-
trologer, who by this time had a little re-
covered from his amaze.

CHAPTER XXIX.
THE EFFECT 01? YEARS AND EXPERIENCE—-
THE ITALIAN CHARACTER.
Gonowum now came almost daily to
the astrologer's abode. He was shocked
to perceive the physical alteration four
ears had wrought in his singular friend;
and, with the warmth of a heart natural-
ly kind, he sought to contribute to the
comfort and enjoyment of a life that was
evidently drawing to a close.
Godolphin’s company seemed to give
Volktman a pleasure which nothing else
could afford him. He loved to converse
on the various incidents that had occur-
red since they met; and, in whatsoever
Godolphin communicated to him, the
mystic sought to impress upon his
friend’s attention the fulfillment of an as-
trological prediction.
Godolphin, though no longer impressed
with abelief in the visionary’s science,
did not affect to combat his assertions.—

He had not, in his progress through life,
found much to shake his habitual indo-
lence in ordinary affairs; and it was no
easy matter to provoke one of his quiet
temper and self-indulging wisdom into
conversational dispute. Beside, who ar-
gues with fanaticism ?
Since the young Idealist had left Eng-
land, the elements of his character had
been slowly performing the ordination of
time, and working their due change in its
general aspect. The warm fountains of
youth flowed not so freely as before: the
selfishness that always comes, sooner or
later, to solitary men of the world, had
gradually mingled itself with all the
channels of his heart. The brooding
and thoughtful disposition of his facul-
ties having turned from romance to what
be deemed philosophy, that which once
was enthusiasm had hardened into wis-
dom. He neither hated men, nor loved
them with a sanguine philanthropy; be
viewed them with cool and discerning
eyes. He did not think it within the
power of governments to make the mass,
in any country, much happier or more el-
evated than they are. Republics, he was
wont to say, favored aristocratic virtues,
and dcspotisms extinguished them: but
whether in a monarchy or republic, the
hewers of wood and the drawers of
water, the mullitude, still remained intrin-
sically the same.
This theory heightened his indifl'erence
to ambition. The watchwords of party
appeared to him ridiculous; and politics
in general—what a great moralist termed
one question in particular—a shuttlecock
kept up by the contention of noisy child-
ren. His mind thus rested, as to all
public matters, in a state of quietude,
and covered over with the mantle of a
most false, a most perilous philosophy.—
His appetites to pleasure had grown
somewhat dulled by experience, but he
was, as yet, neither sated nor discontent-
ed. One feeling at his breast still re-
mained scarcely diminished of its effect
when the string was touched—his tender
remembrance of Constance; and this
had prevented any subsequent but mo-
mentary attachment deepening into love.
Thus, at the age of six-and-twenty, Percy
Godolphin re-appears on our stage.
There was a great deal in the Italian
character that our traveler liked: its love
of ease, reduced into a system; its
courtesy; its content with the world as


74
G ODOLPH 1N .
it is; its moral apathy as regards all that
agitates life, save one passion; and the
universal tenderness, ardor, and delicacy
which, in that passion, it ennobles itself
in displaying. The commonest peasant
of Rome or Naples, though notI perhaps,
in the freer land of Tuscany, can com-
prehend all the romance and mystery of
the most subtile species of love; all that
it requires in England, the idle habits of
aristocracy, and the sensitive fiber of
genius even to conceive. And what is
yet stranger, the worn-out debauchee,
sage with an experience and variety of
licentiousness, which come not within the
compass of a Northern profligacy, re-
mains alive to the earliest and most in-
nocent sentiments of the passion. And
if Platonism in its coldest purity exist
on earth, it is among the Aretins of
Southern Italy. '
This unworldly refinement, amid so
much worldly callousness, was a peculiar-
ity that afforded perpetual amusement to
the nice eye and subtile judgment of G0-
dolphin. He loved not to note the com-
mon elements of character: whatever
was most abstract and difficult to analyze
leased him most. He mixed, then,
much with the Romans, and was a favor-
ite among them; but, during his present
visit to the Immortal City, he did not,
how distantly soever, associate with the
English. His carelessness of show, and
the independence of a single man from
burdensome connections, rendered his
income fully competent to his wants;
but, like many proud men, he was not
willing to make it seem, even to himself,
as a comparative poVerty beside the lav-
ish expenses of his ostentatious country-
men. Travel, moreover, had augmented
those stores of reflection which rob soli-
tude of ennui.
CHAPTER XXX.
MAGNETIShlr—SYMPATRY—TllE RETURN
ELEMENTS TO ELEMENTS.
0F
DAILY did the health of Volktman de-
cline; Lucilla was the only one ignorant
of his danger. She had never seen the
gradual approaches of death: her m0-
thor’s abrupt and rapid illness made the
whole of her experience of disease. Phy-
sicians and dark rooms were necessarily

coupled in her mind with disease; and as
the astrologer, rapt in his calculations,
altered not any of his habits, and was in-
sensiblc to pain, she fondly attributed his
occasional complaints to the melancholy
induced by seclusion. \Vith sedentary
men, diseases being often those connected
with the organization of the heart, do
not unusually terminate suddenly; it was
so with Volktman.
One day he was alone with Godolphin,
and their conversation turned upon one
of the doctrines of the old Magnetism; a
doctrine which, depending as it does so
much upon a seeming reference to expe-
rience, survived the rest of his associates,
and is still not wholly out of repute
among the wild imaginations of Ger-
many.
“ One of the most remarkable and ah-
struse points in what students call meta-
physics,” said Volktman, “ is sympathy ,-
the first principle, according to some, of
all human virtue. It is this, they say,
which makes men just, humane, charita-
ble. When one who has never heard of
the duty of assisting his neighbor sees
another drowning, he plunges into the
water and saves him. Why? because
involuntarily, and at once, his imagina-
tion places himself in the situation of the
stranger: the pain he would experience
in the watery death glances across him:
from this pain he hastens, without analyz-
ing its cause, to deliver himself.
“Humanity is thus taught him by
sympathy: where is this sympathy placed?
in the nerves : the nerves are the
communicants with outward nature : the
more delicate the nerves, the finer the
sympathies: hence women and children
are more alive to sympathy than men.—
Well, mark me: do not these nerves have
attraction and sympathy, not only with
human suffering, but with the powers of
what is falsely termed inanimate nature ‘3
Do not the winds, the influences of the
weather and the seasons, act coMesscdly
upon them? and if one part of nature.
why not another, inseparably connected
too with that part? If the weather and
seasons have sympathy with the nerves.
why not the moon and the stars, by
which the weather and the seasons are
influenced .and changed ? Ye of the
schools may allow that sympathy origin-
ates some of our actions; I say it gov-
erns the whole World, the whole creation!
Before the child is born, it is this secret


GODOLPHIN.
75
afiinity which can mark and stamp him
with the witness of his mother’s terror
or his mother’s desire.”
“Yet,” said Godolphin, “ you would
scarcely, in your Zeal for sympathy, ad-
vocate the same cause as Edricins Mo-
hynnus, who cured wounds by a powder,
not applied to the wound, but to the towel
that had been dipped in its blood?”
“ N o,” answered Volktnmn: it is these
quaeks and pretenders that have wronged
all sciences by clamoring for false deduc-
tions. But I do believe of sympathy
that it has a power to transport ourselves
out of the body and reunite us with the
absent. Hence tranees and ruptures, in
which the patient, being sincere, will tell
thee, in grave earnestness, and with mi-
' nute detail, of all that he saw, and heard,
and encountered afar oil', in other parts
of the earth, or even above the earth.—
As thou knowest the accredited story of
the youth who, being transported with a
Vehement and long-nursed desire to see
his mother, did, through that same de—
sire, become, as it were, rapt, and beheld
her, being at the distance of many miles,
and giving and exchanging signs of their
real and bodily conference.”
Godolphin turned aside to conceal an
involuntary smile at this grave afiirma-
tion; but the mystic, perhaps perceiving
it, continued yet more eagerly :
“Nay, I myself, at times, have experi-
enced such trance, if trance it be; and
have conversed with them who have pass-
ed from the outward earth—with my
father and my wife. And,” continued
he, after a moment’s pause, “I do be-
lieve that we may, by means of this power
of attraction—this elementary and all-
penetrative sympathy—pass away, in our
ast moments, at once into the bosom of
those we love. For, by the intent and
rapt longing to behold the Blessed and
to be among them, we may be drawn in-
sensibly into their resence; and the hour
being come when t e affinity between the
spirit and the body shall be dissolved,
the mind and desire, being so drawn up-
ward, can return to earth no more. And
this sympathy, refined and extended, will
make, I imagine, our powers, our very be-
ing, in a future state. Our sympathy
being only, then, with what is immortal,
we shall partake necessarily of that na-
ture which attracts us; and the body no
longer clogging the intenseness of our de-
sires we shall be able, by a wish, to

transport ourselves wheresoever we please;
from star to star, from glory to glory,
charioted and winged by our wishes.”
Godolphin did not reply, for he was
struck with the growing paleness of the
mystic, and with a dreaming and intent
fixedness that seemed creeping over his
eyes, which Were usually bright and rest-
less. The day was now fast declining.—
Lucilla entered the room, and came ear-
essingly to her father’s side.
“ Is the evening warm, my child?"
said the astrologer.
“ Very mild and warm,” answered Lu-
cilla.
“Give me your arm, then,” said he;
“ I will sit a little while without the
threshold.”
The Romans live in flats, as at Edin-
burgh, and with a common stair. Volkt-
man's abode was in the secondo piano.—
He descended the stairs with a step
lighter than it had been of late; and,
sinking into a seat without the house,
seemed silently and gratefully to inhale
the soft and purple air of an Italian sunset.
By-and-by the sun had entirely van-
ished: and that most brief but most de—
licious twilight common to the clime had
succeeded. Vail-like and soft, the mist
that floats atthat hour between earth and
heaven lent its transparent shadow to the
scene around them: it seemed to tremble
as for a moment, and then was gone.—
The moon arose, and cast its light over
Volktman’s earnest countenance; over the
rich bloom and watchful eye of Lueilla;
ovar the contemplative brow and motion-
less figure of Godolphin. It was a group
of indefinable interest; the earth was so
still, that the visionary might well have
fancied it had hushed itself, to drink
within its quiet heart the voices of that
Heaven in whose oracles he believed.
N 0t one of the group spoke ; the astrolo-
ger’s mind and gaze ware riveted above ;
and neither of his companions wished to
break the meditations of the old and
dreaming man. -
Godolphin, with folded arms and down-
east eyes, was pursuing his own tnoughts;
and Lucilla, to whom Godolphin’s pre'
sence was a subtile and subduing intoxi-
cation, looked indeed upward to the soft
and tender heavens, but with the soul of
the loving daughter of earth.
Slowly, nor marked by his companions,
the gaze of the mystic deepened and
deepened in its fixedness.


GODOLPIIIN.
7?
beyond their wontedkey, and breathed the with a gentleness that made her weep
accents of passion and disdain. with a yet warmer vehemence.
He entered the room whence the sounds “ My dear Lucilla,” said he, “ you
of dispute proceeded, and the first face i know your father honored me with his re-
that presented itself to him was that of Igard: let me presume on that regard, and
Lucilla. It was flushed with anger; the i on my long acquaintance with yourself, to
veins in the smooth forehead were swelled; l address you as your friend— as your
the short lip breathed beautiful contempt.l brother 1” Lucilla drew away her hand;
She stood at some tittle distance from the i but again, asv if ashamed of the impulse,
rest of the inmates of the room, who were l extended it toward him.
seated; and her posture was erect andl “ You cannot know the world as I do,
even stately, though in wrath: her arms. dear Lucille,” continued Godolphin; “for
were folded upon her bosom, and the com- l experience in its affairs is bought at some
posed excitement of her figure contrasted little expense, which I pray that it may
with the play, and fire, and energy of her never cost you. In all countries, Lucille,
features.
At Godolphin’s appearance a sudden
silence fell upon the eonclavc; the uncle>
and the aunt (the latter of whom hadi
seemed the noisiest) subsided into apolo-
getic respect to the rich (he was rich to
them) young Englishman; and Lucilla
sank into a seat, covered her face with
her small and beautiful hands, and—
humbled from her anger and her vehe-
mence—burst into tears.
“And what is this?" said Godolphin,
pityingly.
The Italians hastened to inform him.‘
Lucille. had chosen to absent-herself from
home every evening: she had been seen
the last night on the Corso, crowded as',
that street was with the young, the profli-
gate, and the idle. They could not but
rcprove “ the deer girl” for this indiscre-
tion (Italians, indifferent as to the conduct
of the married, are generally attentive to
that of their single women), and she an-
nounced her resolution to persevere in it.
“Is this true, my pupil ‘1” said Godol-
phin, turning to Lucilla: the poor girl
sobbed on, but returned no answer.
“ Leave me to reprimand and admon-
ish her,” said he to the aunt and uncle;
and they, without appearing to notice the
incongruity of reprimand in the mouth of
a. man of six-and-twenty to a girl of fif-
teen, chattered forth a Babel of concilia-
tion, and left the apartment.
Godolphin, young as he might be, was
not nnfitted for his task. There was a
great deal of quiet dignity mingled with
the kindness of his manner; and his af-
fection for Lucilla had hitherto been so
pure, that he felt no embarrassment in
addressing her as a brother. He ap-
proached the corner of the room in which
she sat; he drew a chair near to her; and

took her reluctant and trembling hand
an unmarried female is exposed to dangers
which, without any actual fault of her
own, may imbitter her future life. One
of the greatest of these dangers lies in
deviating from custom. With the woman
who does this, every man thinks himself
entitled to give his thoughts—his words
-nay, even his actions, a license which
you cannot but dread to incur. Your
uncle and aunt, therefore, do right to ad-
vise your not going alone, to the public
streets of Rome more especially, except
in the broad daylight; and though their
advice be irksomely intruded and ungrace-
fully couched, it is good in its principle,
and—yes, dearest Lucilla, even necessary
for you to_follow.”
“ But," said Lucilla, through her tears,
“ you cannot guess what insults, what un-
kindness I have been forced to submit to
from them. I, who never knew, until
now, what insult and unkindness were ! I,
who—” here sobs checked her utterance.
“ But how, my young and fair friend,
how can you mend their manners by de-
stroying their esteem for you? Respect
yourself, Lucilla, if you wish others to
res met you. But, perhaps”——and such
a t ought for the first time flashed across
G0dolphin—“ erhaps you did not seek
the Corso for t e crowd, but for one .' per-
haps you went there to meet—dare I
guess the fact ?——-an admirer, a lover.”
“Now you insult me!” cried anilla,
angrily.
“ I thank you for your anger; I accept
it as a contradiction,” said Godolphin.
“ But listen yet awhile, and forgive frank-
ness. If there be any one among the
throng of Italian youths whom you have
seen and could be happy with—one who
loves you, and whom you do not hate, re-
member that I am your father’s friend;
that I am rich; that I can—”


78
GODOLPHIN .
“ Cruel, cruel l” interrupted Lucilla;
and, withdrawing herself from Godolphin,
she walked to and fro with great and
struggling agitation.
“ Is it not so, then '3” said Godolphin,
doubtingly.
“No, sir: no
- “Lucilla Volktman,” said Godolphin,
with a colder gravity than he had yet
called forth, “ I claim some attention from
you—some confidence—nay, some esteem;
for the sake of your father—for the sake
of your early years, when I assisted to
teach you my native tongue, and loved
you as a brother. Promise me that you
will not commit this indiscretion any more
—at least until we meet again; nay, that
you will not stir abroad, save with one
of your relations.”
“ Impossible! impossible,” cried Lucil-
la, vehemently; “it were to take away
the only solace I have: it were to make
life a privation—a curse.”
“Not so, Lucille; it is to make life re-
spectable and safe. I, on the other hand,
will engage that all within these walls
shall behave to you with indulgence and
kindness.”
“ I care not for their kindness—for the
kindness of any one, save-—-”
“Whom i” asked Godolphin, perceiv-
ing she would not proceed: but, as she
was silent, he did not press the question.
“ Come 1” said he, persuasively; “ come,
romise, and be friends with me; do not
llet us part angrily : I am about to take
my leave of you for many months."
“ Part l—you l—monthsl Oh God, do
not say so 1” '
With these words she was by his side.
and gazing on him with her large and
pleading eyes, wherein was stamped a
wildness, a terror, the cause of which he
did not as yet deci her. _
“ N o, no,” said she, with a faint smile;
“ no! you mean to frighten me, to extort
my promise. You are not going to de-
sert me!”
“But, Lucille, I will not leave you to
unkiudness; they shall not, they durst
not wound you again.”
“Say to me that you are not going
from Rome: speak—quick!”
“ I go in two days.”
“ Then let me die 1” said Lucilla, in a
tone of such deep despair that it chilled
and apalled Godolphin, who did not, how-
ever, attribute her grief (the grief of this
mere child—a child so wayward and cc-
’9’

centric) to any other cause than that feel-
ing of abandonment which the young so
bitterly experience at being left utterly
alone with persons unfamiliar to their
habits and opposed to their liking.
He sought to soothe her, but she re-
pelled him. Her features worked con-
vulsively: she walked twice across the
room, then stopped opposite to him, and
a certain strained composure on her brow
seemed to denote that she had arrived at
some sudden resolution.
“ Wouldst thou ask me,” she said,
“what cause took me into the streets as
the shadows darkened, and enabled me
lightly to bear threats at home and risk
abroad ‘1"
“ Ay, Lucilla : will you tell me ?”
“ Tnov wast the cause!” she said, in a
low voice, trembling with emotion, and
the next moment sunk on her knees be-
fore him.
lVith a confusion that ill became so
practiced and favored a gallant, Godol-
phin sought to raise her. “No! no 1”
she said, “you will despise me now: let
me lie here, and die thinking of thee.
Yes i” she continued, with an inward but
rapid voice, as he lifted her reluctant
frame from the earth, and hung over her
with a. cold and uncaressing attention:
“yes! you I loved—I adored—from my
very childhood. When you were by, life
seemed changed to me; when absent, 1
longed for night, that I might dream of
you. The spot you had touched I marked
out in silence, that I might kiss it and ad-
dress it when you were gone. You left us
—four years passed away—and the reeol~
lection of you made and shaped my very
nature. I loved solitude, for in solitude I
saw you—in imagination I spoke to you—-
and methought you answered, and did not
chide. You returned—and—and—but
no matter: to see you, at the hour you
usually leave home—40 see you, I wandered
forth with the evening. I tracked you,
myself unseen; I followed you at a dis-
tance; I marked you disappear within
some of the proud palaces that never
know what love is. I returned home
weeping, but happy. And do you thka
--do you dare to think—that I should
have told you this had you not driven me
mad i—had you not left me reckless of
what henceforth was thought of me-—be-
came of me? What will life be to me
when you are gone? And now I have said
all! Go! You do not love mc—I know
7., __ _,‘_


GODOLPUIN.
79
it—but do not say so. Go-leave mell
Why do you not leave me l”
Does there live one man who can hear
a woman, youn and beautiful, confess
attachment to 8him, and not catch the
contagion '3 Afi'ected, flattered, and almost
melted into love himself, Godolphin felt
all the danger of the moment: but this
young, inexperienced girl—the daughter
of his friend—no! her he could not—lov-
ing. willing as she was—betray.
Yet it was some moments before he
could command himself sufiieiently to
answer her: “Listen to me calmly," at
length he said; “ we are at least to each
other dear friends—nay, listen, I be-
seech you. I, Lucilla, am a man whose
heart is forestallcd—exhausted before its
time; I have loved, deeply and passion-
ately: that love is over, but it has unfit-
ted me for any species of love resembling
itself—any which I could offer to you.
Dearest Lucilla, I will not disguise the
truth from you. lVere I to love you, it
would be—not in the eyes of year coun-
trymen (with whom such connections are
common), but in the eyes of mine—it
would be dishonor ‘? Shall I confer even
this partial dishonor on you? No! Lu-
cilla, this feeling of yours toward me is
(pardon me) but a young and childish
hantasy: you will smile at- it some years
once. I am not worthy of so pure and
fresh a heart: but at least”—here he
spoke in a lower voice, and as to himself
-“ at least I am not so unworthy as to
wrong it.”
“Go!” said Lucilla; “go, I implore
you.” She spoke, and stood hueless
and motionless, as if the life (life’s life
was indeed gone!) bad departed from her.
Her features were set and rigid; the
tears that stole in large drops down her
checks were unfelt; a slight quivering of
her lips only bespoke what passed within
her.
“Ah!” cried Godolphin, stung from
his usual calm—stung from the quiet
kindness he had sought from principle to
assume—“ can I withstand this trial ? I,
whose dream of life has been the love
that I might now find! I, who have never
before known an obstacle to a wish which
I have not contended against, if not con-
quercd: and, weakened as I am with the
habitual indulgence to temptation, which
has never been so strong as now—but
no! I will—I will deserve this attach-
ment by sclf-restraint—self-sacrifice.”

