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ROBERT HALL, Willi Mriiioir liy !)■ Urkuoky, an Li«ay on liji cliararttrr )iy John Kustkr. 2 fc S. ROSCOES LIFE AND PONTIFICATE OF LEO X. EDITED BY HIS SON, Willi the Co|iyriKlit Notes, A|ii>eiiUices, uiid Hialoncul iHiciimt'iiti, the Kpitode on LucreliH Uor^iii, an !iiil«<, iiiiu 'i Sue Purlrailt, riiin|ilrtc in 3 roll. 4 SCHLEOELS LECTURES ON ThI PHILOSOPHY OF HISTORY, TRANS- Imrd Iroiii the (irriiiiiii, uilli a Memoir ul tlic Author, l>y J. U. Kobkbtkon, Ksq. ft fc «. SISMONOrS HISTORY OF THE LITERATURE OF THE SOUTH OF KOKUFK, traii»lati'(l liy Kohciik. Complete hi 2 riil« I'urtraits. 7. ROSCOES LIFE OF LORENZO DE MEDICI, CALLED THE MAGNIFICENT, iiii'luiliiiK the C'upynxlit Noiea aiiU IMuslntioiH, new Memoir by bi* Sou. 8. SCHLEOELS LECTURES ON DRAMATIC LITERATURE. TRANSLATED BY Mk Ki.al'k, of the Moriiiiix ('hioiili'le. New Kiiitioii, riin;fully revised from tbe lait GeriiiHii Kditioii hy A. J. W. MokKlsON. With Memoir and Portrait. ^^ ^-i-l-^o-i 9. 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QRAMMONTS MEMOIRS OF THE COURT OF CHARLIt M. Boacoliel .\arruti\ca. PurlraU uf Mill (hr^nm. 2 It 8. RABELAIS' WORKS. COMPLETE IN 2 VOLS. 4. COUNT HAMILTONS FAIRY TALES. PORTRAIT. WMk tlM X-i^^m mm B 1 V. zmf.. ^W?. y "tn\M :Rii who,] toper s p fR< 'm ^ &, ' I! 1.": !iH §. c (Q) T 'r . !Si *. k y . MB IP.3^ HBNI BE AT! T?. BRIDGE HALL; • MOU18TS. . > VK- / N / -^^ / , ^T;jH.: ('/ tii« termt/iitl lul;r^e^ of t)u ; ^7 AlTTHOK'S UnSl^D -i.*>.x;ON.J LONDON: HENRY G. BOHN, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN. 1850. K.5«.e..? BRACEBRIDGE HALL; • THE HUMORISTS. '' > - ' to pcniM thi* little epot."— CntitTMAe OsDiHAmr AUTHOK'S BXVISED EDITION. LONDON: HENRY O. BOHN, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN. 1850. # londok: isdited bt habbisox and bon, BT. XABXIM's LAMX. w \x CONTENT& THE AUTHOR THE HALL THE BUSY MAN )••«•••••••••••• I 1 6 8 FAMILY SERVANTS 12 THE WIDOW „ 17 THE LOVERS 20 FAMILY RELIQUES 2S AN OLD SOLDIER „ 27 THE WIDOW'S RETINUE SO READY-MONEY JACK. 32 BACHELORS ^ 37 ^'IVCiO .•• ••••••*••■ •■MMMM*»MMM**.*a**a»*.a»«. ••.••••« 4V STORY-TELLING 45 THE STOUT GENTLEMAN „-. 4S A Lj1x£RAiIx Ar«xl^lJA.il jl •••••■•mb •••••••••■^••••••••a* ••••• oO THE FARM-HOUSE «4 HORSEMANSHIP « «7 LOVE SYMPTOMS 71 FALCONRY 78 HAWKING 76 ST. MARK'S EVE 81 GENTILITY m 88 FORTUNE-TELLING. W LOVE-CHARMS 95 THE LIBRARY »9 \l IV CONTENTS. Page THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA 100 ENGLISH COUNTRY GENTLEMEN 161 A BACHELOR'S CONFESSIONS 167 ENGLISH GRAVITY 170 GIPSIES 174 MAY-DAY CUSTOMS 178 VILLAGE WORTHIES 181 THE SCHOOLMASTER .' 183 THE SCHOOL 187 A VILLAGE POLITICIAN 190 THE ROOKERY 193 MAY-DAY 199 THE MANUSCRIPT 206 ANNETTE DELARBRE 208 TRAVELLING 227 POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS 232 THE CULPRIT 239 FAMILY MISFORTUNES 244 LOVERS' TROUBLES 247 THE HISTORIAN 250 THE HAUNTED HOUSE 253 DOLPH HEYLIGER 256 THE STORM.SHIP 288 THE WEDDING 310 THE AUTHOR'S FAREWELL 317 \ THE AUTHOR.N •*..*»•«»>' WoBTHT Reader ! On again taking pen in hand, I would fain make a few observations on the outset, by way of bespeaking a right un- derstanding. The volumes which I have already published have met with a reception far beyond my most sanguine expectations. I would willingly attribute this to their intrinsic merits; but, in spite of the vanity of authorship, I cannot but be sensible that their success has, in a great measure, been owing to a less flattering cause. It lias been a matter of marvel, that a man from the wilds of America should express himself in tolerable English. I was looked upon as something new and strange in literature ; a kind of demi-savage, with a feather in his hand, instead of on his head; and there was a ciiriosity to hear what such a being had to say about civilized socie^. This novelty is now at an ena, and of course the feeling of indulgence which it produced. I must now expect to bear the scioitiny of sterner criticism, and to be measured by the same standard with contemporary writers ; and the very favour which has been shown to my previous writings, will cause these to be treated with the greater rigour, as there is nothing for which the world is apt to punish a man more severely, than for having been over-praised. On this head, therefore, I wish to forestall the censoriousness of the reader ; and I entreat he will not think the worse of me for the many injudicious things that may have been said in my com- mendation. I am aware that I often travel over beaten ground, and treat of subjects that have already been discussed by abler pens. In- deed, various authors have been mentioned as my models, to whom I should feel flattered if I thought I bore the slightist resemblance ; but in truth I write after no model that I am conscious of — I write with no idea of imitation or competi- tion. In venturing occasionally on topics that have already ■% \' ^^■■:^roH€^ .t^.. s THE ATTTHOS. I been almost exhausted by English authors, I do it, not with the presumption of challenging a comparison, but with the hope that some new interest may be given to such topics, when discussed by the pen of a stranger. If, therefore, I should sometimes be found dwelling with fondness on subjects that are trite and common-place with the reader, I beg the circumstances under which 1 write may be kept in recollection. Having been bom and brought up in a new country, yet educated from infancy in the literature of an old one, my mind was early filled with historical and poetical associations, connected with places, and manners, and customs of Europe ; but which could rarely be applied to those of my own country. To a mind thus peculiarly prepared, the most ordinary objects and scenes, on arriving in Europe, are full of strange matter and interesting novelty. England is as classic ground to an American as Itidy is to an Englishman ; and old London teems with as much historical association as m^hty Rome. Indeed, it is difficult to describe the whimsical medley of ideas that throng upon his mind on landing among English scenes. He, for the first time, sees a world about which he has been reading and thinking in every stage of his existence. The recollected ideas of infancy, youth, and manhood ; of the nursery, the school, and the study, come swarming at once upon him ; and his attention is distracted between great and little objects; each of which, peihaps, awakens an equally delightful train of remembrances. But what more especially attracts his notice are those pecu- liarities which distinguish an old country and an old state of society from a new one. I have never yet grown fiuniliar enougn with the crumbling monuments of past ages, to blunt the intense interest with which I at first beheld them. Ac- customed always to scenes where history was, in a manner, in anticipation ; where everything in art was new and progres- sive, and pointed to the future rather than to the past; where, in short, tne works of man gave no ideas but those of jroung existence, and prospective improvement ; there was something inexpressibly touching in the sight of enonnons piles of archi- tecture, gray with antiauity. and sinking to decay. I cannot describe the mute but deep-felt enthusiasm with which I have contemplated a vast monastic ruin, like Tintem Abbey, buried in the bosom of a quiet yallcy, and shut up from the world, as THE A1TTH0B. ihongli it had existed merely for itself; or a warrior pile, like Conway Castle, standing in stem loneliness on itH rocky height, a mere hollow yet threatening phantom of departed power. They spread a grand and melancholy, and, to me, an unusual charm over the landscape ; I for the first time beheld signs of national old age, and empire's decay, and proofs of the transient and perishing glories of art, amidst the ever-spring- ing and reviving fertility of nature. But, in fact, everything to me was full of matter; the foot- steps of history were everywhere to be traced ; and poetry had breathed over and sanctified the land. I experienced the delightiVd freshness of feeling of a child, to whom every thing is new. I pictured to myself a set of inhabitants and a mode of life for every habitation that I saw, from the aristocratical mansion, amidst the lordly repose of stately groves and solitary parkA, to the straw-thatched cottage, with its scanty garden and its cherished woodbine. I thought I never could be sated with the sweetness and freshness of a country so completely carpeted with verdure; where every air breathed of the balmy pasture and the honeysuckled hedge. I was continually coming upon some little doctmient of poetry in the blossomed hawthorn, the daisy, the cowslip, the primrose, or some other simple object that has received a supernatural value from the muse. The first time that I heard the song of the nightingale, I was intoxicated more by the delicious crowd of remembered associations than by the melody of its notes ; and I shall never forget the thrill of ecstasy with which I first saw the lark rise, almost from beneath my feet, and wing its musical flight up into the morning sky. In this waj I traversed England, a grown-up child, delighted by every object great and small ; and betraying a wondering ignorance, and simple enjoyment, that provoked many a store and a smile from my wiser and more experienced fellow- travellers. Such, too, was the odd confusion of associations that kept breaking upon me as I first approached London. One of my earliest wishes had been to see this great metrtH polis. I had read so much about it in the earliest books that bad been put into my infant hands ; and I had heard so much about it from those around me who had come frt>m the " old countries." I was familiar with the nasMs of its streets and squares, and public places, before I know those of mj native city. It WM to me, the great centre of the world, round b2 4 THE ArTBOB. which every thing seemed to revolve. I recollect contem- plating 60 wistfully, when a bov, a paltry little print of the Thames and London Bridge, and St. Paul's, that was in front of an old magazine ; and a picture of Kensington Gardens, with gentlemen in three-cornered hats and broad skirts, and ladies in hoops and lappets, that hung up in my bed-room ; even the venerable cut of St. John's Gate, that has stood, time out of mind, in front of the Gentleman's Magazine, was not without its charms to me ; and I envied the odd- looking little men that appeared to be loitering about its arches. How then did my heart warm when the towers of West- minster Abbey were pointed out to me, rising above the rich groves of St. James's Park, with a thin blue haze about their gray pinnacles ! I could not behold this great mausoleum of what is most illustrious in our paternal history, without feel- ing my enthusiasm in a glow. With what eagerness did I explore every part of the metropolis ! I was not content with those matters which occupy the dignified research of the learned traveller ; I delighted to call up all the feelings of childhood, and to seek after those objects which had been the wonders of my infancy. London Bridge, so famous in nursery song; the far-famed Monument; Gog and Magog, and the Lions in the Tower, all brought back many a recol- lection of infantine delight, and of good old beings, now no more, who had gossiped about them to my wondering ear. Nor was it without a recurrence of childish interest that I first peeped into Mr. Newberry's shop in St. Pa\d s Church- yard, that fountain-head of bterature. Mr. Newberry was the first that ever filled my infant mind with the idea of a great and good man. He published all the picture-books of the day ; and, out of his abundant love for children, he charged ** nothing for either paper or print, and only a penny-halfpenny for tlie binding !" I have mentioned these circumstances, worthy reader, to Bhow you the whimsical crowd of associations that are apt to beset my mind on mingling among English sccncH. I ho{)e they may, in some measure, plead my apology, should I be found harping upon stale or trivial themes, or indulging an over-fondness for anything antique and obsolete. I know it is the humour, not to say cant, of the day, to run riot about old times, old books, old customs, and old biiild'jigs ; with ft THE AUTHOB. myself, howeyer, as far as I have caxight the contagion, the feeling is genuine. To a man from a yomig country all old things are in a manner new ; and he may surely be excused in being a little ciirious about antiquities, whose native land, unfortunately, cannot boast of a single ruin. Having been brought up, also, in the comparative simpli- city of a republic, I am apt to be struck with even the ordi- nary circumstances incident to an aristocratical state of society. If, however, I should at any time amuse myself by pointing out some of the eccentricities, and some of the poli- tical characteristics of the latter, I would not be understood as pretending to decide upon its political merits. My only aim is to paint characters and manners. I am no politician. The more I have considered the study of politics, the more I have found it full of perplexity; and I have contented myself, as I have in my rt^ligion, with the faith in which I was broueht up, regulating my own conduct by my precepts ; but leavmg to abler heads the task of making converts. I shall continue on, therefore, in the course I have hitherto pursued; looking at things poetically, rather than politically; describing them as they are, rather than pretending to point out how they should be ; and endeavouring to see the world in as pleasant a light as circmnstances will permit. I have always had an opinion that mucn good might be done by keeping mankind m good humour with one another. I may be wrong in my philosophy, but I shall continue to practise it until convinced of its fallacy. When I discover the world to be all that it has been represented bv sneering cynics and whining poets, I will turn to and abuse It also ; in the meanwhile, worthy reader, I hope you will not think lightly of me, because I cannot believe this to be so very bad a world as it is represented. lliine truly Geoffrey Crayon. THE HALL. The andentest honae, and the best for housekeeping in this ooanty or the next, and though the master of it write but squire, I know no lord like him. Merry Beooars. The reader, if he has perused the volumes of the Sketch Book, will probably recollect something of the Bracebndge femily, with which I once passed a Christmas. I am now on another visit at the Hall, having been invited to a wedding which is shortly to take place. The squire's second son, Guy, a fine, spirited young captain in the army, is about to be mar- ried to his father's ward, the fair Julia Templeton. A gather- ing of relations and friends has already commenced, to cele- brate the joyful occasion ; for the old gentleman is an enemj to quiet, private weddings. "There is nothing," he says, *' like launching a young couple gaily, and cheering them from the shore ; a good outset is half the voyage." Before proceeding any further, I would beg that the squire might not be confounded with that class of hard-riding, fox- hunting gentlemen so often described, and, in fact, so nearly extinct in England. I use this rural title, partly because it is his universal appellation throughout the neighbourhood, and pnrtly because it saves me the frequent repetition of his name, which is one of those rough old English names at which Frenchmen exclaim in despair. The squire is, in fact, a lingering specimen of the old Eng- lish country gentleman ; rusticated a little by living almost entirely on his estate, and something of a humourist, as Eng- lishmen arc apt to become when they have an opportunity of living in their own way. I like his hobby passing well, how- ever, which is, a big'>tr>d devotion to old English manners and customs ; it jumps a little with my own humour, having as yet a lively and unsated curiosity about the ancient and genuine characteristics of my *' father-land." There arc some traits about the squire's family also, which appear to me to be national. It is one of those old nristo- cratical families, which, I believe, are peculiar to England, and scarcely understood in other countries ; that is to say, families of the ancient gentrj', who, though destitute of titled rank, maintain a high ancestral prido ; who look down upon all nobility of recent creation, and would consider it a sacrifice THE HALL. n this ooanty or uire, I know no lY BSQOARf. e ancient and of dignity to merge the venerable name of their house in a modem title. lliis feeling is very much fostered by the importance which they enjoy on their hereditary donuuns. The family mansion is an old manor-house, standing in a retired and beautiful part of Yorkshire. Its inhabitants have been always regarded through the surrounding country, as " the great ones of the earth ;" and the little village near the hall looks up to the squire with almost feudal homage. An old manor-house, and an old family of this kind, are rarely to be met with at the present day ; and it is probably the peculiar humour of the squire that has retained this secluded specimen of English housekeeping in something like the genuine old style. I am again qiuirtered in the pannelled chamber, in the amtique wing of the house. The prospect from my window, however, has quite a different aspect from that which it wore on my winter visit. Though early in the month of April, yet a few warm, sunshiny days have drawn forth the beauties of the spring, which, I think, are always most captivating on their first opening. The parterres of the old-fashioned garden are gay witn flowers ; and the gardener has brought out his exotics, and placed them along the stone balustrades, llio trees are clothed with green buds and tender leaves ; when I throw open my jingling casement, I smell the odour of mig- nonette, and hear the hum of the bees from the flowers against the sunny wall, with the varied song of the throstle, and the cheerful notes of the tuneful little wren. While sojourning in this strong-hold of old fashions, it is my intention to make occasional sketches of the scenes and characters before me. I would have it understood, however, that I am not writing a novel, and have nothing of intricate plot, or marvellous adventure, to promise the reader. The Hall of which I treat, has, for au^ht I know, neither trap- door, nor sliding -pamicl, nor donjon-kecp: and indeed ap- pears to have no mystery about it. The family is a worthy, well-meaning family, that, in all probability, will cat and drink, and go to bed, and get up reguhirly, from one end of my work to the other ; and the so uire is so kind-hearted an old gentleman, that I see no likelihood of his throwing any kind of distress in the way of the approaching nuptials. In a word, I cannot foresee a single extraordinary event that ii likely to occur in the whole term of my sojourn at the Hall. « THE BUST MAK. I tell this honestly to the reader, lest, when he find me dallying along, through every-day English scenes, he may hurry a-head, in hopes of meeting with some marvellous ad- venture farther on. I invite him, on the contrary, to ramble gently on with me, as he would saunter out into the fields, stopping occasionally to gather a flower, or listen to a bird, or admire a prospect, without any anxiety to arrive at the end of his career. Should I, however, in the coiu-se of my loiterings about this old mansion, see or hear anything curious, that might serve to vary the monotony of this every-day life, I shall not fail to report it for the reader's entertainment. For freshest wits I know will soon be wearie Of any book, how grave so e'er it be, Except it have odd matter, strange and merrie. Well sauc'd with lies and glared all with glee.* THE BUSY MAN. A decayed gentleman, who lives most upon his own mirth and my master's means, and much good do him with it. He does hold my moNter up with his stories, and songs, and catches, and such tricks, and jigs, you would admire he is with him now. Jovial Cbew. By no one has my return to the HaU been more heartily greeted than by Mr. Simon Bracebridge, or Master Simon, as the squire most commonly calls him. I encountered him just OS I entered the park, where he was breaking a pointer, and he received me with all the hospitable cordiality with which a man welcomes a friend to another one's house. I have already introduced him to the reader as a brisk old bachelor- looking little man ; the wit and superanniiatcd beau of a large family connexion, and the squire's factotum. I found him, as usual, full of bustle ; with a thousand petty things to do, and persons to attend to, and in chirping good-htmiour ; for there arc few happier beings than a busy idler ; that is to say, a man who is eternally busy about nothing. I visited him, the morning after my arrival, in his chamber, which is in a remote comer of the mansion, as he says he likes to be to himself, and out of the way. He has fitted it * Mirror for Magistrates. THE B178T XAK. 9 IVIAL CbEW. up in his own taste, so that it is a perfect epitome of an old bachelor's notions of conyenience and arrangement. The furniture is made up of odd pieces from all parts of the house, chosen on account of their suiting his notions, or fitting some comer of his apartment ; and he is very eloquent in praise of an ancient elbow chair, from which he takes occasion to digress into a censure on modem chairs, as having degenerated from the dignity and comfort of high-backed antiquity. Adjoining to his room is a small cabinet, which he calls his study. Here are some hanging shelves, of his own construc- tion, on which arc several old works on hawking, hunting, and farriery, and a collection or %wo of poems and songs of the reign of Elizabeth, which he studies out of compliment to the squire; together with the Novelists' Magazine, the Sporting Magazine, the Racing Calendar, a volume or two of the Newgate Calendar, a book of peerage, and another of heraldry. His sporting dresses hang on pegs in a small closet; and about the walls of his apartment are hooks to hold his fishing- tackle, whips, spurs, and a favourite fowling-piece, curiously wrought and inlaid, which he inherits from his grandfather. He has also a couple of old single-keyed flutes, and a fiddle, which he has repeatedly patched and mended himself, affirm- ing it to be a veritable Cremona: though I have never heard him extract a single note from it that was not enough to make one's blood run cold. From this little nest his fiddle will often be heard, in the stillness of mid-day, drowsily sawing some long-forgotten tune ; for he prides himself on having a choice collection of good old English music, and will scarcely have anything to do with modem composers. The time, however, at which his musical powers are of most use, is now and then of an evening, when he plays for the children to dance in the hall, and he passes among them and the servants for a perfect Orpheus. His chamber also bears evidence of his various avocations; there are half-copied sheets of music; designs for needle- work; sketches of landscapes, very indifierently executed; a camera lucida ; a magic lantern, for which he is endeavour- ing to paint glasses ; in a word, it is the cabinet of a man of many accomplishments, who knows a little of every thing, and does nothing well. After I had spent some time in his apartment, admiring 10 XHX BVST HAV. tlie ingenuity of his small inventions, he took me about the establishment, to visit the stables, dog-kenn^ and other dependencies, in vrhich he appeared like a general visiting the different quarters of his camp; as the squire leaves the control of all these matters to him, when he is at the Hall. He inquired into the state of the horses; examined their feet; prescribed a drench for one, and bleeding for another; and then took me to look at his own horse, on the merits of which he dwelt with great prolixity, and which, I noticed, had the best stall in the stable. After this I was taken to a new toy of his and the squire's, which he termed the falcbnry, where there were several unhappy birds in durance, completing their education. Among the number was a fine falcon, which Master Simon had in especial training, and he told me that he would show me, in a few days, some rare sport of the good old-fashioned kind. In the course of our round, I noticed that the grooms, gamekeeper, whippers-in, and otlier retainers, seemed all to be on somewhat of a familiar footing with Master Simon, and fond of having a joke with him, though it was evident they had great deference for his opinion in matters relating to their functions. There was one exception, however, in a testy old huntsman, as hot as a pepper-corn; a meagre, wiry old fellow, in a threadbare velvet jockey-cap, and a pair of leather breeches, that, from much wear, shone as though they had been japanned. He was very contradictory and pragmatical, and apt, as I thought, to differ from Master Simon now and then, out of mere captiousness. This was particularly the case with respect to the treatment of the hawk, which the old man seemed to have under his pccidiar care, and, according to Master Simon, was in a fair way to ruin; the latter had a vast deal to say about casting, and imping, and gleaming, and enseaming, and giving the hawk the rangle, which I saw was all heathen Greek to old Christy; but he maintained his point notwithstanding, and seemed to hold all his technical tore in utter disrespect. I was surprised at the good humour with which Master Simon bore his contradictious, till he explained the matter to me afterwards. Old Christy is the most ancient servant in the place, having lived among dogs and horses the greater part of a century, and been in the service of Mr. Bracebridge's XHS BUST MAV. 11 fiUher. He knows the pedigree of every horse on the place, and has bcstrid the great-great-grandsires of most of them. He can give a circumstantial detail of every fox-hunt for the last sixty or seventy years, and has a history of every stag's head about the house, and every hunting trophy nailed to uc door of the dog-kennel. All the present race have grown up under his eye, and humour him in his old age. He once attended the squire to Oxford when he was a student there, and enlightened the whole university with his hunting lore. All this is enough to make the old man opinionated, since he finds, on all these matters of first-rate importance, he knows more than the rest of the world. Indeed, Master Simon had been his pupil, and acknowledges that he derived his first knowledge in hunting from the instructions of Christy ; and I much question whether the old man does not still look upon him as rather a green- horn. On our return homewards, as we were crossing the lawn in front of the house, we heard the porter's bell ring at the lodge, and shortly afterwards, a kind of cavalcade advanced slowly up the avenue. At sight of it my companion paused, considered for a moment, and then, making a sudden excla- mation, hurried away to meet it. As it approached I disco- vered a fair, fresh-looking elderly lady, dressed in an old- &shioned riding-habit, with a broad-brimmed white beaver hat, such as may be seen in Sir Joshua Reynolds' paintings. She rode a sleek white pony, and was followed by a footman in rich livery, mounted on an over-fed hunter. At a little distance in liie rear came an ancient cumbrous chariot, drawn by two very corpulent horses, driven by as corpulent a coach- man, beside whom sat a page dressed in a fanciful green livery. Inside of the chariot was a starched r ' -^ personage, with a look somewhat between a lady's co. >^^ion and a lady's maid, and two pampered curs that showed their ugly &ces and barked out of each window. There was a general turning out of the garrison to receive this new comer. The squire assisted her to alight, and saluted her affectionately; the fair Julia flew into her arms, and they embraced with the romantic fervour of boarding- school friends. She was escorted into the house by Julia's lover, towards whom she showed distinguished favour; and a line of the old servants, who had collected in the hall, bowed most profoundly as she passed. 