He moved away; and then returning,
dropped on his knee before Lucille.
“ Spare me!” said he, in an agitated
voice, that brought back all the blood to
that young and transparent check, which
was now half averted from him; “spare
me, spare yourself l Look around, when
I am gone, for some one to replace my im-
age: thousands younger, fairer, warmer of
heart, will aspire to your love; that love
for them will be exposed to no peril, no
shame: forget me; select another, be
happy and respected. Permit me alone
to fill the place of your friend, your bro-
ther. I will provide for your comforts,
your liberty: you shall be restrained,
offended no more. God bless you, dear,
dear Lucilla; and believe" (he said, al-
most in a whisper) “ that, in thus flying
you, I have acted generously, and with
an efi‘ort worthy of your loveliness and
your love.”
He said, and hurried from the apart-
ment. Lucilla turned slowly round as the
door closed, and then fell motionless on
the ground.
Meanwhile Godolphin, mastering his
emotion, sought‘ the host and hostess;
and begging them to visit his lodging
that evening to receive certain directions
and rewards, hastily left the house.
But, instead of returning home, the
desire for a brief solitude and self-com-
mune, that usually follows strong excite-
ment (and which, in all less ordinary
events, suggested his sole counselors or
monitors to the musing Godolphin), led
his steps in an opposite direction. Scarce
conscious whither he was wandering, he
did not pause until he found himself in that
green and still valley in which the pilgrim
beholds the grotto of Egeria.
It was noon, and the day warm, but
not overpowering. The leaf slept on the
old trees that are scattered about that
little valley; and amid the soft and rich
turf the wanderer’s step disturbed the
lizard, basking its brilliant hues in the
noontide, and glancing rapidly through
the herbage as it retreated. And from
the trees and through the air, the occa-
sional song of the birds (for in Italy their
voices are rare) floated with a peculiar
clearness, and even noisiness of music,
along the deserted haunts of the Nymph.
The scene, rife with its beautiful asso-
ciations, recalled Godolphin from his re-
verie. “And here,” thought he, “ Fable
has thrown its most lovely and enduring


80
GODOLPHIN.
enchantment: here, every one who has
tasted the loves of earth, and sickened
for the love that is ideal, finds a spell
more attractive to his steps, more fraught
with contemplation to his spirit, than
aught raised by the palace of the Caesars
or the tomb of the Scipios.”
Thus meditating, and softened by the
late scene with Lucilla (to which his
thoughts again recurred), he sauntered
onward to the steep side of the bank, in
which faith and tradition have hollowed
out the grotto of the goddess. He en-
tered the silent cavern, and bathed his
temples in the delicious waters of the
fountain.
It was perhaps well that it was not at that
moment Lucilla. made to him her strange
and unlocked-for confession: again and
again he said to himself (as if seek-
ing fora justification of his self-sacrifice),
“Her father was not Italian, and pos-
sessed feeling and honor: let me not
forget that he loved me i” In truth, the
avowal of this wild girl—an avowal made
indeed with the ardor, but also breathing
of the innocence, the inexperience of her
character—had opened to his fancy new
and not undelicious prospects. He had
never loved her, save with a lukewarm
kindness, before that last hour; but
now, in recalling her beauty, her tears,
her passionate abandonment, can we
wonder that he felt a strange heating at
his heart, and that he indulged that dis-
solved and luxurious vein of tender me-
ditation which is the prelude to all love '?
We must recall, too, the recollection of
his own temper, so constantly yearning
for the unhaekneyed, the untasted; and
his deep and soft order of imagination,
by which he involuntarily conjured up the
delight of living with one, watching one,
so different from the rest of the world,
and whose thoughts and passions (wild
as they might be) were all devoted to
him!
And in what spot were these imagin-
ings fed and colored Y In a spot which,
in the nature of its divine fascination,
could he found only beneath one sky,
that sky the most balmy and loving upon
earth! \Vho could think of love within
the haunt and temple of
“ That Nympholepsy of some fond despair,”
and not feel that love enhanced, deepened,
modulated into at once a dream and a
desire ?

It was long that Godolphin indulged
himself in recalling the image of Lueilla',
but nerved at length, and gradually, by
harder, and, we may hope, better senti-
ments than those of a love which he could
Scarcely indulge, without criminality on
the one hand, or what must have appear-
ed to the man of the world derogatory
folly on the other, he turned his thoughts
into a less voluptuous channel, and pre-
pared, though with a reluctant step, to
depart homeward. But what was his
amaze, his confusion, when, on reaching
the mouth of the cave. he saw within a
few steps of him anilla herself!
She was walking alone and slowly, her
eyes bent upon the ground, and did not
perceive him. According to a common
custom with the middle classes of Rome,
her rich hair, save by a single band, was
uncovered; and as her slight and exqui-
site form moved along the velvet sod, so
beautiful a shape, and a face so rare in
its character and delicate in its expres-
sion, were in harmony with the sweet su-
perstition of the spot, and seemed almost
to restore to the deserted cave and the
mourning stream their living Egcria.
Godolphin stood transfixed to the
earth; and Lucille, who was walking in
the direction of the grotto, did not per-
ceive until she was almost immediately
before him. She gave a faint scream as
she lifted her eyes; and the first and
most natural sentiment of the woman
breaking forth involuntarily, she attempt-
ed to falter out her disavowal of all ex-
pectation of meeting him there :
“ Indeed, indeed, I did not know—that
is—I—I—” she could achieve no more.
“Is this a favorite spot with you 1’"
said he, with the vague embarrassment
of one at a loss for words.
“Yes,” said Lucilla, faintly.
And so, in truth, it was: for its vicin-
ity to her home, the beauty of the little
valley, and the interest attached to it—
an interest not the less to her in that she
was but imperfectly acquainted with the
true legend of the Nymph and her royal
lover—had made it, even from her child-
hood, a chosen and beloved retreat, es-
pecially in that dangerous summer time
which drives the visitor from the spot,
and leaves the scene, in great measure,
to the solitude which befits it. Asso-
ciated as the place was with the recollec—
tions of her earlier griefs, it was thither
that her first instinct made her fly from


GODOLPHIN.
1'81
the rude contact and displeasing compa-
nionship of her relations, to give vent to
the various and conflicting passions which
the late scene with Godolphin had called
forth.
They now stood for a few moments
silent and embarrassed, until Godolphin,
resolved to end a scene which he began to
feel was dangerous, said in a hurried tone,
“Farewell, my sweet pupil! farewell!
May God bless you 1”
He extended his hand. Lucilla seized
it as if by impulse, and conveying it sud-
denly to her lips, bathed it with tears.
“ I feel," said this wild and unregulated
girl, “I feel, from your manner, that I
ought to be grateful to you; yet I
scarcely know why : you confess you
cannot love me, that my affection dis-
tresses you—you fly—you desert me.
Ah, if you felt one particle even of friend-
ship for me, could you do so i”
“ Lucilla, what can I say '1
marry you.”
“ Do I wish it? I ask thee but to let
me go with thee wherever thou goest."
“Poor child i” said Godolphin, gazing
onher; “art thou not aware that thou
askest thine own dishonor I?"
I cannot
Lucilla seemed surprised: “ Is it dis- .
honor to love? They do not think so in
Italy. It is wrong for a maiden to con-
fess it; but that thou hast forgiven me.
And if to follow thee—to sit with thee
--to be near thee, bring aught of evil to
myself, not thee, let me incur the evil:
it can be nothing compared to the agony
of thy absence!”
She looked up timidly as she spoke,
and saw, with a sort of terror, that his
face worked with emotions which seemed
to choke his answer. “If,” she cried,
passionately, “if I have said what pains
thee—if I have asked what would give
dishonor, as thou callest it, or harm to
thyself, forgive me—I knew it not—and
leave me. But if it were not of thyself
that thou didst speak, believe me that
thou hast done me but a cruel mercy.
Let me go with thee, I implore! I have
no friend here: no one loves me. I hate
the faces I gaze upon; I loathe the
voices I hear. And, were it for nothing
else, thou remindes‘t me of him who is
one :_ thou art familiar to me: every
fuck of thee breathes of my home, of my
household recollections. Take me with
thee, beloved stranger! or leave me to die
—-I will not survive thy loss l”

“ You speak of your father; know you
that, were I to grant what you, in your
childish innocence, so unthinkineg re-
quest, he might curse me from his grave ?"
“ Oh, God, not so! mine is the prayer
—be mine the guilt, if guilt there be.
But is it not unkinder in thee to desert
his daughter than to protect her '3”
There was a great, a terrible struggle
in Godolphin’s breast. “What,” said
he, scarcely knowing what he said, “ what
will the world think of you if you fly with
a stranger ?”
“ There is no world to me but thee l"
"' What will your uncle—your relations
say ?”
‘j I care not, for I shall not hear
them.”
“ No, no, this must not be i” said Go-
dolphin, proudly, and once more con-
quering himself. “ Lucille, I would give
up every other dream or hope in life to
feel that I might requite this devotion
by passing my life with thee : to feel that
I might grant what thou askest without
wronging thy innocence; but—but--”
“ You love me, then ‘2 You love me i”
cried Lucilla, joyously, and alive to no
other interpretation of his words.
Godolphin was transported beyond him-
self; and clasping Lucille. in his arms,
he covered her cheeks, her lips, with im-
passioned and burning kisses; then sud-
denly, as if stung by some irresistible
impulse, he tore himself away and fled
from the spot.

CHAPTER XXXII.
THE WEAKNESS OF ALL VIRTUE SPRINGING
ONLY FROM THE FEELINGS.
IT was the evening before Godolphin
left Rome. As he was entering his pa-.
lazzo he dcseried in the darkness, and at
a little distance, a figure wrapped in a
mantle that reminded him of Lucille; are
he could certify himself, it was gone.
On entering his rooms, he looked
eagerly over the papers and notes on his
table: he seemed disappointed with the
result. and set himself down in moody
and discontented thought. He had writ-
ten to Lucille the day before, a long. a
kind, nay, a noble outpouring of his
thoughts and feelings. As far as he was
able, to one so simple in her experience,


82$
GODOLPHIN.
yet so wild in her fancy, he explained to women would smile as a more and ridicu-
her the nature of his struggles and his Ions punetilio.
disguise hence with her, should I not have
self-sacrifice. He did not
And, in truth, had I fled
from her that, until the moment ofnnadc her throughout life happier, far
her confession, he had never examined
lhappier than she will be now‘.i
Nor
the state of his heart toward her; nor would she, in that happiness, have felt
that, with that confession, a new andllike an English girl, any pang of shame.
ardent train of sentiment had been kin- ‘Here the tie would have never been re-
dled within him. He knew enough of {garded as a degradation; nor does she,
women to be aware that the last avowal
would be the sweetest consolation both
to her vanity'and her heart. He assured
her of the promises he had received from
her relations to grant her the liberty and
the indulgence that her early and unre-
strained habits required; and in the most
delicate and respectful terms, he inclosed
an order for a sum of money sufficient at
any time to command the regard of those
with whom she lived, or to enable her to
choose, should she so desire (though he
advised her not to adopt such a measure,
save for the most urgent reasons), another
residence. “ Send me in return," he
said, as he concluded, “a lock of your
hair. I want nothing to remind me of
your beauty, ,but I want some token of
the heart of whose affection I am so
mournfully proud. I will wear it as a
charm against the contamination of that
world of which you are so happily ignor-
ant—as a memento of one nature beyond
the thought of self—as a surety that, in
finding within this base and selfish quar-
ter of earth one soul so warm, so pure as
yours, I did not deceive myself, and
dream. If we ever meet again, may you
then have found some one happier than I
am, and in his tenderness have forgotten all
of me save one kind remembrance. Beau-
tiful and dear Lucilla, adieu! If I have
not given way to the luxury of being he-
loved by you, it is because your generous
self-abandonment has awakened, within
a heart too selfish to others, a real love
for yourself.”
To this letter Godolphin had. hour
after hour, expected a reply. He received
none—not even the lock of hair for which
he had pressed. He was disappointed;
angry with Lucille, dissatisfied with him-
self. “ How bitterly,” thought he, “ the
wise Saville would smile at my folly! I
have renounced the bliss of possessing
this singular and beautiful being; for
what? an idle and absurd scruple which
she cannot even comprehend, and at
which, in her friendless and forlorn state,
the most starch of her dissolute country-

‘1'ecurring to the simple laws of nature,
imagine that any one could so regard it.
Beside, inexperienced as she is— the
creature of impulse—will she not fall a
victim to some more artful and less gene-
rous lover‘.’ to some one who in her inno-
cence will see only forwardness; and
who, far from protecting her as I should
have done, will regard her but as the
playtbing of an hour, and cast her forth
the moment his passion is sated? Sated!
Oh bitter thought, that the head of an-
other should rest upon that bosom now so
wholly mine! After all, I have, in vain-
ly adopting a seeming and sounding vir-
tue, merely renounced my own happiness
to leave her to the chances of being per-
manently rendered unhappy, and aban-
doned to want, shame, destitution, by
another 1"
These disagreeable and regretful
thoughts were in turn but weakly com-
bated by the occasional self-congratula-
tion that belongs to a just or generous
act, and were varied by a thousand con-
jectures—now of anxiety, now of anger—
as to the silence of Lucilla. Sometimes
he thought—but the thought only glanced
partially across him, and was not dis-
tinctly acknowledged—that she might
seek an interview with him ere be de-
parted; and in this hope he did not re-
tire to rest until the dawn broke over the
ruins of the mighty and breathless citv.
He then flung himself on a sofa without
undressing, but could not sleep, save in
short and broken intervals. ‘
The next day he put ofl his departure
until noon, still in the hope of hearing
from Lucilla, but in vain. He could not
flatter himself with the hope that Lucilla
did not know the exact time for his jour—
ney; he had expressly stated it. Some-
times he conceived the notion of seeking
her again; but he knew too well the
weakness of his generous resolution - and,
though infirm of thought, was yet virtu-
ous enough in not not to hazard it to cer-
tain defeat. At length, in a momentary
desperation, and muttering reproaches on


GODOLPHIN .
88
Lucilla for her fickleness and inability to
appreciate the magnanimity of his con-
duct, he threw himself into his carriage
and bade adieu to Rome.
As every grove that the traveler passes
on that road was guarded once by a
nymph, so now it is hallowed bya me-
mory. In vain the air, heavy with death,
creeps over the wood, the rivulet, and
the shattered tower—the mind will not
recur to the risk of its ignoble tenement;
it flies back—it is with the Past! A
subtile and speechless rapture fills and
exalts the spirit. There—far to the West
—spreads that purple sea, haunted by a
million reminiscences of glory; there the
mountains, with their sharp and snowy
crests, rise into the bosom of the hea-
vens; on that plain the pilgrim yet hails
the traditional tomb of the Curiatii and
those immortal twins who left to their
brother the glory of conquest and the
shame by which it was succeeded: around
the Lake of Nemi yet bloom the sacred
groves by which Diana raised Hippoly-
tus again into life. _ Poetry, Fable, His-
tory, watch over the land: it is a sepul-
cher; Death is within and around it;
Decay writes defeature upon every stone;
but the Past sits by the tomb as a mourn-
ing angel—a soul breathes through the
desolation— a voice calls amid the si-
lence. Every age that hath passed away
hath left a ghost behind it; and the
beautiful land seems like that imagined
clime beneath the earth, in which man,
glorious though it be, may not breathe
and live, but which is populous with
holy phantoms and illustrious shades.
On, on sped Godolphin. Night broke
over him as he traversed the Pontinc
Marshes. There the malaria broods over
its rankest venom ; solitude hath lost the
soul that belonged to it: all life, save
the deadly fertility of corruption, seems
to have rotted away; the spirit falls
stricken into gloom—a nightmare weighs
upon the breast of Nature—and over the
wrecks of Time, Silence sits motionless
in the arms of Death.
He arrived at Terraciua and retired to
rest. His sleep was filled with fearful
dreams: he woke, late at noon, languid
and dejected. As his servant, who had
lived with him some years, attended him
in rising, Godolphin observed on his
countenance that eXpression common to
persons of his class when they have
something which they wish to commu-

nicate, and are watching their oppor-
tunity.
“ Vell, Malden !” said he, “ you look
important this morning; what has hap-
pened ?”
“ E—hcrn ! Did you not observe, sir,
a carriage behind us as we crossed the
marshes ? Sometimes you might just see
it at a distance, in the moonlight."
“ How the dense should I, being within
the carriage, see behind me? No; I
know nothing of the carriage: what of
it “I”
“A person arrived in it, sir, a little
after you—would not retire to bed—and
waits you in your sitting-room.”
“A person! What person?”
“A lady, sir—a young lady,” said the
servant, suppressinga smile.
“Good heavens! ” ejaculated Godol-
phin: “leave me.” The valet obeyed.
Godolphin, not for a. moment doubting
that it was Lucilla who had thus followed
him, was struck to the heart by this
pronf of her resolute and reckless at-
tachment. In any other woman, so hold
a measure would, it is true, have revolted
his fastidious and somewhat English
taste. But in Lucilla, all that might
have seemed immodest arose, in reality,
from that pure and spotless ignorance
which, of all species of modesty, is the
most enchanting, the most dangerous to
its possessor. The daughter of loneli-
ness and seclusion—estranged wholly
from all familiar or female intercourse—
rather bewildered than in any way en-
lightened by the few books of poetry or
the lighter letters she had by accident
read—the sense of impropriety was in
her so vague a sentiment, that every im-
pulse of her wild and impassioned char-
acter efl'aced and swept it away. Igno-
rant of what is due to the reserve of the
sex, and even of the opinions of the
world—lax as the Italian world is on mat‘
ters of love—she only saw occasion t0
glory in her tenderness, her devotion, t0
one so elevated in her fancy as the En-fi
glish stranger. Nor did there, however!)
unconsciously to herself, mingle a singld
more derogatory or less pure cmotiorl
with her fanatical worship.
For my own part, I think that few me:
understand the real nature of a girl’
love. Arising so vividly as it does frorg
the imagination, nothing that the min
of the libertine would imputo to it ever]
(or at least in most rare instances) snllia'


84
GODOLPHIN.
its weakness or debases its folly. I do
not say the love is better for being thus
solely the creature of imagination: I say
only, so it is in ninety-nine out of a bun-
dred instances of girlish infatuation. In
later life it is difi‘erent: in the experien-
ced woman, forwardness is always de-
pravity.
With trembling steps and palpitating
heart Godolphin sought the apartment in
which he expected to find Lueilla. There,
in one corner of the room, her face cov-
ered with her mantle, he beheld her: he
hastened to that spot—he threw himself
on his knees before her—with a timid
hand he removed the covering from
her face—and through tears, and pale-
ncss, and agitation, his heart was touched
to the quick by its soft and loving ex-
ression.
“ Wilt thou forgive me ‘2” she faltered.
“ It was thine own letter that brought me
hither. N ow leave me if thou canst ?”
“Never, never!” cried Godolphin,
clasping her to his heart. “It is fated,
and I resist no more. Love, tend, cher-
ish thee, I will to my last hour. I will
be all to thee that human ties can afi'ord
—father, brother, lover—all but—” He
aused: “ all but husband,” whispered
. is conscience, but he silenced its voice.
“I may go with thee ! ” said Lucille,
in wild ecstasy: that was leer only
thought.
As, when the notion of escape occurs
to the insane, their insanity appears to
cease; courage, prudence, caution, inven-
tion (faculties which they knew not in
sounder health), flash upon and support
them as by an inspiration; so a new
genius had seemed breathed into anilla
by the idea of rejoining Godolphin. She
imagined—not without justice—that,
could she threw in the way of her re-
turn home an obstacle of that Worldly
nature which he seemed to dread she
should encounter, his chief reason for re-
sisting her attachment Would be remov-
ed. Encouraged by this thought, and
more than ever transported by her love
since he had expressed a congenial senti-
ment—excited into emulation by the gen-
erous tone of his letter, and softened into
yet deeper weakness by its tenderness-—
she had resolved upon the bold step she
adopted. A vetturino lived near the
to of St. Sebastian: she had sought
im : and at the sight of the money
which Godolphin had sent her, the vellu-

rino willingly agreed to transport her to
whatever point on the road to Naples she
might desire; nay, even to keep pace
with the more rapid method of traveling
which Godolphin pursued. Early on the
morning of his departure she had sought
her station within sight of Godolphin’s
palazzo; and, ten minutes after his de-
parture, the veil-urine bore her, delighted
but trembling, on the same road. The
Italians are ordinarily good-natured, es-
pecially when they are paid for it; and
courteous to females, especially if they
have any suspicion of the influence of the
belle passion. The vetturino’s foresight
had supplied the deficiencies of her inex-
periencc: he had'reminded her of the
necessity of rocuring her passport: and
he undertook that all other difliculties
should solely devolve on him. And thus
Lucilla was now under the same roof
with one for whom, indeed, she was una-
ware of the sacrifice she made; but whom,
despite of all that clouded and separated
their after lot, she loved to the last, with
a love as reckless and strong as then—a
love passing the love of woman and dc-
fying the common ordinances of time.
* * >1: * * >1:
* * * a: * *
On the blue waters that break with a
deep and far voice along the rocks of
that delicious shore, above which the
mountain that rises behind Terracina
scatters to the air the odors of the eitron
and the orange—on that sounding and
immcmorial sea, the stars, like the hopes
of a brighter world upon the darkness
and unrest of life, shone down with a
solemn but tender light. On that shore
stood Lueilla and he—the wandering
stranger—~in whom she had boarded the
peace and the hopes of earth. I-Iurs was
the first and purple flush of the love
which has attained its object; that sweet
and quiet fullness of content—that heav-
enly, all subduing and subdued delight,
with which the heart slumbers in the ex-
cess of its own rapture. Care—the fore-
thought of change—even the shadowy
and vague mournfulness_of passion—are
felt not in those voluptuous but trariquil
moments. Like the waters that rolled,
deep and eloquent. before her, every feel-
ing within was but the mirror of an all-
gentle and clondless heaven. Her head
half reclined upon-the breast of her
young lover; she caught the heating of
his heart, and in it heard all the sounds


GUDOLPHIN.
85
,.____-I~.__-_- A.“ M
of what was now become to her the
world.
And still and solitary deepened around
them the mystic and lovely night. How;
divine was that sense and consciousnessi
of solitude! how, as it thrilled within‘
them, they clung closer to each other!—
“ Theirs, as yet, was that blissful and un-
sated time, when the touch of their hands,|
clasped together, was in itself a happi-
ness of emotion too deep for words. And
ever, as his eyes sought hers, the tears
which the sensitiveness of her frame, the
very luxury of her overflowing heart.
called forth, glittcred in the tranquil stars
a moment and were kissed away. " Do
not look up to heaven, my love,” whis-
pered Godolphin, “lest thou shouldst
think of any world but this 1 ”
Poor Lucilla! will any one who idly
glances over this page sympathize one
moment with the springs of thy brief
joys and thy bitter sorrow? The page
on which, in stamping a record of thee, I
would fain retain thy memory from oh-
livion; that page is an emblem of thy-
self: a short existence, confounded with
the herd to which it has no resemblance,
and then, amid the rush and tumult of
the world, forgotten and cast away for-
ever!

CHAPTER XXXIII.
RETURN TO LADY EKPINGHAM—LADY ER-
PINGUAM FALLS ILlr—LORD ERPINGHAM
RESOLVES TO GO ABROAD—PLUTARCH
UPON MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS—PARTY
AT l'IRPINGllAM llOUSB—SAVXLLE ON 50-
CIETY AND THE TASTE FOR THE LITTLE—
DAVID MANDEVILLE—WOMEN, THEIR IN-
FLUENCE AND EDUCATION—THE NEOES‘
SITY Ol!‘ AN OBJECT—RELIGION.
As,'after a long dream, we rise to the
occupations of life. even so, with an
awakening and more active feeling, I re-
turn from characters removed from the
ordinary world—like Volktman* and his



daughter—to the brilliant heroine of my
narrative.
There is a certain tone about London
society which enfeebles the mind without
exciting it; and this state of tempera-
went, more than all others, engenders
satiety. In classes that border upon the
highest, this effect is less evident: for
there—there is some object to contend
for. Fashion gives them an inducement.
They struggle to emulate the ten of their
superiors. It is an ambition of triflcs, it
is true; but it is still ambition. It
frets, it irritates, but it keeps them
alive. The great are the true victims
of ennui. The more firmly seated their
rank, the more established their position,
the more their life stagnates into insipi-
dity. Constance was at the height of
her wishes. No one was so courted, so
adored. One after one, she had humbled
and subdued all those who had, before
her marriage, trampled on her pride; or,
after it, resisted her pretensions: a look
from her had become a triumph, and a
smile conferred a rank on its receiver.
But this empire pulled upon her: of too
large a mind to be satisfied with petty
pleasures and unreal distinctions, she
still felt the somn'rumc of life was want-
ing. She was not blessed or cursed (as
it may be) with children, and she had no
companion in her husband. There might
be times in which she regretted her choice,
dazzling as it had proved; but she com-
plained not of sorrow, but monotony.
Political intrigue could not fill up the
vacuum of which Constance duin com-
plained; and private intrigue, the usual
solace of ladies of her ton—if not of her
rank—did not present to her any irre-
sistible allurement. When people have
really nothing to do, they generally fall
ill upon it; and, at length, the rich
color grew faint upon Lady Erpingham’l
check; her form wasted; the physicians
hinted at consumption, and recommended
a warmer clinic. Lord l'lrpinghum seized
at the proposition; he was fond of Italy;
he was bored with England.
Very stupid people often become very
' After all, an astrnlnger—nuy, a calm'isb—is not I0
Inonslmm a prodigy in the nineteenth century l In the
north of Europe many such \isionuric! may ye! he found :
even at Paris I have ulel—tin-l, doubtless, others li:|\'0——,
angry and enlhmimtic Iii-liners in nlll.llell~‘l“.1' In the|
year lbfll, Lackiuglon pllllliallud u qlmrln, enmledl
“ Hogan: .1 Complete Fyslein nl Ocoull Philosophy ;‘
"Illll'l: of Alchemy, ihn Uuhnlillic Ari, Natural and;
Celestial Magic," &.r~_—.-\ nd a very ilnpudenl. pnhliculiou
it in too. The: Raphael should put forth astrological
luuuall ll not a proof ufliin belief iu the science he pm- 1
knee; but that it should arm-um- tn Raphael lo put them
for! It, allow: a. tendency lo belief in his purchase".
1' Not: to flu prism: Miriam—This now was written
in 1833. Five years afterward grave physician: were
llcluriuv in London upon Animal Magnelhm. And my
friend, hlr. "are 'l‘ownshcml, a man to widen In: nature
and furlnm- in lo be above nll r'npiI-ion ol'imposlnre, has
just wril‘len a wry inlcrenling volume recording the suc-
cess of his own expelimenh as n Inngnztizl-r; experi-
menu in marvelous at any of the llltOlle ol' the astro-
lo‘m!


GODOLPIUN.
87
object, the more certain it is with us of
becoming the rage.‘ In the theater, we
runafter the farce; in painting,,wc wor-
ship the Dutch school; in—-"
“ Literature?” said Seville.
“No! our literature still breathes of
something noble; but why? Because
books do not always depend upon a
clique. A book, in order to succeed,
does not require the opinion of Mr.
Saville or Lady Erpingham so much as a
picture or a ballet.”
“I am not sure of that," answered
Saville, as he withdrew presently after-
ward, to a card-table, to share in the
premeditated plunder of a young banker,
who was proud of the honor of being
cheated by persons of rank.
In another part of the rooms Constance
found a certain old philosopher, whom I
will call David Mandeville. There was
something about this man that always
charmed those who had sense enough to
be discontented with the ordinary inhabit-
ants of the Mierocosm Society. The ex-
pression of his countenance was different
from that of others : there was a breath—
ing goodness in his face, an expansion of
mind on his forehead. You perceived at
once that he did not live among triflers,
nor agitate himself with trifles. Serenity
beamed from his look, but it was the
serenity of thought. Constance sat dowa
by him. I
“ Are you not sorry,” said Mandeville,
“ to leave England '.' You, who have
made yourself the center of a circle
which, for the varieties of its fascination,
has never, erhaps, been equaled in this
country '1 Vealth — rank — even wit—
others'might assemble around them: but
none ever before convened into one splen-
did galaxy all who were eminent in art,
famous in letters, wise in politics, and
even (for who but you were ever above
rivalship ?) attractive in beauty. I should
have thought it easier for us to fly from
the Armida, than for the Armida to re-
nounce the scene of her enchantment;
the scene in which Dc Stael bowed to
the charms of her conversation, and
Byron celebrated those of her person.”
We may conceive the spell Constance
had cast around her, when even philoso-
phy (and Mandeville of all philosophers)
ad learned to flatter: but his flattery
was sincerity.
“ Alas!" said Constance, sighin .
“ even if your compliment were six

together true, you have mentioned no-
thing that should cost me regret. Van-
ity is one source of happiness, but it does
not suffice to recompense us for the
absence of all others. In leaving Eng-
land I leavc the scene of everlasting
weariness: I an] the victim of a feeling
of sameness, and I look with hope to the
prospect of change.”
“Poor thing!” said the old philoso-
pher, gazing monrnfully on a creature
who, so resplendent with advantages, yet
felt the crumpled rose-leaf more than the
luxury of the couch. “Wherever you
go, the same polished society will present
to you the same monotony. All courts
are alike: men have change in action;
but to women of your rank, all scenes
are alike. You must not look without
for an object—you must create one with-
in. To be happy, we must render our-
selves independent of others."
Like all philosophers, you advise the
Impossible," said Constance.
“How so? Have not the generality
of your sex their peculiar object? One
has the welfare of her children; another
the interest of her husband; a third
makes a passion of economy; a fourth
of extravagance; a fifth of fashion; a
sixth of solitude. Your friend yonder is
always employed in-nursing her own
health: hypoehondria, supplies her with
an object; she is really happy, because
she fancies herSelf ill. Every one you
name has an object in life that drives
away ennui save yourself."
“ I have one too, said Constance,
smiling, “ but it does not fill up all the
spaces of time. The intervals between
the acts are longer than the acts them-
selves.”
" I 9 your object religion '2” asked Man-
deville, simply. .
Constance was startled: the question
was novel. “ I fear not,” said she after
a moment’s hesitation, and with a down-
cast face.
“ As I thought,” returned Mandeville.
"' Now listen. The reason why you
feel weariness more than those around
you, is solely because your mind is more
expansive. S all minds easily find ob-
jects: trifles amuse them; but a high
soul covets things beyond its daily reach;
trifles occupy its aim mechanically; the
thought still wanders restless. This is
the ease with you. Your intellect preys
upon itself. You would have been hap-


GODOLPHIN.
91
reproached him with a tender playfulness
for his truancy.
“Lucilla,” said be, when peace was
restored, f' what impressions does this
dreary and prophetic pause of nature, be-
fore the upgathering of the storm, create
in you? Does it inspire you with melan-
choly, or thought, or tear l”
“I see my star,” answered Lucilla,
pointing to a far and solitary orb, which
ung islanded in a sea of cloud, that
swept slowly and hlackly onward; “I see
my star, and I think more of that little
light than the darkness around it.”
“ But it will presently be buried among
the clouds,” said Godol hiu, smiling at
that superstition which {neilla had bor-
rowed from her father.
“But the clouds pass away, and the
star endures.”
“ You are of a sanguine nature, my
Lucilla.” Lucilla sighed.
‘-' Why that sigh, dearest '2"
“Because I am thinking how little
even those who love us most, know of
us! I never tell my disquiet and sor-
row. There are times when thou wouldst
not think me too warmly addicted to
hope I”
“ And what, poor idler, have you to
fear?”
“ Hast thou never felt it possible that
thou eouldst lovo me less 2”
“ Never l”
Lucilla raised her large, searching
eyes, and gazed eagerly on his face, but
in its calm features and placid brow she
saw no ground for augury, whether pro-
pitious or evil. She turned away.
“ I cannot think, Lucilla,” said Godol-
phin, “ that you ever direct those thoughts
of yours, wandering although they be, to
the future. Do they ever extend to the
space of some ten or twenty years Y”
“ No. But one year may contain the
whole history of my future."
As she spoke, the clouds gathered to-
ether round the Solitary star to which
Lucilla had pointed. The storm was at
hand; they lelt its approach, and turned
homeward.
There is something more than ordina-
rily fearful in the tempests that visit
those soft and garden climes. The un-
frequency of such violent changes in the
mood of nature serves to appal us as with
an omen ; it is like a sudden aflliction in
the midst of happiness, or a wound from
the hand of one we love. For the stroke

for which we are not prepared we have
rather despoudeuey than resistance.
As they reached their home the heavy
rain-drops began to fall. They stood for
some minutes at the easement, watching
the coruscations of the lightning as it
played oVer the black and heavy waters
of the lake. Lucilla, whom the influences
of nature always strangely and mysteri-
ously adeeted, clung pale and almost
trembling to Godolphin ; but even in her
fear there was delight in being so near to
him, in whose love alone she thought there
was protection. Oh ! what luxury so
dear to a woman as is the sense of de-
pendence! Poor Lucilla! it was the last
evening she ever spent with one whom
she Worshiped so entirely.
Godolphin remained up longer than
Lucilla: when he joined her in her room
the storm had ceased; and he found her
standing by the open window, and gazing
on the skies that were now bright and
serene. For in the deep stillness of mid-
night erept the waters of the lake, hlished
once more into silence, and reflecting the
solemn and unfathomable stars. That
chain of hills, which but to name awakens
countless memories of romance, stretched
behind, their blue and dim summits melt-
ing into the skies; and over one, higher
than the rest, paused the new-risen moon,
silvering the firs beneath, and farther
down, breaking, with one long and yet
mellower track of light, over the waters
of the lake.
As Godolphin approached, he did a
unconsciously, with a hushed and noise-
less step. There is something in the
quiet of nature like worship; it is as if
from the breathless heart of things went
up a prayer or a homage to the Arch-
Creator. One feels subdued by a still-
ness so utter and so august; it extends
itself to our own senSations, and deepens
into an awe. -
Both, then, looked on in silence, in-
dulging, it may he, difi'erent thoughts.
At length Lucilla said softly; “ Tell
me, hast thou really no faith in my father’s
creed? Are the stars quite dumb? Is
there no truth in their movements, no
gold in their luster r."'
“My Lucilla, reason and experience
tell us that the astrologers nurse a dream
that has no reality.”
“Reason! well! Experience! why,
did not thy father’s mortal illness hurry
thee from home at the very time in which


oononrnm. 93
received in answer; they were kind, af-
fectionate, but the something was want-
ing. “The best part of beauty is that
which no picture can express." That
which the heart most asks is that which
no words can convey. Honesty—patriot-
ism—rcligion—thcse have had their
hypocrites for life; but passion permits
only momentary dissemblers.
CHAPTER XXXV.
GODOLPIIIN AT ROME —THE CURE FOR A
HOBBID lDEALlST—IIIS EMBARRASSMENT
IN REGARD TO LUClLLA—TIIE RENCONTER
WITH AN OLD FRIEND -——THE COLOSSEUM
—A SURPRISE.
Gonoarmx arrived at Rome: it was
thronged with English. Among them
were some whom he remembered with es-
teem in England. He had grown a little
weary of his long solitude, and he enter-
ed with eagerness into the society of
those who courted him. He was still an
object of great interest to the idle; and,
as men grow older, they become less able
to dispense with attention. He was
leased to find his own importance, and
he tasted the sweets of companionship
with more gusto than he had yet done.
His talents, buried in obscurity, and un-
called forth by the society of Lucilla,
'were now perpetually tempted into ac-
tion and stimulated by reward. It had
never before appeared so charming a
thin to shine; for, before, he had been
sat-e5 with even that pleasure. New,
from long relaxation, it had become new;
vanity had recovered its nice perception.
He was no longer so absorbed as he had
been by visionary images. He had given
his fancy food in his long solitude and
with its wild comate; and, being some-
what disappointed in the result, the living
world became to him a fairer prospect
than it had seemed while the world of im-
agination was untried. Nothing more
confirms the health of the mind than in-
dulging its fav'orite infirmity to its own
cure. So Goethe, in his memoirs, speak-
ing of Werther, remarks, that “ the com-
position of that extravagant work cured
his character of extravagance.”
Godolphin thought often of Lucilla;
but perhaps, if the truth of his heart
were known even to himself, a certain

sentiment of pain and humiliation was
associated with the tenderness of his re-
membrance. With her he had led a life,
romantic it is true, but somewhat cffem-
inate; and he thought now, surrounded
by the gay and freshcning tide of the
world, somewhat mawkish in its romance.
He did not experience a desire to return
to the still lake and the gloomy pines:
he felt that Lucilla did not suflice
to make his world. He would have
wished to bring her to Rome; to live
with her more in public than he had hith-
erto done; to join, in short, her society
with the more recreative dissipation of
the world: but there were many obsta-
cles to this plan in his fastidious imagina~
tion. So new to the world, its ways, its
fashions, so strange and infantine in all
things as Lucilla was, he trembled to
expose her inexperience to the dangers
that would beset it. He knew that his
“ friends ” would pay very little respect
to her reserve; and that, for one so love-
ly and unhackneyed, the snares of the
wiliest and most subtile adep'ts of intrigue
would be set. Godolphin did not under-
value Lucilla’s pure and devoted heart;
but he knew that the only sure antidote
against the dangers of the world is the
knowledge of the world. There was
nothing in Lucilla that ever promised to
attain that knowledge: her Very nature
seemed to depend on her ignorance of the
nature of others. Joined to this fear,
and a confused sentiment of delicacy to-
ward her, a certain remorseful feeling in
himself made him dislike bringing their
connection immediately before the curious
and malignant world: so much had cir-
cumstance, and Lucilla’s own self-willed
temper and unealculating love, contribu-
ted to drive the poor girl into his arms;
and so truly had be chosen the generous,
not the selfish part, until passion and na-
ture were exposed to a tem tation that
could have been withstood y none but
the adherent to sterner principles than
he (the creature of indolence and feeling)
had ever clung to, that Godolphin, view-
ing his habits, his education, his whole
bias and frame of mind, the estimates
and customs of the world, may not, per-
haps, be very rigidly judged for the na-
ture of his tie to Lucilla. But I do not
seek to excuse it, nor did be wholly ex-
cuse it to himself. The image of Volkt-
man often occurred to him, and always in
reproach. Living with Lucilla in a spot
_'I‘