13 FAMILY SEBTANTS. I observed that Master Simon was most assiduous and devout in his attentions upon this old lady. He walked by the side of her pony up the avenue; and, while she was receiving the salutations of the rest of the family, he took occasion to notice the fat coachman, to pat the sleek carriage horses, and, above all, to say a civil wora to my lady's gentle- woman, the prim, sour-looking vestal in the chariot. I had no more of his company for the rest of the morning. He was swept off in the vortex that followed in the wake of this lady. Once indeed he paused for a moment, as ho was hurrying on some errand of the good ladv's, to let me know that this was Lady Lillycraft, a sister of the squire's, of large fortune, which the captain would inherit, and that her estate lay in one of the best sporting counties in all England. FAMILY SERVANTS. Verily old servants are the vouchers of worthy housekeeping. They are like rats in a mansion, or mites in a cheese, bespeaking the antiquity and fatness of their abode. In my casual anecdotes of the Hall, I may often be tempted to dwell on circumstances of a trite and ordinary nature, from their appearing to me illustrative of genuine national chaiucter. It seems to be the study of the squire to adhere, as much as possible, to what he considers the old landmarks of English manners. His servants all understand his ways, and, for the most part, have been accustomed to them from infancy; so that, upon the whole, his household presents one of the few tolerable specimens that can now be met with, o^ the esta- blishment of an English country gentleman of the old school. By the by, the servants are not the least characteristic part of the household; the housekeeper, for instance, has been bom and brought up at the Hall, and has never been twenty miles from it; yet she has a stately air that would not dis- grace a lady that had figured at the court of Queen Elizabeth. I am hdf inclined to think that she has caught it from living so much among the old family pictures. It may, how- ever, be owing to a consciousness of her importance in the sphere in which she has always moved; for she is greatly respected in the neighboiiring village, and among the fiurmers' rXUIJ.r SEBVANTI. 18 wives, and has high authority in the household, ruling over the servants with quiet but undisputt d sway. She is a thin old lady, with blue eyes, and pointed nose and chin. Her dress is always the same as to fashion. She wears a small, well-starched ruff, a laced stomacher, full petticoats, and a gown festooned and open in front, which, on particular occasions, is of ancient silk, the legacy of some former dame of the family, or an inheritance from her mother, who was housekeeper before her. I have a reverence for these old garments, as I make no doubt they have figured about these apartments in days long post, when they have set off the charms of some peerless family beauty ; and I have sometimes looked from the old housekeeper to the neighbour- ing portraits, to see whether I could not recognize her anti- quated brocade in the dress of some one of those long-waisted dames that smile on me from the walls. Her hair, which is quite white, is frizzed out in front, and she wears over it a small cap, nicely plaited, and brought down imder the chin. Her manners are simple and primitive, heightened a little by a proper dignity of station. The Hall is her world, and the history of the family the only history she knows, excepting that which she has read in the Bible. She can give a biography of every portrait in the picture gallery, and is a complete family chronicle. She is treated with great consideration by the squire. In- deed, Master Simon tells me that there is a traditional anecdote current among the servants, of the squire's having been seen kissing her in the picture gallery, when they were both young. As, however, nothing further was ever noticed between them, the circumstance caused no great scandal; only she was observed to take to reading Pamela shortly afterwards, and refused the hand of the village innkeeper, whom she had previously smiled on. The old butler, who was formerl}' footman, and a rejected admirer of hers, used to tell the anecdote now and then, at those little cabals that will occasionally take place among the most orderly servants, arising from the common propensity of the governed to talk against administration; but he has left it off, of late years, since he has risen into place, and shakes his head rebiucingly when it is mentioned. It is certain that the old lady will, to this day, dwell on the looks of the squire when he was a young man at college; and 14 FAMILY 8ERTANT8. she maintains that none of his sons can compare with their father when he was of their a^e, and was dressed out in his full suit of scai'lctf with his hair craped and powdered, and his three-cornered hat. She has an orphan niece, a pretty, soft-hearted baggage, named Fhocbc Wilkins, who has been transplanted to the Hall within a year or two, and been nearly spoiled for any condition of life. She is a kind of attendant and companion of the fair Julia's ; and from loitering about the young lady's apartments, reading scraps of novels, and inheriting second- hand finery, has become somctliing between a waiting-maid and a slip-shod fine lady. She is considered a kind of heiress among the servants, as she will inherit all her aunt's property ; which, if report be true, must be a round sum of good golden guineas, the accumulated wealth of two housekeepers' savings ; not to mention the hereditary wardrobe, and the many htUe valuables and knick-knacks treasured up in the housekeeper's room. Indeed the old housekeeper has the reputation among the servants and the villagers of being passing rich ; and there is a japanned chest of drawers and a large iron-bound coffer in her room, which arc supposed by the housemaids to hold treasures of wealth. The old lady is a great friend of Ma«ter Simon, who, indeed, pays a little court to her, as to a person high in authority : and they have many discussions on points of fiunily history, in which, notwithstanding his extensive infor- mation, and pride of knowledge, he commonly admits her superior accuracy. He seldom returns to the Hall, after one of his visits to the other branches of the family, without bringing Mrs. Wilkins some remembrsmoe from the ladies of the house where he has been staying. Indeed all the children in the house look up to the old lady with habitual respect and attachment, and she seems almost to consider them as her own, from their having grown up imder her eye. The Oxonian, however, is her favourite, probably from being the youngest, though be is the most mis- chievous, and has been apt to play tricks upon her from boyhood. * I cannot help mentioning one little ceremony which, I believe, is peculiar to the Hnll. After the cloth is removed at dinner, the old housekeeper sails into the room and stands behind the squire's chair, when he fills her a glass of wine TAMILT SEBVJLIITS. 16 with his own haud.^, in which she drinks the health of the company in a truly respectful yet dig^fied manner, and then retires. The squire received the custom from his father, and has always continued it. There is a peculiar character ahout the servants of old English families that reside principally in the country. They have a quiet, orderly, respectful mode of doing their duties. They are always neat in their persons, and appropriately, and, if I may use the phrase, technically dressed; they move about the house without hurry or noise; there is nothing of the bustle of employment, or the voice of command ; nothing of that obtnisive housewifery chat amounts to a torment. You are not persecuted by the process of making you comfort- able ; yet every thing is done, and is done well. The work of the house is performed as if by magic, but it is the magic of system. Nothing is done by fits and starts, nor at awk- ward seasons ; the whole goes on like well-oiled clockwork, where there is no noise nor jarring in its operations. English servants, in general, are not treated with great indulgence, nor rewarded by many commendations ; for the English are laconic and reserved towards their domestics; but an approving nod and kind word from master or mistress, goes iifi far here, as an excess of praise or indulgence else- where. Nei.'ier do servants exhibit any animated marks of affection to their employers; yet though quiet, they are strong in their attaclunents ; and the reciprocal regard of masters or servants, though not ardently expressed, is powerfiil and lusting in old English families. The title of " an old family servant" carries with it a thou- sand kind associations in all parts of the world ; and there is no claim upon the home-bred charities of the heart more irresistible than that of having boon " bom in the house." It is common to sec gray-headed domestics of this kind attached to an English family of the " old school," who con- tinue in it to the day of their death, in the enjoyment of steady, unaffected kindness, and the performance of faithful unofficio\is duty. I think such ins tanoes of attachment speak well for roaster and ser^'ant, and the frequency of them speaks well for national character. These observations, however, hold good only with families of the description I have mentioned, and with such as are somewhat retired, and pass the greater part of their time in 16 FAMILY SERVANTS. the country. As to the powdered menials that throng the walls of fashionable town residences, they equally reflect the character of the establishments to which they belong : and I know no more complete epitomes of dissolute heartlessness, and pampered inutility. But the good " old family servant !" — ^The one who has always been linked, in idea, with the home of our heart ; who has led us to school in the days of prattling childhood ; who has been the confidant of our boyish cares, and schemes, and cnterprizes ; who has hailed us as we came home at vacations, and been the promoter of all our holiday sports ; who, when we, in wandering manhood, have left the paternal roof, and only return thither at intervals, will welcome us with a joy inferior only to that of our parents ; who, now grown gray and infirm with age, still totters about the house of our fathers in fond and faithful servitude ; who claims us, in a manner, as his own; and hastens with querulous eagerness to anticipate his fellow domestics in waiting upon us at table ; and who, when we retire at night to the chamber that still goes by our name, will linger about the room to have one more kind look, and one more pleasant word about times that are past — who does not experience towards such a being a feeling of almost filial affection? I have met with several instances of epitaphs on the grave- stones of such valuable domestics, recorded with the simple truth of natural feeling. I have two before me at this moment ; one copied from a tombstone of a churchyard in Warwickshire : " Here lieth the body of Joseph Battc, confidential servant to George Birch, Esq. of Hampstead Hall. His grateful friend and master caused this inscription to be written in memory of his discretion, fidelity, diligence, and continence. He died (a, bachelor) aged 84, having lived 44 years in the same family." The other was taken from a tombstone in Eltham churchyard : *' Here lie the remains of Mr. James Tappy, who departed this life on the 8th of September, 1818, aged 84, after a faithful service of 60 years in one family ; by each individual of which he lived respected, and died lamented by the sole survivor." Few monuments, even of the illustrious, have given me the glow aliout the heart that I felt while copying this THE WIDOW. it honest epitaph in the churchyard of Eltham. I sympathized with this "sole survivor" of a family, mourning over the grave of the faithful follower of his race, who had been, no doubt, a living memento of times and friends that had passed away; and in considering this record of long and devoted services, I called to mind the touching speech of Old Adam in " As You Like It," when tottering after the youthful son of his ancient master : " Master, go on, and I will follow thee To the last gasp, with love and loyalty ! Note. — I cannot but mention a tablet which I have seen some- where in the chapel of Windsor Castle, put up by the late King to the memory of a family servant, who had been a faithful attendant of bin himented daughter, the Princess Amelia. George III. pos- sessed much of the strong domestic feeling of the old English country gentleman ; and it is an incident curious in monumental history, and credittible to the human heart,— a monarch erecting a monoment in honour of the humble virtues of a menial. THE WIDOW. She was so charifable and pitious She would weep if that she saw a mous Caught in a trap, if it were dead or bled : Of small hounds had she, that she fed With rest flesh, milke, and wostel bread; But sore wept she if any of them were dead, Or if man smote them with a yard smart. Chaucer. Notwithstanding the whimsiual pamdc made by T.idy Lillycraft on her arrival, she has none of the petty stateli- uoss that I had imagined ; but on the contrary she has a degree of nature, and simple-heartedness, if I may use the phrase, that mingles well with her old-fashioned manners and harmless ostentation. She dresses in rich silks, with long waist; she rouges considerably, and her hair, which is nearly white, is frizzled out, and put up with pins. Her face is pitted with the small-pox, but the delicacy of her features shows that she may once have been beuutifiU; and she has a very fair and wcU-shaped hand and arm, of which, if I mistake not, the good lady is still a littlo vain. 18 THE WIDOW. I have had the curiosity to gather a few particulars con- oeming her. She was a great belle in town between thirty and forty years since, and reigned fur two seasons with aU the iiisolence of beauty, refusing several excellent offers; when, unfortunately, she was robbed of her charms and her lovers by an attack of the small-pox. She retired immediately into the country, where she some time after inherited an estate, and married a baronet, a former admirer, whose passion had suddenly revived; "having," as he said, "always loved her mind rather than her person." The baronet did not enjoy her mind and fortune above six months, and had scarcely grown verj' tired of her, when he broke his neck in a fox -chase and left her free, rich, and disconsolate. Slio has remained on her estate in the country ever since, and has never shown any desire to return to town, and revisit the scene of her early triumphs and fatal malady. All her favoiu-itc recollections, however, revert to that short period of her youthful beauty. She has no idea of town but as it was at that time ; and continually forgets that the place and people must have changed materially in the course of nearly half a century. She will often speak of the toasts of those days as if still reigning ; and, until very recently, used to talk with delight of the royal family, and the beauty of the young princes and princesses. She cannot be brought to think of the present king otherwise than as an elegant young man, rather wild, but who danced a minuet divinely ; and before he came to the crown, would often mention him as the •• sweet young prince." She talks also of the walks in Kensington Gardens, where the gentleman appeared in gold-laced coats and cocked hats, and the ladies in hoops, and swept so proudly along the grassy avenues; and she thinks the ladies let themselves Badly down in their dignity, when they gave up cushioned head-dr(.>sseH, and high-heeled shoes. She has ^..uch to say too of the officers who were in the train of her admirers ; and speaks fiimiliarly of many wild young blades, that arc now, porlmps, hobbling about watering places with crutches and gouty shoes. Whether the taste tiie good lady l:ad of matrimony dis- couraged her or not, I cannot say ; but, though her merits and her riches have attracted many suitors, she has never been tempted to yenturo again into the happy state. This is XHB WIDOW* X 19 >^, singular too, for sbe seems of a mofl^jabft ancTlMMc^ible ; heart: is always talking of love and comtubial felicityt^iM^ J is a great stickler for old-fashioned gallantry, devQt^«^|«t^^^< // tions. and eternal constancy, on the part of the genwimeSlp^ -^ She Uvea, however, after her own taste. Her house, I am told, must have been built and furnished about the time of Sir Charles Grandison : everything about it is somewhat formal and stately ; but has been softened down into a degree of voluptuousness, characteristic of an old lady very tender- heailed and romantic, and that loves her ease. The cushions of the great arm eh. Irs, and wide sofas, almost bury you when you sit down on them. Flowers of the most rare and delicate kind are placed about the rooms and on little japanned stands ; and sweet bags lie about the tables and mantel-pieces. [The house is full of pet dogs, Angola cats, and singing birds, [who are as carefully waited upon as she is herself. She is dainty in her linng, and a little of an epicure, living ' on white meats, and little lady-like dishes, though her ser- vants have substantial old English fare, as their looks bear witness. Indeed, they are so indulged, that they are all spoiled, and when they lose their present place they will be fit for no other. Her ladyship is one of tho8« easy-tempert>d beings that are always doomed to be much liked, but ill served, by their domestics, and cheated by all the world. Much of her time is past in reading novels, of which she has a most extensive library, and has a constant supply from the publishers in town. Her erudition in this line of litera- ture is immense : she has kept pace with the press for half a century. Her mind is stuffed with love-tales of all kinds, from the stately amours of the old books of chivalry, down to the last blue-covered romance, reeking from the press: though she evidently gives the preference to those that came out in the days of her youth, nnd when she was first in love. She maintains that there are no novels written now-a-days equal to Pamela and Sir Charles Grandison ; and she places the Castle of Otranto at the head of all romances. She does a vast deal of good in her neighbourhood, and is imposed \x\)fm by every beggar in the county. She is the benefactress of a iiillage adjoining to her estate, and fakes a special interest in all its love affiiirs. She knows of every courtship that is going on ; every love-lorn damsel is sure to find a patient listener and sage adviser in her ladyship. She 02 20 THE LOVERS. takes great pains to reconcile all love quarrels, and should any faithless swain persist in his inconstancy, he is sure to draw on himself the good lady's violent indignation. I have learned these particulars pailly from Frank Brace- hridge, and partly from Master Simon. I am now able to account for the assiduous attention of the latter to her lady- ship. Her house is one of his favourite resorts, where he is a very important personage. He makes her a visit of busi- ness once a year, when he looks into all her affairs ; which, as she is no manager, are apt to get into confusion. He examines the books of the overseer, and shoots about the estate, which, he says, is well stocked with game, notwith- standing that it is poached by all the vagabonds in the neighbourhood. It is thought, as I before hinted, that the captain will inherit the greater part of her property, having always been her chief favourite ; for, in fact, she is partial to a red coat. She has now come to the Hall to be present at his nuptials, having a great disposition to interest herself in all matters of love and matrimony. THE LOVERS. Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away : for lo the winter is past, the raia is over and gone ; the flowers appear on the earth, the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in the land. Sono of Solomon. To a man who is a little of a philosopher, and a bachelor to boot ; and who, by dint of some experience in the follies of life, begins to look with a learned eye upon the ways of man, and eke of woman ; to such a man, I say, there is something very entertaining in noticing the conduct of a pair of young lovers. It may not be as grave and scientific a study as the loves of the plants, but it is certainly as interesting. I have therefore derived much pleasure, since my arrival at the Hall, from observing the fair Julia and her lover. She has all the delightful blushing consciousness of an artless girl, inexperienced in coquetry, who has made her first conquest : M-hile the captain regards her with that mixture of fondnec and exultation, with which a youthful lo^ .r rv apt to con- template so beauteous a prijse. THE tOVEns. 21 I observed them yesterday in the garden, advancinnj along one of the retired walks. The sun was shining with deli- cious warmth, making great masses of bright verdure, and deep blue ^hade. The cuckoo, that " harbinger of spring," was faintly heard from a distance ; the thrush piped from the hawthorn, and the yellow butterflies sported, and toyed, and coquetted in the air. The fair Julia was leaning on her lover's arm, listening to his conversation, with her eyes cast down, a soft blush on her cheek, and a quiet smile on her lips, while in the hand that hung negligently by her side was a bunch of flowers. In this way they were sauntering slowly along, and when I considered them, and the scene in which they were moving, I could not but think it a thousand pities that the season should ever change, or that young people should ever grow older, or that blossoms should give way to fruit, or that lovers should ever get mamed. From what I have gathered of family anecdote, I under- stand that the fair Julia is the daughter of a favourite college friend of the squire ; who, after leaving Oxford, had entered the army, and served for many years in India, where he was mortally wounded in a skirmish with the natives. In his last moments he had, with a faltering pen, recommended his wife and daughter to the kindness of his early friend. The widow and her child returned to England helpless, and almost hopeless. When Mr. Bracebridge received ac- counts of their situation, he hastened to their relief. He reached them just in time to soothe the last moments of the mother, who was dying of a consumption, and to make her happy in the assurance that her child shoidd never want a protector. The good squire returned with his prattling charge to his stronghold, where he has brought her up with a tenderness truly paternal. As he has taken some pains to superintend her education, and form her taste, she has grown up with many of his notions, and considers him the wisest, as well as the best of men. Much of her time, too, has been passed with Lady Lillycraft, who has instructed her in the manners of the old school, and enriched her mind with all kinds of novels and romances. Indeed, her ladyship has had a great hand in promoting the match between Julia and the H THE L0YEB8. captain, haying had them together at her country seat the moment she found there was an attachment growing up between them ; the good lady being never so happy as when she has a pair of turtles cooing about her. I have been pleased to see the fondness with which the &ir Julia is regarded by the old servants of the Hall. She has been a pet with them from childhood, and every one seems to lay some claim to her education ; so that it is no wonder that she should be extremely accomplished. The gardener taught her to rear flowers, of which she is extremely n)nd. Old Christy, the pragmatical huntsman, softens when she approaches ; and as she sits lightly and gracefully in her saddle, claims the merit of having taught her to ride ; while the housekeeper, who almost looks upon her as a daughter, intimates that she first gave her an insight into the mysteries of the toilet, having been dressing- maid in her young days to the late Mrs. Bracebridge. I am inclined to credit this last claim, as I have noticed that the dress of the young lady had an air of the old school, though managed with native taste, and that her hair was put up very much in the style of Sir Peter Lely's portraits in the picture gallery. Her very musical attainments partake of this old-fashioned character, and most of her songs are such as are not at the present day to be found on the piano of a modem performer. I have, however, seen so much of modem fashions, modem accomplishments, and modem fine ladies, that I relish this tinge of antiquated style in so young and lovely a girl ; and I have had as much pleasure in hearing her warble one of the old songs of Herrick, or Carew, or Suckling, adapted to some simple old melody, as I have had from listening to a lady amateur sky- lark it up and down through the finest bravura of Rossini or Mozart. We have very pretty music in the evenings, occasionally, between her and the captain, assisted sometimes by Master Simon, who scrapes, dubiously, on his violin ; being very apt to get out, and to halt a note or two in the rear. Sometimes he even thrums a little on the piano, and takes a part in a trio, in which his voice can generally be distinguished by a certain quavering tone, and an occasional false note. I was praising the fair Julia's perforntance to him after one of her songs, when I found he took to himself the whole FAMIIiT SELIQUU. 23 credit of having formed her musical taste, assuring mo that she was very apt ; and, indeed, summing up her whole cha- racter in his knowing way, by adding, that " she was a very nice girl, and had no nonsense about her." FAMILY RELIQUES. My Infelice's face, her brow, her eye. The dimple on her cheek : and such sweet skill Hath from the cunning workman's pencil flown. These lips look fresh and lively as her own. False colours last after the true be dead. Of all the roses grafted on her cheeks, Of all the graces dancing in her eyes, Of all the music set upon her tongue. Of all that was past woman's excellence In her white bosom ; look, a painted board Circumscribes all 1 Dekxea. Ah old English family mansion is a fertile subject for study. It abounds with illustrations of former times, and traces of the tastes, and humoiirs, and manners of successive genera- tions. The alterations and additions, in different styles of architecture ; the furniture, plate, pictures, hangings ; the warlike and sporting implements of different ages and fancies; all furnish food fur curious and amusing speculation. As the squire is very careful in collecting and preserving all family reliques, the Hall is full of remembrances of this kind. In looking about the establishment, I can picture to myself the characters and habits that have prevailed at different eras of the family history. I have mentioned on a former occasion the armour of the crusader which hangs up in the Hall. There are also several jack-boots, with enormously thick soles and high heels, that belonged to a set of cavaliers, who filled the Hall with the din and stir of arms during the time ot the Covenanters. A number of enormous drinking vessel of antique fashi(»i, with huge Venice glasses, and green hock glasses, with the apostles in relief on them, remain as monu- ments of a generation or two of hard-livers, that led a life of roaring revelry, and first introduced the gout into the family. I shall puss over several more such indications of temporary tastes of the squire's predecessors ; but I cannot forbear to 24 FAMILY BELIQUE8. notice a pair of antlers in the great hall, which is one of the trophies of a hard-riding squire of former times, who was the Nimrod of these parts. There arc many traditions of his wonderftd feats in hunting still existing, which are related by old Christy, the huntsman, who gets exceedingly nettled if they are in the least doubted. Indeed, there is a frightful chasm, a few miles from the Hall, which goes by the name of tlie Squire's Leap, from his having cleared it in the ardour of the chase ; there can be no doubt of the fact, for old Christy shows the very dints of the horse's hoofs on the rocks on each side of the chasm. Master Simon holds the memory of this squire in great veneration, and has a number of extraordinary stories to tell concerning liim, which he repeats at all huntirj.* dinners; and I am told that they wax more and more man'ellous the older they grow. He has also a pair of Ripon spurs which be- longed to this mighty hunter of yore, and which he only wears on particular occasions. The place, however, which abounds most with mementos of past times, is the picture gallery; and there is something strangely pleasing, though melancholy, in considering the long rows of portraits which compose the greater part of the collec- tion. They furnish a kind of nariative of the lives of the family worthies, which I am enabLd to read with the assist- ance of the venerable housekeeper, who is the family chroni- cler, prompted occasionally by Master Simon. There is the progress of a fine lady, for instance, through a variety of por- traits. One represents her as a little girl, with a long waist and hoop, holding a kitten in her arms, and ogling the spec- tator out of the corners of her eyes, as if she could not turn her head. In another we find her in the freshness of youthful beauty, when she was a celebrated belle, and so hard-hearted as to cause several unfortunate gentlemen to run desperate and write bad poetry. In another she is depicted as a stately dame, in the maturity of her charms; next to the portrait of her husband, a gallant colonel in full-bottomed wig and gold-laced hat, who was killed abroad; and, finally, her monument is in the church, the spire of which may be seen from the window, where her eflSgy is carved in marble, and represents her as a venerable dame of seventy-six. In like manner I have followed some of the fiunily great men, through a scries of pictures, from early boyhood to the FAMILY KELIQtlES. 25 robe of dignity, or truncheon of command, and so on by degrees, until they were garnered up in the common reposi- tory, the neighbouring church. There is one group that particularly interested me. It consisted of four sisters of nearly the same age, who flourished aboxit a century since, and. if I may judge from their por- traits, were extremely beautiful. I can imagine what a scene of gaiety and romance this old mansion must have been, when they were in the hey-day of their charms; when they passed like beautiful visions through its halls, or stepped daintily to music in the revels and dances of the cedar gallery; or printed, with delicate feet, the velvet verdure of these lawns. How must they have been looked up to with mingled love, and pride, and reverence, by the old family servants; and followed by almost painfid admiration by the aching eyes of rival admirers ! How must melody, and song, and tender serenade, have breathed about these courts, and their echoes whispered to the loitering tread of lovers ! How must these very tuiTets have made the hearts of the young galliards thrill as they first discerned them from afar, rising from among the trees, and pictured to themselves the beauties casketed like gems within these walls ! Indeed I have dis- covered about the place several faint records of this reign of love and romance, when the Hall was a kind of Court of Beauty. Several of the old romances in the library have marginal notes expressing sympathy and approbation, where there are long speeches extolling ladies' charms, or protesting eternal fidelity, or bewailing the cruelty of some tyrannical fair one. The interviews, and declarations, and parting scenes of tender lovers, also bear the marks of having been frequently read, and are scored, and marked with notes of admiration, and have initials written on the margins; most of which annotations have the day of the month and year annexed to them. Several of the windows, too, have scraps of poetry engraved on them with diamonds, taken from the writings of t£e fair Mrs. Phillips, the once celebrated Orinda. Some of these seem to have been inscribed by lovers : and others, in a delicate and unsteady hand, and a little inaccurate in the spelling, have evidently been written by the young ladies themselves, or by female friends, who had been on visits to the Hall. Mrs. Phillips seems to have been their favourite author, and they have distributed the names of her 26 7AMTLT KEX.IQVK8. heroes and heroines among their circle of intimacy. Some- times, in a male hand, the verse bewails the cruelty of beau^ and the suiierings of constant love; while in a female hand it prudishly confines itself to lamenting the parting of female friends. The bow-window of my bed-room, which has, doubtless, been inhabited by one of these beauties, has several of these inscriptions. I have one at this moment before my eyes, called "Camilla parting with Leonora:" " How perished is tlie joy that's past. The present how unsteady 1 What comfort can be great, and last^ When this is gone already ! " And close by it is another, written, perhaps, by some adven- turous lover, who had stolen into the lady's chamber during her absence. " THEODOSIUS TO CAMILLA. I'd rather in your favour live. Than in a lasting name ; And much a greater rate would give For happiness than fame. THEOnOSITTS. 1700.* When I look at these faint records of gallantry and ten- derness; when I contemplate the fading portraits of these beautiful girls, and think, too, that they have long since bloomed, reigned, grown old, died, and passed away, and with them all their graces, their triumphs, their rivalries, their admirers; the whole empire of love and pleasure in which they ruled — "all dead, all buried, all forgotten," I find a cloud of melancholy stealing over the present gaieties around me. I was gazing, in a musing mood, this very morning, at the portrait of the lady whose husband was killed abroad, when the fair Julia entered the gallery, leaning on the arm of the captain. The sun shone through the row of windows on her as she passed along, and she seemed to beam out each time into brightness, and relapse into shade, nntil the door at the bottom of the gallery closed after her. I felt a sadness of heart at the idea, that this was an emblem of her lot : a few more years of sunshine and shade, and all this life, and loveliness, and enjoyment, will have ceased, and nothing be left to commemorate this beautiful being but one more perishable portrait; to awaken, perhaps, the trite specu- AK OLD SOLDI EB. 37 lations of Bomr- ftiture loiterer, like mjself, when I and my scribblings nh il have lived through our brief existence, and been forgotten. AN OLD SOLDIER. I've worn some leather out abroad; let out a heathen soul or two ; fed this good sword with the black blood of pagan Christians ; con* verted a few individuals with it. — But let that pass. The OaniVARV. Th£ Hall was thrown into some little i^tation, a few days since, by the arrival of General Harbottle. He had been expected for several days, and had been looked for rather im])atiently by several of the family. Master Simon assured me that I would like the general hugely, for he was a blade of the old school, and an excellent table companion. Lady Lillycraft, also, appeared to' be somewhat fluttered, on the morning of the general's arrival, for he had been one of her early admirers; and she recollected him only as a dashing young ensign, just come upon the town. She actually spent an hour longer at her toilet, and made her appearance with her hair uncommonly frizzled and powdered, and an additional quantity of rouge. She was evidently a little surprised and shocked, therefore, at finding the little dashing ensign trans- formed into a corpulent old general, with a double chin, though it was a perfect picture to witness their salutations ; the graciousness of her profound curtsy, and the air of the old school with which the general took off his hat, swayed it gently in his hand, and bowed his powdered head. All this bustle and anticipation has caused me to study the general with a little more attention than, perhaps, 1 should otherwise have done; and the few days that he has already passed at the Hall have enabled me, I think, to furnish a tolerable likeness of him to the reader. He is, as Master Simon observed, a soldier of the old school, with powdered head, side locks, and pigtail. His face is shaped like the stern of a Dutch man-of-war, narrow at top, and wide at bottom, with full rosy cheeks and a double chin; so that, to use the cant of the day, his organs of eating may be said to be powerfully developed. 28 AN OLD SOLDIER. The general, though a veteran, has seen very little active service, except the taking of Scringapatara, which forms an era in his history. He wears a large emerald in his bosom, and a diamond on his finger, which he got on that occasion, and whoever is unlucky enough to notice either, is sure to involve himself in the whole histoiy of the siege. To judge from the general's conversation, the taking of Serin gapatam is the most important affair that has occurred for the last century. On the approach of warlike times on the continent, he was rapidly promoted to get him out of the way of younger officers of merit; until, ha\-ing been hoisted to the rank of general, he M'as quietly laid on the shelf. Since that time his cam- paigns have been principally confined to watering-places; where he drinks the waters for a slight touch of the liver which he got in India ; and plays whist with old dowagers, with whom he has flirted in his younger days. Indeed he talks of all the fine women of the last half century, and, according to hints which he nov and then drops, has enjoyed the particular smiles of many of them. He has seen considerable garrison duty, and can speak of almost every place famous for good quarters, and where the inhabitants give good dinners. He is a diner-out of the first-rate currency, when in town; being imnted to one place because he has been seen at another. In the some way he is invited about the country seats, and can describe half the seats in the kingdom, from actual observation; nor is any one better versed in court gossip, and the pedigrees and inter- marriages of the nobility. As tne general is an old bachelor and an old beau, «\nd there are several ladies at the Hall, especially his quonda.Ti flame Lady Jocelyne, he is put rather upon liis gallantry. He commonly passes some time, therefore, at his toilet, and takes the field at a late hour every morning, with his hair dressed out and powdered, and a ros In his button-hole. After he has breakfasted, he walks up and down the terrace in the sunshine, humming an air, and hemming between every stave, carrying one hand behind his back, ann with the other touching his cane to the ground, and then raising it up to his shoulder. Should ho, in these morning promenades, meet any of Iho elder ladies of the family, as he fi-equently does Lady Lillyernft, his hat is immediately in his hand, and it is enough to remind one of those courtly groups of ladies and AN OLD SOLDIEB. 29 gentlemen, in old prints of ^Vin(lsor Terrace or Kensington Gardens. He talks frequently about " the service," and is fond of humming the old song, •* Why, soldiers, wliy, Should we be melancholy, boys I "Why, soldiers, why. Whose business 'tis to die 1" I cannot discover, however, that the general has ever run any gieat risk of dying, excepting from an apoplexy, or in- digestion. He criticises all the battles on the continent, and discusses the merits of the commanders, but never fails to bring the convereation, idtimately, to Tippoo Saib and Seringapatam. I am told that the general was a perfect champion at drawing- rooms, parades, and watering-places, during the late war, and was looked to >nth hope and confidence by many an old lady, when labouring under the terror of Buonaparte s invasion. He is thoroughly loyal, and attcr^ds punctually on levees when in town. He has treasured up mu:ny remarkable sayings of the late king, particidarly one which the king made to him on a field-day, complimenting him on the excellence of his horse. He extols the whole royal family, but especially tho present king, whom he pronounces the most perfect gentleman and best whist-player m Europe. The general swears rather more than is the fashion of the present day ; but it was tho mode of the old school. He is, however, very strict in religious matters, and a staunch churchman. He repeats the responses very loudly in church, and is cmphatical in praying for tho king and royal family. At table his loyalty waxes very fervent with his si^cond bottle, and tho song of " God save the King" puts him into a perfect ccstacy. Ho is amazingly well contented with the present state of things, and apt to get a little impatient at any talk about national ruin and agricultural distress. He says ho has travelled about the country as much as any man, and has met with nothing but prosperity ; and to confess tho truth, a groat part of his time is spent in visiting from one countrr- seat to another, and riding about the parks of bis fricntu. '* They talk of public distress," said the general this day to me, at dinner, as he smacked a glass of rich burgundy, and cast his eyes about the ample board ; " they talk of public 80 THK WIDOW S HETINUE. distress, but where do wo find it, sir ? I see none. I see no reason any one has to comjjhiin. 'Jake my word for it, sir, this talk about public distress is all huuibug ! " THE WIDOW'S RETINUE. Little dogs and all I Lear. In giving an accoufat of the arrival of I^ady Lillj craft at the Hall, I ought to have mentioned the entertainment which I derived from witnessing the unpacking of her carriage, and the disposing of her retinue. There is something extremely amusing to me in the number of factitious wants, the loads of imaginary conveniences, but real incumbrances, with which the luxuiious are apt to burthen themselves. I like to watch the whimsical stir and display about one of these petty pro- gre88(». The number of robustious footmen and retainers of all kinds bustling about, with looks of infinite gravity and importance, to do almost nothing. The number of heavy trunks, and parcels, and bandboxes belonging to my lady ; and the solicitude exhibited about some humble, odd-looking box by my lady's maid; the cushions piled in the carriage to make a soft scat still softer, and to prevent the dreaded possibility of a jolt; tho smelling-bottles, the cordials, the oaskets of biscmt and fruit ; the new publications ; all provided to guard against hunger, fatigue, or ennui ; the led horses to vary the mode of travelling ; and all this preparation and parade to move, perhaps, some very good-for-nothing personage about a little space of earth ! I do not mean to apply the latter part of these obser>-ation8 to Lady Lillyoraft, for whose simple kindheartedness I have a very great respect, and who is really a most amiable and worthy being. I cannot refrain, however, from mentioning •omc of the motley retinue she has brought with her ; and which, indeed, bespeak the overflowing kindness of her nature, which requires her to be surrounded with objects on which to lavish it. In the first place, her ladyship has a pani{H'red coachman, with a red iaeo, and cheeks that hang down like dew-laps. He evidently domineers a\'er her a little with respetH to the fat horses ; and only drives out when ho thinks proper, oad when ho tliinki it will be " good for the cattle." THE WIDOW'S BETINtTE. Si She has a favourite page to attend upon her person: a handsome boy of about twelve years of age, but a mischievous varlot, very much spoiled, and in a fair way to bo good for nothing. He is dressed in green, with a profusion of gold cord and gdt buttons about his clothes. She always ha.s one or two attcndiints of the kind, who are replaced by others as soon as they grow to fourteen years of age. She has brought two dogs with her also, out of a number of pets which she maintains at home. One is a fat spaniel, called Zephyr — though heaven defend me from such a zephjT ! He is fed out of all shape and comfort; his eyes are nearly strained out of his head ; he wheezes with corpulency, and cannot walk with- out great difficulty. The other is a little, old, gray-muzzled curmudgeon, with an unhappy eye, that kindles like a coal if you only look at him ; his nose turns up ; his mouth is drawn into wrinkles, so as to show his teeth ; in short, he has alto- gether the look of a dog far gone in misanthropy, and totally sick of the world. When he walks, he has his tail curled up so tight that it seems to lift his feet from the ground ; and he seldom makes use of more than three legs at a time, keeping the other drawn up as a reserve. This last wretch is called Beauty. These dogs are full ' " elegant ailments unknown to vulgar dogs ; and are petted and nursed by Ladv Lillycraft with the tenderest kindness. They aie pampered and fed with deli- cacies by their fellow-minion, the page; but their stomachs are often weak and out of order, so that they cannot eat ; though I have now and then seen the page give them a mis- chievous pinch, or thwack over the head, when his mistress was not by. They have cushions for their express use, on which they lie before the fire, and yet are apt to shiver and moan if there is the least draught of air. Wlien any one enters llie room, they make a most tyrannical barking, tiiat is absolutely deafening. 'Hiey are insolent to all the other dogs of the establishment. There is a noble stag-hound, a great favourite of the squire's, who is a privileged visitor to tho parlour ; but the moment he makes his appeamnee, these in- truders fly at him with fun us rage ; and 1 liave admired tho sovereign indifference and contempt with which ho seems to look down u|K)n his puny assailants. When her ladyship drives out, these dogs are genendly carried with her to take the air; when they look out of each window of the carriage, 32 THE WIDOW S BETINITE. and bark at all vulgar pedestrian dogs. These dogs are a continual source of misery to the household: as thoy are always in the way, they every now and then get their toes trod on, and then there is a yelping on their part, and a loud lamentation on the part of their mistress, that fills the room with clamouv and confusion. Lastly, there is her ladyship's waiting-gentlewoman, Mrs. Hannah, a prim, pragmatical old maid ; one of the most in- tolerable and intolerant virgjins that ever lived. She has kept her virtue by her until it has turned sour, and now every word and look smacks of verjuice. She is the very opposite to her mistress, for one hates, and the other loves, all man- kind. How they first came together I cannot imagine, but they have lived together for many years ; and the abigail's temper being tart and encroaching, and her ladyship's easy and yielding, the former has got the complete upper hand, and tyrannizes over the good lady in secret. Lady Lilly craft now and then complains of it, in great con- fidence, to her friends, but hushes up the subjec'< immediately, if Mrs. Hannah makes her appcarunce. Indecc\, she has been so accustomed to be attended by her, that she thinks she could not do without her ; though one great study of her life is to keep Mrs. Hannah in good humour, by little presents and kindnesses. Master Simon has a most devout abhorrence, mingled with awe, for this ancient spinster. He told me the other day, in a whisper, that she was a cursed brimstone — in fact, he added another epithet, which I would not repeat for the world. I have remarked, however, that ho is always ex- tremely civil to her when they meet. READY-MONEY JACK. My purse, it is my privy wyfe, This song I dare both syng and say, It kcepeth men from grievous atryfe Wlien every man for hymself siuiil pay. As I rydc in ryche array For gold and sylver men wyll me florj'sho ; By thyt matter 1 dare well sayo, Ever gramercy myne owae purse. UOOK or HVNTIKO. BEA-DY-MOXEY JACK. 33 On the skirts of the neighbouring village there lives a kind of small potentate, who, for aught I know, is a representative of one of the most ancient legitimate lines of the present day ; for the empire over which he reigns has belonged to his family time out of mind. His territories comprise a con- siderable number of good fat acres ; and his seat of power is an old farm-house, where he enjoys, unmolested, tlie stout oaken chair of his ancestors. The personage to whom I allude is a sturdy old yeoman of the name of John Tibbets, or rather lleady-Moncy Jack Tibbets, as he is called throughout the neighbourhood. The first place where he attracted my attention was in the churchyard on Sunday ; where he sat on a tombstone after service, with his hat a little on one side, holding I'orth to a small circle of auditors, and, as I presumed, expounding the law and the prophets, until, on drawing a little nearer, I found he was only expatipting on the merits of a brown horse. He presented so faithful a picture of a substantial English yeoman, such as he is often described in books, heightened, indeed, by some little finery' peculiar to himself, that I could not but take note of his whole appearance. He was between fifty and sixty, of a strong muscular frame, and at least six feet high, with a physiognomy as grave as a lion's, and set off with short, curling, iron-gray locks. His shirt-collar was turned down, and displayed a neck covered with the same short, curling, gray hair; and he wore a coloured silk neckcloth, tied very luosely, and tucked in at the bosom, with a green paste brooch on the knot. His coat was of dark-green cloth, with silver buttons, on each of which was engraved a stag, with his own name, John Tibbets, under- neath. He had an inner waistcoat of figured chintz, between which and his coat was another of scarlet cloth, unbuttoned. His breeches were also left unbuttoned at the knees, not from any slovenliness, but to show a broad pair of scarlet garters. His stockings were blue, with white clocks ; he M'ore large silver shoe-buckles ; a broad paste buckle in his hatband ; his sleeve buttons M-ere gold seven-shilling jiieees ; and he had two or three guineas hanging as ornaments to his watch- chain. On making some inquiries about him, I gathered that ho was descended from a line of farmers that hnd always lived on L'^e same spot, and owned the same property ; and that half 84 EEADY-MONEY JACK. of the churchyard was taken up with the tombstones of his race. He has all his life been an important character in the place. When a youngster, he was one of the most roaring blades of the neighbourhood. No one could match him at wrestling, pitching the bar, cudgel play, and other athletic exercises. Like the renowned Pinner of Wakefield, he was the village champion ; carried off the prize at all the fairs, and threw his gauntlet at the country round. Even to this day the old people talk of his prowess, and imdervalue, in comparison, all heroes of the green that have succeeded him; nay, they say, that if Ready-Money Jack were to take the field even now, there is no one could stand before him. When Jack's father died, the neighbours shook their heads, and predicted that young Hopeful would soon make way with the old homestead ; but Jack falsified all their predictions. The moment he succeeded to the paternal farm he assumed a new character ; took a wife ; attended resolutely to his affairs, and became an industrious, thrifty farmer. With the family property he inherited a set of old family maxims, to which he steadily adhered. He saw to everything himself; put his own hand to the plough ; worked hard ; ate heartily ; slept soundly; paid for everything in cash down; and never danced except he could do it to the music of his own money in both pockets. He has never been without a hundred or two pounds in gold by him, and never allows a debt to stand unpaid. This has gained him his current name, of which, by the by, he is a little proud; and has caused him to be looked upon as a very wealthy man by all the village. Notwithstanding his thrift, however, he has never denied himself the amusements of life, but has taken a share in every pissing pleasure. It is his maxim, that '' he that works hard can afford to play." He is, therefore, an attendant at all the country fairs and wakes, and has signalized himself by feats of strength and prowess on every village green in the shire. He often makes his appearance at horse-races, and sports his half-guinea and even his guinea at a time ; keeps a good horse for his own riding, and to this day is fond of following the hounds, and is generally in at the death. He keeps up the rustic revels, and hospitalities too, for which his paternal farm-hotue has always been noted ; has plenty of good cheer BEAOT-MONET JACK. 86 and dancing at harvest-homo, and, above all, keeps the '• merry night,"* as it is termed, at Christmas. With all his love of amusement, however. Jack is by no means a boisterous jovial companion. He is seldom known to laugh even in the midst of his gaiety ; but maintains the same grave, lion-like demeanour. He is very slow at com- prehending a joke ; and is apt to sit puzzling at it, with a perplexed look, while the rest of the company is in a roar. This gravity has, perhaps, grown on him with the growing weight of his character; for he is gradually rising into patriarchal dignity in his native place. Though he no longer takes an active part in athletic sports, yet he always presides at them, and is appealed to on all occasions as umpire. Ho maintains the peace on the village-green at holiday games, and quells all brawls and quarrels by collaring the parties and shaking them heartily, if refractory. No one ever pretends to raise a hand against him, or to contend against his decisions; the young men having grown up in habitual awe of his prowess, and in implicit deference to him as the champion and lord of the green. He is a regular frequenter of the viUage inn, the landlady having been a sweetheart of his in eai'ly life, and he having always cont'.nued on kind terms with her. He seldom, how- ever drinks anything but a draught of ale ; smokes bis pipe, and pays his reckoning before leaving the tap-room. Hero he " gives his little senate laws ;" decides bets, which are very generally referred to him; determines upon the characters- and qualities of horses ; and indeed plays now and then the part of a judge, in settling petty disputes between neigh- bours, which otherwise might have been nursed by country attorneys into tolerable law-suits. Jack is very candid and impartial in his decisions, but he has not a head to carry a long argument, and is very apt to get perplexed and out of patience if there is much pleading. He generally breaks through the argument with a strong voice, and brings matters to a summary conclusion, by pronouncin? what he calls the * Merrt Nioht; a mstic merry-making in a farm-house about Christmas, common in some parts of Yorkshire. There is abund- ance of homely fare, tea, cakes, fruit, and ale; various feats of agility, amusing games, romping, dancing, and kissing wiUiul. They oommonly bredc up at midnight. d2 36 BEADY-MONEY JACK. " upshot of the business," or, in other words, " the long and short of the matter.'' Jack once made a journey to London, a great many years since, which has furnished him with topics of conversation ever since. He saw the old king on the terrace at Windsor, who stopped, and pointed him out to one of the princesses, being probably struck with Jack's truly yeoman-like appear- ance. This is a favourite anecdote with him, and has no doubt had a great effect in making him a most loyal subject ever since, in spite of taxes and poor's rates. He Avas also at Bartholomew-fair, where he had half the buttons cut off his coat : and a gang of pickpockets, attracted by his external show of gold and silver, made a regular attempt to hustle him as he was gazing at a show ; but for once they found that they had caught a tartar, for Jack enacted as great wonders among the gang as Samson did among the Philistines. One of his neighbours, who had accompanied him to town, and was with him at the fair, brought back an accoimt of his exploits, which raised the pride of the whole village ; who considered their champion as having subdued all London, and eclipsed the achievements of Friar Tuck, or even the reno>vned Kobin Hood himself. Of late years the old fellow has begun to take the world easily ; he works less, and indulges in greater leisure, his son having grown up, and succeeded to him both in the labours of the farm and the exploits of the green. Like all sons of distinguished men, however, his father's renown is a disad- vantage to him, for he can never come up to public expecta- tion. Though a fine, active fellow of tlirce-and-twenty, and quite the " cock of the walk," yet the old people declare he is nothing like what Ready-Money Jack was at his time of life. The youngster himself acknowledges his inferiority, and has a wonderful opinion of the old man, who indeed taught him all his athletic accomplishments, and holds such a sway over him, that I am told, even to this day, he would have no hesitation to take him in hands, if he rebelled against paternal government. The squire holds Jack in very high esteem, aud shows him to all his visitors as a specimen of old English "heart of oak." He frequently calls at his house, and tastes some of his home-brewed, which is excellent. He made Jack a pre- sent of old Tusser's '* Hundred Points of good Husbandrie," BACHELORS. 