GODOLPHIN.
95
of the grotto and the green hill, could
stamp with a delicate and undying spell
the labors of man. Nor could the ruder
but august virtues of the heroic age give
to the tradition of the arch and column
some stirring remembrance or exalting
thought. Not only the warmth of fancy,
but the greatness of soul was gone: the
only triumph left to genius was to fix on
its page the gloomy vices which made the
annals of the World. Tacitus is the
historian of the Colosseum. But the
very darkness of the past gives to the
thoughts excited within that immense
pile a lofty but mournful character. A
sense of vastness, for which, as we gaze,
we cannot find words, but which be-
queaths thoughts that our higher facul-
ties would not willingly forego, creeps
within us as we gaze on this Titan relic
of gigantic crimes forever passed away
from the world.
And not only within the scene, but
around the scene, what voices of old float
upon the air! Yonder the triumphal
arch of Constantine, its Corinthian ar-
cades, and the history of Trojan sculp-
tured upon its marble alcove; the dark
and gloomy verdure of the Palatine: the
ruins of the palace of the Caesars; the
Mount of Fable, of Fame, of Luxury,
(the three epochs of nations); the habita-
tion of Saturn; the home of Tully; the
site of the Golden House of Nero! Look
at your feet—look around; the waving
weed, the broken column—Time’s wit-
ness, and the earthquake’s. In that con-
trast between grandeur and decay—in
the unuttcrable and awful solemnity
that, while rife with the records of past
ages, is sad also with their ravage, you
have felt the nature of eternity!
Through this vast amphitheater, and
giving way to such meditations, Godol-
hiu passed on alone the day after
his meeting with Saville; and, at the
hour he had promised the latter to
seek him, be mounted the wooden stair-
case which condncts the stranger to the
Wonders above the arena, and by one of
the arches that looked over the still pines
that slept afar off in the sun of noon, he
saw a female in deep mourning, whom
Saville appeared to be addressing. He
joined them; the female turned around.
and he beheld. pale and saddened, but
how glorious still, the face of Constance!
To him the interview was unexpected,
by her foreseen! The color flushed over

her check, the voice sank inaudible with-
in. But Godolphin’s emotion was more
powerful and uncontrolled: violent trem-
blings literally shook him as he stood;
be gasped for breath; the sight of the
dead returned to earth would have affect-
ed him less.
In this immense ruin—in the spot
where, most of earth, man feels the in-
significancc of an individual life, or of the
rapid years over which it extends, he had
encountered, suddenly, the being who had
colored all his existence. He was re-
minded at once of the grand epoch of
his life, and of its utter unimportanec.—
But these are the thoughts that would
occur rather to us than him. Thought
at that moment was an intolerable flash
that burst on him for an instant, and
then left all in darkness. He clung to
the shattered corridor for support. Con~
stance seemed touched and surprised by
so overwhelming an emotion; and the
habitual hypocrisy in which women are
reared, and by which they learn to con~
coal the sentiments they experience, and
affect those they do not, came to her as-
sistance and his own.
“It is many years, Mr. Godolphin,"
said she, in a collected but soft voice,
“since we met.”
“ Years! ” repeated Godolphin, vague-
ly. and appr: aching her with a slow and
faltering step. “ Years! you have not
numbered them ! ”
Saville had retired a few steps on Go-
dolphin’s arrival, and had watched with
a sardonic yet indifi'erent smile the proof
of his friend’s weakness. He now join-
ed Godolphin, and said,
“ You must forgive me, my dear G0-
dolphin, for not apprizing you before of
Lady Erpingham's arrival at Rome. But
a delight is perhaps the greater for being
sudden.”
The Word Erpingham thrilled displeas-
ingly through Godolphin’s veins; in some
measure it restored him to himself. He
bowed coldly, and muttered a few cere-
monious words: and, while he was yet
speaking. some stragglch that had be-
longed to Lady Erpingham’s party came
up. Fortunately, perhaps, for the self-
possession of both, they, the once lovers,
were separated from each other. But,
whenever Constance turned her glance to
Godolphin, she saw those large, search-
ing, melancholy eyes whose power she
well recalled, fixed unmovingly on her, as


96
GODOLPHIX.
seeking to read in her cheek the history
of the years which had ripened its beau~
ties—for another!
CHAPTER XXXVI.
DIALOGUE BETWEEN GODOLPHIN AND SA-
VILLE—CERTAIN EVENTS BXPLAINED—
SAVILLElli APOLOGY FOR A BAD HEART—
GODOLPIIIN'S CONFUSED SENTIMENTS FOB
LADY ERPINGIIAM.
“ Goon God!
more free!”
“ And did you not really know it ‘?—
Your retreat by the lake must have been
indeed seclusion. It is seven months
since Lord Erpingham died.”
“ Do I dream i” muttered Godolphin,
as he strode hurriedly to and fro the apart-
ment of his friend.
Seville, stretched on the sofa, diverted
himself with mixing snufl's on a little ta-
ble beside him. Nothing is so mournful-
ly amusing in life, as to see what trifles
the most striking occurrences to us ap-
pear to our friends.
“But,” said Saville, not looking up,
“ you seem very incurious to know how
he died, and where. You must learn
that Erpingham had two ruling passions
one for horses, the other for fiddlers. In
setting off for Italy, he expected, natur-
ally enough, to find the latter, but he
thought he might as well export the
former. He accordingly filled the vessel
with quadrupcds, and the second day
after landing he diverted the tedium of a
foreign elime with a gentle ride. He
met with a fall, and was brought home
speechless. The loss of speech was not-
of great importance to his acquaint-
ance; but he died that night, and the
Constance Vernon once

loss of his life wasl—for he gave
very fair dinners—ah! bah ! ” And Sa- I
ville inhaled the fragrance of a new,
mixture. ‘ I
Saville had a very pleasant way of ;
telling a story, particularly if it related
to a friend’s death, or some such agreea-
ble incident. “Poor Lady Erpinghaml
was exceedingly shocked; and well she
might be, for I don’t think weeds become
her.
away the remembrance of the deceased.”
“ Your heart has not improved, Saville.”.lis amusement ?
“ Heart! What’s that 'i 0b, a thing
servant-maids have, and break for John
the footman. Heart! My dear fellow, -
you are turned eanter, and make use of
words without meaning."
Godolphin was not prepared for a
conversation of this order; and Saville,
in somewhat a more serious air, con-
tinued : “ Every person, Godol hirr, talks
about the world! The worl ! it eon~
veys different meanings to each, accord-
ing to the nature of that circle which
makes his world. But we all agree in
one thing—the worldliness of the world.
Now no man’s world is so void of affec-
tion as ours—the polished, the courtly,
the great world: the higher the air, the
more pernicious to vegetation. Our
very charm, our very fascination, de-
pends upon a certain mockery; a subtile
and fine ridicule on all persons and all
things constitutes the essence of our
conversation. Judge if that tone be
friendly to the seriousness of the afl'ec-
tions. Some oor dog among us marries,
and househol plcheianisms corrupt the
most refined. Custom attaches the crea-
ture to his ugly wife and his squalling
children; he grows affectionate, and be-
comes out of fashion. But we single
men, dear Godolphin, have no one to
care for but ourselves: the deaths that
happen, unlike the ties that fall from the
married man, do not interfere with our
domestic comforts. \Ve miss no one to
make our tea, or give us our appetite-
pills before dinner. Our losses are not
intimate and household. We shrug our
shoulders, and are not a whit the worse
for them. Thus, for want of grieving,
and caring, and fretting, we are happy
enough to grow—come, I will use an
epithet to please you—hard-hearted!
We congeal into philosophy ; and are we
not then wise in adopting this life of ise~
lation and indifference?”
Godolphin,wrapped in reflection, scarce-
lyheedcd the voluptuary, but Seville con-
tinued: he had grown to that height in
loneliness that he even loved talking to
himself.
“ Yes, wise! For this world is so
filled with the selfish, that he who is not
so labors under a disadvantage. Nor
are we the worse for our apathy. If we
She came here by slow stages, in jest at a man’s misfortune, we do not do
order that the illustrious dead might chase lit to his face.
Why not, out of the ill,
which is misfortune, extract good. which
Three men in this room


GODOLPHI N.
97
are made cheerful by a jest at a broken
leg in the next: is the broken leg the
worse for it? No; but the three men
are made merry by the jest: is the jest
wicked, then? Nay, it is a benevolence.
But some cry, ‘Ay, but this habit of
disregarding misfortune blunts your wills
when you have the power to relieve
them.’ Relieve! was ever such delu-
sion '1 What can we relieve in the vast
mass of human misfortunes? As well
might we take a drop from the ocean.
and cry, ‘ Ha, ha! we have lessened the
sea!’ What are even your public chari-
ties ? what your best institutions “.7 llow
few of the multitude are relieved at all ;
how few of that few relieved permanently.
Men die, suffer, starve just as soon and
just as numerously; these public insti-
tutions are only trees for the public con—
science to go to roost upon. No, my
dear fellow, everything I see in the world
says, Take care of Myself. This is the
true moral of life; every one who minds
it gets on, thrives, and fattcns; they who
don’t, come to us to borrow money, if
gentlemen; or fall upon the parish, if
plebeians. I mind it, my dear GodoL
phin; I have minded it all my life; I
am very contented—content is the sign
of virtue—ah! bah !”
Yes; Constance was a widow. The
hand of her whom Percy Godolphin had
loved so passionately, and whose voice
even now thrilled to his inmost heart,
and awakened the echoes that had slept
for years, it was once more within her
owcr to bestow, and within his to de-
mand. What a host of emotions this
thought gave birth to! Like the coming
of the Hindoo god, she had appeared,
and, lo, there was a new world! “ And
her look," he thought, " was kind, her
voice full of a gentle promise, her agita-
tion was visible. She loves me still.
Shall I fly to her feet? Shall I press
for hope? And, oh ! what, what happi-
ness !-but Lurril/a !”
This recollection was indeed a barrier
that never failed to resent itself to every
rospcct of hope aniljoy which the image
of Constance colored and called forth.
Even for the object of his first love, could
he desert one who had forsaken all for
him, whose life was wrapped up in his
affection? The very coolness with which
he was sensible he had returned the at-
tachment of this poor girl, made him
more alive to the duties he owed her.

If not bound to her by marriage, he con-
sidered with a generosity—barely, in
truth, but justice, yet how rare in the
world—that the tie between them was
sacred; that only death could dissolve
it. And now that tic was, perhaps, all
that held him from attaining the dream
of his past life.
Absorbed in these ideas, Godolphin
contrived to let Saville's unsympathizing
discourse glide unhecded along, without
reflecting its images on the sense, until
the name of Lady Erpingham again
awakened his attention.
“ You are going to her this evening,”
said Saville; “ and you may thank me
for that; for I asked you if you were
thither bound in her hearing, in order to
force her into granting you an invitation.
She 0nl_.' sees her most intima friends--
you, I, and Lady Charlotte ‘)ecrham.
Widows are shy of acquaintance during
their first afiiiction. 1 always manage,
however, to be among the admitted:
caustic is good for some wounds.”
“Nay,” said Godolphin, smiling, “it
is your friendly disposition that makes
them sure of sympathy.”
“ You have hit it. But,” continued
Saville, “ do you think madame likely to
marry again, or shall you yourself adven-
ture'.’ lrpingham has left her nearly
his whole fortune.”
Irritated and impatient at Saville’s
tone, Godolphin roso. “ Between you
and me,” said Saville, in wishing him
good-by, "I don't think she will ever
marry again. Lady Erpingham is fond
of power and liberty; even the young
Godolphin—and you are not so hand~
some as you were—will find it a hopeless
suit.”
" Pshaw !" muttered Godolphin, as he
departed. But the last words of Saville
had created a new feeling in his breast.
It was then possible, nay, highly prob-
able, that he might have spared himself
the contest he had undergone, and that
the choice between Lucilla and Constance
might never be permitted him. “At
all events," said he, almost aloud, “I
will see if this conjecture be true: if
Constance, yet remembering our early
love, yet feeling for the years of secret
pining which her ambition bequeathed
me, should appear willing to grant me
the atonement fate has placed within her
power, then, then it will be time for this
self-sacrifice."


98
GODOLPIH N .
The social relations of the sex often
make men villanous—they more often
make them weak.

CHAPTER XXXVII.
AN EVENING wr'rn censuses.
Cossrsucs’s heart was in her eyes
when she saw Godolphin that evening.
She had, it is true, as Seville observed,
been compelled by common courtesy to
invite him; and although there was an
embarrassment in their meeting, who
shall imagine that it did not bring to
Constance more of pleasure than pain?
She had been deeply shocked by Lord
Erpinghai ’s sudden death: they had
not been ingenial minds, but the great
have an advantage denied to the less
wealthy orders. Among the former, a
husband and wife need not weary each
other with constant companionships;
difl'erent establishments, difiereiit hours,
different pursuits, allow them to pass
life in a great measure apart, _so that
there is no necessity for hatred; and in-
difference is the coldest feeling which
custom induces. .
Still in the prime of youth and at the
zenith of her beauty, Constance was in-
dependent. She was in the enjoyment
of the wealth and rank her early habits
of thought had deemed indispensable, and
she now, for the first time, possessed the
power of sharing them with whom she
pleased. At this thought, how naturally
her heart flew back to Godolphin! And
as she now gazed, although by stealth, at
his countenance, as he sat at a little dis-
tance from her, and in his turn watched
for the tokens of past remembrance, she
was deeply touched by the change (light
as it seemed to others) which years had
and the hair, grown thinner toward the
temples, no longer concealed, from its lux-
uriauce, the pale expanse of his brow.
The air of delicate health which at first
interested her in his appearance still
lingered, and gave its wanted and inefl'able
charm to his low voice and the gentle
expression of his eyes. By degrees, the
conversation, at first partial and scattered,
became more general. Constance and
Godolphin were drawn into it. .
“ It is impossible,” said Godolphin, “to
compare life in a southern climate with
that which we lead in colder countries.
There is an indolenee, a. laisses aller,
philosophic insouciance, produced by living
under these warm suns, and apart from
the ambition and the objects of our on
nation, which produce at last.a state of
mind that divides us forever from our
own countrymen. It is like living amid
perpetual music—a different kind of life
—a soft, lazy, voluptuous romance of
feeling, that indisposcs us to action—
almost to motion. So far from a sojourn
Iin Italy being friendly to the growth of
-ambition, it nips and almost destroys the
germ.”
“ In fact, it leaves us fit for nothing
,but love,” said Saville; “ an occupation
[that levels as with the silliest part of our
species."
“ Fools cannot love,” said Lady Char-
lotte.
“Pardon me, love and fully are syno-
lanymous in more languages than the
French," answered Saville.
“In truth,” said Godolphin, “the
l,love which you both allude to is not
worth disputing about.”
“ What love is 2'” asked Saville.

I “First love," cried Lady Charlotte;
\“ is it not, Mr. Godolphin it"
Godolphin changed color, and his eyes
ilmet those of Constance. She too :ighed
tand looked down : Godolphin remained
brou ht to him; and in recalling thejsilcut.
emotion he had testified at meeting her, ,'
“Nay, Mr. Godolphin, answer me"
she suffered her heart to soften, while it said Lady Charlotte; “ I appeal I"
re reached her, in whisierin “Thou on.
P l g, .l
art the cause!" All the fire, the ardor
of a character not then confirmed. which,
when she last saw him, spoke in his eye
and mien, were g-mc for ever. The
irregular brilliancy of his converse, the
earnestness of his air and gesture, were
replaced by a calm, an even, and a
melancholy composure. His forehead
was stamped with the lines of thought;
Y!)
“First love, then,” said Godolphin.
,endeavoring to speak composedly, “has
,this advantage over others: it is usually
idisappointed, and regret forever keeps
.it alive.”
The tone of his voice struck Constance
;to the heart. Nor did she speak again-
isave with visible effort, during the rest
lof the evening.


GODOLPHIN.
101
Constance was smitten to the heart.
She laid her hand gently on his arm, and
said in a sweet and soothing tone, “N0,
Percy, not too late 1”
At that instant, and before Godolphin
could reply, they were joined by Saville
and Lady Charlotte Deerham.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
LUCILLA’S LETTER—THE EFFECT IT PRO-
DUCES 0N GODOLPHIN.
Tun short conversation recorded in the
last chapter could not but show to Go-
dolphin the dangerous ground on which
his fidelity to Lucilla rested. Never be-
fore—n0, not in the young time of their
first passion, had Constance seemed to
him so lovely or so worthy of love. Her
manners now were so much more soft and
unreserved than they had necessarily
been at a period when Constance had re-
solved not to listen to his addresses or
her own heart, that the only part of her
character that had ever repulsed his
pride or ofl'ended his tastes seemed va-
nished for ever. A more subdued and
gentle spirit had descended on her ear-
passing beauty, and the change was of an
order that Percy Godolphin could espe-
cially appreciate. And the world, for
which he owned reluctantly that she yet
lived too much, had nevertheless scemed
rather to enlarge and animate the natu-
ral nobleness of her mind than to fritter
it down to the standard of its common
votaries. When she spoke he delighted
in, even while he dissented from, the
high and bold views which she conceived.
He loved her indignation of all that was
mean and low—her passion for all that
was daring and exalted. Never was he
cast down from the height of the imagi-
native part of his love, by hearing from
her lips one petty passion or one sordid
desire; much about her was erroneous,
but all was lofty and generous—even in
error. And the years that had divided
them had only taught him to feel more
deeply how rare was the order of her
character, and how impossible it was ever
to behold her like. All the sentiments,
faculties, emotions, which, in his afl'ec-
tion for Lucilla, had remained dormant,
were excited into full play the mo-
ment he} was in the presence of Con-
stance. She engrossed no petty portion
—she demanded and obtained the whole
empire—0f his soul. And against this
empire he had now to contend! Torn
as he was by a thousand conflicting emo-
tions, 8. letter from Lucille. was suddenly
put into his hands; its contents were as
follows:
LocrLLa’s LETTER.
“ Thy last letter, my love, was so short and
hurried, that it has not cost me my usual pains
to learn it by heart ; nor (shall I tell the truth ?)

have I been so eager as 1 once was to commit
all thy words to my memory. Why, I know
I not, and will guess not ; but there is something
sin thy letters since we parted that chills me;
they throw back my heart upon itself. I tear
open the seal with so much eagerness—thou
wouldst smile if thou conldst see me; and when
II discover how few are the words upon which
‘1 am to live for many days, I feel sick and dis-
appointed, and lay down the letter. Thou l
chide myself, and say, ‘ At least these few words
will be kind!‘ and I spell them one by one,
not to hurry over my only solace. Alas! before
il arrive at the end, I am blinded by my tears ;
lmy love for thee, so bounding and full of life,
iseems lrozcn and arrested at every line. And
i then I lie down for very weariness, and wish to
ldie. Oh God, if the time has come which I
l have alwnys dreaded—if thou shouldst no longer
love me! And how reasonable this fear is!
vl"or what am i to thee ’I How often dost thou
'complain that I can understand thee not ! how
often dost thou imply that there is much of thy
nature which I am incapable—unworthy—to
learn 1 If this be so, how natural is it to dread
that thou will find others whom thou wilt fancy
more congenial to thee, and that absence will
only remind thee more of my imperfections !
“ And yet I think that I have read thee to the
letter; I think that my love, which is always
following thee, always watching thee, always
conjecturing thy wishes, must have penetrated
into every secret chamber of thy heart ; only
I want words to express what I feel, and thou
layest the blame upon the want of feeling ! I
know how untulored, how ignorant I must
seem to thee ; and sometimes—and lately very
often—I reproach myself that l have not more
diligently sought to make myself a worthier
companion] to thee. I think, if I had the same
means as others, I should acquire the same faci-
lity of expressing my thoughts ; and my
thoughts thou couldst never blame, for I know
that they are full of a love to thee—which—no
not the wisest, the most brilliant whom thou
mayst see could equal even in imagination.
But I have sought to mend this deficiency since
we parted ; and I have looked into all the books
thou hast loved to read, and'l fancy that I have
t imbibed now the same ideas which pleased thee,
and in which thou once imaginedst I could not
sympathize. Yet how mistaken thou hast
been! I see, by the marks thou hast placed
on the page, the sentiments that more espe-
cially charm thee; and I know that I have
felt them much, oh! how much more deeply
and vividly than they are there expressed, only
they seemed to me to have no language: me-