37 which has furnished him with reading ever since, and is his test-book and manual in all agricultural and domestic con- cerns. He has made dog's ears at the most favourite passages, and knows many of the poetical maxims by heart. Tibbets, though not a man to be daunted or fluttered by high acquaintances ; and though he cherishes a sturdy inde- pendence of mind and manner, yet is evidently gratified by the attentions of the squire, whom he has known from boy- hood, and pronounces " a true gentleman every inch of him." He is also on excellent terms with Master Simon, who is a kind of privy councillor to the family ; but his great favourite is the Oxonian, whom he taught to wrestle and play at quarter-staff when a boy, and considers the most promising young gentleman in the whole county. BACHELORS. The Bachelor most joyfully In pleasant plight doth pass his dales. Good fellowship and companie He doth maintain and kepe alwaies. Evans' Old Ballads. There is no character in the comedy of human life that is more diflBcult to play well than that of an old bachelor. When a single gentleman, therefore, arrives at that critical period when he begins to consider it an impertinent question to be asked his age, I would advise him to look well to his ways. This period, it is true, is much later with some men than with others; I have witnessed more than once the meet- ing of two wrinkled old lads of this kind, who had not seen each other for several years, and have been amused by tho amicable exchange of compliments on each other's appearance that takes place on such occasions. There is always one in- variable observation, " Why, bless my soul ! you look younger than when last I saw you !" Whenever a man's friends begin to compliment him about looking young, he may be sure that they think he is growing old. I am led to make these remarks by the conduct of Master Simon and the general, who have become great cronies. As the former is the youngest by many years, he is regarded as 38 BACHELOBS. quite a youthful gallant by the general, who moreover looks upon him as a man of great wit and prodigious acquirements. I have already hinted that Master Simon is a family beau, and considered rather a young fellow by all the elderly ladies of the connexion; for an old bachelor, in an old family con- nexion, is something like an actor in a regular dramatic corps, who seems " to flourish in immortal youth," and will continue to play the Romeos and Hangers for half a century together. Master Simon, too, is a little of the camelion, and takes a different hue with every different companion : he is very attentive and officious, and somewhat sentimental, with Lady Lillycraft ; copies out little namby-pamby ditties and love-songs for her, and draws quivers, and doves, and darts, and Cupids, to be worked in the corners of her pocket handkerchiefs. He indulges, however, in very considerable latitude with the other married ladies of the family ; and has many sly pleasantries to whisper to them, that provoke an equivocal laugh and tap of the fan. But when he gets among yoimg company, such as Frank Bracebridge, the Oxonian, and the general, he is apt to put on the mad wig, and to talk in a very bachelor-like strain about the sex. In this he has been encouraged by the example of the general, whom he looks up to as a man who has seen the world. The general, in fact, tells shocking stories after dinner, when the ladies have retired, which he gives as some of the choice things that are served up at the Mulligatawuey club, a knot of boon companions in London. He also repeats the fat jokes of old Major Pendergast, the wit of the club, and which, though the general can hardly repeat them for laugh- ing, always make Mr. Bracebridge look grave, he having a great antipathy to an indecent jest. In a word, the general is a complete instance of the declension in gay life, by which a yoimg man of pleasure is apt to cool down into an obscene old gentleman. I saw him and Master Simon, an evening or two since, con- versing with a buxom milkmaid in a meadow ; and from their elbowing each other now and then, and the general's shaking his shoulders, blowing up his cheeks, and breaking out into a short fit of irrepressible laughter, I had no doubt they were playing the mischief with the girl. As I looked at them through a hedge, I could not but think BACHSIiOK-. 89 they would have made a tolerable group for a modem picture of Susannah and the two elders. It is true the girl seemed in no wise alarmed at the force of the enemy ; and I question, had either of them been alone, whether she would not have been more than they would have ventured to encounter. Such veteran roysters are daring wags when together, and will put any female to the blush with their jokes ; but they are as quiet as lambs when they fall singly into the clutches of a fine woman. In spite of the general's years, he evidently is a little vain of his person, and ambitious of conquests. I have observed him on Sunday in church, eyeing the country girls most sus- piciously ; and have seen him leer upon them with a down- riglit amorous look, even when he has been gallanting Lady Lillycraft with great ceremony through the churchyard. The general, in fact, is a veteran in the service of Cupid rather than of Mars, having signalized himself in all the garrison towns and country quarters, and seen service in every ball- room of England. Not a celebrated beauty but he has laid siege to ; and if his words may be taken in a matter wherein no man is apt to be over veracious, it is incredible what suc- cess he has had with the fair. At present he is like a worn- out warrior, retired from service ; but who still cocks his beaver with a military air, and talks stoutly of fighting when- ever he comes within the smell of gunpowder. I have heard him speak his mind very freely over his bottle, about the folly of the captain in taking a wife ; as he thinks a young soldier should care for nothing but his " bottle and kind landlady." But, in fact, he says, the service on the continent has had a sad effect upon the young men ; they have been ruined by light wines and French quadrilles. *' They've nothing," he says, " of the spirit of the old service. There are none of your six-bottle men left, that were the souls of a mesH-dinner, and used to play the very deuce among the women." As to a bachelor, the general affirms that he is a free and easy man, with no baggage to take care of but his portman- teau ; but, as Major Pendergast says, a married man, with his wife hanging on his arm, always puts him in mind of a chamber candlestick, with its extinguisher hitched to it. I should not mind all this if it were merely confined to the general ; but I fear he will be the ruin of my friend, Master 40 WIVES. Simon, who already begins to echo his heresies, and to talk in the style of a gentleman that has seen life, and lived upon the town. Indeed, the general seems to have taken Master Simon in hand, and talks of showing him the lions when he comes to town, and of introducing him to a knot of choice spirits at the MuUigatawncy club ; which, I understand, is composed of old nabobs, officers in the Company's employ, and other " men of Ind," that have seen service in the East, and returned home burnt out with curry and touched with the liver complaint. They have their regular club, where they eat Mulligatawncy soup, smoke the hookah, talk about Tippoo Saib, Seringapatam, and ligor-himtiug ; and are tediously agreeable in each other's company. WIVES. relieve me, man, there Is no greater blisse Than is the quiet joy of loving wife ; Which whoso wants, lialfe of himselfe doth misse ; Friend without change, playfellow without strife, Food without fulness, counsaile without pride. Is this sweet doubling of our single life. Sib p. Sidney. These is so much talk about matrimony going on rotmd me, in consequence of the approaching event for which we arc assembled at the Hall, that I confess I find my thoughts singularly exercised on the subject. Indeed, all the bachelors of the establishment seem to be passing through a kind of fiery ordeal : for Lady Lillycraft is one of those tender, romance-read dames of the old school, whose mind is filled with flames and darts, and who breathe nothing but con- stancy and wedlock. She is for ever immei'sed in the con- cerns of the heai*t ; and, to use a poetical phrase, is perfectly surrounded by " the purple light of love." The very general seems to feel the influence of this sentimental atmosphere; to melt as he approaches her ladyship, and, for the time, to forget all his heresies about matrimony and the sex. The good lady is generally surrounded by little documents of her prevalent taste ; novels of a tender nature ; richly- bound little books of poetry, that are filled with sonnets and love tales, and perfumed with rose leaves ; and she boa WIVES. 41 ore always an album at hand, for which she claims the contribu- tions of all her friends. On looking over this last repository the other day, I found a scries of poetical extracts, in the squire's handwriting, which might have been intended as matri- monial hints to his ward. I was so much struck with several of them, that I took the liberty of copying them out. 'ITiey are from the old play of lliomas Davenport, published in 1661, entitled " The City Night-cap," in which is dra\^Ti out and exemplified, in the part of Abstemia, the character of a patient and faithful wife, which, I think, might vie with that of the renowned Griselda, I have often thought it a pity that plays and novels should always end at the wedding, and should not give us another act, and another volume, to let us know how the hero and heroine conducted themselves when manned. Their main object seems to me merely to instruct young ladies how to get husbands, but not how to keep them : now this last, I speak it with all due diffidence, appears to me to be a desideratum in modern married life. It is appalling to those who have not yet adventured into the holy state, to see how soon the flame of romantic love bums out, or rather is quenched in matri- mony; and how deplorably the passionate, poetic lover declines into the phlegmatic, prosaic husband. I am inclined to attribute this very much to the defect just mentioned in the plays and novels, which form so important a branch of study of our young ladies ; and which teach them how to be heroines, but leave them totally at a loss when they come ta be wives. The play from which the quotations before me were made, however, is an exception to this remark ; and I cannot refuse myself the pleasure of adducing some of them for the benefit of the reader, and for the honour of an old writer, who has bravely attempted to awaken dramatic interest in favour of a woman, even after she was married! The following is a commendation of Abstemia to her hus- band Lorenzo : She's modest, but not suUcu, and loves silence ; Not tliat she wants apt words (for when she speaks, She inflames love with wonder), but because Site calls wise silence the soul's harmony. She's truly chaste ; yet such a foe to coyness. The poorest call her courteous ; and, which is excellent^ (Though fair and young) she ehuus to expose herself 42 WITES. To the opinion of strange eyes. She either seldom Or never walks abroad but in your company ; And then witli surh sweet baslifulness, as if She were venturing on crack'd ice, and takes delight To step into the print your foot hath made. And will follow you whole fields; so she will drive Tediousness out of time with her sweet character. Notwithstanding all this excellence, Absteraia has the misfortune to incur the unmerited jealousy of her husband. Instead, however, of resenting his hai-sh treatment with clamorous upbraidings, and with the stormy violence of high windy virtue, by which the sparks of anger are so often blown into a flame, she endures it with the meekness of con- scious, but patient virtue ; and makes the following beautiful appeal to a friend who has witnessed her long-sufiering : Hast thou not seen me Bear all his injuries, as the ocean suffers The angry bark to plough through her bosom. And yet is presently so smooth, the eye Cannot perceive where the wide wound was made 1 Lorenzo, being wrought on by false representations, at length repudiates her. To the last, however, she maintains her patient sweetness, and her love for him, in spite of his cruelty. She deplores his error, even more than his unkind- ness; and laments the delusion which has turned his very affection into a source of bitterness. There is a moving pathos in her jjarting address to Lorenzo after their divorce: Farewell, Lorenzo, "Whom my soul doth love : if you e'er marry, May you meet a good wife ; so good, that you May not suspect her, nor may ulie be worthy Of your HUHpicion : and if you hear hereafter Tliat 1 am dead, inquire but my last words, And you shall know that to the last I lov'd you. And when you walk foitii with your second choice, Into the pleasant Heldri, and by cluuioe talk of me. Imagine that you see me, lean and pale. Strewing your path with flowei-s. Ihit may she never live to pay my debt«i :, (tefepi) If but in thought ohe wrong you, may she die In the conception of the injury. Prey make mo wealthy with one kira : farewell, sir ; Lot it not grieve yuu when you shall remember WIVES. tl Tliat I was innocent : nor this forget, Thougli innocence here suffer, sigh, and groan. She walks but tliorow thorns to find a throne. In a short time Lorenzo discovers his error, and the innocence of his injured wife. In the transports of his repentance, he calls to mind all her feminine excellence; her gentle, uncom- plaining, womanly fortitude, under wrongs and sorrows : Oh, Abstemia I How lovely thou lookest now i now thou appearest Chaster than is the morning's modesty, That rises witli a blush, over whose bosom Tlie western wind creeps softly : now I remember IIow, when she sat at table, her obedient eye Would dwell on mine, as if it were not well. Unless it look'd where I look'd : oh how proud She was, when slie could cross herself to please me ! But where now is this fair soul ? Like a silver cloud She hath wept herself, I fear, into the dead sea, And will be found no more. It is but doing right by the reader, if interested in the fate of Abstemia by the preceding extracts, to say, that she was restored to the aims and affections of her husband, rendered fonder than ever, by that disposition in every good heart, to atone for past injustice, by an overflowing measure of return- ing kindness : Thou wonlth worth more thza kingdoms ! I am now Confirmed past all suspicion; thou art far Sweeter in tliy sincere truth than a sacrifice Deok'd up for death with garlands. The Indian winds That blow from off tlie coaat, and cheer the sailor With the swoet savour of their spices, want The delight flows in thee. I have been more affected and interested by this little dramatic picture than by many a popular love-tale ; though, OS I said before, I do not think it likely either Abstemia or patient Grizzle stand much chance of being taken for a model. Still I like to see poetry now and then extending iti viewi beyond the wadding day, and teaching a lady how to make herself attractive even after marriage. There is no great need of enforcing on an unmarried lady the necessity of being agreeable; nor is then? any great art re(|uinit(f in a ycm^hftu beauty to enable her to nleose. Nature has multiplied attrac- tions round her. Youth is in itself attractive. The fresh- 44 WIVES. ness of budding beauty needs no foreign aid to set it off; it pleases merely because it is fresh, and budding, and 'ueautiful. But it is for the married state that a woman needs the most instruction, and in which she should be most on her guard to maintain her powers of pleasing. No woman can expect to be to her husband all that he fancied her when he was a lover. Men are always doomed to be duped, not so much by the arts of the sex, as by their own imaginations. They arc always wooing goddesses, and marrying mere mortals. A woman should therefore ascertain what was the charm that rendered her so fascinating when a girl, and endeavour to keep it up when she has become a wife. One great thing undoubtedly was the chariness of herself and her conduct, which an unmarried female always obseri'cs. She should maintain the same niccness and reserve in her person and habits, and endeavoiu* still to preserve a freshness and virgin delicacy in the eye of her husband. She should remember that the province of the woman is to be wooed, not to woo; to be caressed, not to caress. Man is an un- gratefid being in love ; bounty loses instead of winning him. The secret of a woman's power docs not consist so much in giving as in withholding. A woman may give up too much even to her husband. It is to a thousand little delicacies of conduct that she must tioist to keep alive passion, and to protect herself from that dangerous familiarity, that thorough acquaintance with every weakness and imperft-ction incident to matrimony. By these means she may still maintain her power, though she has surrendered her person, and may continue the romance of love even beyond the honeymoon. " She that hath a wise husband," says Jeremy Tavlor, " must entice him to an etcnial deamcsse by the veil of modesty and the grave i-obes of chastity, the oi-niimeut of meckncsse, and the jewels of faith and chority. She must have no painting but blushings; her brightness must bo purity, and slio must shine round about with sweetnesses and friendship; and she shall be pleasant while she lives, and desired when she dies." I have wandered into a rambling series of remarks on a trite subject, and a dangerous one for a bachelor to meddle with. That I nioy not, however, appear to confine my obser- vations entirely to the wife, I will conclude with another quotation from Jeremy Taylor, in ^^hich the duties of both 8T0ET-TELLING. 45 parties are mentioned; while I would recommend his sermon on the marriage ring to all those who, wiser than myself, are about entering the happy state of wedlock. " There is scarce any matter of duty but it concerns them both alike, and is only distinguished by names, and hath its variety by circumstances and little accidents; and what in one is ca'ied love, in the other is called reverence; and what in the wife is obedience, the same in the man is duty. He pro- vides, and she dispenses; he gives commandments, and she rules by them ; he rules her by authority, and she rules him by love ; she ought by all means to please him, and he must by no means displease her." STORY-TELLING. A FAVOUKiTE evening pastime at the Ilall, and one which r»-. -i'.thy squire is fond of promoting, is story-telling, "a ,..." old-fashioned fireside amusement," as he terms it. indeed, I believe, he promotes it chiefly, because it was one of the choice recreations in those days of yore, when ladies and gentlemen were not much in the habit of reading. Bo this as it may, he will often, at supper table, when conversa- tion flags, call on some one or other of the company for a 8tor)% as it was formerly the custom to call for a song , uud it is edifying to see the exemplai'y patience, and even satisfac- tion, with which the good old gentleman would sit and listen to some hackneyed tale that he has heard for at least u hundred times. In this way one evening the current of anecdotes and stories ran upon mystical personages that have figured at diflerent times, and filled the world with doubt and conjecture ; such as the Wandering Jew ; the Man with the Iron Mask, who tor- mented the curiosity of all Europe ; the Invisible Girl ; and last, though not least, the Pig- faced Lady. At length one of the company was called upon that had the most unpromising physiognomy for a story-teller that ever I had seen. He was a thin, pale, weazen-faced man, extremely nervous, that had sat at one comer of the table, shrunk up, as it were, into himself, and almost swallowed up in the cajK) of his coat, 08 a turtle in his shell. The very demand seemed to throw him into a nervous agita- 46 THK STOUT OENTLEMAir. tion, yet he did not refuse. He emerged his head out of his shell, made a few odd grimaces and gesticulations, before he could get his muscles into order, or his voice under command, and then offered to give some account of a mysterious per- sonage that he had recently encountered in the course of his travels, and one whom he thought fully entitled of being classed with the Man with the Iron Mask. I was so much struck with this extraordinary narrative, that I have written it out to the best of my recollection, for the amusement of the reader. I think it has in it all the elements of that mysterious and romantic narrative, so greedily sought after at the present day. THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. A BTAOE-COACH BOXAHOB. m cross it, though it blast me t Hamlet. It was a rainy Sunday, in the gloomy month of November. I had been detained, in the course of a journey, by a slight indisposition, from which I was recovering : but I was still feverish, and was obliged to keep within doors all day, in an inn of the small town of Derby. A wet Sunday in a country inn ! whoever has had the luck to experience one can only judge of my situation. The rain pattered against the case- ments ; the bells tolled for church with melancholy sound. I went to the windows in quest of something to amuse the eye ; but it seemed as if I had been placed completely out of the reach of all amusement. The windows of my bed-room looked out among tiled roofs and stacks of chimneys, while those of my sitting-room commanded a full view of the stable- yard. I know of nothing more calculated to make a man sick of this world than a stable-yard on a rainy day. The Elaco was littered with wet straw that had been kicked about y travellers and stable-boys. In one comer was a stagnant pool of water surrounding an island of muck ; there were several hulf-drowncd fowls crowded together under a cart, among which was a miserable crest-fallen cock, drenched out of all life and spirit : his drooping tail matted, as it were, into a single feather, along which the water trickled from his back; near the cart was a half-dozing cow, chewing the cud, THE SXOrT GENTLEMAK. 47 and standing patiently to be rained on, with wreaths of vapour risinf; from her reeking hide ; a wall-eyed horse, tired of the loneliness of the stable, was poking his spectral head out of a window, with the rain dripping on it from the eaves ; an unhappy cur, chained to a dog-house hard by. uttered every now and then, between a bark and a yelp ; a drab of a kitchen wench tramped backwards and forwards through the yard in pattens, looking as sulky as the weather itself; every thing, in short, was comfortless and forlorn, excepting a crew of hard-drinking ducks, assembled like boon com- panions round a puddle, making a riotous noise over their liquor. I was lonely and listless, and wanted amusement. My room soon became insupportable. I abandoned it, and sought what is technically called the travellers' room. This is a public room set apart at most inns for the accommodation of a class of wayfarers, called travellers, or riders ; a kind of commercial knights-errant, who arc incessantly scouring the kingdom in gigs, on horseback, or by coach. They are the only successors that I know of, at the present day, to the knights- errant of yore. They lead the same kind of roving adven- turous life, only changing the lance for a driving-whip, the buckler for a pattern-card, and the coat of mail for an upper Benjamin. Instead of vindicating the charms of peerless beauty, they rove about, spreading the fame and standing of some substantial tradesman or manufacturer, and are ready at any time to bargain in his name : it being the fashion now-a-days to trade, instead of fight, with one another. As the room of the hostel, in the good old fighting times, would be hung round at night with the armour of way-worn war- riors, such as coats of mail, falchions, and yawning helmets ; so the travellers' room is garnished with the harnessing of their successors, with box-coats, whips of all kinds, spurs, gaiters, and oil-cloth covered hats. I was in hopes of finding some of these worthies to talk with, but was disappointed. There were, indeed, two or three in the room ; but I could make nothing of them. One was just finishing breakfast, quarrelling with his bread and butter, and huffing the waiter ; another buttoned on a pair of gaiters, with manv execrations at Boots for not having cleaned his shoes well; a third sat drumming on the table with his fingers, and looking at the rain as it streamed down the 48 THE STOri OENTLEHAX. window-glass: they all appeared infected by the weather, and disappeared, ouc after the other, without exchanging a word. I sauntered to the window and stood gazing at the people, picking their way to church, with petticoats hoisted midleg high, and dripping umbrellas. The bell ceased to toll, and the streets became silent. I then amused myself with watch- ing the daughters of a tradesman opposite, who being con- fined to the house for fear of wetting their Sunday finery, played off their charms at the front windows, to fascinate the chance tenants of the inn. They at length were summoned away by a vigilant, vinegar-faced mother, and I had nothing further from without to amuse me. What was I to do to pass away the long-lived day ? I was sadly nervous and lonely ; and everything about an inn seems calculated to mako a dull day ten times duller. Old news- papers, smelling of beer and tobacco smoke, and which I had already read half a dozen times. Good-for-nothing books, that Avere worse than rainy weather. I bored myself to death with an old volume of the Lady's Magazine. I read all the common-place names of ambitious travellers scrawled on the panes of glass ; the eternal families of the Smiths and the Browns, and the Jacksons, and the Johnsons, and all the other sons ; and I dccyphered several scraps of fatiguing inn- window poetry which I have met with in all parts of the world. The day continued lowering and gloomy; the slovenly, ragged, spongj* clouds drifted heavily along : there was no variety even in the rain ; it was one dull, continued, mono- tonous patter, patter, patter, excepting that now and then I M-as enlivened by the idea of a brisk shower, from the rattling of the drops upon a passing imibrella. It was quite refreshing (if I may be allowed a hackneyed Ehrasc of the day), when, in the course of the morning, a oni blew, and a stnge-coach whirled through the street, with outside passengers stuck all over it, cowering under cotton umbrellas, and seethed together, and reeking with the steams of wet bo.x-coat8 and upper Benjamins. Tlie sound brought out from their lurking-places a crow of vagabond Ixns, and vagabond dogs, and the carroty- headed hostler, and tliat nondescript animal yclept Boots, and nil the other vagabond race that infest the purlieus of an inn ; bnt THE STOUT OEXTLEMAX. 49 Either, ing a eople, Liidleg I, and vatch- r con- finery, ite the moned lothing I was 1 seems I news- hlhad books, ysclf to I read crawled iths and all the mg inn- ot' the lovenly, I was no mono- then I [rattling bkncyed j-ning, a strci't, under nth the I crow of -headed all the ; but the bustle was transient ; the coach again whirled on its way ; and boy and dog, hostler and Boots, all slimk back again to their holes ; the streets again became silent, and the rain con- tinued to rain on. In fact, there was no hope of its clearing up, the barometer pointed to rainy weather ; mine hostess's tortoise-shell cat sat by the fire washing her face, and rubbing her paws over her ears ; and, on referring to the Almanack, I found a direful prediction stretching from the top of the page to the bottom through the whole month, " Expect — much- rain — about — this — time !" I was dreadfully hipped. The hours seemed as if they would never creep by. The very ticking of the clock became irksome. At length the stillness of the house was inter- rupted by the ringing of a bell. Shortly after I heard the voice of a waiter at the bar, " TTie Stout Gentleman in No. 13, wants his brcakfart. Tea and bread and butter, with ham and eggs : the eggs aot to bo too much done." In such a situation as mine every incident is of importance. Here was a subject of speciilation presented to my mind, and ample exercise for my imagination. I am prone to paint pictures to myself, ana on this occasion I had some materials to work upon. Had the guest upstairs been mentioned as Mr. Smith, or Mr. Brown, or Mr. Jackson, or Mr. Johnson, or merely as "the gentleman in No. 13," it would have been a perfect blank to me. I should have thought nothing of it ; but " The Stout Gentleman !" — ^the very name had something in it of the picturesque. It at once gave the size: it embodied the personage to my mind's eye, and my fancy did the rest. He was stout, or, as some tcnn it, lusty ; in all probability, therefore, he was advanced in life, some people expanding as they grow old. By his breakfasting rather late, and in his own room, he must be a man accustomed to live at his ease, and above the necessity of early rising ; no doubt a roimd, rosy, lusty old gentleman. There was another violent ringing. The Stout Gentleman was impatient for his breakfast. He was evidently a man of importance ; " well to do in the world ;" accustomed to bo promptly waited upon ; of a keen appetite, and a little cross when hungry; "perhaps," thought I, "he may be some London alderman ; or who knows but he may be a Member (^ Parliament V 60 THE 8T0UI OEVTLEMAir. The breakfast was sent up, and there was a short interyal of silence; he was, doubtless, making the tea. Presently there was a violent ringing ; and before it could be answered, another ringing still more violent. " Bless me ! what a choleric old gentleman !" The waiter came down in a huff. The butter was rancid, the eggs were overdone, the ham was too salt: — the Stout Gentleman was evidently nice in his eating ; one of those who eat and growl, and keep the waiter on the trot, and live in a state militant with the household. The hostess got into a fume. I should observe that she was a brisk coquettish woman ; a little of a shrew, and some- thing of a slammerkin, but very pretty withal : with a nin- compoop for a husband, as shi'ews are apt to have. She rated the servants roundly for their negligence in sending up so bad a breakfast, but said not a word against the Stout Gentleman ; by which I clearly perceived that he must be a man of consequence, entitled to make a noise and to give trouble at a country inn. Other eggs, and ham, and bread luid butter were sent up. They appeared to be more gra- ciously received ; at least there was no further complaint. I Imd not made many turns about the travellers' room, when there was another ringing. Shortly afterwards there was a stir and an inquest about the house. The Stout Gentleman wanted the " Times" or the " Chronicle" news- paper. I set him down, therefore, for a whig ; or, rather from his being so absolute and lordly where he had a chance, I suspected him of being a radical. Hunt, I had heard, was a large man ; " who knows," thought I, " but it is Himt himself?" My curiosity began to be awakened. I inquired of the waiter who was this Stout Gentleman that was making all this stir, but I could get no information ; nobody seemed to know his name. The landlords of bustling mns seldom