102
GODOLPHIN.
thinks thatI have learned the language now.
And I have taught myself songs thou wilt love
to hear when thou rctnrnest home to me; and
I have practiced music; and I think—nay, I
am sure—that time will not pass so heavily with
due as when thou wnst lost here.
“ And when shall I see thee again 'l Forgive
me ifI press thee to return. Thou but stayed
away longer than thou hast been wont, but that
I would not heed ; it is not the number of days,
but the sensations with which I have counted
them, that make me pine for thy beloved voice,
and long once more to behold thee. Never be-
fore did i so feel thy absence or was so utterly
wretched. A secret voice whispers me that we
are parted for ever. I cannot withstand the
omens of my own heart. When my poor
father lived,l did not, child as I was, partake
of those sentiments with which he was wont to
say the stars inspired us. I could not see in
them the boders of fear and the preachers of
sad tidings; they seemed to me only full of
serenity and tenderness, and the promise of on-
during love ! And error, when I looked on
them, I thought of thee ; and thy image to me
then, as thou knowest it was from childhood,
was bright with unimaginable but never melan-
choly spells. But now, although I love thee so
far more powerfully,l cannot divest the thought
of thee from a certain sadness ; and so the stars,
which are like thee, which are full of thee, have
a sadness also ! And this. the bed, where every
morning I stretch my arms for thee, and find
thee not, and have yet to live through the day,
and on which Inow write this letter to thee,—-for
I, who used to rise with the sun, am now too
dispiritod not to endeavor to cheat the weary
day—I have made them place nearer to the
window; and I look out upon the still skies
over night. and have made a friend of every
star see. I question it of thyself, and wonder,
when thou lookest at it, if thou hast any thought
of me ! I love to look upon the banana much
more than upon the earth; for the trees, and
the waters, and the hills around, thou canst not
behold ; but the same heaven which I survey is
above thee also; and this, our common com-
panion, seems in some measure to unite us.
And I have thought over my father's lore, and
have tried to learn it—uay, thou mnyst smile,
but it is thy absence that has taught me super-
Itition.
“ But tell me, dearest, kindest, tell me when
--oh, when wilt thou return 7 Return only
this once, if but for a day, and I will never per-
secute thee again. Truant as thou art, thou
shalt have full liberty for life. But I cannot
tell thee how and and heavy I am grown, and
every hour knocks at my heart like a knell !
Come back to thy poor Lucille, if only to see
what joy is! Come, 1 know thou ilt ! But,
should anything I do not foresee detain thee,
fix at least the day—nay, if possible, the hour—
when we hall meet, and let the letter which
conveys such happy'tidings be long, and kind.
and full of thee, as thy letters once were. I know
IWeary thee, but Icannot help it. lam weak,
and dejected, and cast down, and have only
heart enough to pray for thy return.”
“ You have conquered—you have con-
quered, Lucille!" said Godol hin, as he
kissed this wild and reproac ful letter,

and thrust it into his bosom; “ and I—I
will be wretched rather than you shall
be so 1"
His heart rebuked him even for that
last sentence. This pure and devoted
attachment—was it, indeed, an unhappi-
ness to obtain and a sacrifice to return?
Stung by his thoughts and impatient of
rest, he hurried into the air; he traversed
the city; he passed St. Sebastian’s gate,
gained the Appia Via, and saw—lone and
somber, as of old—the house of the de-
parted Volktman. He had half uncon-
sciously sought that direction, in order
to strengthen his purpose and sustain
his conscience in its right path. He
now hurried onward, and stopped not un-
til he stood in that lovely and haunted
spot—the valley of Egeria—iu which he
had met: Lucilla on the day that he first
learned her love. There was a gloom
over the scene now, for the day was dark
and clouded: the birds were silent; a
heavy oppression seemed to brood upon
the air. He entered that grotto which
is the witness of the most beautiful love-
story chronicled even in the soft south.
He recalled the passionate and burning
emotions. which, the last. time he had been
within that cell, he had felt for Lucilla,
and had construed erroneously into real
love. As he looked around how differ-
ent an aspect the spot wore! Then
those walls, that spring, even that muti-
lated statue, had seemed to him the en-
couragers of the soft sensations he had
indulged. Now they appeared to reprove
the very weakness which hallowed them-
selves: the associations spoke to him in
another tone. The broken statue of the
river god—the desert silence in which
the water of the sweet fountain keeps its
melancholy course—the profound and
chilling solitude of tho spot—all seemed
eloquent, not of love, but. the broken
hope and the dreary loneliness that suc-
ceed it! The gentle plant (the capil-
laire) that. overhangs the sides of the
grotto, and nourishes itself on tho dews
of the fountain, seemed an emblem of love
itself after disappointment-_the love that
might henceforth be Lucilla’s—dronping
in silence on the spot once consecrated to
rapture, and feeding itself with tears.
There was something mocking to human
passion in the very antiquity of the spot;
four~and—twenty centuries had passed
away since the origin of the tale that
made it holy-and that tale, too, Was


104
GODOLPBIN.
for her children, among the vines and wa~
ter~falls of the ancient Tibur. And
Constance, as she listened to him, entran-
ced, until she herself unconsciously grew
silent, indulged without reserve in that
the proudest luxury of love—pride in the
beloved object. Never had the rare and
various genius of Godolphin appeared so
worthy of admiration: when his voice
ceased, it seemed to Constance like a
sudden blank in the creation.
Godolphin and the young countess
were several paces before the little party,
and they now took their way toward the
Siron’s Cave. The path that leads to
that singular spot is humid with an eter-
nal spray; and it is so abrupt and slippery,
that, in order to preserve your footing,
you must cling to the bushes that vege-
tate around the sides of the precipice.
“ Let us dispense with our guide,”
said Godolphin. “I know every part of
the way, and I am sure you share with
ever, dashed the might of the maddening
element; above, all wrath; below, all
blackness; there, the cataract, here the
abyss. Not a moment’s pause to the
fury, not a moment’s silence to the roar;
forward to the last glimpse of the sun,
the curse of labor and the soul of unut-
terable strength shall be upon these
waters! The demon, tormented to an
eternity, filling his dread dwelling-place
with the unresting and unearthly voice
of his rage and despair, is the only type
meet for the spirit of the cataract.
And there—amid this awful and tre-
mendous eternity of strife and power—
stood two beings whose momentary exist-
ence was filled with the master-passion
of humanity. And that passion was yet
audible there: the nature without could
not subdue that within. Even amid the
icy showers of spray that fell around,
and would have frozen the veins of
others, Godolphin felt the burning at his
me in dislike to these haekneyed indioa- heart. Constance was indeed utterly
tors and signposts for admiration. Let lost in a whirl and chaos of awe and ad-
us leave him to Lady Charlotte and Sa- l mirativn, Which deprived her of allwords.
ville, and suffer me to be your guide to| But it was the nature of her wayward
the cavern.” Constance readin enough | lover to be aroused only to the thorough
assented, and they proceeded. Saville.'l\'nowledge of his powers and passions
by no means liking the difficult and per-lamong the more unfrequent and fierce
ilous path which was to lead only to alexeitcments of life. A wild emotion
very cold place, soon halted, and suggest-‘now urged him on; something of that
ed to Lady Charlotte the propriety of turbulent exaggeration of mind which
doing the same. Lady Charlotte muehlgave rise to a memorable and disputed
preferred the wit of her companion’s eon- saying, “If thou stoodest on a precipice
versation to the picturesque: “Beside,” with thy mistress, hast then ever felt the
as she said, “ she had seen the cave he-E desire to plunge with her into the abyss!
fore.” Accordingly, they both waited: If so—thou hast loved!” No doubt the
for the return of the more adventurousiseutiment is exaggerated, but there are
countess and her guide. times when love is exaggerated too. And
Unconscious of the defalcation of her now Constance, Without kHOWing it, had
friends, and not-from the attention that clung closer and closer to Godolphin.—
every step required—once looking be-1 His hand at first—now his arm—sup-
hind, Constance continued. And now} ported her: and at length, by an irresis-
how delightful to her seemed that rugged! lible and maddening impulse, he clasped
way, as with every moment Godolphin’s! her to his breast, and whispered in a
care—Godolphin’s hand became necessa- l VOiOQ Which W38 heard by her even amid
ry; and he, inspired, inflamed by herl the thunder of the giant waters, “ Here,
company, by her touch, by the softnessi here, my early, my only love, I feel, in
of her manner and the devotion of her spite of myself, that I never utterly,
attention—no, no! not yet was Lucille: fully adored you until new! "
forgotten! i
And now they stood within the Siren’s
Cave. From this spot alone you can
view that terrible descent of waters
which rushes to earth like the coming of
a god! The rocks dripped around them, DREAM “in THE RESOLVE-
the torrent dashed at their very feet.— Warm! the above events, so fatal to
Down, down, in thunder, forever and for- Lucille, were in progress at Rome, she


CHAPTER XLI.
LUCILLA—THE SOLITUDE—TIIE SPELL—Tm


GODOLPHDI.
105
was holding an unquiet commune with
her own passionate and restless heart by
the borders of the lake, whose silver
quiet mocked the mind it had, in happier
moments, reflected. She had now drag-
ged‘on the weary load of time throughout
the winter; and the early and soft spring
was already abroad, smoothing the face
of the waters, and calling life into the
bougbs. Hitherto this time of the year
had possessed a mysterious and earnest
attraction for Lucilla—now all its voices
were mute. The letters that Godolphin
had written to her were so few and so re-
strained, in comparison with those which
she had received in the former periods of
absence, that—ever alive as she was to im-
pulse, aud unregulated by settled princi-
ples of hope—her only relief to a tearful
and spiritlcss dejection was in paroxysms
of doubt, jealousy, and despair.
On the day that she wrote that letter
to Godolphin which I have transcribed,
this painful tension of the nerves was
more than hitherto acute. She longed
to fly somewhere; nay, once or twice she
remembered that Rome was easily gain-
ed: that she might be there as expedi-
tiously as her letter. Although in that
letter only we have signified that Lucilla
had expressed her wish for Godolphin’s
return, yet in all her later letters she had
(although, perhaps, more timidly) urged
that desire. But they had not taken the
same hold with Godolphin; nor, while he
was playing with his danger, had they
produced the same energetic resolution.
Lucilla could not, however, hope with
much reason that the success of her pre-
sent letter would be greater than that of
her former ones; and, at all events, she
did not anticipate an immediate compli-
ance with her prayers. She looked for-
ward to some excuses and to some delay.
We cannot, therefore, wonder that she
felt a growing desire to follow her own
epistle to Rome; and although she had
been prevented before, and still drew back
from absolutely favoring and enforcing
the idea by the fear of Godolphin’s dis-
pleasure, yet she trusted enough to his
gentleness of character to feel sure that
the displeasure could scarcely be lasting.
Still the step was bold, and Lucilla loved
devotedly enough to be timid; and, be-
side, her inexperience made her look
u on the journey as a far more formida-
b e expedition than it really was.
Debating the notion in her mind, she

sought her usual retreat, and turned list-
lessly over the books which she had so'
lately loved to study. At length, in
moving one she had not looked into be-
fore, a paper fell to the ground; she
picked it up; it was the paper containing
that figure which, it will be remembered,
the astrologer had shown to his daugh-
ter as a charm to produce dreams pro-
phetic of any circumstance or person
concerning whom the believer might be
anxious to learn aught. As she saw the
image, which, the reader will recollect,
was of a remarkable design, the‘whole
of her conversation with Volktman on
the subject rushed into her mind, and
she resolved that very night to prove
the efiieacy of the charm on which he
had so confidently insisted. F ranght
with the chimerical delusion, she now
longed for the hours to pass and the
night to come. She looked again and
again at the singular image and the per-
tentous figures wrought upon the charm;
the very strangeness of the characters
inspired her, as was natural, with a be-
liet in their eflicacy; and she felt a thrill,
an awe, creep over her blood, as the
shadows of eve, deepening over the far
mountains, brought on the time of trial.
At length it was night, and Lucilla
sought her chamber.
The hour was exceedingly serene, and
the stars shone through the easement
with a luster that to her seemed wierd
and ominous. With bare feet, and only
in her night-robe, she stole tremblingly
across the threshold. She paused for a
moment at the window, and looked out
on the deep and quiet night; and as she
so stood, it was a picture that, had I
been a painter, I would have devoted a
youth to accomplish. Half in light,
half in shadow, her undress gave the out-
line, and somewhat more, of a throat and
breast, whose roundness, shape, and hue
never were surpassed. Her arms were
lightly crossed above her bosom; and
her long, rich hair, seeming darker by
that light, fell profusely, yet not dishev-
eled, around her neck, parting from her
brow. Her attitude at that moment was '
quite still, as if in worship, and perhaps
it was; her face was inclined slightly up—
ward, looking to the heavens and toward
Rome. But that face—there was the
picture! It was so young, so infantine,
so modest; and yet the youth and the
timidity were elevated and refined by the


106
GODOLPHIN .
earnest doubt, the preternatural terror,
the unearthly hope, which dwelt upon
her forehead, her parted lip, and her
wistful and kindled eye. There was a sub-
limity in her loneliness and her years, and
in the fond and vain superstition, which
was but a spirit called from the deeps
of an unfathomable and mighty love.—
And afar was heard the breaking of the
lake upon the shore—no other sound I—
And now, among the unwaving pines,
there was a silver shimmer as the moon
rose into her empire, and deepened at
once, along the universal scene, the love-
liness and the awe.
Lucilla turned from the window, and,
kneeling down, wrote with a trembling
hand upon the figure one word—the
name of Godolphin. She then placed it
under her pillow, and the spell was con-
cluded. The astrologer had told her of
the necessary co-operation which the
mind must afford to the charm; but it
will easily be believed that Lucilla requir-
ed no injunction to let her imagination
dwell upon the vision she expected to in-
voke. And it would have been almost
strange if, so intently and earnestly
brooding as she had done over the image
of Godolphin, that image had not, with-
out recurring to any cabalistic spells,
been present to her dreams.
She thought that it was broad noon-
day, and that she was sitting alone in the
house she then inhabited, and weeping
bitterly. Of a sudden the voice of G0-
dolphin called to her; she ran eagerly
forth, but no sooner had she passed the
threshold than the scene so familiar to
her vanished, and she was alone in an
immense and pathless wilderness; there
was no tree and no water in this desert;
all was arid, solitary, and inanimate. But
what seemed most strange to her was,
that in the heavens. although they were
clear and bright, there was neither sun
nor stars; the light seemed settled and
stagnant—there was in it no life.
And she thought that she continued to
move involuntarily along the waste; and
that, ever and anon, she yearned and
strove to rest, but her limbs did not
obey her will, and a power she could not
control urged her onward.
And now there was no longer an utter
dumbness and death over the scene.—
Forth from the sands, as from the bowels
of the reluctant earth, there crept, one
by one, loathful and reptile shapes; ob-

scene sounds rang in her ears—now in a
hideous mockery, now in a yet more sick-
ening solicitation. Shapes of terror thick-
ened and crowded round her. She was
roused by dread into action; she hurried
faster and faster; she strove to escape;
and ever, as she fled, the sounds grew
louder and the persecuting shapes more
ghastly; abominations which her pure
mind shuddered to behold presented
themselves at every turn: there was no
spot for refuge, no cave for concealment.
\Vearied and despairing, she stopped
short; but then the shapes and sounds
seemed gradually to lose their tenor;
her eye and ear became familiar to them;
and what at first seemed foes, grew into
companions.
And new, again, the wilderness was
gone; she stood in a strange spot, and
opposite, and gazing upon her with intent
and mournful eyes, stood Godolphin. But
he seemed much older than he was, and
the traces of care were plowed deeply
on his countenance; and above them
both hung a motionless and livid cloud;
and from the ground a gigantic hand was
stretched forth, pointing with a shadowy
and unmoving finger toward a quarter of
the earth which was enveloped in a thick
gloom. While she sought, with straining
eyes, to penetrate the darkness of the
spot thus fearfully marked out, she
thought Godolphin vanished, and all was
sudden and utter night—night, but not
stillness—for there was a roar as of many
winds, and a dashing of angry waters,
that seemed close beneath; and she
heard the trees groan and bend, and felt
the icy and rushing air: the tempesfl
were abroad. But, amid the mingling
of the mighty sounds, she heard distinct-
ly the ringing of a~ horse’s boots; and
presently a wild cry, in which she recor-
nized the voice of Godolphin, rang fort
adding to the wrath of nature the yet
more appalling witness of a human de~
spair. The cry was followed by the
louder dashing of the waves and the
fiereer turmoil of the winds; and then,
her anguish and horror freeing her from
the Prison of Sleep, she woke.
It was nearly day, but the serenity of
the late night had gone; the rain fell in
torrents, and the house shook beneath
the fury of a violent storm. This change
in the mood of nature had probaby in-
fluenced the latter part of her dream.—
But Lucilla thought of no natural solu-


108
GODOLPIIIN.
gone. I am not a vain man ; I do not deceive
myself; Ido not imagine, I do not insult you
by believing that you will long or bitterly feel
my loss. I have loved you far better than you
have loved me, and you have uncounted chan-
nels for your bright hopes and your various am-
bition. You love the world, and the world is at
your feet E And, in remembering me now, you
may think you have cause for indignation,—
Why, with the knowledge of a tie that forbade
me to hope for you, why did I linger round
you? why did I give vent to any word, or
icense to any look, that told you I loved you
still 7 Why, above all, on that fated yesterday,
when we stood alone, surrounded by the waters,
why did I dare forget myself—why clasp you
to my breast—why utter the assurance of that
love which was a mockery, ifl were not about
solemnly to record it!
“ This you will ask ; and, if you are not set-
isfied with the answer your pride will clothe my
memory with resentment. Be it so—yet hear
me! Constance, when, in my first youth, at
the time when the wax was Pet soft and the tree
might yet be bent—when Ilsid my heart and
my future lot at your feet—when you, at the
dictates of a worldly and cold ambition (disguise
the name as you will, the reality is the same),
threw me back on the solitary desert of life—
when you rejected, forsook me, do you think
that, although I loved you still, there was no
anger mingled with the love ! \Vo met again :
but what years of wasted existence—of dimmed
hope-of deadened emotion—had passed over me
since then 1 And who had thus marked them 7
You! Do you wonder, then, that something
of human pride asked for human vengeance?
Yes! I pined for some triumph in my turn: I
longed to try whether I was yet forgotten ;
whether the heart which stung me had been
stung also in the wound that it inflicted. \Vas
not this natural 1 Ask yourself, and blame me
if you can. But, by degrees, as [gazed on a
beauty and listened to a voice softer in their
character than of old—asl felt that you would
not deny me retribution, this selfish desire for
revenge died away, and, by degrees, all emotions
merged in one—unconquered, unconqnerable
love. And can you blame me if lhOIP-ll'ttllot'
to myself as to you—I lingered on the spot? if
Ihad many struggles to endure before I could
resolve on the sacrifice I now make? Alas ! it
has cost me much to be just. Can you blame
me if at all times I could not control my words
and louks’i Nay, eVen in our last meeting,
when I was maddened by the thought that we
were about to part foreVer—when We stood alone
-—when no eye was near—when you clung to
me with a delicious timidity—when your breath
was on my cheek—when the heaving of your
heart was heard by mine—when my hand
uched that which could give me all the world
in itself—when my arm encircled that glorious
and divine shape—oh Heaven! can you blame
me—csu you wonder ifl was transported beside
myself; if COllMlitfllCC, reason, all were forgot-
ten, and I thought. felt, lived but for the mo-
ment and for you? No. you will feel for the
weakness o'f nature; you will not judge me
harshly.
“ And why should you rob me of the remem-
brance of that brief moment, that. wild embrace?
How often shall I recall it ! How often, when
the light step of her to whom I return glides

around me, shall I cheat myself and think it
yours: when I feel her breath at night, shall I
not start and dream it comes from your lips?
and, in returning hcr unconscious caress, let me
——let me fancyit is you who whisper me the as-
surances ofunutterahle love ! Forgive me, Con-
stance, my yet adored Constance, whom I shall
never see more, for these wild words, this ino-
mentnry weaknew. Farewell I Whatever be-
comes of me, may God give you all his blessings!
“One word more—no, I will not close this
letter yet ! You remember that you once so
me a flower—years ago. I have preserve its
leaves to this day ; but I will give no indulgence
to a folly that will now wrong you and be un-
worthy of myself. I will send you back than
leaves: let them lead for me as the memories
of former days. must break off now, for I can
literally write no more. Imust go forth and
recover my self-command. And oh ! may she
whom I seek to-morrow—whose unsuspecting
heurt,admonished by temptation, I will watch
over, guide, and shield, far, far more zealously
than I have yet done—never know what it has
cost me not to abandon and betray her."
And Lucilla read over every word of
this letter! How wholly impossible it is
for language to express the agony, the
hopeless, irremediable despair, that deep-
ened within her as she proceeded to the
end! Everything that life had or could
ever have had for her of common peace
or joy, was blasted forever! As she came
to the last word, she bowed her head in
silence over the writing. and felt as if
some mighty rock had fallen upon her
heart and crushed it to dust. Had the
letter breathed but one unkind, one slight-
ing expression of her, it would have been
some comfort, some rallying point, how-
ever forlorn and wretched; but this cruel
tenderness—this bitter generosity I
And, before she had read that letter.
how joyously, how breathlesst she had
anticipated rushing to her lover’s breast!
It. scents incredible that the space of a
few minutes should suffice to blight. a
whole existence—blacken, without a ray
of hope, an entire future!
She was aroused by the sound of steps.
though in another apartment; she would
not now have met Godolphin for Worlds:
the thought of his return alone gave her
the power of motion. She thrust the
fatal letter into her bosom; and then, in
characters surprisingly distinct and clear.
she wrote her name, and placed that writ-
ing in the stead of the epistle she took
away. She judged rightly, that. that
single name would sufiico to say all she
could not. then say. Having done this,
she rose, left the room, and stole softly
and unpercoived into the open street.
_ __‘7<1'-_I__-<