trouble their heads about the names or occupations of their transient guests. The coloiir of a coat, the shape or size of the person, is enough to suggest a travelling name. It is either the tall gentleman, or the short gentleman, or the gentleman in black, or the gentleman in snuff-colour ; or, as in the present instance, the stout gentleman. A designation of the kind once hit on answers every purpose, and saves all further inquiry. Rain— rain— rain ! pitiless, ceaseless rain ! No such thing THE STOUT aENTLEMAN. ai OS putting a foot out of doors, and no occupation or amuse- ment within. By and by I beard some one walking over- head. It was in the Stout Gentleman's room. He evi- dently was a large man by the heaviness of his tread ; and an old man from his wearing such creaking soles. " He is doubtless," thought I, " some rich old square-toes of regular habits, and is now taking exercise after breakfast." I now read all the advertisementa of coaches and hotels that were stuck about the mantelpiece. The Lady's Maga- sine had become an abomination to me ; it was as tedious as the day itself. I wandered out, not knowing what to do, and ascended again to my room. I had not been there long, when there was a squall from a neighbouring bed-room. A door opened and slammed violently ; a chambermaid, that I had remarked for having a ruddy, good-humoured face, went down stairs in a violent flurry, ^e Stout Gentleman had been rude to her ! This sent a whole host of my deductions to the deuce in a moment. This unknown personage could not be an old gentleman : for old gentlemen are not apt to be so obstreperous to chambermaids. He could not be a young gentleman ; for young gentlemen are not apt to inspire such indignation. He must be a middle-aged man, and confoundedly ugly into the bargain, or the girl would not have taken the matter in such terrible high dudgeon. I confess I was sorely puzzled. In a few minutes I heard the voice of my landlady. I caught a glance of her as she came tramping up stairs; her face glowing, her cap flaring, her tongue wa^;ing the whole way. " She'd have no such doings in her house, she'd warrant ! If gentlemen did spend money freely, it was no rule. She'd have no servant-maids of hers treated in that way, when they were about their work; that's what she wouldn't!" As I hate squabbles, particularly with women, and above all with pretty women, I slunk back into my room, and partly closed the door; but my curiosity was too much excited not to listen. The landlady marcned intrepidly to the enemy's citadel, and entered it with a storm ; the door closed after her. I heard her voice in high windy clamour for a moment or two. Then it gradually subsided, like a Ct of wind in a garret ; then there was a laugh : then I rd nothing more. e2 ffS THE STOUT GENTLEJIAK. After a little while my landlady came out with an odd smile on her face, adjusting her cap, which was a little on one side. As she went down stairs, I heard the landlord ask her what was the matter ; she said, " Nothing at all, only the girl's a fool." — I was more than ever perplexed what to make of this unaccountable personage, who could put a good- natured chambermaid in a passion, and send away a terma- gant landlady in smiles. He could not be so old, nor cross, nor ugly either. I had to go to work at his picture again, and to paint him entirely different. I now set him down for one of those stout gentlemen that are frequently met with swaggering about the doors of country inns. Moist, merry fellows in Belcher handkerchiefs, whose bulk is a little assisted by malt liquors. Men who have seen the world, and been sworn at Highgate ; who are used to tavern life ; up to all the tricks of tapsters, and knowing in the ways of sinful publicans. Free-livers on a small scale ; who are prodigal within the compass of a guinea : who call all the waiters by name, touzle the maids, gossip with the landlady at the bar, and prose over a pint of port, or a glass of negus after dinner. The morning wore away in forming of these and similar surmises. As fast as I wove one system of belief, some movement of the unknown would completely overturn it, and throw all my thoughts again into confusion. Such are the solitary operations of a feverish mind. I was, as I have said, extremely nervous; and the continual meditation on the concerns of this invisible personage began to have its effect : —I was getting a fit of the fidgets. Dinner-time came. I hoped the Stout Gentleman might dine in the travellers' room, and that I might at length get a view of his person ; but no — he had dinner served in his own room. What could be the meaning of this solitude and mystery ? He could not be a radical ; there was something too aristocratical in thus keeping himself apart from the rest of the M'orld, and condemning himself to his own dull com- pany throughout a rainy day. And then, too, he lived too well for a discontented politician. He seemed to expatiate on a variety of dishes, and to sit over his wine like a jolly friend of good- living. Indeed, my doubts on this head were soon at an end ; for he could not have finished his first bottle before I could faintly hear him humming a tune ; and on for r pie THE 8TOX7T OENTLEMAK. AS an odd ittle on ord ask inly the vhat to a good- i terma- »r cross, lint him tse stout bout the Belcher liquors, ighgate ; tapsters, ree-livers )a8S of a e maids, a pint of d similar ef, some m it, and L are the s I have on on the its effect : an might ength get ed in his itude and something the rest dull com- lived too expatiate ke a joUy head were irst bottle , and on listening, I found it to be "God save the King." Twas plain, then, he was no radical, but a faithful subject ; ouo that grew loyal over his bottle, and was ready to stand by king and constitution, when he could stand by nothing else. But who could he be ! My conjectures began to run wild. Was he not some person of distinction travelling incog. ? *'God knows," said I, at my wits' end; "it may be one of the royal family, for aught I know, for they are all stout gentlemen!" The weather continued rainy. The mysterious unknown kept his room, and, as far as I could judge, his chair, for I did not hear him move. In the mean time, as the day ad- vanced, the travellers' room began to be fi'equented. Some, who had just arrived, came in buttoned up in box-coats ; others came home who had been dispersed about the town. Some took their dinners, and some their tea. Had I been in a different mood, I should have found entertainment in studjring this peculiar class of men. There were two espe- cially, who were regular wags of the road, and versed in all the standing jokes of travellers. They had a thousand sly things to say to the waiting.maid, whom they called Louisa, and Ethelinda, and a dozen other fine names, changing the name eveiy time, and chuckling amazingly at their own waggery. My mind, however, had become completely en- grossed by the Stout Gentleman. He had kept my fancy in chase during a long day, and it was not now to be diverted from the scent. The evening gradually wore away. The travellers read the papers two or three times over. Some drew round the fire and told long stories about their horses, about their adventures, their overturns, and breakings-down. They dis- cussed the credits of different merchants and different inns ; and the two wags told several choice anecdotes of pretty chambermaids and kind landladies. All this passed as they were quietly taking what they called their "night-caps," that is to say, strong glasses of brandy and water and sugar, or some other mixture of the kind ; after which they one after another rang for " Boots" and the chambermaid, and walked off to bed in old shoes cut down into marvellously uncom- fortable slippers. There was only one man left; a short-legged, long-bodied, plethoric fellow, with a very large, sandy head. He sat by H THE STOTTT OElVTLEMAir. himself, with a glass of port wine negus, and a spoon ; sipping and stirring, and meditating and sipping, until nothing was left but the spoon. He gradually fell asleep bolt upright in his chair, with the empty glass standing before him ; and the candle seemed to fall asleep too, for the wick grew long and black, and cabbaged at the end, and dimmed the little light that remained in the chamber. The gloom that now pre- vailed was contagious. Around himg the shapeless, and almost spectral, box-coats of departed travellers, long since buried in deep sleep. I only heard the ticking of the clock, with the deep-drawn breathings of the sleepy toper, and the drippings of the rain, drop, drop, drop, from the eaves of the house. The church bells chimed midnight. All at once the Stout Gentleman began to wall: over head, pacing slowly backwards and forwards. There was something extremely awful in all this, especially to one in my state of nerves— these ghastly great coats, these guttural breathings, and the creaking footsteps of this mysterious being. His steps grew fainter and fainter, and at length died away. I could bear it no longer. I was wound up to the desperation of a hero of romance. *' Be he who or what he may," said I to myself, " I'll have a sight of him!" I seized a chamber candle, and hurried up to No. 13. The door stood ajar. I hesitated — I entered; the room was deserted. There stood a large broad-bottomed elbow-chair at a table, on which was an empty tumbler and a "Times" newspaper, and the room smelt powerfully of Stilton cheese. The mysterious stranger had evidently but just retired. I turned off, sorely disappointed, to my room, which had been changed to the front of the house. As I went along the corridor, I saw a large pair of boots, with dirty, waxed tops, standing at the door of a bed-chamber. They doubtless belonged to the unknown ; but it would not do to disturb so redoubtable a personage in his den; he ought discharge a pistol, or something worse, at my head. I went to bed, therefore, and lay awake half the night in a terribly nervous state ; and even when I fell asleep, I was still haunted in my dreams by the idea of the Stout (Gentleman and his wax- topped boots. I slept rather late the next morning, and was awakened by some stir and bustle in the house, which I coidd not at first comprehend; until getting more awake, I found there FOBEST TBE£S. 65 was a mail-coach starting from the door. Suddenly there was a cry from below, " The gentleman has forgot bis um- brella! look for the gentleman's umbrella in No. 13!" I heard an immediate scampering of a chambermaid along the passage, and a shrill reply as she ran, '' Here it is ! here's the gentleman's umbrella!" TTie mysterious stranger was then on the point of setting off. This was the only chance I should cvoi- have of know- ing him. I sprang out of bed, scramblet^. to ti.e wiaf^ow, snatched aside the curtains, and just caught a gli»;vp3c <:i tbi rear of a person getting in at the coach-door. 'iiiC Bkiris of a brown coat parted behind, and gave me a full vio^v of fho broad disk of a pair of drab breeches. The door <.'lo«wt-™. "All right!" was the word — the coach whtrle*]. otTr—ftcid that was all I ever saw of the Stout Gentlemac ! FOREST TREES. " A living gallery of aged trees.'* One of the favourite themes of boasting with the s<{uir(! h the noble trees on his estate, which, in truth, hap jome of the finest that I have seen in England. There is something; august and solemn in the great avenues of stately oakb tliat gather their branches together high in air, and seoiu to reduce the pedestrians beneath them to mere pigmies. " An avenue of oaks or elms," the squire observes, " is the true coloimade that should lead to a gentleman's house. Ae to stone and marble, any one can rear them at oace. the^' arr'^ the work of the day ; but commend me to th«j *^o;V'::,nadcs, that have grown old and great with the family, sn'.L tvll by their grandeur how long the family has endured." The squire has great reverence for certnir ver arable treeo, gray with moss, which he considers as tl-- ancu-ut nobility of his domain. There is the ruin of ar uonDOiis oak, which has been so much battered by time and tempest, that scarce anything is left ; though he etivs Christy recollects when, in his boyhood, it was beallhy and floiu-ishing, until it was struck by lightning. It is now a mere trunk, with one twisted bough stretching up into the air, leaving a green branch at the end of it. This sturdy wreck is much valued 06 rOUKST TUBES. by the squire; he cnlU it his standard-bearer, and compares it to a veteran warrior beaten down in battle, but bearing; up his banner to the last. He has actually hod a fence built round it, to protect it as much as possible from further injury. It is with j»reat difficulty that the squire can ever be brouf^ht to have any tree cut down on his estate. To some he looks with reverence, a.s having been planted by his ancestors; to othex's with a kind of paternal affection, as having been planted by himself; and he feels a degree of awe in bringing down with a few strokes of the axe what it has cost centuries to build up. I confess I cannot but sym- pathize, in some degree, with the good squire on the subject. Though brought uj) in a country overrun with forests, where trees are ajjt to be t'onsldered mere incumbrances, and to be laid low without hesitation or remorse, yet I could never see a fine tree hewn down without coneeni. The poets, who are naturally lovers of trees, ns they are of everything that is beautiful, have artfully uwnkened great interest in their favour, by representing them as the habitations of sylvan deities; insomuch thai every great tree had its tutelar genius, or a nymph, whose existence was limited to its duration. Kvelyn, in his Sylvo, makes several jjleasing and fanciful allusions to this superstition. " As the fall," says he, " of a very aged oak, giving a crack like thunder, has often been heard at many miles distance ; constrained though I of^on am to fell them with reluctancy, I do not at any time remember to have heard the gi'oans of those nymphs (grieving to Imj dispossessed of their ancient habitations) without some emo- tion and pity." And again, in alluding to a violent storm that had devastated the woodlands, he says, " Methinks I still hear, sure I am that 1 still feel, the dismal groans of our forests ; the late dreadful hurricane having subverted so many thousands of goodly oaks, prostrating the trees, laying them in ghastly jwstures, like whole regiments fidlen in battle by the sword of the conqueror, and crushing all that grew beneath them. The public accounts," he adds, " reckon no less than three tluiusand brave oaks iu »,;ie part only of the forest of Dean blown down." I have ])aused more than once in the wilderness of America, to contenq)late the traces of some blast of wind, which seemed to have rushed down from the clouds, and ripped its way FOREST TBEES. 5f through the bosom of the wooaper in the place, and laid the volume aside, which I perceived was the Fairy Queen. I have had the curiosity to watch how he got on in his poetical studies ; but though I have repeatedly seen him with the book in his hand, yet I find the paper has not advanced above three or four pages ; the general being extremely apt to full asleep when lie reads. FALCONRY. Ne is there hawk which mantleth on her perch, Whether high tow'ring or accousting low. But I the measure of her flight doe search. And all her prey and all her diet know. Spcvseb. There are several grand sources of lamentation furnished to the worthy squire, by the improvement of society, and the grievous advancement of knowledge ; among which there is none, I believe, that causes him more frequent regret than the unfortunate invention of gunpowder. To this, he con- tinually traces the decay of some favourite custom, and, indeed, the general downfall of all chivalrotis and romantic usages. " F'.glish soldiers," he says, " have never been the men they were in the days of the cross-bow and the long- bow ; when thev depended upon the strength of the arm, and the English archer could draw a cloth yard-shaft to the head. These were the times when, ut the battles of Cressy, Poic- tlers, and Agincourt, the French chivalry was completely destroyed by the bowmen of England. The yeomanry, too, have never been what they were, when, in times of iieace, they were constantly exercised with the bow, and archery was a favourite holiday pastime." Among the othci evils which have followed in the train of this fatal invention of gunpowder, the squire classes the total decline of the noblc! art of falcomy. " Shooting," he says, "is a skulking, treacherous, solitary sport in comparison; but hawking was a gallant, open, sunshiny recreation; it WM the gcneroiu iport of hunting carried into the skiet." M 7AI«0KBT. " It was, moreorer," he says, ** according to Braithewaite, the stately amusement of ' high and mounting spirits;' for, as the old Welsh proverb afiBrms, in those times * You might know a gentleman by his hawk, horse, and greyhound.* Indeed, a cavalier was seldom seen abroad without his hawk on his fist; and even a lady of rank did not think herself completely equipped, in riding forth, unless she had her tassel-geiitel held by jesses on her delicate ^'and. It was thought in those excellent days, according to an old writer, * quite sufficient for noblemen to winde their horn, and to carry their hawke flur; and leave study and learning to the children of mean people.' " Knowing the good squire's hobby, therefore, I have not been surprised at finding that, among the various recreations of former times which ne has endeavoured to revive in the little world in which he rules, he has bestowed great attention on the noble art of fisdconrv. In this he of course has been seconded by his indefatigable coadjutor. Master Simon : and even the parson has thrown considerable light on their labours, hy various hints on the subject, which he has met with in old ^iglish works. As to the precious work of that famous dame, Juliana Barnes ; the Gentleman's Academie, by Mark- ham; and the other well-known treatises that were the inftii«iil« of ancient sportnnen, they have them at their fingers' ends; but they have more especially studied some ola tapestry in the house, whereon is represented a party of oaraliers and stately dames, with doublets, caps, and flaunting feathers, mounted on horse, with attendants on foot, all in animated pursuit of the game. The squire has discountenanced the killing of any hawks in his neighbourhood, but gives a liberal bounty for all that are brought him alive ; so uiat the Hall is well stocked with all kinds of birds of prey. On these he and Master Simon have exhausted their patience and ingenuity, endeavouring to ** reclaim" them, as it is termed, and to train them up for the sport ; but they have met with continual checks and disap- pointments, llieir feathered school ha^ turned out the most nntractable and graceless scholars ; nor is it the Ipiist of their trouble to drill the retainers who were to act as ushers under them, and to take immediate charge of these refractory birds. Old Christy and the gamekeeper both, for a time, set their fiu»s against the whole plan of education ; Chris^ having VAIOOWBT. W been netdcd at hearing what he tenns a wild-gooee chaae put on a par with a fox-hunt ; and the gamekeeper having always been accustomed to look upon hawks as arrant poachers, which it was his duty to shoot down, and nail, in terrorem* against the out-houses. Christy has at length taken the matter in hand, but has done still more mischief by his intermeddling. He is as etsitive and wrong-headed about this as he is about hunting, aster Simon has continual disputes with him as to feedv^ and training the hawks. He reads to him long passages from the old authors I have mentioned ; but Christy, who cannot read, has a sovereign contempt for all book-knowledge, and persists in treating the hawks according to his own notions,' which are drawn from his experience, in younger days, in rearing of game cocks. The consequence is, that, between these jarring systems, the poor birds have had a most trying and imhappy time of it. Many have fkUen victims to Cluisty's feeding and Master Simon's physicking ; for the latter has gone to work aecun^ dem artem, and has given them all the vomitings and scour- ings laid down in the books ; never were poor hawks so fed and physicked before. Others havo been lost by being but half *' reclaimed," or tamed ; for on being taken into the field, they have " raked" after the game quite out of hearing of the call, and never returned to schooL All these disappointments had been petty, yet sore griev- ances to the squure, and had made him to despond about success. He has lately, however, been made happy by the receipt of a fine Welsh falcon, which Master Simon terms a stately highflyer. It is a present from the squire's friend. Sir Watkyn Williams Wynn ; and is, no doubt, a descendant of some ancient line of Welsh princes of the air, that havo long lorded it over their kingdom of clouds, from Wynnstay to we very summit of Snowdon, or the brow of Penmanmawr. Ever since tl/j squire received this invaluable present, he has been as impatient to sally forth and make proof of it, as was Don Quixote to assay his suit of armour. There have been some demurs as to whether the bird was in proper health and training; but these have been overruled by the vehement desire to play with a new toy ; and it has been determined, right or wTong, in season or out of season, to have a day's sport in hawking tc-mormw. w HAWKING. The Hall, as usual, vrhenever the squLe is about to make some new sally on his hobby, is all agog with the thing. Miss Templeton, who is brought up in reverence for all her guardian's humoiurs, has proposed to be of the party, and Lady Lillycraft has talked also of riding out to the scene of action and looking on. This has gratified the old gentleman extremely; he huls it as an auspicious omen of the revival of falconry, and does not despair but the time will come when it will be agaiy the pride of a fine lady to carry about a noble fiilcon in preference to a parrot or a lap-dog. I have amused myself with the bustling preparations of that busy spirit. Master Simon, and the continual thwartings he receives from that genuine son of a pepper-box, old Christy. They have had half a dozen consultations about how the hawk is to be prepored for the morning's sport. Old Nimrod, as usual, has dways got in a pet, upon which Master Simon has invariably given up the point, observing in a good-humoured tone, "Well, well, have it your own way, Christy; only don't put yourself in a passion;" a reply wMch always nettles the old man ten times more than ever. HAWKING. The soaring hawk, from fist that ilies, Her falconer doth constrain Sometimes to range the ground about " To find her out again ; And if by sight, or sound of bell. His falcon he may seo, Wo ho t lie cries, with cheerful voice-~ The gladdest man is he. Haxdifull or Plkasavt Dilites. At an early hour this morning the Hall wab in a bustle, preparing for the sport of the day. I heard Master Simon whistling and singing under my window at sunrise, as he was preparing the jesses for the hawk's legs, and could dis- tinguish now and then a stanza of one of his favourite old ditties: * In peascod time, when hound to horn Gives note that buck be killMt And little boy with pipe of com Is tending sheep a-field," &c. make Miss II her y, and lene of Lleman ival of when it I Doble tlons of rartings Christy, ne hawk irod, as oaon has unoured y; only rs nettles LITCf. a bustlct «r Simon se, as he could dis- )urite old HAWKIKO. ft A hearty breakfast, well flanked by cold meats, was served up in the great Hall. The whole garrison of retainers and hangers-on were in motion, reinforced by volunteer idlers from the village. The horses were led up and down before the door ; everybody had something to say and something to do, and hurried hither and thither ; there was a direful yelping of dogs ; some that were to accompanv us being eager to set off, and others that were to stay at home being whipped back to their kennels. In short, for once, the good squire's mansion might have been taken as a good specimen of one of the rantipole establishments of the good old feudal times. Breakfast being finished, the chivalry of the Hail prepared to take the field. The fair Julia was of the party, in a hunt- ing-dress, with a light plume of feathers in her riding- hat. As she moimted her favourite Gralloway, I remarked, with pleasure, that old Christy foi^ot bis usual crustiness, and hastened to adjust her sioddle and bridle. He touched his cap as she smiled on him and thanked him ; and then, looking round at the other attendants, gave a knowing nod of his head, in which I read pride and exultation at the charming appearance of his pupil. Lady Lillycraft had likewise determined to witness the sport. She was dressed in her broad white beaver, tied \mder the chin, and a riding-habit of the last century. She rode her sleek, ambling pony, whose motion was as easy as a rocking-chair; and was gallantly escorted by the general, who looked not unlike one of the doughty heroes in the old prints of the battle of Blenheim. The parson, likewise, ac- companied her on the other eide ; for this was a learned amusement in which he took great interest ; and, indeed, had given much counsel, from his knowledge of old customs. At length everything was arranged, and off we set from the Hall. The exercise on horseback puts one in fine spirits ; and the scene was gay and animating. The young men of the family accompanied Miss Templeton. She sut lightly and gracefully in her saddle, her plumes dancing and waving in the air ; and the group had a charming effect as they ap- peared and disappeared among the trees, cantering along, with the boundmg animation of youth. The squire and Master Simon rode together, accompanied by old Christy, mounted on Pepper. Ihe latter bore the hawk on his fist, as ?- fl n SAWKIKO. he insisted the bird was most accustomed to him. There was a rabble rout an foot, composed of retainers from the Hall, and some idlers from the village, with two or three spaniels, for the purpose of starting the game. A kind of corps de reserve came on quietly in the rear, composed of Lady Lillycraft, General Harbottle, the parson, and a fat footman. Her ladyship ambled gently along on her pony, while the general, mounted on a tail hunter, looked down upon her with an air of the most protecting gallantry. For my part, being no sportsman, I kept with this lant party, or rather lagged behind, that I might take in the whole picture; and the parson occasionally slackened his pace and jogged on in company with me. The sport led us at some distance from the Hall, in a soft meadow reeking with the moist verdure of spring. A little river ran through it, bordered by willows, which had put forth their tender early foliage. The sportsmen were in quest of herons which were said to keep about this stream. There was some disputing already among the leaders of the sport. The squire. Master Simon, and old Christy, came every now and then to a pause, to consult together, like the field officers in nn army ; and I saw, by certain motions of the head, that Christy was as positive as any old wrong- headed German commander. As we were prancing up this quiet meadow every sound we made was answered by a distinct echo, from the sunny wall of on old building, that lay on the opposite margin of the stream ; and I paused to listen to the " spirit of a soimd," which seems to love such quiet and biautifrd places. The parson informed me that this was the ruin of an ancient grange, and was supposed, by the counti-y people, to be haunted by a dobbie, a kind of rural sprite, something like Kobin- good-fellow. They often fiEincied the echo to be the voice of the dobbie answering them, and were rather shy of distiu'biug it after dark. He added, that the squire was very careful of this iiiin, on account of the superstition connected with it. As I considered this lot A habit'xtion of an " airy nothing," I called to mind the fii. ; description of an echo in Webster's Duchess of Malfy : " 'Yond side o' th» river lies a wall, Piece of a cloister, which in my opinion Gives the best echo that you have ever beard: HAWKXKG. So plain in the distinction of our words That many have supposed it a spirit That answers.*' The parson went on to comment on a pleasing and fanciful appellation which the Jews of old gave to the echo, which the called Bath-kool, that is to say, *' the (laughter of the voice ;" they considered it on oracle, supplying in the second temple the want of the Urim and Thummim, with which the first was honoured.