110
GODOLPHIN.
turned home, in the faint hope that some
intelligence might await him there, his
servant hurried eagerly out to meet him
with a letter: it was from Lucille, and it
was worthy of her: I give it to the
reader.
wornm’s Ls'r'ran.
“I have read your letter to another! Are
not these Words suflicient to tell you all? All? no!
you never, never, never can tell how crushed
and broken my heart is. Why? Because you
are a man. and because you have never loved as
I loved. Yes,Godolphin, I knew thut I was
not one whom you could love. Iam a poor,
ignorant, untntored girl, with nothing at my
heart but a great world of love which I could
never tell. Thou saidst I could not comprehend
thee: alas! how much was there—is there—in
my nature, in my feelings, which have been, and
ever will be, unfathomable to thy sight!
“ But all this matters not; the tie between us
is eternally broken. Go, dear, dear Godolphin!
link thyself to that happier other one, seemingly
so much more thine equal than the lowly and
uncultivated Lucilla. Grieve not for ma ; you
have been kind, most kind to me. You have
taken away hope, but you have given me pride
in its stead; the blow which has crushed my
heart has given strength to my mind. Were
on and I left alone on the earth, we must still
6 apart; I could never, never live with you
again; my world is not your world; when our
hearts have ceased to be in common, what of
union is there left to us! Yet it. would be
something if, since the future is shut out from
me, you had not also deprived me of the past.
I have not even the privilege of looking back!
What! all the while my heart was lavishing it-
self npon thee—all the while I had no other
thought, no other dream but thee—nil the while
I sat by thy side, and watched thee, hanging on
thy wish, striving to foresee thy thoughts—all
the while I was the partner of thy days, and at
night my bosom was thy pillow, and I could not
aloe from the bliss of thinking thee so near me
y heart was then, indeed, away from me;
My thoughts estranged; I was to the only an
incumbrance, a burden, from which thy sigh was
to be free! Can I ever look back, then, to those
hours We spent together! All that vast history
of the past is but one record of bitterness and
shame. And yet I cannot blame thee ; it were
something if I could: in proportion as you loved
me not, you were kind and generous—and God
will bless you for that kindness to the poor or-
phun. A harsh word, a threatening glunce,I
never had the nfliiction to feel from thee. Truc-
ing the blighted past, I am only left to sudden
at that gentleness which never came from love!
“Go, Godolphin: I repeat the prayer in all
humbleness and sincerily. Go to her whom thou
lovest, perlmps us I loved thee; go, and in your
happiness I shall feel at last something of happi~
ness myself. We part forever, but there is no
tmkindncss between us; there is no reproach
that one cun make against the other. If] have
sinned, it has been against Heaven and not thee;
and thou—why, even against Heaven mine was
all the fault, the rashness, the madness! You
will return to your native land; to that proud
England, of w iich Ihave so often questioned
you, and which, even in your nustvers, seems to

me so cold and desolate a pot—a land so bos-
tile to love. There, in your new ties, you will
learn new objects, and you will be too busy and
too happy for your thoughts to turn to me again.
Too happy? No. I Wish I could think you
would be; but I, whom you deny to possess
sympathies with yon—I have at least penetrated
so far into your heart as to fear that, come what
may, you will never find the happiness you ask.
You exact too much, you dream too fondly not
to be discontented with the truth. What has
happened to me must happen to my rival—will
happen to you throughout life. Your being is
in one world, your soul is in another. Alas!
how foolishly I run on, as if seeking in your
nature, and not circumstances, the blow that
separates us.
“ I shall hasten to a conclusion. I have gained
a refuge in this convent; seek me not, follow
me not, I implore, I adjure thee; it can serve
no purpose. I would not see thee; the vail is
already drawn between thy world and me, and
it only remains, in kindness and in charity, to
bid each other farewell. Farewell, then! I think
I am now with thee; I think my lips have
breathed aside thy long hair, and cling to thy
fair temples with a sister’s—that word, at least,
is lefl. me—a ulster's kiss. As we stood together
at the gray dawn when we last parted—as then,
in sorrow and in tears, I hid my face in thy bo-
som—as then, unconscious of what was to come,
I poured forth my assurances of faithful, un-
swerving thought—as thrice thou toms! thyself
from me and didst thrice return—and as, through
the comfortless mists of morn, I gazed after
thee, and fancied for hours that thy last words
yet rang in my car, so now, but with c‘ifi'ereut
feelings, I once more bid thee farewell—farewell
for ever!"

CHAPTER XLIV.
conouam.
“No, signer, she will not see you i"
“ You have given my note—given that
ring ?”
“ I have, and she still refuses.”
“ Refuses! And is that all the an-
swer '! No line to—to soften the reply ?”
“ Signor, I have spoken all my mes-
sage.”
“ Cruel, hard-hearted ! May I call
again, think you, with a better success 1'"
“ The convent, at stated times is open
to strangers, signor; but. so far as the
young signora is concerned, I feel assured.
from her manner, that your visits will be
in vain.”
“Ay, ay, I understand you, madam:
you wish to entice her from the wicked
world; to sufi'er not human friendships
to disturb her thoughts. Good heavens!
and can she, so young, so ardent, dream
of taking the vail !"
“ She does not dream of it,” said the


GODOLPHIIL
111
nun coolly; “she has no intention of
remaining here long.”
“Befriend me, I beseech you I” cried
Godolphin, eagerly: “ restore her to me:
let me only come once to her within these
walls, and I will enrich your—"
“ Signor, good-day.”
Dejected, melancholy, and yet enraged
amid all his sorrow, Godolphin returned
to Rome. Lucilla’s letter rankled in his
heart like the barb of a broken arrow;
but the stern resolve with which she had
refused to see him appeared to the pride
that belongs to manhood a harsh and
unfeeling insult. He knew not that poor
Lucilla’s eyes had watched him from the
walls of the convent; and that while, for
his sake more than her own, she had re-
fused the meeting he prayed for, she had
not the resolution to deny herself the
luxury of gazing on him once more.
He reached Rome: he found a note on
his table from Lady Charlotte Deerharn,
saying she had heard it was his intention to
leave Rome, and begging him to receive
from her that evening her adieu. “ Lady
. Erpingham will be with me,” concluded
the note.
This brought a new train of ideas.
Since Lueilla’s flight, all thought but of
Lucilla had been expelled from Godol-
phin’s mind. We have seen how his letter
to Lady Erpingham miscarried: he had
written no other. How strange to Con-
stance must seem his conduct, after the
scene of the avowal in the Siren’s Cave:
no excuse on the one hand, no explana-
tion on the other; and now what expla-
nation should he give! There was no
longer a necessity, for it was no longer
honesty and justice to fly from the bliss
that might await him—the love of his
early-worshiped Constance. But could
he, with a heart yet bleeding from the
violent rupture of one tie, form a. new
one? Agitated, restless, self-reproach-
ful, bewildered, and uncertain, he could
not bear thoughts that demanded answers
to a thousand questions; he flung from
his checrless room, and hastened, with a
feverish pulse and burning temples, to
Lady Charlotte Deerham’s.
“Good God! how ill you look, Mr.
Godolphin!” cried the hostess, involun-
tarily.
“ 111! ha, ha! I never was better; but
I have just returned from a long journey:
I have not touched food nor felt sleep for
three days and nights. I! ha, ha! no,

I’m not ill; and with an eye bright with
gathering delirium, Godolphin glared
around him.
Lady Charlotte drew back and shud-
dered: Godolphin felt a cool, soft hand
laid on his; he turned, and the face of
Constance, full of anxious and wondering
pity, was bent upon him. He stood ar-
rested for one moment, and then seizing
that hand, pressed it to his lips, his heart,
and burst suddenly into tears. That
paroxysm saved his life; for days after-
ward he was insensible.
CHAPTER XLV.
THE DECLARATION ——THE APPROACHING
NUPTIALS.
As Godolphin returned to health, and,
day after day, the presence of Constance,
her soft tones, her deep eyes, grew on
him, renewing their ancient spells, the
reader must perceive that bourne to
which events necessarily tended. For
some weeks not a word that alluded to
the Siren’s Cave was uttered by either;
but when that allusion came at last from
Godolphin's lips, the next moment he
was kneeling beside Constance, her hand
surrendered to his, and her proud check
all bathed in the blushes of sixteen.
“And so," said Saville, “ you, Percy
Godolphin, are at last the accepted lover
of Constance, countess of Erpingham.
When is the wedding to be i"
“I know not,” said Godolphin, mu-
singly.
“ Well, I almost envy you; you will
be very happy for six weeks, and that’s
something in this disagreeable world.
Yet, now I look on you, I grow reconciled
to myself again ; you do not seem so
happy as that I, Augustus Saville, should
envy you while my digestion lasts. What
are you thinking of?”
“ Nothing,” replied Godolphin, vacant-
ly; the words of Lucilla were weighing at
his heart, like a prophesy working toward
its fulfillment; “ Come who! may, you will
never find the happiness you ask .' you
exact too much.”
At that moment Lady Erpingham’s
page entered with a note from Constance
and a present of flowers. No one ever
wrote half so beautifully, so spiritually as
Constance; and to Percy the wit was so
intermingled with the tenderness!


112
GODOLPHXH.
“ No,” said he; burying his lips among
the flowers, “ no! I discard the fore-
boding; with you I must be happy!”
But conscience, still unsileuced, whis-
pered Lucilla!
The marriage was to take place at
Rome. The day was fixed; and, owing
to Constance’s rank, beauty, and celeb-
rity, the news of the event created
throughout “the English in Italy” no
small sensation. There was a great deal
of gossip, of course, on the occasion; and
some of this gossip found its way to the
haughty ears of Constance. It was said
that she had made a strange match; that
it was a curious weakness in one so
proud and brilliant, to look no loftier
than a private and not very wealthy
gentleman; handsome, indeed, and re-
puted clever, but one who had never
distinguished himself in anything—who
never would!
Constance was alarmed and stung, not
at the vulgar accusation, the paltry sneer,
but at the prophesy relating to Godol-
phin: “ he had never distinguished him-
self in anything—he never would.”
Rank, wealth, power, Constance felt these
she wanted not, these she could command
of herself; but she felt also that a nobler
vanity of her nature required that the
man of her mature and second choice
should not be one, in repute, of that were
herd, above whom, in reality, his genius
so eminently exalted him. She felt it
essential to her future happiness that
Godolphin’s ambition should be aroused;
that he should share her ardor for those
eat objects that she felt would forever
6 dear to her.
“ I love Rome!” said she, passionately,
one day, as, accompanied by Godolphin,
she left the Vatican; “I feel my soul
grow larger amid its ruins. Elsewhere,
through Italy, we live in the present, but
here, in the past.”
“Say not that that is the better life,
dear Constance; the present—can we
surpass it ? ”
Constance blushed, and thanked her
lover with a look that told him he was
understood.
“ Yet.” said she, returning to the sub-
ject, “who can breathe the air that is
rife with glory, and not be intoxicated
with emulation? Ah, Percy l ”
“Ah, Constance! and what wouldst
thou have of me 1' Is it not glory enough
to be thy lover '2”

“Let the world be as proud of my
choice as I am.”
Godolphin frowned; he penetrated in
those words to Constance’s secret mean-
ing. Accustomed to be an idol from his
boyhood, he resented the notion that he
had need of exertion to render him wor-
thy even of Constance ; and sensible that
it might be thought he had made an alli-
ance beyond his just pretensions, he was
doubly tenacious as to his own claims.
Godolphin frowned, then, and turned
away in silence. Constance sighed; she
felt that she might not renew the subject.
But, after a pause, Godolphin himself
continued it.
“ Constance,” said he, in a low, firm
voice, “let us understand each other.
You are all to me in the world—fame,
and honor, and station, and happiness.
Am I, also, that all to you ‘.' If there be
any thought at your heart which whis-
pers you, ‘you might have served your
ambition better; you have done wrong
in yielding to love, and love only,’
then, Constance, pause; it is not too
late.”
“ Do I deserve this, Percy 'l”
“ You drop words sometimes,” answered
Godolphin, “that seem to indicate that
you think the world may cavil at your
choice, and that some exertion on my part
is necessary to maintain your dignity.
Constance, need I say, again and again,
that I adore the very dust you tread on?
But I havea. pride, aself-respect, beneath
which I cannot stoop; if you really think
or feel this, I will not eondeseend to re-
ceive even happiness from you: let us
part.”
Constance saw his lips white and quiv-
ering as he spoke; her heart smote her,
her pride vanished; she sank on his
shoulder, and forgot even ambition ; nay,
while she inly murmured at his sentiment.
she felt it breathed a sort of nobility that
she could not but esteem. She strove,
then, to lull to rest all her more worldly
anxieties for the future; to hope that,
cast on the exciting stage of English am-
bition, Godolphin must necessarily be
stirred, despite of his creed; and if she
sometimes doubted, sometimes despaired
of this, she felt at least that his presence
had become dearer to her than all things.
Nay, she checked her own enthusiasm,
her own worship of fame, since they clash-
ed with his opinions; so inarv'elously and
insensiny had Love bowed down the


eononrnru. 115
upon him more frequently than ever.— or taste in her character that a sensual-
bonstance had been inured for years to ist could have sneered at. Her heart
the most assiduous, the most devoted at- was wholly Godolphin’s; her mind was
tentions; and now, living much alone generous, sympathizing, lofty; her person
with Godolphin, she began somewhat to unrivaled in the majesty of its loveli-
miss them; for Godolphin could be a ness: all these, too, were Godolphin’s,
passionate, a romantic, but he could not and yet the eternal something was want-
e a very watchful lover. He had no pe- ing still.
tits coins. Few husbands have, it is “ I have brought you your hat, Percy,”
true; nor is it necessary for husbands in said Constance; “ you forget the dews
general. But Constance was not an or- are falling fast, and your head is uncov-
dinary woman; she loved deeply, but she cred.” '
loved according to her nature—as a wo- “ Thank you,” said Percy, gently (yet
man proud and exacting must love. For Constance thought the tone might have
Godolphin, her haughty step waxed tim- been warmer). “ How beautiful is this
orous .and vigilant; she always sprang hour! Look yonder, the sun's ray still
forward the first to meet him on his re- upon those immortal hills—that lone
turn from his solitary ramblings, and he gray tower among the far plains—the
smiled upon her with his wonted gentle- pines around—hearken to their sighing!
ness, but not so gratefully, thought Con- These are indeed the scenes of the Dry-
stance, as he ought. In truth, be had ad and the Faun. These are scenes
been too much accustomed to the eager where we could melt our whole nature
love of Lucilla to feel greatly surprised down to love: Nature never meant us
at any proof of tenderness from Con- for the stern and arid destinies we fulfill.
stance. Thus, too proud to speak, to Look around, Constance, in every leaf of
hint a complaint, Constance was never- her gorgeous book, how glowingly is
theless perpetually wounded, and by de- written the one sentence, ‘ Lovs AND BE
grees (although not loving her husband rurrr!’ You answer not: to these
less) she taught that love to be more thoughts you are cold.”
concealed. Oh, that accursed secretive- “They breathe too much of the Epi-
ness in women, which makes them always ourcan and his rose-leaves for me,"
belie themselves! answered Constance, smilingly. “ I love

Godolphin, too, was not without his better that stern old tower, telling of
disappointments. There was something glorious strife and great deeds, than all
so bright, so purely intellectual about‘ the softer landscape, on which the present
Constance’s character, that at times, debasement of the south seems written.”
when brought into constant intercourse! “ You and your English,” said Godol-
with her, you longed for some human,‘ phin, somewhat bitterly, “prate of the
weakness—some wild, warm error onidebasement of my poor Italians in a
which to repose. Dazzling and fair as! jargon thatIconfess almost enrages me.”
snow, like snow, your eye achcd to'(Constance colored and hit her lip).—
gaze upon her. She had, during the “Dchasement! why debasement? They
years of her ungcnial marriage, cul-lenjoy themselves; they take from life its
tivated her mind to the utmost; few just moral; they do not affect the more
women were so accomplished—it might violent crimes; they feel their mortality,
be, learned; her conversation flowed fur< follow its common ends, are frivolous,
ever in the same bright, flowery, adored contented, and die! Well, this is de-
stream. There were times when Godol- basement. Be it so. But for what
phin recollected how hard it is to read a would you exchange it ? Thehard, cold,
volume of that Gibbon who in a page is ferocious guilt of ancient Rome; the de-
so delightful. Her affection for him was testable hypocrisy, the secret villany,
intense, high, devoted; but it was whol- fraud, murder, that stamped republican
ly of the same intellectual, spiritualizeleenice'? The days of glory that you
order; it seemed to Godolphin t0 wantl lament are the days of the darkest guilt;
human warmth and fondness. In fact,:and man shudders when he reads what
there never was a woman who, both by1 the fair moralizers over the soft and idle
original nature and after habits, was so Italy sigh to recall! "
purely and abstractedly “mind” as was “ You are severe," said Constance,
Constance; there was not a single trait with a pained voice.


116
GODOLPHIN.
i
“Forgive me, dearest, but you are
often severe on my feelings.”
Constance was silent; the magic of
the sunset was gone; they walked back
to the house, thoughtful, and somewhat
cooled toward each other.
Another day, on which the rain for-
bade them to stir from home, Godolphin,
after he had remained long silent and
meditating, said to Constance, who was
busy writing letters to her political
friends, in which, avoiding Italy and
love, the scheming countess dwelt only
on busy England and its internal poli-
ties.
“ Will you read to me, dear Constance?
My spirits are sad to-day! the weather
affects them!”
Constance laid aside her letters, and
took up one of the many books that
strewed the table: it was a volume of
one of our most popular poets.
“ I hate poetry,” said Godolphin, lan-
guidly.
“Here is Maehiavel’s history of the
Prince ofLucca,” said Constance, quickly.
“Ah, read that, and see how odious is
ambition,” returned Godolphin.
And Constance read, but she warmed
' at what Godolphin’s lip curled with dis-
dain. The sentiments, however, drew
him from his apathy: and presently,
with the eloquence he could command
when once eXcited, he poured forth the
doctrines of his peculiar philosophy.—
Constanee listened, delighted and ab-
sorbed; she did not sympathize with the
thought, but she was struck with the
genius which clothed it. .
“Ah!” said she, with enthusiasm,
“why should those brilliant words he
thus spoken and lost forever? Why not
stamp them on the living page, or why
not invest them in the oratory that would
render you illustrious and them immor-
ml?"
“ Excellent!” said Godolphin, laugh-
ing: “the House of Commons would
sympathize with philosophy warmly ! ”
Yet Constance was right on the whole.
But the curse of a life of pleasure is its
aversion to useful activity. Talk of the
genius that lies crushed and obscure in
poverty! \Vealth and station have also
their mute Miltons and inglorious Hamp-
dens. Alas! how much of deep and
true wisdom do we meet among the tri-
flers of the world; how much that, in the
stern, middle walks of life would have
obtained renown, in the withering and
relaxed air of loftier rank dies away un-
heeded Z The two extremes meet in this,
the destruction of mental gifts. Godol-
phin was one among the many instances
of the evil influence and indolent aristoc-
racy creates, even upon its favorites.
M

CHAPTER XLIX.
THE RETURN TO LONDON—FANNY MILLIN-
GBlt—IIER. HOUSE AND SUPPER.
,IT was in the midst of spring and at
the ap roach of night that our travelers
enteref London! After an absence of
some duration, there is a singular emo-
tion on returning to the rear and tumult
of that vast city. Its bustle, its life, its
wealth-the tokens of the ambition and
commerce of the Great Island Race—-
have something of inconceivable excite-
ment and power, after the comparative
desertion and majestic stillness of Conti-
nental cities. Constance leaned restless-
ly forth from the window of the carriage
as it whirled on.
“ Oh that I were a man!” said she,
fervently.
“ And why ‘1” asked Godolphin, smil-
ingly. .
“ Why! Look out on this broad the-
ater of universal ambition, and read the
why. \Vhat a proud and various career
lies open in this free city to every citi-
zen! Look, look onder—the old her-
editary Senate, sti eloquent with high
memories.”
“ And close by it," said Godolphin,
sneering, “behold the tomb ! "’
“Yes, but the tomb of great men I"
Constance, eagerly.
“ The victims of their greatness.”
There was a pause; Constance would
not reply, she would scarcely listen.
"And do you feel no excitement,
Percy, in the hum andbustle—the lights.
the pomp of your native city ? ”
“Yes; I am in the mart where all en-
joyment may be purchased."
“ All, fy !”
Godolphin drew his cloak around him
and put up the window. “ These cursed
east winds !”
Very true—they are the curse of the
said

country I


GODOLPHIN.
119
“(.4 4
ite study was poetry, next philosophy.
Now, returned to my native country, rich,
settled, yet young, new objects arise to
me; not that vulgar and troublous ambi-
tion (which is to make a toil of life) that
Constance suggests, but a more warm and
vivid existence than that I have lately
dreamed away. Let luxury and pleasure
now be to me what solitude and thought
were. I have been too long the solitary,
I will learn to be social.”
Agreeably to this resolution, Godol-
phin returned with avidity to the enjoy-
ment of the world; he found himself
courted, he courted society in return.
Erpingham House had been for years the
scene of fascination ; who does not recol-
lect the yet greater refinement which its
new lord threw over its circles ? A deli-
cate and just conception of the fine arts
had always characterized Godolphin. He
now formed that ardor for collecting com-
mon to the more elegant order of minds.
From his beloved Italy he imported the
most beautiful statues—~his cabinets were
filled with gems—his walls glowed with
the triumphs of the canvas—the showy
but heterogeneous furniture of Erpiug-
ham House gave way to a more classic
-a.nd perfect taste. The same fastidious-
ncss which in the affairs of the heart had
characterized Godolphin's habits and sen-
timents,- characterized his new pursuits;
the same thirst for the ideal, the same
worship of the beautiful, and aspirations
after the perfect.
Erpingham House, celebrated as ever
for the beauty of its queen and the poll-
tical nature of its entertainments, receiv-
ed a new celebrity from its treasures of
art, and the spiritual wit and grace with
which Godolphin invested its attractions.
Among the crowd of its guests there was
one whom its owners more particularly
distinguished; Stainforth Radclyfl'e was
still considerably under thirty, but al-
ready a distinguished man. At school
he had been distinguished: at college
distinguished ; and now, in the world of
science, distinguished also. Beneath a
quiet, soft, and cold exterior, be concealed
the most resolute and ceaseless ambition ;
and this ambition was the governing
faculty of his soul. His energies were
nnfrittered by small objects; for he went
little into general society, and he espe-
cially sought in his studies those pursuits
which nerve and brace the mind. He

l
was a profound thinker, a deep political
economist, an accurate financier, a judge
of the intricacies of morals and legisla-
tion—for to his more book-studies he
added an instinctive penetration into
men; and when from time to time he re-
joined the world, he sought out those
most distinguished in the Sciences he
had cultivated, and by their lights cor-
rected his own. In him there was no- .
thing dcsultory or undetermined; his
conduct was perpetual calculation. Al-
ways occupied and always thoughtful, he
went, as 1 have just said, very little into
the gay world, and was not very well
formed to shine in it when there; for
trifles require the whole man as much as
matters of importance. a He did not want
either wit or polish, but he tasked his
powers too severely on great subjects
not to be sometimes dull upon small ones;
yet, when he was either excited or at
home, he was not without—what man
of genius is i—his peculiar powers of
conversation. There was in this young,
dark, brooding, stern man, that which
had charmed Constance at first sight;
she thought to recognize a nature like her
own, and Radclytfe’s venturous spirit
exulted in a commune with hers. Their
politics were the same; their ultimate
ends not very unlike; and their common
ambition furnished them with an eternity
of topics and schemes. Radclyfi'e was
Constance’s guest; but Godolphin soon
grew attached to the young politician,
though he shrugged his shoulders at his
opinions. In youth, Godolphin had been
a Tory; now, if anything, he was a Tory
still. Such a political creed was perhaps
the natural result of his philosophical;
belief. Constance, Whig by profession,
ultra-Liberal _in reality, still, _howeVer,
gave the character to the politics of the
house; and the easy Godolphin thought
politics the veriest of all the triflcs which
a man could leave to the discretion of
the lady of his household. We may
judge, therefore, of the quiet, complacent
amusement he felt in the didactics of'
Radclylfe or the declamations of Con-‘
stance.
“That is a dangerous, scheming wo-
man, believe me,” said the Duchess of
to her great husband one morning
when Constance left her grace.
“ N onsense! women are never danger-
ous.”


GODDLPHIN .
121
phim glad of an excuse, forewore castle
and pavilion forever, and left Constance
to enjoy alone the honors of tho regal
hospitality. The world would have in—
sinuatcd 'scandal; but there was that
about Constance's beauty which there is
said by one of the poets to belong to an
angel’s—it struck the heart, but awed
the senses.

CHAPTER L11.
BADCLYFFE AND GODOLPIIIN CONVERSE—
THE VARIETIES 0F AMBITION.
“Inon’r know,” said Godolphin to
Radclyffc, as they were one day riding
together among the green lanes that bor-
der the metropolis, “ I don’t know what
' to do with myself this evening. Lady
Erpingham is gone to Windsor; I have
no dinner engagement, and I am wearied
of balls. Shall we dine together, and go
to the play quietly, as we might have
done some ten years ago ‘3”
“Nothing I should like better; and
the theater—are you fond of it now 2‘ I
think I have heard you say that it once
made your favorite amusement.”
“ I still like it passably,” answered
Godolphin; “but the gloss is gone from
the delusion.
fastidious. I must have excellent acting,
an excellent play. A slight fault, a
slight deviation from nature, robs me of
my content at the whole.”
-“ The same fault in your character or-
vading all things,” said Radclyfl'e, half
smiling.
“ True,” said Godolphin, yawning;
“but have you seen my new Canova i”
“No: I care nothing for statues, and
Iknow nothing of the Fine Arts.”
“ What a confession 1”
“Yes, it is a rare confession: but I
suspect that the arts, like truffles and
olives, are an acquired taste. People
talk themselves into admiration where at
first they felt indifl'erence. But how can
you, Godolphin, with your talents, fritter
away life on these bawbles l”
“ You are civil,” said Godolphin, im-
patiently. “ Allow me to tell you that it
is your objects Iconsider bawbles. Your
dull, plodding, wearisome honors; a name
in the newspapers—~21. place, perhaps, in
the ministry, purchased by a sacrificed
I am grown mournfully -
youth and a degraded manhood—a youth
in labor, a manhood in schemes. No,
Radclyfl'el give me the bright, the glad
sparkle of existence; and ere the sad
years of age and sickness, let me at least
enjoy. That is wisdom! Your creed is
—but I will not imitate your rudeness l”
and Godolphin laughed.
“ Certainly,” replied Radclyfl‘e, “you
do your best to enjoy yourself. You live
well and fare sumptuously: your house is
superb, your villa enchanting. Lady
Erpingham is the handsomcst woman of
her time: and, as if that were not enough,
half the fine women in London admit you
at their feet. Yet you are not happy."
" Ay: but who is ?” cried Godolphin,
energetically.
“ I am,” said Radclyfl'e, dryly.
“ You! humph l"
“ You disbelieve me.”
“I have no right to do so: but are
you not ambitious? And is not ambi-
tion full of anxiety, carc—murtification
at defeat, disappointment in success?
Does not the very word ambition—that
is, a desire to be something you are not
-—prove you discontented with what you
are?"
“ You speak of a vulgar ambition,”
said Radclyfl'e.
“ Most august sage! and what species
of ambition is yours ‘2”
“Not that which you describe. You
speak of the ambition for self: my ambi-
tion is singular—it is the ambition for
others. Some years ago I chanced to
orm an object in what I considered the
lwslfare of my race. You smile. Nay, I
‘boast no virtue in my dream; but phi-
llanthropy was my hobby, as statues may
be yours. To eflect this object, I see
great changes are necessary: I desire, I
work for these great changes. I am not
lblind, in the meanwhile, to glory. I de-
lsire, on the contrary, to obtain it; but it
would only please me if it came from cer-
,tain sources. I want to feel that I may
‘realize what I attempt; and wish for that
‘glory that comes from the permanent
lgratitude of my species, not that which
lisprings from their momentary applause.
;Now I am vain, very vain: vanity was,
isome years ago, the strongest character-
vistic of my nature. I do not pretend to
iconquer the weakness, but to turn it to-
ward my purposes. I am vain enough to
lwish to shine, but the light must come

lfrom deeds I think reallylworthy.”


GODOLPKIN.
127
lost forever the two broad distinguishing
colors of their separate factions.
Mr. Canning died; and now, with re-
doubled energy, went on the wheels of
political intrigue. The rapid succession
of short-lived administrations, the leisure
of a prolonged peace, the pressure of
debt, the writings of philoso hers, all in-
sensibly, yet quickly, excited) that popu-
lar temperament which found its crisis in1
the Reform Bill.
CHAPTER LV.
THE DEATH OF GEORGE IV—TIIE POLITICAL
SITUATION OF PARTIES.
Tun death of George the Fourth was
the birth of a new era. During the later
years of that monarch a silent spirit had
been gathering over the land, which had
crept even to the very walls of his seclu-
sion. It cannot be denied that the vari-
ous expenses of his reign—no longer con-
secrated by the youthful graces of the
prince, no longer disguised beneath the
military triumphs of the people—had con-
tributed far more than theoretical specu-
lations to the desire of political change.
The shortest road to liberty lies through
attenuated pockets!
Constance was much at Windsor during
the king’s last illness, one of the saddest
periods that ever passed within the walls
of a palace. The memorialists of the
reign of the magnificent Louisle will
best convey to the reader a notion ofthe
last days of George IV. For, like that
great king, he was the representation in
himself of a particular period, and pre-
served much of the habits of (and much,
too, of the personal interest attached to)
his youth through the dreary decline of
age. It was melancholy to see one who
had played, not only so exalted, but so gal-
lant a part, breathing his life away; nor
was the gloom diminished by the many
glimpses of a fine original nature which
broke forth amid infirmity and disease.
George IV died: his brother succeed-
ed ; and the English world began to
breathe more freely, to look around, and
to feel that the change, long coming, was
come at last. The French Revolution,
the new parliament, Lord Brougham’s
return from Yorkshire, Mr. Hume’s re-

turn from Middlcsex, the burst of aston-
ished indignation at the Duke of Wel-
lington’s memorable words against reform,
all betrayed, while they ripened, the signs
of the new age. The whig ministry was
appointed; appointed amid discontents
in the city, suspicions among the friends
of the people, amid fires and insurrections
in the provinces; convulsions abroad, and
turbulence at home.
The situation of Constance in these
changes was rather curious; her intimacy
with the late king was no recommenda-
tion with the whig government of his suc-
cessor. Her power, as the power of fash-
ion always must in stormy times, had re-
ceived a shock; and as she had of late
been a little divided from the main body
of the whigs, she did not share at once in
their success, or claim to be one of their
allies. She remained silent and aloof;
her parties were numerous and splendid
as ever, but the small plotting réuniom
of political intriguers were suspended.
She hinted mysteriously at the necessity
of pausing, to see what reform the new .
ministers would recommend, and what
economy they would effect. The ,tories',
especially the more moderate tribe, began
to court her; the whigs, flushed with
their triumph, and too busy to think of
women, began to neglect. This last cir-
cumstance the high Constance felt keen-
ly, but with the keenness rather of scorn
than indignation; years had deepened her
secret disgust at all aristocratic ordi-
nances; and looking rather at what the
whigs had been than what, pressed by the
times, they have become, she regarded
them as only playingwith democratic coun-
ters for aristocratic rewards. She repaid
their neglect with contempt, and the si-
lent neutralist soon 'became regarded by
them as the secret foe.
But Constance was sufliciently the wo-
man to feel mortified and wounded by that
which she affected to despise. No post
at court had been offered to her by her
former friends; the confidant of George
the Fourth had ceased to be the confidant
of Lord Grey. Arrived at that doubt-
ful time of life when the beauty, although
possessing, is no longer assured of her
charms, she felt the decay of her personal
influence as a personal afl'ront; and thus
vexed, wounded, alarmed in her mid-
career, Constance was more than ever
sensible of the peculiar disquietudcs that
await female ambition, and turned with
sighs more frequent than heretofore to the


GODOLPHIN.
129
Here, child, give the paper to Godolphin;
he knows exactly what interests 9. man of
sense.”
“ ‘ Sale of Lord Lysart’s wines—’ ”
“ Capital 1” cried Saville : “that’s news
—tlud’s interesting!”
Fanny’s pretty hands returned to their
knitting. When the wines had been dis-
cussed, the following paragraph was
chanced upon :
" There is a foolish story going the
round of the papers about Lord Grey and
his vision: the vision is only in the silly
heads of the inventors of the story, and
the ghost is, we suppose, the apparition
of Old Sarum. By-the-way, there is a
celebrated fortune-teller or prophetcss
now in London, making much noise. We
conclude the discomfited tories will next
publish lzer oracular discourses. She is
just arrived in time to predict the pass-
ing of the Reform Bill, without any fear
of being proved an impostor.”
“ Ah, by-tbe-by,” said Saville, “ I
hear wonders of this soreeress. She
dreams and divines with the most singu-
lar accuracy; and all the old women of
both sexes flock to her in hackney-coaches,
making fo_ols of themselves to-day in
order to be wise to-morrow. Have you
seen her, Fanny ?”
" Yes,” replied the actress, very grave-
ly: “and, in sober earnest, she has start-
led me. Her countenance is so striking,
her eyes so wild, and in her conversation
there is so much enthusiasm, that she
carries you away in spite of yourself.—
Do you believe in astrology, Percy '3”
“ I almost did once,” said Godolphin,
with a half sigh; “ but does this female
seer profess to choose astrology in pre-
ference to cards? The last is the more
convenient way of tricking the public.”
“ Oh, but this is no vulgar fortune-
teller, I assure you," cried Fanny, quite
eagerly: “ she dwells much on magnetism;
insists on the effect of your own imagina-
tion: discards all outward quackeries;
and, in short, has either discovered a new
way of learning the future, or revived
some forgotten trick of deluding the pub-
lic. Come and see her, some day, Go-
dolphin.”
“ No, I don’t like that kind of impos-
ture,” said Godolphin, quickly; and,
turning away, he sank into. a silent and
gloomy reverie.
'-

CHAPTER LVII.
SUPERSTITION—ITS wosnsarur. arr-acre.
IT was perfectly true that there had
appeared in London a person of the fe-
male sex, who, during the last few years,
had been much noted on the Continent
for the singular boldness with which she
promulgated the wildest doctrines, and
the supposed felicity which had at-
tended her vaticinations. She professed
belief in all the dogmas that preceded the
dawn of modern philosophy; and a atrange,
vivid, yet gloomy eloquence that pervaded
her language, gave effect to theories
which, while incomprehensible to the many,
were-alluring to the few. None knew her
native country, although she was believed
to come from the North of Europe. Her
way of life was lone, her habits eccentric;
she sought no companionship; she was
beautiful, but not of this earth’s beauty;
men admired, but courted not; she, at
least lived apart from the reach of human
passions. In fact, the strange Liehbur,
for such was the name the prophetess
was known by (and she assumed before
it the French title of Madame), was not
an impostor, but a fanatic; the chords of
the brain were touched, and the soundv
they gave back was crring and imperfect.
She was mad, but with a certain method
in her madness ; acold, and preternatural,
and fearful spirit abode within her, and
spake from her lips; its voice froze her-
self, and she was more awed by her own
oracles than her listeners themselves.
In Vienna and in Paris her re-
nown was great, and even terrible; the
greatest men in those capitals had con-
sulted her, and spoke of her decrees with
a certain reVerence; her insanity thrilled
them, and they mistook the cause. Be-
side, on the main, she was right in the
principle she addressed: she worked on
the imagination, and the imagination af-
terward fulfilled what she predicted.—
Every one knows what dark things may be
done by our own fantastic pcrsuasions; bc~
lief ensures the miracles it credits. Men
dream they shall die within -a certain
hour; the hour comes, and the dream is
realized. The most potent wizardries are
less potent than fancy itself. Macbeth
. was a murderer, not because the witches
predicted, but because their prediction


132
GODOLPHIN.
and ' generous. The aeuteness of his
reason permitted him no self-sophistries ;
and he would have laid his head on the
block rather than breathe a word of that
love which he knew, from the moment it
was confessed, would become unworthy
of Constance and himself.
There was a pause. Lady Erpingham,
ashamed, confounded at her own weak-
ness, recovered herself slowly and in si-
‘lenee. Radelyfl'e at length spoke, and
his voice, at first trembling and indistinct,
grew, as he proceeded, clear and earnest.
“ Never,” said he, “ shall I forget the
confidence your emotions have testified
in nay—my friendship; I am about to
deserve it. Do not, my dear friend (let
me so call you), do not forget that life is
too short for misunderstandings in which
happiness is concerned. You believe
that—that Godolphin does not repay the
affection you have borne him: do not be
angry, dear Lady Erpingham; I feel it
indelicate in me to approach that subject,
but my regard for you emboldens me. I
know Godolphin’s heart; he may seem
light, negleetful, but he loves you as
deeply as ever; he loves you entirely.”
Constance, humbled as she was, lis-
tened in breathless silence; her cheek
burned with blushes, and those blushes
were at once to Radelyffe a torture and a
reward.
“ At this moment,” continued he, with
constrained calmness, “at this moment
he fancies in you that very coldness you
lament in him. Pardon me, Lady Er-
pingham, but Godolphin’s nature is way-
ward, mysterious, and exacting. Have
you consulted, have you studied it sufii-
ciently? Note it well, soothe it; and if
his love can repay you, you will be re-
paid. God bless you, dearest Lady Er-
pinghaml”
In a moment more Radclyfi'e had left
the apartment.
“WWW,
CHAPTER LIX.
eossnscn mus A nrscovear rns'r
roocrms arm aNLreH'rans nan as To
coaotrnm’s naroaa.
Ir Constance most bitterly re roached
herself, or, rather, her slackene nerves,
her breaking health, that she had before
another -that other, too, not of her own
sex—betrayed her dependence upon even
her husband’s heart for happiness; if her
conscience instantly took alarm at the
error (and it was indeed a grave one)
which had revealed to any man her do-
mestic gricfs; yet, on the other hand,
she could not control the wild thrill of
delight with which she recalled those
words that had so solemnly assured her
she was still beloved by Godolphin. She
had a firm respect in Radclyfi'e’s pene-
tration and his sincerity, and knew that
he was one neither to deceive her nor be
deceived himself: his advice, too, came
home to her. Had she, indeed, with suf-
ficient address, sufficient softness, insi-
nuated herself into Godnlphin’s nature!
Neglected herself, had she not neglected
in return ? She asked herself this ques-
tion, and was never weary of examining
her past conduct.
Many, and soft, and sweet were now
the recollections of Constance. Her
heart flew back to her early love among
the shades of Wendover; to the first
confession of the fair enthusiastic boy,
when he offered at her shrine a mind, a
genius, a heart capable of fruits which
the indolcnce of after life and the lethar-
gy of disappointed hope had blighted be-
fore their time.
If he was now so .deaf to what she con-
sidered the nobler, because more stirring
excitements of life, was she not in some
measure answerable for the supineness‘?
Had there not been a day in which he
had vowed to toil, to labor, to sacrifice
the very character of his mind for a
union with her? Was she, after all, was
she right to adhere so rigidly to her
father’s dying words, and to that row
afterward confirmed by her own pride
and bitterness of soul? She looked to
her father’s portrait for an answer; and
that daring and eloquent face seemed, for
the first time, cold and unanswering to
her appeal. »
In such meditations the hours passed
and midnight came on without Constance
having quitted her apartment. She now
summoned her woman, and inquired if
Godolphin was at home. He had come
in about an hour since, and, complaining
of fatigue. had retired to rest. Con-
stance again dismissed her maid and stole
to his apartment. He was already
asleep; his cheek rested on his arm, and
his hair fell wildly over a brew that now

worked under the influence of his dreams.


134
GODOLPHIN.
said he, kindly; “ is it a blow to the party
you hate and I sympathize with, or—”
“ My father!” interrupted Constance,
passionately, “ would to Heaven he had
seen this day! It was this system, the
patron and the nominee system, that
crushed, and dcbused, and killed him.
And now I shall see that system de-
stroyed !"
“ So, then, my Constance, you will go
over to the Whigs in earnest ?”
“Yes, because I shall meet there truth
and the people I”
Godolphin laughed gently at the French
exaggeration of the saying, and Con-
stance forgave him.
The fine ladies of London were a little
divided as to the merits of the “Bill ; ”
Constance was the first that declared in
its favor. She was an important ally—
as important, at least, as a woman can
be. A bright spirit reigned in her eye;
her step grew more elastic, her voice more
glad. This was the happiest time of her
life: she was happy in the renewal of her
love, happy in the approaching triumph
of her hate.