* The little man was just entering very largely and learnedly upon the subject, when we were startled by a prodigious bawling, shouting, and yelping. A flight of crows, alarmed by the approach of our forces, had suddenly risen from a meadow ; a cry was put up by the rabble rout on foot. " Now, Christy ! now is your time, Christy !" The squire and Master Simon, who were beating up the river banks in quest of a heron, called out eagerly to Christy to keep quiet ; the old man, vexed and bewildered by the con- fusion of voices, completely lost his head : in his flurry he slipped ofl" the hood, cast off the falcon, and away flew the crows, and away soared the hawk. I had paused on a rising ground, close to Lady Lillycraft and her escort, from whence I had a good view of the sport. I was pleased with the appearance of the party in the mea- dow, riding along in the direction that the bird flew ; their bright beaming faces tui-ned up to the bright skies as they watched the game ; the attendants on foot scampering along, looking up, and calling out, and the dogs bounding and yelping with clamorous sympathy. The hawk had singled out a quarry from among the carrion crew. It was curious to see the efibrts of the two birds to get above each other ; one to make the fatal swoop, the other to avoid it. Now they crossed athwart a bright feathery cloud, and now they were against the clear blue sky. I con- fess, being no sportsman, I was more interested for the poor bird that was striving for its life, than for the hawk that was playing the part of a mercenary soldier. At length the hawk got the upper bund, and made a rushing stoop at her quarry, but the latter made as sudden a surge downwards, and slant* ing up again evaded the blow, screaming and making the best of his way for a dry tree on the brow of a neighbouring hill ; while the hawk, disappointed of her blow, soared up * Bekker's Mond« Enchant^. ia 80 BAWKIirO. again into the air, and appeared to be " raking" off. It was in vain old Christy called, and whistled, and endeavoured to lure her down ; she paid no regard to him ; and. indeed, his calls were drowned in the shouts and yelps of the army of militia that had followed him into the field. Just then an exclamation from Lady Lillycraft made me turn my head. I beheld a complete confusion among the sportsmen in the little vale below us. They were galloping and running towards the edge of a bank ; and I was shocked to see Miss Templeton's horse galloping at large without his rider. I rode to the place to which the others were hurry- ing, and when I reached the bank, which almost overhung the stream, I saw at the foot of it the fair Julia, pale, bleed- ing, and apparently lifeless, supported in the arms of her frajitic lover. In galloping heedlessly along, with her eyes turned up- ward, she had unwarily approached too near the bank ; it had given way with her, and she and her horse had beea precipitated to the pebbled margin of the river. I never saw greater consternation. The captain was d s- tracted; Lady Lillycraft fainting ; the squire in dismay; and Master Simon at his wits' end. The beautiful creature at length showed signs of returning life ; she opened her eyes ; looked around her upon the anxious group, and comprehend- ing in a moment the nature of the scene, gave a sweet smile, and putting her hand in her lover's, exclaimed feebly, " I am not much hurt, Guy !" I could have taken her to my heart for that single exclamation. It was found, indeed, that she had escaped, almost mlrnca- lously, with a contusion of the head, a si>rained ankle, and some slight bruises. After her wound was stanched, she was taken to a neighbouring cottage until a can-iage could bo summoned to convey her home ; and when this had arrived the cavalcade, which had issued forth so gaily on this enter- prise, returned slowly and pensively to the Hall. I had been charmed by the generous spirit shown by this young creature, who, amidst pain and danger, had been anxious only to relieve the distress of those around her. I was gratified, therefore, by the universal concern displayed by the domestics on our return They came crowding down the avenue, each eager to reu^ir assistance. The butler stood ready with some curiously delicate cordial; the old ST. MA.BK S EYE. If housekeeper was provided with half a dozen nostrums, pre- pared by her own hands, according to the family receipt book ; while her niece, the melting Phoebe, having no other way of assisting, stood wringing her hands and weeping aloud. The most material effect that is likely to follow this acci- dent is a postponement of the nuptials, which were close at hand. Though I commiserate the impatience of the captain on that account, yet I shall not otherwise be sorry at the delay, as it will give me a better opportunity of studying the characters here assembled, with which I grow more and more entertained. I cannot but perceive that the worthy squire is quite dis- concerted at the imlucky result of his hawking experiment, and this tmfortunate illustration of his eulogy on female equitation. Old Christy, too, is very waspish, having been sorely twitted by Master Simon for having let his hawk fly at carrion. As to the falcon, in the confusion occasioned by the fair Julia's disaster, the bird was totally forgotten. I make no doubt she has made the best of her way back to the hospitable Hall of Sir Watkyn Williams Wynn ; and may very possibly, at this present writing, be pluming her wings among the breezy bowers of Wynnstay. ST. MARK'S EVE. O 'tis a fearful thing to be no more, Or if to be, to wander after death ! To walk as spirits do, in brakes all day. And, when the darkness comes, to glide in paths That lead to graves; and in the silent vault, Where lies your own pale shroud, to hover o'er ity Striving to enter your forbidden corpse. Drtdex. The conversation this evening at supper table took a curious turn on the subject of a superstition, formerly very prevalent in this part of the country, relative to the present night of the year, which is the Eve of St. Mark. It was believed, the parson informed us, that if any one would watch in the church porch on this eve, for three successive years, from eleveu to one o'clock at night, he would see on the third It^ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-S) 1.0 I.I 11.25 ItiMM 12.5 |50 "^^ M^ ■u Uii 12.2 ^ m 12.0 Photographic Sciences Carporation «' ^ ^\ M WIST MAIN tTMIt WIMTII.N.Y. MSM ( 71* ) •73-4503 Ci^ • 1 :\ '^ ST. xAXK^itxra. year the Bhadcs of thoBc of the parish who were to die in tfaa coarse of the year, pass by him into church dad in their usual apparel. Dismal as such a sight would be, he assured us that it was formerly a frequent thing for persons to make the necessary -vigils. He had known more than one instance in his time. One old woman who pretended to have seen this phantom procession, was an object of great awe for the whole Tear afterwards, and caused much uneasiness and mischief. If she shook her head mysteriously at a person, it was like a death- warrant ; and she had nearly caused the death of a sick person by looking ruefully in at the window. There was also an old man, not many years since, of a sullen, melancholy temperament, who had kept two Tigils* and began to excite some talk in the village, when, fortunately for the public comfort, he died shortly after his third watch- ing ; very probably ttom a cold that he had taken, as the night was tempest ;ous. It was reported about the village, however, that he had seen his own phantom pass by him into the church. This led to the mention of another superstition of an equally strange and melancholy kind, which, however, is chiefly confined to Wales. It is respecting what are called corpse candles, little wandering fires, of a pale bluish light, that move about like ta))crs in the open air, and arc supposed to designate the way some corpse is to go. One was seen at Lanylar, late at night, hovering up and down, along the bank of the Istwith, and was watched by the neighbours until they were tired, and went to bed. Not long afterwards there came a comely countiT lass, from Montgomeryshire, to see her friends, who dwelt on the opposite side of the river. She thought to ford the stream at the very place where the light had been first seen, but was dissuaded on account of the height of the flood. She walked to and fro akmg the bank, just where the candle had moved, waiting for the subsiding of the water. She at length endeavoured to cross, but the poor girl was drowned in the attempt.* There was something moumftil m this little anecdote of mral superstition, that seemed to afifeot all the listener'. Indeed, it is curious to remark how completelv a conversation of the kind will absorb the attention or a euole, and sober *AalMgr1iliis8sl. n. MABK*! BTS. damn its gaiety, howcTer boUterona. By degrees I noticed ibat every one was leaning forward over the table, with eyes earnestly fixed upon the parson, and at the mention of corpse ^ywilU*, which had been seen about the chamber of a yonng ]mfy who died on the eve oi her wedding-day, Lady Lillycraft turned pale. I have witnessed the introduction of stories of the kind into various evening circles; they weje often commenced in jest, and listened to with smiles ; but I never knew the most gay or the most enlightened of audiences, that were not, if the conversation continued for i^ length of timo, completely amd solemnly interested in it. There is, I believe, a degree of superstition lurking in every mind ; and I doubt if any one can tiioroughly examine all his secret notimis and impulses without detecting it, hidden, perhaps, even from himself. It seems, indeed, to be a part of our nature, like instinct in animals, and to act independently of our reason. It is oftea found existing in lofty natures, eqiecially those that are poetical and aspiring. A great and extraordinary poet of «ar day, whose life and writings evince a mind subject to powerml exaltation, is said to believe in omens and secret intimations. C«sar, it w well known, was greatly under the influence of such belief; and Napoleon had his good and evil days, and his presiding star. As to the worthy parson, I have no donbt that he if •tnmgly inclined to superstition. He is naturally credulous, and passes so much of his time searching out popular tradi- tions and supernatural tales, that his mind has probably bfr> come infbcted by them. He has lately been immersed m the Demooolatria of Nicholas Remigius concerning supernatural oceurrences in Lorraine, and the writings of Joachimiv CamerariuB, eelled by Vossius the Phcenix of Germany ; and he entertains the ladies with stories from them, that make them almost afraid to go to bed at niffht. I have been eharmed mysdf with some of the wild, uttle superstitions which hu has adduced from Blefkenius, Scheffer, and others : eneh as those of the Laplanders about the domestic spirits whieh wake them at night, and summon them to go and fish; e£ Thor, the deity of Thunder, who has power of life and death, health and sickness, and who, armed with the rainbow, aboets his anows at those evil demons that live on the tops of roeki and mountains, and infest the kkes ; of the Juhlss 14 ST. ICIUC 8 ETS. or Juhlafolket, vagrant troops of spirits, which roam the air, and wander up and down by forests and mountains, and the moonlight sides of hills. The parson never openly professes his belief in ghosts, but I have remarked that he has a suspicious way of pressing great names into the defence of supernatural doctrines, and making philosophers and saints fight for him. He expatiates at large on the opinions of the ancient philosophers about larves, or nocturnal phantoms, the spirits of the wicked, which wandered like exiles about the earth ; and about those spiritual beings which abode in the air, but descended occa' sionally to earth, and mingled among mortals, acting as agents between them and the gods. He quotes abo from I%ilo the rabbi, the contemporary of the apostles, and, according to some, the firiend of St. Paul, who says that the air is full of spirits of different ranks ; some destined to exist for a time in mortal bodies, from which, being emancipated, they pass and repass between heaven and earth, as agents or messengers in the service of the Deity. But we worthy little man assumes a bolder tone when he quotes it from the fathers of the church ; such as St. Jerome, who gives it as the opinion of all the doctors, that the air is filled with powers opposed to each other ; and Lactautius, who says that corrupt and dangerous spirits wander over the earth, and seek to console themselves for their own fall by effecting the ruin of the human race ; and Clemens Alexan- drinus, who is of opinion that the souls of the blessed have knowledge of what passes among men, the same as angels have. I am now alone in my chamber, but these themes have taken such hold of my imagination, that I cannot sleep. I'he room in which I sit is just fitted to foster such a state of mind. The walls are hung with tapestry, the figures of which are faded, and look like unsubstantial shapes melting awny from sight. Over the fireplace is the portrait of a lady, who, according to the housekeeper's tradition, pined to death for the loss of her lover in the battle of Blenheim. She has a most pale and plaintive countenance, and seems to fix her eyes mournfully upon me. The fimiily have long ninco retired. I have heard their sti>ps die away, and the distant doors clap to after them. The murmur of voices, and the peal of remote laughter, no longer reach the ear. The oloek .u^ •T. UkMX*» STB. 85 froni the church, in which so many of the former inha- bitante of this house lie buried, has chimed the awful hour of midright. I have sat bj the window and mused upon the dusky land- scape, watching the lights disappearing, one by one, from the ^tant village ; and the moon rising in her silent majesty, and leading up all the silver pomp of heaven. As I have gazed upon these quiet groves and shadowy lawns, silvered over, and imperfecUy lighted by streaks of detwy moonshine, my mind has been crowded by " thick coming fancies" con> ceming those spiritual beings which €€ walk the earth Unseen, both when we wake and whoi we sleep.*' Are there, indeed, such beings? Is this space between us and the Deity filled up by innumerable orders of spiritual beings, forming die same gradations between the human soul and divine perfection, that we see prevailing from humanity downwards to the meanest insect? It is a sublime and beau- tiful doctrine, inculcated by the early fathers, that there are guardian angels appointed to watch over cities and nations ; to take care of the welfare of good men, and to guard and guide the steps of helpless inrancy. *' Nothing," says St. Jerome, " gives us a greater idea of the dignity of our soul, than that God has given each of us, at the moment of our birth, an angel to have care over it." Even the doctrine of departed spirits returning to visit the scenes and beings which were dear to them during the body's existence, thou{^ it has been debased by the absurd supersti- tions of the v^gar, in itself is awfully solemn and sublime. However lij|;htly it may be ridiculed, jet the attention invo- luntarily yielded to it whenever it is made the subject of •eriouB discussion ; its prevalence in all ages and countries, and even among newly-discovered nations, that have had no previous interchange of thought with other parts of the world, nrove it to be one of those mjrsterious, and almost instinctive beliefs, to which, if left to ourselves, we should naturally incline. In spite of all the pride of reason and philosophy, a vague doubt will still lurk m the mind, and perhaps will never be perfectly eradicated ; as it is oonceraing a matter that does not admit of a positive demonstration. Everything oonoeeted H ■T. MABK'b ETS. with our roiritual nature is full of doubt and difficulty. " We are fearfully and wonderfully made ;" we are surrounded by mysteries, and we are mysteries even to ourselves. Who yet has been able to comprehend and describe the nature of the soul, its connexion with the body, or in what part of the frame it is situated? We know merely that it does exist; but whence it came, and when it entered into us, and how it is retained, and where it is seated, and how it operates, axe aU matters of mere speculation and ctrntradiotory theories. Ji, then, we are thus ignorant of this spiritual essence, even while it forms a part of ourselves, and is continually present to our consciousness, how can we pretend to ascertain or to deny its powers and operations when released from its fleshy prison-house ? It is more the manner, therefore, in whica this superstition has been degraded, than its intrinsic absur* dity, tluit has brought it into contempt. Baise it above the frivolous purposes to whidi it has bean applied, strip it of the gloom and horror with which it has been surrounded, and liere is none of the whole circle of visionary creeds that oould more delightftilly elevate the imagination, or more toi- derly a£feot the neart. It would beoome a sovereign comiiBrt at the bed of death, soothii^ the bitter tear wrung from us by the agony of our mortal separation. Whax oould be more consoling tlum the idea, that tne souls of those whom we onoe loved were permitted to return and watch over our wdfiue ^ That affectionate and guardian spirits sat by our pillows when we slept, keeping a vigil over our most helpless hours ? That beauty and innocence, which had languished into the tomb, C$t smiled unseen around us, revealing themselves in those est dreams wherein we live over i^n the hours of past endearment? A belief of this kind would, I should think» be a new incentive to virtue ; rendering vs eiroumspect even in our most secret moments, from thie idea that those w» onoe loved and honouied were invisible witnesses of all ovir ■otioiis. It would take away, too* from that looeliness and desCitatioD which we are i^t to feel more and more as we get on in our pilgrimage through the wilderness of this world, and find that those who set fiwward with us, bvingly and cheerily, on the journey, have one bv one dropped away fion onr side. Pkoe the superstitioa in this l^ht, and I oomess I should like to be a believer in it. I eee nothbig in it that is inoompatible with n. MASK'S XTV. the tender tnd merciful nature ci our religian, nor rcToltuig to the wishes and affections of the heart. There are departed beings that I have loved as I never again shall love in this world ;->that have loved me as I never again shall be loved ! If such beings do ever retain in their bkssed spheres the attachments which they felt on earth ; if they take an interest in the poor concerns of tran- sient mortality, and are permitted to hold communion with those whom they have loved on earth, I feel as if now, at this deep hour of night, in this silence and solitude, I could receive their visitation with the most solemn, but unalloyed delight. In truth, such visitations would be too happy for this worid; they would be incompatible with the nature of this imperfect state of being. We are here placed in a mere scene of spiri- tual thraldom and restraint. Our souls are shut in and limited by bonds and barriers; shackled by mortal infirmities, and subject to all the gross impediments of matter. In vaia would they seek to act independently of the body, and to mingle together in spiritual intercourse. They can only aet here through their fleshy organs. Their earthly loves are made of no transient embraces and long separations. The most intimace firiendship, of what brief and scattered portions of time does it consist ! We take each other by tlw hand, and we exchange a few words and looks of kindness, and we rejoice together for a few short moments, and then days* months, years intervene, and we see and know nothing of each other. Or, granting that we dwell together for the ftdl season of this our mortal Ulie, the grave soon doses its sates between us, and then our spirits are doomed to remain ia separation and widowhood; until they meet again in that more perfect state of being, where soul will dwdl with mmd in bliwfiil communion, and there will be neither death, nor absence, nor anjrthing else to interrupt our felicity. \* In the foregoing paper I have alluded to the writings of some of the old Jewish rabbins. They abound with wud theories ; but among them are many truly poetical flights ; and their ideas are often very beautifully expressed. Their speculations on the nature of the angels are curious and nnciful, though much resembling the doctrines of the ancient plilosoj^ers. In the writings of the Babbi Eleawr is an ae> oount of the temptation oi our first parents and the fidl of 4m m GSKnUTT. aii^lSf which the panon pointed out to me as having probablj fimushed some of the groundwork for " Paradise Lost." Acoordinff to Eleaser, the ministering angels said to the Deity, ** What is there in man that thou makest him of such importance? Is he anything else than vanity? for he can scarcely reason a little on terrestrial things." To which God replied, " Do vou imagine that I will he exalted and glorified only by you here above ? I am the same below that I am here. Who is there among you that can call all the creatures by their names ?" There was none found among them that could do so. At that moment Adam arose, and called all the creatures by their names. Seeing which, the ministering angels said among themselves, " Let us consult together how we may cause Adam to sin against the Creator, ouerwise he will not fail to become our master." , Sammael, who was a great prince in the heavens, was pre- sent at this coimcil, with the saints of the first order and the seraj^im of six bands. Sammael chose several out of the twelve orders to accompany him, and descended below, for the pmpose of visiting all the creatures which Qod had created. He found none more cunning and more fit to do evil than the serpent. ' The rabbi then treats of the seduction and the fisdl of man; of the consequent fidl of the demon, and the punishment which God inflicted on Adam, Eve, and the serpent. " He made them all come before him; pronounced nme maledic- tions on Adam and Eve, and condemned them to suffer death; and he precipitated Sammael and all his band from heaven. He cut off the feet of the serpent, which had before the figure of a camel (Sammael having mounted on him), and he cursed him among all beasts and animals." GENTILITY. — - True Gentrie standeth in the trade Of virtuous life, not in the fl«»hl/ line ; For bloud is knit, but (}entrie is divine. Miaaoa roa MAOitTaATSS. ; I HAVE mentioned some peculiarities of the squire in the jeducation of his sons; but I would not have it thought that •his instructions were directed chiefly to their personal ac- OXHTXLITT. 99 complishmeiits. He took great pains also to form their minds, and to inculcate what he calls good old English prin- ciplcSf such as are laid down in the writings of Peachem and his contemporaries. There is one author of whom he cannot speak without indignation, which is Chesterfield. He avers that he did much, for a time, to injure the true national character, and to introduce, instead of open manly sincerity, a hollow perfidious courtliness. *' His maxims," he afiirms, *' were calculated to chill the delightful enthusiasm of youth; to make them ashamed of that romance which is the dawn of generous manhood, and to impart to them a cold polish and a premature worldliness. *'Many of Lord CSiesterfield's maxims would make a young man a mere man of pleasure; but an Enelish gentle- man should not be a mere man of pleasure. Henas no right to such selfish indulgence. His ease, his leisure, his opulence, are debts due to his country, which he must ever staiui ready to discharge. He should be a man at all points; simple, frank, courteous, intelligent, accomplished, and informed; upright, intrepid, and disinterested; one that can mingle among freemen; that can cope with statesmen; that can champion his country and its rurhts either at home or abroad. In a country like England, where there is such free and unbounded scope for the exertion of intellect, and where opinion and example have such weight with the people, everv gentleman of fortune and leisure should feel himself bound <> employ himself in some way towards promoting the pruit- penty or glory of the nation. In a country where intellect and action are trammelled and restrained, men of rank and fortune may become idlers and triflers with impunity ; but an English coxcomb is inexcusable; and this, perhaps, is the reason why he is the most offensive and insupportable cox« comb in the world." The squire, as Frank Bracebridge informs me, would often hold foru in this manner to his sons, when they were about leaving the paternal roof; one to travel abroad, one to go to the army, and one to the universi^. He used to have them with him in the library, which is hung with the portraits of Sydney, Surrey, Kalei^h, Wyat, and oUiers. ** Look at those models of true English gentlemen, my sons," he would say with cndittsiasm; " those were men that wreathed the graeet of the most delicate and refined taste around the stem virtuaa % I. 90 omnXiXTT. of the loldier; tiist mingled what was gentle and gracioa with what was haidj and manly; that posseMed ^e true chivalry of spirit, which is the exalted essence of manhood. They are the lights hj whitk the yonth of the country should array themselTes. They were the patterns and the idols of tlwir oountiy at home ; uey were the illustrators of its digni^ abKMd. ' Surrey,' savs Camden, ' was the first nohleman that illustrated his high birth with the beauty of learning. He was acknowledged to be the gallantest man, the politest lover, and the completest gentleman of his time.' Anid as to W]rat, his friend Surrey most amiably testifies of him, that his person was majestic and beautiful, his visage ' stem and mild; that he sung and played the lute with remarkable sweetness; spoke foreign laogaages with grace and fluency, and possessed an inexhanstible ftmd of wit' And see what a high commenda t ion is passed iqK>n these illustrious friends: * They were the two chieftains, who, having travelled into Italy, and there tasted the sweet and statcuy measures and ttjrle of the Italian poetry, greatly polished our rude aad homely manner of vulgar poetry fium what it had been before, and therefore may be jnstly called the reformers of our English poetry and style.' And Sir Rulip Sydney, who haa left us such monuments of elegant thought and generona ■entiment, and who illustrated ms chivalrous spirit so glo- rionsty in the field. And Sir Walter Raleigh, the ele^mt oourtier, the intrepid soldier, the enterprising discoverer, tha enlightened ]riiilos<^her, the magnanimous vaxttyr. Theaa are the men for English gentlemen to study. Chesterfield* with his cold and courtly maxims, woald have chilled and impoverished such mnrits. He would have bli^ted all tlM budding romance of their temperaments. Sydney would never have written his Arcadia, nor Surrey have omdlen^^ the world in vindication of the beauties of his Gtenddine. These are the men, my sons," the squire will continue, '*that show to what our natitmal character may be exalted, whoa its strong and powerfiil qualities are dulv wrought up aad refined. The solidest bodies are capable of tiie highest polish; and there is no character that may be wrought to a more exquisite and unsullied brightness than that of the tm^ English gentleman." When Qaj was about to depart for the army, the squaro •gain took him aiide» and gave hm a kmg exhortation. He man OEHTILITT. 91 true lood. lould »lsof gnitf ithat He ditest at to ,ihBt nand ikable oenoy, i wlutt Lends: d into ■esand le and L been I of oar rhobaa •nerona lo glo- ele^t er, the Theee erfield, ed and aUUM would kUen^ raldina. /*ihat d^wbea up and Ugbeat ^ toft tfaetntt warned him against that affeotatton of cold-blooded indiffer- ence, which he was told was cultivated by the young British officers, among whom it was a study to '*sink the soldier" in the mere man of fashion. **A soldier," said he, "without pride and enthusiasm in his profession, is a mere sanguinary hireling. Nothing distinguishes them from the mercenary bravo but a spirit of patriotism, or a thirst for glory. It is the fashion, now-ardays, my son,'* said he, ** to laugh at the spirit of chivalry; when that spirit is realhr extinct, the pro- Rsn ous and agreeable colours ; for these beings have a singularly fine eye for colours. Her straw hat was in her hand, and a red cloak thrown over one arm. The Oxonian offered at once to have his fortune told, and the girl began with the usual volubility of her race ; but he drew her on one side near the hedge, as he said he had no idea of having his secrets overheard. I saw he was talking to her instead of she to him, and by his glancing towards us now and then, that he was giving the bag^ige some private hints. When they returned to us, he assumed a venr serious air, ** Zounds!'' said he, *' its venr astonishing how uese creatures come by their knowledge ; this girl has told me some things that I Uioughtno one knew but myself!" The girl now assailed the general: " Come, your honour," said she, *' I see by ^our face you're a lucky man ; but you're not happy in your mind ; youre not, indeed, sir ; but have a good heart, and give me a good piece of silver, and I'll tell you a nice fortune." The general had received all her approaches with a banter, and had suffered her to get hold of his hand; but at the mention of the piece of silver, he hemmed, looked grave, and turning to us, asked if we had not better continue our walk. «* Come, my master," said the girl archly, ** you'd not be in such a huny, if you knew all that I could tell you about a fair lady that has a notion for you. Come, sir, old love bums strong ; there's many a one comes to see weddings that go away brides themselves !" Here the girl whispered something in alow voice, at which the general coloured up, was a little fluttered, and suffered himself to be drawn aside under the hedge, where he appeared to listen to her with great earnest- ness, and at the end paid her half-a-crown with the air of a man that has got the worth of his money. The girl next made her attack upon Master Simon, who, however, was too old a bird to be caught, knowing tiiat it would end in an attack upon his purse, about which he is s little sensitive. As he has a great notion, however, of being considered a royster, he chucked her under the chin, played her off with rather IntNtd jokes, and put on something of the rake-belly air, that we see now and then assumed on the stage 94 FOBTUITB-TXLLXNO. by the sad-boy gcutlemen of the old schooL " Ah, your honour,** said the girl," with a malicious leer, ** you were not in such a tantrum last year when I told you about the widow you know who ; but if you had taken a friend's advice, you'd never have come away from Doncastcr races with a flea in your ear !