MW
CHAPTER LXI.
THE SOLILOQUY OF THE SOOTH'SAYER—AN
BPISODICAL MYSTERY.
IN Leicester Square there is a dim old
house, which I have but this instant ris-
ited, in order to bring back more vividly
to my recollection the wild and unhappy
being who for Some short time inhabited
its old-fashioned and, gloomy chambers.
In that house, at the time I now speak
of, lodged the iziysterious Liehbur. It
was late at noon, and she sat alone in her
apartment, which was darkened so as to
1sion, whence the lord had departed, and
where spirits not of this common life had
taken up their haunted and desolate
abode. And never was there a counte-
|nancc better suited to the character which
‘this singular woman had assumed. Rich,
thick auburn hair was parted loosely over
a brew in which the large and full tem-
ples would have betrayed to a phren-do-
gist the great preponderance which the
dreaming and the imaginative bore over
the sterner faculties. You might see,
when her features were, as now, in a mo-
mentary repose, that her health was bro~
ken, and that she was not long sentenced
to wander over that world where the soul
had already ceased to find its home; but
the instant she spoke, her color deepened,
and the brilliant and rapid alternations
of her countenance deceived the eye, and
concealed the ravages of the worm that
preyed within.
“Yes,” said she, at last breaking si~
lence, and soliloquizing in the English
tongue, but with somewhat of a foreign
accent; “ yes, I am in his city—within a
few paces of his home; I have seen him,
I have heard him. Night after night—in
rain, and in the teeth of the biting winds,
I have wandered round his home. Ay!
and I could have raised my voice, and
shricked a warning and a prophesy that
should have startled him from his sleep as
the trumpet of the last angel! but I
hushed the sound within my soul. and
c'overed the vision with a thick silence.
Oh, God! what have I seen, and felt, and
known, since be last saw me! But we
shall meet again; and, ere the year has
‘rolled round, I shall feel the touch of his
‘lips and die! Die! what calmness, what
luxury in the world! The fiery burden
of this dread knowledge I have heaped
upon me, shuflled 05'; memory no more;
the past, the present, the future, exor-

exclude the broad and peering sun. There ; cised; and a long sleep, with bright
was no trick, nor sign of the fallacious art ‘ dreams of a lulling sky, and a. silver voice.
she professed, visible .in the large and'and his presence !”
melancholy room. One or two books inl The door opened, and a black girl of
the German language lay on the table labout ten years old, in the costume of her
beside which she sat; but they were of Moorish tribe, announced the arrival of a
the recent poetry, and not of the dcpart- Inew visitor. The countenance of Mr
ed dogmas, of the genius of that tongue. dame Liehbur changed at once into an
The enthusiast was alone; and with hertexpression of cold and settled calmness;
hand supporting her chin, and her cycslhe ordered the visitor to be admitted
fixed on vacancy, she seemed feeding inland presently StainforthBadclyfle enter-

silenee the thoughts that fiitted to and'ed the room.
fro athwart a brain which had for years * * * * *
lost its certain guide; a deserted man- * * * * =I


142
GODOB PHIN.
the storms, but unheeding the breeze and
the surge that would appal the indivi-
dual efl'ort. The larger public objects
make us glide smoothly and unfelt over
our minor private griefs. To be happy,
my dear Godolphin, you must forget
yourself. Your refining and poetical
temperament preys upon your content.
Learn benevolence—it is the only cure to
a morbid nature.”
Godolphin was greatly struck by this
answer of Radclytle; the more so, as he
had a deep faith in the unaffected sincer-
ity and the calculating wisdom of his ad-
viser. He looked hard in Radclyffe’s
face, and after a pause of some moments,
replied slowly, “ I believe you are right,
after all; and I have learned, in a few
short sentences, the secret of a discon-
tented life."
Godolphin would have sought other
opportunities of conversing with Red-
clyffe, but events soon parted them.
Parliament was dissolved! What an his-
torical event is recorded in those words!
The moment the king consented to that
measure, the whole series of subsequent
events became, to an ordinary prescience,
clear as in a. mirror. Parliament dis-
solved in the heat of the popular enthusi-
asm, a majority, a great majority of Re-
formers was sure to be returned.
Constance perceived at a glance the
whole train of consequences issuing from
that one event; perceived and cxulted. A
glory had gone forever from the party she
abhorred. Her father was already aveng-
ed. She heard his scornful laugh ring forth
from the depths of his forgotten grave!
London emptied itself at once. Eng
land was one election. Godolphin re-
mained almost alone. For the first time
a sense of littleness crept over him; a
feeling of insignificance, which wounded
and gelled his vain nature. In these
great struggles he was nothing. The
admired, the cultivated, the spiriluel, the
splendid Godolphin, sank below the com-
monest adventurer, the coarsest brawlcr;
yea. the humblest freeman, who felt his
stake in the state, joined the canvass,
swelled the cry, and helped in the mighty
battle between old things and new, which
was so resolutely begun. This feeling
gave an impetus to the growth of the
new uspirings he had already sufi'ercd his
mind to generate ; and Constance marked,
with vivid delight, that he now listened
to her plans with interest, and examined
the olitical field with a curious and
searc ing gaze.
But she was soon condemned to a dis-
appointment proportioned to her delight.
Though Godolphin had hitherto taken no
interest in party politics, his prejudices,
his feelings, his habits of mind were all
the reverse of democratic. \Vbcn he
once began to examine the bearings of
the momentous question that agitated
England, he was not slow in coming to
conclusions which threatened to produm
a permanent disagreement between Con-
stance and himself.
“ You wish me to enter Parliament
my dear Constance,” said he, with his
lquict smile; “ it would be an experiment
dangerous to the union re-established
between us. I should vote against your
Bill.”
“You!” exclaimed Constance, with
warmth. “Is it possible that you can
sympathize with the fears of a selfish
oligarchy—with the cause of the mer-
chants and traffickers of the plainest
right of a free people—the right to select
their representatives '1”
“ My dear Constance,” returned Go-
dolphin, “ my whole theory of government
is aristocratic. The right of the people
to choose representatives l—you may as
well any the right of the people to choose
kings, or magistrates and judges—or
clergymen and archbishops ! The people
have, it is true, the abstract and original
right to choose all these, and every year
to chop and change them as they please.
But the people, very properly, in all
states mortgage their elementary rights
for one catholic and practical right—the
right to be well governed. It may be no
more to the advantage of the state that
the people (that is, the majority, the
pulses) should elect, uncontrolled, all the
members of the House of Commons, than
that they should elect all the pastors of
their religion. The sole thirg we have
to consider is, will they be better go-
verned l”
“ Unquestionably,” said Constance.
“Unquestionahlyl \Vell, I question
it. I foresee a more even balance of
parties—nothing more. When parties
are evenly balanced, states tremble. In
good government there should be some-
rwhere suilicicnt power to carry on. not
unexamincd, but at least with vigor, the
[different operations of government itself.
I .
;In free countries, therefore, one party

l

4


GODOLPHIN.
149
piness for us below ? Is the pain always
to tread the heels of pleasure? Are we
never to say the harbor is reached, and
we are safe? No, my Constance,” he
added, warming into the sanguine vein
that traversed even his most desponding
moods; “ no! let us not cherish this dark
belief; there is no experience for the fu-
ture; one hour lies to the next: if what
has been seem thus checkered, it is no
type of what may be. We have discov-
ered in each other that world that was
long lost to our eyes: we cannot lose it
again: death only can separate us! ”
“Ah, death! ” said Constance, shud-
dering.
“ Do not recoil at that word, my Con-
stance, for we are yet in the noon of life;
why bring, like the Egyptian, the specter
to the feast? And, after all, if death
come while we thus love, it is better than
change and time—better than custom
which palls—better than age which chills.
“ 0h 1 ” continued Godolphin, passion-
ately, “oh! if this narrow shoal and
sand of time be but a breathing-spth in
the great heritage of immortality, why
cheat ourselves with words so vague as
life and death! What is the difference?
At most, the entrance in and the depart-
ure from one scene in our wide career.
How many scenes are left to us! We do
but hasten our journey, not close it. Let
us believe this, Constance, and cast from
us all fear of our disunion.”
As he spoke, Constance’s eyes were
fixed upon his face, and the deep calm
that reigned there sank into her soul and
silenced its murmurs. The thought of
futurity is that which Godolphin (be-
cause it is so with all idealists) must have
revolved with the most frequent fervor;
but it was a thought that he so rarely
touched upon, that it was the first and
only time Constance ever heard it breath-
ed from his lips.
They turned into the house; and the
mark is still in that page of the volume
which theé' read where the melodious ac-
cents of odolphin died upon the heart
of Constance. Can she ever turn to it
again i

CHAPTER LXVIII.
THE LAST CONVERSATION BETWEEN GODOL-
PHIN AND OONSTANCE—HIS THOUGHTS
AND SOLITARY WALK—THE LETTER.—
THE DEPARTURE.
THEY had denied themselves to all the
visitors that had attacked the Priory;
but, on their first arrival, they had deem-
ed it necessary to couciliate their neigh-
bors by concentrating into one formal act
of hospitality all these social courtesies
which they could not persuade themselves
to relinquish their solitude in order singly
to perform. Accordingly, a day had been
fixed for one grand fite at the Priory; it
was to follow close on the election, and
be considered as in honor of that event.
The evening for this gala succeeded that
which I have recorded in the last chap-
ter. It was with great .reluctance that
they prepared themselves to greet this
sole interruption of their seclusion; and
they laughed, although they did not laugh
cordially, at the serious annoyance which
the giving a ball was for the first time to
occasion to persons who had been almost
doing nothing else but giving balls for a
succession of years.
The day was remarkably still and
close: the sun had not once pierced
through the dull atmosphere, which was
charged with the yet silent but gathering
thunder; and, as the evening came on,
the sullen tokens of an ap reaching storm
became more and more oweringly pro-
nounced.
“We shall not, I fear, have propitious
weather for our festival to-night,” said
Godolphin; “but, after a general elec-
tion, people’s nerves are tolerably hard-
ened: what are the petty fret and the
tumult of nature, lasting but an hour, to
the angry and everlasting passions of
men ‘2"
“A profound deduction from a wet
night, dear Percy,” said Constance, smil-
1n .
g" Like our friend C ," rejoined Go-
dol bin, in the same vein, “I can philo-
sophize on the putting on one’s gloves, you
know :” and therewith their conversation
flowed into a vein singularly contrasted
with the character of the coming events.
Time fled on as they were thus engaged
until Constance started up, surprised at

10


GODOLPHIN.
151
wedded Constance? Did I not resolve
to renounce Constance herself, when most
loved, for Lueilla’s sake alone? Who
prevented that sacrifice? who deserted
me? who carved out her own separate
iife'f—Lucilla herself. No; so far, my
sin is light. But ought I not to have
left all things to follow her, to discover
her, to force upon her an independence
from want, or possibly crime ? Ah, there
was my sin, and the sin of my nature;
the sin, too, of the children of the world
—passive sin. I could sacrifice my hap-
piness, but not my indolence; I was not
ungenerous, I was inert. But is it too
late? Can I not yet search, discover
her, and remove from my mind the anxious
burden which her remembrance imposes
on it? For oh, one thought of remorse
linked with the being who has loved us,
is more intolerable to the conscience than
the gravest crime I”
Muttering s_uch thoughts, Godolphin
strayed on until the deepening of night
suddenly recalled his attention to the
lateness of the hour. He turned to the
house and entered his own apartment.—
Several of the guests had already come.
Godolphin was yet dressing when a ser-
vant knocked at the door and presented
him a note.
“Lay it on the table,” said he to the
valet; “it is probably some excuse about
the ball.”
“Sir,” said the servant, “a lad has
just brought it from S ,” naming a
village about four miles distant, “and
says he is to wait for an answer. He was
ordered to ride as fast as possible.”
With some impatience Godolphin took
up the note; but, the moment his eye
rested on the writing, it fell from his
hands; his check, his lips, grew as white
as death ; his heart seemed to refuse its
functions; it was literally as if life stood
still for a moment, as by the force of a
sudden poison. With a. strong efl'ort he
recovered himself, tore open the note,
and read as follows :

“ Percy Godolphin, the hour has arriv-
ed: once more we shall meet. I summon
on, fair love, to that meeting—the bed
of death. Come!
“ LUCILLA VOLKTMAN."
“ Don’t alarm the countess,” said Go-
dolphin to his servant, in a very low,
calm voice ; “ bring my horse to the pos-

tern, and send the bearer of this note to
me.”
The messenger appeared — a rough
country lad of about eighteen or twenty.
“ You brought this note '2 ”
“I did, your honor.”
“ From whom? ”
“Why, a sort of a strange lady, as is
lying at the ‘ Checkers,’ and not expect-
ed to live. She be mortal bad, air, and
do run on awesome.”
Godolphin pressed his hands convul-
sively together.
“And how long has she been there ? "
“ She only came about two hours
since, sir; she came in a chaise, sir, and
was taken so ill that we sent for the doc-
tor directly. He says she can’t get over
the night.”
Godol hin walked to and fro, without
trusting himself to speak for some min-
utes. The boy stood by the door, pull-
ing about his hat, and wondering, and
staring, and thoroughly stupid.
“ Did she come alone ? ”
“ Eh, your honor.”
“ Was no one with her ‘2 ”
“Oh, yes! a little nigger girl: she it
was sent me with the letter.”
“ The horse is ready sir,” said the ser-
vant: “ but had you not better have the
carriage brought out? It looks very
black; it must rain shortly, sir; and
the ford between this and S is very
dangerous to cross in such a night.”
“Peace! ” cried Godolphin, with flash-
ing eyes, and a low, convulsive laugh.—
“Shall I ride to that death-bed at my
ease and leisure ‘2”
He strode rapidly down the stairs and
reached the small postern door: it was a
part of the old building: one of the
grooms held his impatient horse—the
swiftest in his splendid stud ; and the dim
but flaring light, held by another of the
servitors, streamed against the dull heav-
ens, and the imperfectly seen and frown-
ing ruins of the ancient pile.
Godolphin, unconscious of all around,
and muttering to himself, leaped on his
steed: the fire glinted from the courser's
hoofs; and thus the last lord of that -
knightly race bade farewell to his father’s
halls. Those werds which he had mut-
tered, and which his favorite servant
caught and superstitionsly remembered,
were the words in Lueilla's note—“ The
[war has arrived :' "


152
GODOLPHIN .
CHAPTER THE LAST.
A BREAD MEETING—THE STORM—THE
CATASTROPHE.
ON the humble pallet of the village lay
the broken form of the astrologcr’s ex-
piring daughter. The surgeon of the
place sat by the bedside, dismayed and
terrified, despite his hardened vocation,
by the wild words and ghastly shrieks
that ever and anon burst from the lips
of the dying woman. The words were,
indeed, uttered in a foreign tongue unfa-
miliar to the leech; a language not or-
dinarily suited to inspire terror; the
language of love, and poetry, and music;
the language of the sweet South. But,
uttered in that voice where the passions
of the soul still wrestled against the
gathering weakness of the frame, the soft
s llables sounded harsh and fearful; and
t e disheveled locks of the sufferer—tho
wandering fire of the sunken eyes—-the
distorted gestures of the thin, transpar-
ent arms, gave fierce effect to the un-
knoWn words, and betrayed the dark
strength of the delirium which raged
upon her.
One wretched light on the rude table
opposite the bed broke the gloom of the
mean chamber, and across the window
flashed the first lightnings of the storm
about to break. By the other side of
the bed sat, mute, watchful, tearless, the
Moorish girl, who was Lucilla’s sole at-
tendant; her eyes fixed on the sufferer
with faithful, unwearying love; her ears
listening, with all the quick sense of her
race, to catch, amid the growing noises
of the storm and the tread of hurrying
steps below, the expected sound of the
hoofs that should herald Godolphin’s
approach.
Suddenly, as if exhausted by the par-
oxysm of her disease, Lucilla’s voice sank
into silence; and she lay so still, so mo-
tionless, that, but for the faint and wa-
vering pulse of the hand, which the sur-
geon was now sufl'ercd to hold, they
might have believed the tortured spirit
was already released. This torpor lasted
for some minutes, when, raising herself
up, as a bright gleam of intelligence stole
over the hollow cheeks, Lucille ut her
finger to her lips, smiled, and said, in a
low, clear voice, “ Hark! he comes I"
The Moor crept across the chamber,
and, opening the door, stood there in a
listening attitude. Site, as yet, heard
not the tread of the speeding charger; a
moment, and it smote her car; a moment
more, it halted by the inn door; the
snort of the panting horse—the rush of
steps—Percy Godolphin was in the room
—was by the bedside—the poor sufierer
was in his arms; and softened, thrilled,
overpowered, Lucilla resigned herself to
that dear caress; she drank in the sobs
of his choked voice; she felt still, as in
happier days, burning into her heart the
magic of his kisses. One instant of
youth, of love, of hope, broke into that
desolate and fearful hour, and silent and
scarcely conscious tears gushed from her
aching eyes, and laved, as it were, the
burden and the agony from her heart.
The Moor traversed the room, and.
laying one hand on the surgeon’s shoulder.
pointed to the door. Lucilla and Godol-
phin were alone.
“Oh!” said he, at last finding voice,
“is it thus—thus we meet? But say
not that you are dying, Lucillal have
mercy, mercy upon your betrayer, your—4"
Here he could utter no more; he sank
beside her, covering his face with his
hands and sobbing bitterly.
The momentary lucid interval for Lu-
cilla had passed away; the maniac rap-
ture returned, although in a mild and
solemn shape.
“Blame not yourself,” said she. ear-
nestly; “ the remorseless stars are the
sole'betrayers: yet, bright and lovely as
they once seemed when they assured me
of a bond between thee and me, I could
not dream that their still and shining
lore could forehode such gloomy truths.
Oh, Percy! since we parted, the earth
has not been as the earth to me: the
Natural has left my life; a weird an-l
roving spirit has entered my breast, and
filled my brain, and possessed my
thoughts, and moved every spring of my
existence: the sun and the air, the green
herb, the freshness and glory of the
world, have been covered with a mist, in
which only dim shapes of dread were
shadowed forth. But thou, my love, on
whose breast I have dreamed such blessed
dreams, wert not to blame. No! the
power that crushes we cannot accuse:
the heavens are above the reach of our
reproach; they smile upon our agony:
they bid the seasons roll on, unmoved
and unsympathizing, above our broken


GODOLPHIN.
155
'ect I cannot, cannot write. I must lay
down the pen; to-morrow I will try and
force myself to resume it.
“Well, then, I say you have not done
justice to him. I heseach you to remodel
that character, and atone to the memory
of one whom none ever saw but to ad-
mire, or knew but to love.
“Of me—of me, the vain, the schem-
ing, the proud, the unfeminine cherisher
of bitter thoughts, of stern designs—0f
me, on the other hand, how flattering is
the picture you have drawn! In that
flattery is my sure disguise, therefore I
will not ask you to shade it into the poor
and unlover truth. But while, with
agony and shame, I feel that you have
rightly described that seeming neglectful-
ness of one no more, which sprang from
the pride that believed itser neglected,
you have not said enough—no, not one
millionth part enough—of the real love
that I constantly bore to him; the only
soft and redeeming portion of my 'nature.
But who can know, who can describe
what another feels 2' Even I knew not
What I felt until death taught it me.
“Since I have read the whole book,
one thought constantly haunts mc—the

rives at this sentence; it conveys exactly the
impression that my delineation, faithful to
truth, is intended to convey—the influences of
our actual world on the ideal and imaginative
order of mind.
THE

strangeness that I should survive his
loss; that the stubborn strings of my
heart have not been broken long since;
that I live, and live, too, amid the world!
Ay, but not one If the world; with that
consciousness I sustain myself in the pet-
ty and sterile career of life. Shut- out,
henceforth and forever, from all the ten-
derer feelings that belong to my sex; with
out mother, husband, child, or friend;
unloved and unloving, I support myself
by the belief that I have done the little
suffered to my sex in expediting the great
change which is advancing on the world;
and I cheer myself by the firm assurance
that, sooner or later, a time must come
when those vast disparities in life which
have been fatal, not to myself alone, but
to all I have admired and loved; which
render the great heartless, and the lowly
servile; which make genius either an en-
emy to mankind or the victim to itself;
which dehase the energetic purpose;
which fritter awa the ennobling senti-
ment; which coo? the heart and fetter
the capacities, and are favorable only to
the general development of the mediocre
and the lukewarm, shall, if never utterly
removed, at least be smoothed away into
more genial and unobstructed elements
of society. Alas! it is with an aching
eye that we look abroad for the only
solace, the only occupation of life, soli-
tude at home, and memory at our hearth.”
END.





“Filiiiflfifi'iliiifl ~'