*' lliere was a secret sting in this speech that seemed quite to disconcert Muster Simou. He jerked away his hand in a pet, smacked his whip, whistled to his dogs, and intimated that it was high time to go home. The girl, however, was determined not to lose her harvest. She now turned upon me, and, as I have a weakness of spirit where there is a pretty face concerned, nhe soon wheedled me out of my money, and, in return, read me a fortune, which, if it prove true, and I am determined to believe it, will make me one of the luckiest men in the chronicles of Cupid. I saw that the Oxonixm was at the bottom of all this oracular mystery, and was disposed to amuse himself with the general, whose tender approaches to the widow have attracted the notice of the wag. I was a little curious, however, to know the meaning ol the dark hints which had so suddenly disconcerted Master Simon : and took occasion to iall in the rear with the Oxonian on our way home, when he laughed heartily at my questions, and gave me ample information on the subject. The truth of the matter is, that Master Simon has met with a sad rebuff since my Christmas visit to the Hall. He used at that time to be joked about a widow, a fine dashing woman, M he privately informed nic. I had supposed the pleasure he betrayed on these occiiHiquence of which he had been at some extraordinary expense in new clothes, and had actually got Frank Bracebridge to order him a coat from Stultz. He b^gan to throw out hints about the importance of a man's settling himself in life before he grew old ; he would look grave whenever the widow and matri- mony were mentioned in the same sentence ; and privately asked the opinion of the squire and parson about the prudence of marrying a widow wUh a zioh jointure, but who had aevexal ohildren. LOTM-OMAMMM, 95 such r yott lever jarl'* quite lina mated r, wai t upon B 18 a of my , prove one of ill this riththe traoted !ver, to Addenly L in the laughed ition ou letwith [e used An important member of a great fiunily eQiinezio& cannot harp much upon the theme of matrimony without its taking wind; and it hood got buzaed about that Mr. Simon Brace- bridge w&s actuiiUy gone to Doncaster races, with a new horse, but that he meant to return in a curricle with a Udy by his side. Master Simon did, indeed, go to the races, and that with a new horse ; and the dashing widow did make her appearance in her curricle ; but it was imfortunately driven b^ a strapping young Irish dragoon, with whom even Master Smion's self-complacency would not allow him to enter into competition, and to whom she was married shortly after. It was a matter of sore chagrin to Master Simon for several months, having never before been fully committed. The dullest head in ^ fiunily had a joke upon him ; and there is no one that likes less to be bantered than an absolute joker. He took refuge for a time at Lady Lillycraft's, until the matter should blow over; and occupied himself by look- ing over her accounts, regulating the village choir, and in- ciucating loyalty into u pet bullfinch by teaching him to whistle " God save the King." He has now pretty nearly recovered firom the mortification; holds up his head, and laughs as much as any one ; again affects to pity married men, and is particularly fiicetious about widows, when Lady Lillycraft is not by. His only time of trial is when the general gets hold of him, who is mfinitely heavy and persevering in his waggery, and will interweave a dull joke through the various topics of a whole dinner-time. Master Simon often parries these attacks by a stanza from his (dd work of " Cupid's Solicitor for Love:" " Tis in vain to woo a widow over long, In onoe or twice her mind you may perceive t Widows are subtle, be they old or young. And by tbeir wiles young men they will deoeivo.* LOVB-OHARMS. ■ ' ■ ■■ Come, do not weep, my girl. Forget him, pretty pcnsivoiieM ; there will Gome others, every day, as good as he. 8ia J. SvcKLivo. Tu appNich oi a wedding in a fiunily is always an event 96 LOTX-OHABMS. of great importance, but particularly so in a household like this, in a retired part of the country. Master Simon, who is a pervading spirit, and, through means of the butler and housekeeper, knows everything that goes forward, tells me that the maid-servants are continually trying their fortunes, and that the servants' hall has of late been quite a scene of incantation. It is amusing to notice how the oddities of the head of a family flow down through all the branches. The squire, in the mdulgence of his love of everything that smacks of old times, has held so many grave conversations with the parson at table, about popular superstitions and traditional rites, that they have been carried from the parlour to the kitchen by the listening domestics, and. being apparently sanctioned by such high authorities, the whole house has become infected by tbcm. The servants are all versed in the common modes of trying luck, and the charms to ensure constancy. They read their fortunes by drawing strokes in the ashes, or by repeating a form of words, and looking in a pail of water. St. Ma»*8 Eve, I am told, was a busy time with them ; being an ap- pointed night for certain mystic ceremonies. Several of them sowed hemp-seed, to be reaped by their true lovers ; and they even ventured upon the solemn and fearful preparation of the dumb-cake. This must be done fasting, and in silence, llie ingredients are handed down in tradiiional form :— *' An egg- shell frdl of salt, an egg-shell full of malt, and an egg-shell full of barley.meal." When the cake is ready, it is put upon a pan over the fire, and the future husband will appear, turn the cake, and retire ; but if a word is spoken, or a fast is broken, during this awful ceremony, there is no knowing what horrible consequence would ensue ! The experiments in the present instance came to no result ; they that sowed the hemp-seed forgot the magic rhyme that they were to pronounce, so the true lover never appeared ; and as to the dumb-cake, what between the awfld stillness tliey had to keep, and the awfUlness of the midnight hour, their hearts failed them when they had put the cake in the pan, so that, on the striking of the great house-clock in the servants* hall, they were seized with a sudden panic, and ran out of the room, to which they did not return until morning* when they found the mystic cake burnt to a cinder. conc£ stor^'l but ever with' and floweJ LOVB-CRABMS. 97 dlike ivhois it and A]» me rtunes, ;ene of id of a lire, itt of old parson es, that \ by the by such cted by if trying tad their eating a . MdtVb K an ap- . of them and they in of the ce. The An egg- shell fuU t upon a ear, turn a fast is ring what 10 result; lyme that appeared; I stillnesa ght hour, ko in the ck in the B, and ran morning. The most persevering at these spells, however, is Phcobo Wilkins, the hovi:c keeper's niece. As she is a kind of privi- leged personage, and rntbcr idle, she has more time to occupv herself with these matters. She has always had her head full of love and matrimony. She knows the drraming-book by heart, and is quite an oracle among the little girls of the family, who always come to her to interpret their dreams in the mornings. During the present gaiety of the house, however, the poor girl has worn a i'acc full of trouble ; and, to use the house- keeper's words, " has fallen into a sad hystericky way lately." It seems that she was bom and brought up in the village, where her father was parish-clerk, and she was an early playmate and sweetheart of young Jack Tibbets. Since she oas come to live at the Hall, however, her head has been a little turned. Being very pretty, and naturally genteel, she has been much noticed and inaulged ; and being the housekeeper's niece, she has held an equivocal station between a servant and a companion. She has learnt something of fashions and notions among the young ladies, which have effected quite a metamorphosis ; insomuch that her finery at church on Sundays has given mortal offence to her former intimates in the village. This has occasioned the misrepresentations which have awakened the implacable family pride of Dame Tibbets. But what is worse, Phoebe, having a spice of coquetry in her disposition, showed it on one or two occasions to her lover, which produced a downright quarrel ; and Jack, being very proud and fiery, has absolutely tmncd his back upon her for several successive Sundays. The poor girl is full of sorrow and repentance, and would fain make up with her lover ; but he feels his security, and stands aloof. In this he in doubtless encouraged by his mother, who is continually reminding him of what he owes to his fiunily ; for this same family pride seems doomed to be the eternal bane of lovers. As I hate to see a pretty face in trouble, I have felt quite concerned for the luckless PhoDbe, evei: since I heard her story. It is a sad thing to be thwarted in love at any time, but particularly so at this tender season of the year, when every living thing, even to the very butterfly, is sporting with its mate ; and the green fields and the buddins groves, and the singing of the birds, and the sweet smell of the flowers, are enough to turn the head of a love-sick girl. I 98 LOTB-OHARMS. am told that the coolness of Young Ready-Money lies hesfy at poor Phoibe's heart. Instead of singing about the houae as formerly, hIic goes about pale and sighing, and is apt to bieak into tears when her companions are full of merriment. Mrs. Hannah, the restal gentlewoman of my Lady Lilly* eraft, has had long talks and walks with Phoebe, up and down the avenue, of an evening ; and has endeavoured to squeeze some of her own verjuice into the other's milky nature. She speaks with contempt and abhorrence of the whole sex, and advises PhcDbe to despise all the men as heartily as she does. But Phoebe's loving temper is not to be curdled; she has no such l^ing as hatred or contempt fbr mankind in her whole composition. She has all the simple fondness of heart of poor, weak, loving woman ; and her only thoughts at present are, how to conciliate and reclaim bar wayward swain. The spells and love-charms, which are matters of sport to the other domestics, are serious concerns with this lore- stricken damsel. She is continually trying her fortune in a ▼ariety of ways. I am told that she has absolutely fasted for six Wednesdays and three Fridays successively, having understood that it was a sovereign charm to ensure being married to one's liking within the year. She carries about, also, a lock of her sweeUieart's hair, and a riband he once §ave her, being a mode of producing constancy in her lover, he even went so fur as to try her fortune by the mocm, which has always had much to do with lovers' dreams and &ncies. For this purpose she went out in the night of the full moon, knelt on a stone in the meadow, and repeated the old traditional rhyme : " All hail to thee, moon, all hail to thee : I pray thee, good moon, now show to me The youth who my future husband shall be." When she came back to the house, she was faint and pale, and went immediately to bed. The next morning she told the porter's wife that she had seen some one close by the hedge in the meadow, which she was sure was young Tibbeta ; at any rate, she had dreamt of him all night ; both of which, the old dame assured her, were most happy signs. It has since turned out that the person in the meadow was old Christy, the huntsman, who was walking his nightly rounds with Uie great stag-hound; so that Phoebe's £uth in tiM charm is completely shaken. mmmm THE LIBRARY. YssTEKDAT the fair Julia made her first appearance down stairs since her accident; and the sight of her spread an universal cheerfulness through the household. She was ex- tremely pale, however, and could not walk without pain and difficulty. She was assisted, therefore, to a sofa in the library, which is pleasant and retired, looking out among trees ; and so quiet that the little birds come hopping upon the windows, and peering ciuiously into the apartment. Here several of the family gathered round, and devised means to amuse her, and moke the day pass pleasantly. Ludy Lillycraft lamented the want of some new novel to while away the time ; and was almost in a pet, because the ** Author of Waverley" had not produced a work for the last three months. There was a motion made to call on the parson for some of his old legends or ghost stories ; but to this Lady Lillycraft objected, as they were apt to give her the vapours. General Hai'bottle gave a minute account, for the sixth time, of the disaster of a friend in India, who had his leg bitten off by a tiger, whilst he was hunting; and was proceeding to menace the company with a chapter or two about Tippoo Soib. At length the captain bethought himself and said ho be- lieved he had a manuscript tale l^ing in one comer of his campaigning trunk, which if he could find, and the company were desirous, he would read to them. The offer was eagerly accepted. He retired, and soon returned with a roll of blotted manuscript, in a very gentlemanlike, but nearly illegible, hand, and a great part written on cartridge paper. *' It is one of the scribblings," said he, *'■ of my poor friend, Charles Lightly, of the Dragoons. He was a curious, ro- mantic, studious, fanciful fellow : the favourite, and often the unconscious butt of his fellow-officers, who entertained them- selves with his eccentricities. He was in some of the hardest service in the Peninsula, and distinguished himself by his gallantry. When the intervals of duty permitted, he was rond of roving about the country, visiting noted places, and was extremely fond of Moorish ruins. When at his quarters, he was a great scribbler, and passed much of his leisure with his pen in his hand. h2 *1 \l 100 THE LIBRABT. " As I was a much younger officer, and a very young man, he took me, in a manner, under his care, and we became close friends. He used often to read his writings to me, having a great confidence in my taste, for I always praised them. Poor fellow ! he was shot down close by me at Waterloo. We lay wounded together for some time, during a hard contest that took place near at hand. As I was least hiurt, I tried to relieve him, ond to stanch the blood which flowed from a wound in his breast. He lay with his head in my lap, and looked up thankfully in my face, but shook his head famtly, and made a sign that it was all over with him ; and indeed he died a few minutes afterwards, just as our men had repulsed the enemy, and came to our relief. I have his favourite dog and his pistols to this day, and several of his manuscripts, which he gave to me at different times. The one I am now going to read is a talc which he said he wrote in Spain, during the time that he lay ill of a wound received at Salamanca." We now nn'anged ourselves to hear the story. The captain seated himself on the sofk, beside the fair Julia, who , I had noticed to be somewhat affected by the picture he had carelessly drawn of wounds and dangers in the field of battle. She now leaned her arm fondly on his shoiUder, and her eye glistened as it rested on the manuscript of the poor literary dragoon. Lady Lillvcraft buried herself in a deep, welL cushioned elbow-chair, ^er dogs were nestled on soft mats at her feet ; and the golmnt general took his station, in an arm-chair, at her side, and toyed with her elegantly-orna- mented M'ork-bng. The rest of the circle being all equally well accommodated, the captain began his story, a copy of M'hich I have procured for the benefit of the reader. THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. What a life doe I lead with my master; nothing but blowing of bel- lowcs, beating of spirits, aud scraping of croslets! It is a very secret ecience, for none almost can understand the language of it. Uubliination, almigation, calcination, nibification, albification, and fermentation ; with as many termes unpossible to be uttered as the arte to be compassed. Lilly's Oallathka. Onck upon a time, in the ancient city of Grenada, there sojoiuned a young man of the name of Antonio de Castros. He wore the garb of a student of Salamanca, and was pur- The "^l THK STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 101 )ccamc to me, praised me at during 18 least , which ,d in my lis head m; and ncn had lave his d of his 3, The ic wrote received f. The dia, who ; he had )f battle, her eye literarv ), well- loft mats n, in an tly-oma- 1 equally I copy of ng of bel- ls a very a^e of it. atioD, and ittered m ITHSA. la, there Castros. nros pur- suing a course of reading in the library of the university ; and, at intervals of leisure, indulging his curiosity by exa. mining those remains of Moorish magnificence for which Grenada is renowned. •* Whilst occupied in his studies, he frequently noticed an old man of a singular appearance, who was likewise a visitor to the library. He was lean and withered, though apparently more from study tlian from age. His eyes, though bright and visionary, were sunk in the head, and thrown into shade by overhanging eyebrows. His dress was always the same : a black doublet, a short black coat, very rusty and thread- bare, a small ruff, and a lai^e overshadowing hat. His appetite for knowledge seemed insatiable. He would pass whole days in the library, absorbed in study, consulting a multiplicity of authors, as though he were piu^uing some interesting subject through all its ramifications ; so that, in general, when evening came, he was almost buried among books and manuscripts. The curiosity of Antonio was excited, and he inquired of the attendants concerning the stranger. No one could give him any information, excepting that he had been for somo time past a casual frequenter of the library ; that his reading lay chiefly among works treating of the occult sciences, and that he was particularly curious in his inquiries after Arabian manuscripts. They added, that he never held communica- tion with any one, excepting to ask for particular works; that, after a fat of studious application, he would disappear for several days, and even weeks, and when he revisited the library he would look more withered and haggard than ever. The student felt interested by this account ; he was leading rather a desultory life, and had all that capricious curiosity which springs up in idleness. He determined to make him- self acquainted with tliis book-worm, and find out who and what he was. The next time that he saw the old man at the library he commenced his approaches, by requesting permission to look at one of the volumes with which the unknown appeared to have done. The latter merely bowed his head in token of assent. After pretending to look through the volume with groat attention, he returned it with many acknowledgments. The stranger made no reply. " May I ask, seiior," said Antonio, with some hesitation, ** may I ask what you arc searching after in all these books r' 102 SHX BT1TBEKT OF BAXAMAVCA. The old man raised his head with an expression of surpriie, at having his studies interrupted for the fn«t time, and by so intrusive a question. He surveyed the student with a side glance from head to foot : " Wisdom, my son," said he, calmly ; '* and the search requires every moment of my at- tention/* He then cast his eyes upon lus book and resumed his studies. *' But, father," said Antonio, " cannot you spare a moment to point out the road to others ? It is to experienced travellers, like you, that we strangers in the paths of knowledge must look for directions on our journey." The stranger looked distiu'bed : " I have not time enough, my son, to learn," said he, '* much less to teach. I am igno- rant myself of the path of true knowledge ; how then can I show it to others ?" "Well, but, father " " Sefior," said the old man, mildly, but earnestly, " you must see that I have but few steps more to the grave. In that short space have I to accomplish the whole business of my existence. I have no time for words ; every word is as one grain of sand of my gloss wasted. Suffer me to be alone." There was no replying to so complete a closing of the door of intimacy. The student found himself calmly, but totally repulsed. Though curious and inquisitive, yet he was natu- rally modest, and on after-thoughts he blushed at his own intrusion. His mind soon became occupied by other objects. He passed several d tys wandering among the mouldering piles of Moorish architecture, those melancholy monuments of an elegant and voluptuous people. He paced the deserted halls of the Alhambra, the pamdise of the Moorish kings. He visited the groat court of the lions, famous for the perfidious massacre of the gallant Abencorrages. He gazed with admi- ration at its mosaic cupolus, gorgeously painted in gold and asure ; its basins of marble, its alabaster vase, supported by lions, and storied with inscriptions. His imagination kindled as he wandered among these scenes. They were calculated to awaken nil the enthusiasm of a youthful mind. Most of the halls have anciently been beautified by fountains. The fine taste of the Arabs delighted in the sptu'kling purity ond reviving freshness of water, and they erected, as it were, altars on every side, to that delicate dement. Poetry mingles with architecture in the Alhambra. ■«**,! THE BTTTDEVT OT 8A,LAKA.irCA.. 1«| it breathes along the very walls. Wherever Antonio turned Us eye, he beheld inscriptions in Arobio, wherein the perpe. tnity of Moorish power and splendour within these walls was oenfidently predicted. Alas f how has the prophecy been Usified ! Many of the basins, where the fountains had onee thrown up their sparkling showers, were dry and dusty. Some of the palaces were turned into gloomy convents, and the bare-foot monk paced through those courts, which had onoe glittered with the array, and echoed to the music of Moorish chivalry. In the course of his rambles, the student more than once encountered the old man of the library. He was always alone, and so full of thought as not to notice any one about him. He appeared to be intent upon studying those half-buried inscriptions, which are foand, here and there, among the Moorish ruins, .and seem to murmur from the earth the tale of former greatness. Thi3 greater part of these have since been translated ; but thry were supposed by many, at the time, to contain symbolical revelations, and golden masims of the Arabian sages and astrologers. As Antonio saw the stranger apparently decyphering these inscriptions, he felt an eager longing to mtikc his acquaintance, and to participate in his curious researiihes ; but the repulse he had met with at the library deterred him from making any further advances. He had directed his steps one evening to the sacred mount, which overlooks the beautiful valley watered by the Darro, the fertile plain of the Vega, and all that rich diversity of vale and mountain, that surrounds Grenada with an earthly paradise. It was twilight when he found himself at the place, where, at the present day, are situated the chapels known by the name of the Sacred Furnaces. They are so called from grottoes, in which some of the primitive saints are said to have been burnt. At the time of Antonio's visit, the place was an object of much curiosity. In an excavation of these grottoes several manuscripts had recently been discovered, engraved on plates of lead. They were written in the Arabian language, excepting one. which was in unknown characters. The pope had issued a bull, forbidding any one, under pain of excom- munication, to speak of these manuscripts. The prohibition had only excited the greater curiusity ; and many reports were whispered about tlmt these manuscripts contained treasures of dark and forbidden knowledge. As Antonio was examining the place from whence these ii 104 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. mygterious manuscripts had been drawn, he again observed the old man of the library, wandering among the ruins. His curiosity was now fully awakened; the time and place served to stimulate it. He resolved to watch this groper after secret and forgotten lore, and to trace him to his habitation. There was something like adventure in the thing that charmed his romantic disposition. He followed the stranger, therefore, at a little distance ; at first cautiously, but he soon observed him to be so wrapped in his own thoughts, as to take little heed of external objects. They passed along by the skirts of the mountain, and then by the shady banks of the Darro. They pursued their way, for some distance from Grenada, along a lonely road that led among the hills. The gloom of evening was gathering, and it was quite dark when the stranger stopped it the portal of a solitary mansion. It appeared to be a mere wing, or ruined fragment, of what had once been a pile of some consequence. The walls were of great thickness ; the windows narrow, and generally secured by iron bars. The door was of planks, studded with iron spikes, and had been of great strength, though at present it was much decayed. At one end of the mansion was a ruinous tower, in the Moorish style of architecture. The edifice had probably been a country retreat, or castle of pleasure, during the occupation of Grenada by the Moors, and rendered sufficiently strong to withstand any casual assault in those warlike times. llie old man knocked at the portal. A light appeared at a small window just above it, and a female head looked out : it might have served as a model for one of Raphael's saints. The hair was beautifully biaided, and gathered in a silken net ; and the complexion, as well as could be judged from the light, was that soft, rich bnmette, so becoming in southern beauty. " It is I, my child," said the old man. The face instantly disappeared, and soon after a wicket-door in the large portal opened. Antonio, who had ventured near to the building, caught a transient sight of a delicate female form. A pair of fine, black eyes dorted a look of surprise at seeing a stranger hovering near, and the door was precipitately closed. There was something in this sudden gleam of beauty that wonderfully struck the imagination of the student. It was like a brilliant flashing from its dark casket. He sauntered about. wm* THE 8TVDBNT OF SALAMANCA. 105 regarding the gloomy pile with increasing interest. A few simple, wild notes, from among some rocks and trees at a little distance, attracted his attention. He found there a group of Oitanas, a vagabond gipsy race, which at that time abounded in Spain, and lived in hovels and caves of the hills about the neighbourhood of Grenada. Some were biusy about a fire, and others were listening to the uncouth music which one of their companions, seated on a ledge of the rock, was making with a split reed. Antonio endeavoured to obtain some information of them concerning the old building and its inhabitants. The one who appeared to be their spokesman was a gaunt fellow, with a subtle gait, a whispering voice, and a sinister roll of the eye. He shrugged his shoulders on the student*s inquiries, and said that all was not right in that building. An old man inhabited it, whom nobody knew, and whose family appeared to be only a daughter and a female servant ! He and his companions, he added, lived up among the neighbouring hills ; and as they had been about at night, they had often seen strange lights, and heard strange sounds from the tower. Some of the country people, who woi'ked in the vineyards among the hills, believed the old man to be one that dealt in the black art, and were not over fond of passing near the tower at night ; '* but for our parts," said the Gitano, *' we are not a people that trouble ourselves much with fears of that kind." The student endeavoured to gain more precise information, but they had none to furnish him. They began to be solicitous for a compensation for what they had already imparted ; and recollecting the loneliness of the place, and the vagabond cha> racter of his companions, he was glad to give them a gratuity, and hasten hoMewards. He sat down to his studies, but his brain was too full of what he had seen and heard ; his eye was upon the page, but his fancy still returned to the tower, and he Avas continually picturing the little window, with the beautiful head peeping out; or the door half open, and the nymph-like form Mrithin. He retired to bed. but the same objects haunted his dreams. He was young and susceptible ; and the excited state of his feelings, from wandering among the abodes of departed grace and gallantry, had predisposed him for a sudden impression from female beauty. The next morning he strolled again in the direction of the tower. It was stiU more forlorn by the broad gkire of day I I ' 106 TKS SrrDBKT or •ALAMAWOA. than in the gloom of evening. The walls were ommbling, and weeds and mora were growing in every crevice. It haid the look of a prison rather than a dwelling-house. In one angle, however, he remarked a window which seemed an exception to the surrounding squalidness. There was a curtain drawn within it, and flowers standing on the window stone. Whikt he was looking at it the curtain was partially withdrawn, and a delicate white arm, of the most beautiful roundness, was put forth to water the flowers. The student made a noise to attract the attention of the&ir florist. He succeeded. The curtain was further drawn, and he had a glance of the same lovely face he had seen the evening before ; it was but a mere glance; the curtain ngain fell, and the casement closed. All this was calculated to excite the feelings of a romantic youth. Had he seen the unknown under other circumstances, it is probable that he would not have been struck with her beauty ; but this appear^ ance of being shut up and kept apart gave her the value of a treasured gem. He passed and repassed before the house several times in the course of the day, but saw nothing more. He was there again in the evening. The whole ospect of the house was dreary. The narrow windows emitted no rays of cheerful light to indicate that there was social life within. Antonio listened at the portal, but no sound of voices reached his ear. Just then he heard the clapping to of a distant door, and fearing to be detected in the unworthy act of eaves- dropping, he precipitately drew off to the opposite side of the road, and stood in the shadow of a ruined archway. He now remarked a light from a window in the tower. It was fitful and changeable; commonly feeble and yellowish, as if from a lamp ; with an occasional glare of some vivid metallic colour followed by a dusky glow. A column of dense smoke would now and then rise in the air, and hang like a canopy over the tower. 'Iliere was altogether such a loneliness and seeming mystery about the building and its inhabitants, that Antonio was half inclined to indulge the country people's notions, and to fancy it the den of some powerful sorcerer, and the fair dnmnel he had sten to be some spell-bound beauty. After some time had cLipsed, a light appeared in the window where he had seen the beautiful arm. The curtain was down, but it was so thin that lie could perceive the shadow of some one passing and repassing between it and the light. He &ncied that h,; could distinguish that the form was delicate 4 SHE snrsxKT or saxamawoa. 107 aad« from the aincrity of its movoments, it wm evidently jonthftil. He hod not a doubt but this was the bed-chamber of his beautiful unknown. Presently he heard the sound of a guitar, and a female voice singing. He drew near cautiously, and listened. It was a plaintive Moorish ballad, and he recognized in it the lamen- tations of one of the Abencerrages on leaving the walls of lovely Grenada. It was full of passion and tenderness. It spoke of the delights of early life ; the hours of love it had enjoyed on the banks of the Darro, and among the blissful abodes of the Alhambra. It bewailed the fallen honours of the Abencerrages, and imprecated vengeance on their oppres- sors. Antonio was affected by the music. It singularly coincided with the place. It was like the voice of past times echoed in the present, and breathing among the monuments of its departed glories. The voice ceased ; after a time the light disappeared, and all was still. *' She sleeps !" said Antonio, fundly. He lingered about the building with the devotion with which a lover lingers about the bower of sleeping beauty. The rising moon tlirew its silver beams on the grey walls, and glittered on the casement. The late gloomy landscape gradually became flooded with its radiance. Finding, therefore, that he could no longer move about in obscurity, and fearful that his loiterings might be observed, he reluctantly retired. The curiosity which had at first drawn the young man to the tower was now seconded by feelings of a more romantic kind. His studies were almost entirely abandoned. He maintained a kind of blockade of the old mansion ; he would take a book -with hin\, and pass a great part of the day under the trees in its vicinit}' ; keeping a vigilant eye upon it, and endeavouring to ascertain what were the walks of his myste- rious charmer. He found, however, that she never went out except to mass, when she was accompanied by her father. He waited at the door of the chiirch, and offered her the holy water, in the hopes of touching her hand — a little office of gallantry common in catholic countries. She, however, modestly declined, without raising her eyes to see who made the offer, and always took it herself from the font. She was attentive in her devotion ; her eyes were never taken from the altar or the priest, and, on returning home, iter coun- tenance was almost entirely concealed by her mantilla. Antonio had now carried ou the pursuit for several days» 108 THE STUDENT OF RALAMAMCA. and ^M hourly getting more and more interested in the chnse, but never a step nearer to the game. His lurking* about the house had probably been noticed, for he no longer saw the fair face at the >vindow, nor the white ana put forth to water the flowers. His only eonsolation was to repair nightly to his ])Ost of observation and listen to her warbhng, and if by chance he could catch a sight of her shadow, passing and repassing before the window, he thought himself most fortunate. As he was indulging in one of these evening vigils, which were complete revels of the imagination, the sounds of approaching footsteps niadc him withdraw into the deep shadow of the ruined archwny, opposite to the tower. A cavalier approached, wrapped in a large Spanish cloak. lie paused under the window of the tower, and after a little while iK'gan a serenade, accompanied by his guitar, in the usual style of Spanish gallantry. His voice was rich ond manly ; he touched the instrument with skill, and sang with amorous and impassioned eloquence. The plume of his hat was buckled by jewels that sparkled in the moonbeams ; and, as he played on the guitar, his cloak falling off from one shoulder, showed him to be richly dressed. It was evident that he was a person of rank. The idea now flashed across Antonio's mind, that the affec- tions of the unknown beauty might be engaged. She was young, and doubtless susceptible : and it was not in the nature of Spanish females to be deuf and insensible to music and admi- ration. The surmise brought with it a feeling of dreariness. There wu.s u pleasant dream of several days suddenly dis- jK'lled. I le had never before experienced any thing of the tender passion ; and, as its morning dreams arc always delightful, ho would fain have continued in the delusion. " Dut what have I to do with her attachments?" thought he ; "I have no claim on her heart, nor even on her acqiwint- once. How do I know that she is worthy of offection? Or, if she is, must not so gallant a lover as this, with his jewels, his rank, and the detestable music, have completely captivated her? What idle humour is this that I have fallen into? I must again to my books. Study, study will soon chase away all these idle fancicH." The more ho thought, however, the more he l)ccamc en- tangled in the spell which his lively imagination had woven round him ; and now tliat a rival had oppcarcd, in addition THE STUDENT OF 8ALAMAXCA. too in the irkings lonp;cr It forth repair irbling, hndow, himself I, which inds of le deep vcr. A k. lie a little r, in the ich and m^ with ' his hat as; and, rom one evident he affec- 18 young, uxture of id admi- eariness. nly dis- jr of the always Hon. thought equaint- Dnr Or. 8 jewels, iptivated into? I ftse away pamc cn- d woven addition to the other obstacles that environed this enchanted beauty, she appeared ten times more lovely and desirable. It wtui some slight consolation to him to perceive that the gallantry of the unknown mot with no apparent return from the tower. The light at the window was extinguished. The curtain remained undrawn, and none of the customni-y signals were given to intimate that the serenade was accepted. The cavalier lingered for some time about the ])lncc, and sang several other tender airs with a taste and feeling that made Antonius heart ache; at length he slowly retired. The student remained with folded arms, loaning against the ruined arch, endeavouring to summon up resolution enough to depart; but there was a romantic fascination that still cnchamed him to the place. " It is the last time," said he, willing to compromise between his feelings and his judgment, *' it is the last time; then let me enjoy the dream a few moments longer." As his eye ranged about the old building to take a farewell look, he observed the strange light in the tower, which he had noticed on a former occasion. It kept beaming up and declining as before. A pillar of smoke rose in the air, and hung in sable volumes. It was evident the old man was busied in some ot those operations that had gained him the reputation of a sorcerer throughout the neighbourhood. Suddenly an intense and biilliant glare slione through the casement, followed by a loud report, and then a fierce and ruddy glow. A figure appeared at the window, uttering cries of agony or alarm, but immediately disappeared, and a body of smoke and flame whirled out of the narrow aperture. Antonio rushed to the portal, and knocked at it with vehe- mcnce. He was only answered by loud shrieks, and found that the females were already in helpless consternation. With an exertion of desperate strength he forced the wicket from its hinges, and rushed into the houAO. lie found himself in a small vaulted hall, and by the light of the moon which entered at the door, he saw a staircase to the left. He huiried up it to a narrow corridor, through which was rolling a volume of smoke. He found here the two females in a frantic state of alarm ; one of them clasped her hands, and implored him to save her father. The corridor terminated in a spiral flight of steps, leadino; up to the tower. Ho sprang up it to a small door, through the chinks of which came a glow of light, and smoke woa w 110 THE 8TT7DEKT OP SAXAILUTOA. ipuming out. He burst it open, and found himself in an antique vaulted chamber, furnished with furnace, and TarioiH chemical apparatus. A shattered retort lay on the stone tloor; a quantity of combustibles, nearly consumed, with variona half-burnt books and papers, were sending up an expiring flame, and filling the chamber with stifling smoke. Juat within the chamber lay the reputed conjuror. He was bleed- ing, his clothes were scorched, and he appeared lifeless. Antonio caught him up, and bore him down the stairs to a chamber in which there was a light, and laid him on a bed. The female domestic was dispatched for such appliances as the house aflbrded ; but the daughter threw herself frantically beside her parent, and could not bo reasoned out of her alarm. Her dress /as all in disorder; her dishevelled hair hung in rich confusion about her neck and bosom, and never was there beheld a lovelier pictiure of terror and affliction. The skilful assiduities of the scholar soon produced signa of returning animation in his patient. The old man's wounda though severe, were not dangerous. They had evidently been E reduced by the bursting of the retort; in his bewilderment e had been enveloped in the stifling metallic vapours, which had overpowered his feeble frame, and had not Antonio arrived to his assistance, it is possible he might never have recovered. By slow degrees he came to his senses. He looked about with a bewildered air at the chamber, the agitated group around, and the student who was leaning over him. "Where am I?" said he, wildly. At the sound of his voice his daughter uttered a faint em- clamation of delight. '* My poor Inez!" said he, embracing her; then putting his hand to his head, and taking it away stained with blood, he seemed suddenly to recollect himself, and to bo overcome with emotion. *' Ay!" cried he, "all is over with me! all gone! all va- nished! gone in a moment! the labour of a lifetime lost!" His di\ughter attempted to soothe him, but he became alightly delirious, and raved incoherently about malignant demons, and about the habitation of the green lion being destroyed. His wounds being dressed, and such other reme- dies administered as his situation required, ho sunk into a state of quiet. Antonio now turned his attention to tlio daughter, whoso sufferings had been little inferior to those of her father. Having with great difficulty sucoeedod in tran- pher'i TBS STUDENT OV SAUUCANCA. Ill in oa rarioM I iloor; rarions cpiring JuBt bleed- lii'eless. rs to a t abed, nccs as ntically [• alarm* luug in 08 there signs of wounds tlybeen derment s, which I Antonio rcr hate ed about d group faint e«- nbracing it away himself, ;! allTft- ost!" became lolignant )u being ler reme- ik into a n to tlio thosdof in trail- qnillizing her fears, he endeavoured to prevail upon her to retire, and to seek the repose so necessary to her frame, proffering to remain by her father until morning. ** I am a stranger," said he, " it is true, and my offer may appear intrusive ; but I see you are lonely and helpless, and I cannot help venturing over the limits of mere ceremony. Should you feci any scruple or doubt, however, say but a word, and I will instantly retire." There was a frankness, a kindness, and a modesty mingled in Antonio's deportment, that inspired instant confidence; and his simple scholar's garb was a recommendation in the house of poverty. The females consented to resign the suf- ferer to his care, as they would be the better able to attend to him on the morrow. On retiring, the old domestic was profuse in her benedictions; the daughter only looked her thanks; but as they shone Uirough the tears that filled her fine black eyes, the student thought them a thousand times the more eloquent. Here, then, he was, by a singular turn of chance, com- pletely housed within this mysterious mansion. When left to himself, and the bustle of the scene was over, his heart throbbed as he looked round the chamber in which he was sitting. It was the daughter's room, the promised land towards which he had cost so many a longing gaze, llie ftimiture was old, and had probably belonged to the building in its prosperous days ; but every thing was arranged with propriety. The flowen that he hod seen her attend stood in the window; a guitar leaned against the table, on which stood a crucifix, and before it my a missal and a rosanr. There reigned an air of purity and serenity about thi^ little nestling place of innocence ; it was the emblem of a chaste and quiet mind. Some few articles of female dress lay on the chairs: and there was the very bed on which she had slept; the pillow on which her soft cheek had reclined! The poor scholar was treading enchanting ground; fur what fairy land has more of magic m it than the bed-chamber of inno- cence and beauty? From various expressions of the old man in his ravinffs, and from what he had noticed on a subsequent visit to me tower, to see that the fire was extinguished, Antonio had gathered that his patient was an alchyiuist. The philoso- pher's stone was an object eagerly sought after by visionariet m those days; but in consequence of the superstitious pre- 113 THE STTTDEKT OF SALAMAXCA. judices of the times, and the frequent persecutions of its votaries, they were apt to pursue their experiments in secret ; in lonely houses, in caverns and ruins, or in the privacy of cloistered cells. In the course of the night the old man had several fits of restlessness and delirium; he would call out upon Theo- phrastus, and Geber, and Albcrtus Magnus, and other sages of his art; and anon would murmur about fermentation and projection, imtil, towards daylight, he once more sunk into a salutary sleep, ^^^lcn the morning sun darted his rays into the casement, the fair Inez, attended by the female domestic, came blushing into the chamber. The student now took his leave, hav ng himself need of .epose, but obtained ready per- mission to return and inquire after the sufferer. When he called again, he found the alehymist languid and in pain, but apparently suffering more in mind than in body. His delirium had left him, and he had been informed of the particulars of his deliverance, and of the subsequent attentions of the scholar. He could do little more than look his thanks, but Antonio did not require them; his own heart repaid him for all that he had done, and he almost rejoiced in the dis- aster that had gained him an entrance into this mysterious habitation. The alehymist was so helpless as to need much assistance; Antonio remained with him therefore the greater part of the day. He repeated his visit the next day, and the next. Every day his company seemed more pleasmg to the invalid; and every day he felt his interest in the latter in- creasing. Perhaps the presence of the daughter might have been at the bottom of this solicitude. He hod frequent and long conversations with the alehymist. Ho found him, as men of his pursuits were apt to be, a mix- ture of enthusiasm and simplicity; of curious and extensive i-eading on points of little utility, with great inattention to the every-day occurrences of life, and profound ignorance of the M'orld. He was deeply versed in singular and obscure branches of knowledge, and much given to visionary specu- lations. Antonio, whose mind was of a romantic cast, hod himself given some attention to the occult sciences, and he entered upon these themes with an ardour that delighted the philosopher. Their conversation frequently turned upon as- trology, divination, and the great secret. The old man would forget his aches and wounds, rise up like a spectre in his bed, and kindle into eloquence on his favouiitc topics. THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 113 When gently admonished of his situation, it would but prompt him to another sally of thought. " Alas, my son!" he would say, " is not this very decrepi- tude and suffering another proof of the importance of those secrets with which we are surrounded? Why are we tram- melled by disease, withered by old age, and our spirits quenched, as it were, within us, but because we have lost those secrets of life and youth which were known to om' parents before their fall? To regain these have philosophers been ever since aspiring ; but just as they are on the point of securing the precious secrets for ever, the bi-ief period of life is at an end; they die; and with them all their wisdom and experience. * Nothing,' as de Nuysment obser\'es, ' no- thing is wanting for man's peifcction but a longer life, less crossed with sorrows and maladies, to the attaining of the full and perfect knowledge of things.' " At length Antonio so far gained on the heart of his patient, as to draw from him the outlines of his story. Felix dc Vasquez, the alchymist, was a native of Castile, and of an ancient and honourable line. Early in life he had married a beautiful female, a descendant from one of the Moorish families. The marriage displeased his father, who considered the pure Spanish blood contaminated by this foreign mixture. It is true, the lady traced her descent from one of the Abencerrages, the most gallant of Moorish cavaliers, who had embraced the Christian faith on being exiled from the walls of Grenada. The injured pride of the father, how- ever, was not to be appeased. He never saw his sou after- wards; and on dying left him but a scanty portion of his estate ; bequeathing the residue, in the piety and bitterness of his heart, to the erection of convents, and the performance of masses for souls in purgatory. Don Felix resided for a long time in the neighoourhood of Valladolid in a state of embarrassment and obscurity. He devoted himself to intense study, having, while at the university of Salamanca, imbibed a taste for the secret sciences. Ho was enthusiastic and speculative; he went on from one branch of knowledge to another, until he became zealous in the scorch after the grand Arcanum. He had at first engaged in the pursuit with the hopes of raising himself from his present obscurity, and resuming the rank and dignity to which his birth entitled him; but, as Ufuai, it ended in absorbing every thought, and becoming the 114 THE SrUDEKT OF SALAMANCA. businciis of hi« cxistonoc. He wa« at length aroused from this mental abstraction by the calamities of his household. A inali ,0 guid, agining BO that ■or. The indefatigable ulchymist once more bent his steps for Spain, full of renovated hope. He had made his way to Grenada ; he had wearied himself in the study of Arabic, in deciphering inscriptions, in rummaging libraries, and ex- ploring ever}' jwssible trace left by the Arabian sages. In all his wanderings he had been accompanied by Inez ; through the rough and the smooth, the pleasant and the ad- verse ; never complaining, but rather seeking to soothe his cares by her iimocent and playful caresses. Her instruction had been the employment and the delight of his hours of relaxation. She had grown up while they were wandering, and had scarcely ever known any home but by his side. He was family, friends, home, everything to her. He had carried her in his arms when they first began their way- &ring ; had nestled her, as an eagle does its young, among the rocky heights of the Sierra Morena ; she had sported about him in childhood in the solitudes of the Bateucas : had fol- lowed him, as a lamb does the shepherd, over the rugged Pyrenees, and into the fair plains of Lnnguedoc ; and now she was grown up to support his feeble steps among the ruined abodes of her maternal ancestors. His property had gradually wasted away in the course of his travels and his experiments. Still hope, the constant attendant of the alchymist, had led him on; ever on the point of reaping the reward of his labours, and ever disap- pointed. With the ci*edulity that often attended his art, he attributed many of his disappointments to the machinations of the malignant spirits that beset the path of the alchymist, and torment him in his solitary labours. '* It is their con- stant endeavour," he observed, '* to close up every avenue to those sublime truths, which would enable man to rise above the abject state 'nto which he has fallen, and to return to his original perfection." To the evil offices of these demons he attributed his late disaster. He had been on the very verge of the glorious discovery ; never were the indications more completely auspicious ; all was going on prosperously, when, at the critical moment which should have crowned his labours with success, and have placed him at the very summit ot human power and felicity, the bursting of a retort had reduced his laboratory' and himself to ruins. " I must now," said he, '* give up at tlie veiy threshold of ■uccess. My books and papers arc burnt; my apparatus is broken. I am too old to bear up against these evils. Xlie i2 ui\ ■1 ill 116 THE STTTDEKT OF SALAMANCA. ardour that once inspired me is gone; my poor frame is ex- hausted by study and watchfubess, and this last misfortune has hurried me towards the grave." He concluded in a tone of deep dejection. Antonio endeavoured to comfort and reassure him ; but the poor alchymist had for once awakened to a consciousness of the worldly ills that were gathering around him. and had sunk into despondency. After a pause, and some thoughtfulnoss and perplexity of brow, Antonio ventured to make a proposal. " I have long," said he, '* been filled with a love for the secret sciences, but have felt too ignorant and diffident to give myself up to them. You have acquired experience; you have amassed the knowledge of a lifetime ; it were a pity it should be thrown away. You say you are too old to renew the toils of the laboratory, suffer me to undertake them. Add your knowledge to my youth and activity, and what shall we not accomplish ? As a probationary fee, and a fund on which to proceed, I will bring into the common stock a sum of gold, the residue of a legacy, which has enabled me to complete my education. A poor scholar cannot boast much; but I trust we shall soon put oiirselves beyond the reach of want; and if we should fail, why, I must depend, like other scholars, upon my brains to carry me through the world." The philosopher's spirits, however, were more depressed than the student had imagined. This last shock, following in the rear of so many disappointments, had almost destroyed the reaction of his mind, llie fire of an enthusiast, however, is never so low but that it may be blown again into a flame. By degrees the old man was cheered and reanimated by the buoyancy and ardour of his sanguine companion. He at length agreed to accept the services of the student, and once more to renew his experiments. He objected, however, to using the student's gold, notwithstanding that his own was nearly exhausted; but this objection was soon overcome; the student insisted on making it a common stock and common cause ; — and then how absurd was any delicacy about such a trifle, with men who looked forward to discovering the philo- sopher's stone ! While, therefore, the alchjrmist was slowly recovering, the student busied himself in getting the laboratory once more in order. It was strewed with the wrecks of retorts and alem- bics, with old crucibles, boxes, and phials of powders and tinctures, and half-burnt books and manuscripts. ent, is del THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 117 As soon as the old man was sufficiently recovered, the stu- dies and experiments were renewed. The student became a privileged and frequent visitor, and was indefatigable in his toils in the laboratory. The philosopher daily derived new zeal and spirits from the animation of his disciple. He was now enabled to prosecute the entcrprizc with continued exer- tion, having so active a coadjutor to divide the toil. While he was poring over the writings of Sandivogius, and Phila- lethes, and Dominus dc Nuysment, and endeavouring to com- prehend the symbolical language in which they have locked up their mysteries, Antonio would occupy himself among the retorts and crucibles, and keep the furnace in a perpetual glow. With .all his zeal, however, for the discovery of the golden art, the feelings of the student had not cooled as to the object that first drew him to this ruinous mansion. During the old man's illness, he had frequent opportunities of being near the daughter; and every day made him more sensible to her charms. There was a pure simplicity, and an almost passive gentleness in her manners; yet with all this was mingled something, whether mere maiden shyness, or a consciousness of high descent, or a dash of Castilian pride, or perhaps all united, that prevented undue familiarity, and made her diffi- cult of approach. The danger of her father, and the measures to be taken for this relief, had at first overcome this coyness and reserve ; but as he recovered, and her alarm subsided, she seemed to shrink from the familiarity she had indulged with the youthful stranger, and to become every day more shy and silent. Antonio had read many books, but this was the first volume of womankind that he had ever studied. He had been capti- vated with the very title-page ; but the further he read the more he was delighted. She seemed formed to love ; her soft black eye rolled languidly under its long silken lashes, and wherever it turned it would linger and repose ; there was ten- derness in every beam. To him alone she was reserved and distant. Now that the common cares of the sick room were at an end, he saw little more of her than before his admission to the house. Sometimes he met her on his way to and from the laboratory, and at such times there was ever a smile and a blush; but, after a simple salutation, she glided on and dis- appeared. " 'Tis plain,'* thought Antonio, " my presence is indiffer- ent, if not irksome to her. She has noticed my admiration, is determined to discourage it; nothing but a feeling of grati- I il h I ■' I I 118 THB STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. tude prevents her t.cntinj? me with marked distafitc — and then has she not another lover, rich, gaUant, splendid, musical? how can I suppow; she would turn her eyes from so brilliant a cavalier, to a poor obscure student, raking among the cinders of her father's laboratory?' Indeed, the idea of the amorous sercnader continually haunted his mind. He felt convinced that he was a favoured lover; yet, if so, why did he not frequent the tower? Why did he not make his approaches by noon-day ? There was mystery in this eavesdropping and musical courtship. Surely Inez could not be encouraging a secret intrigue! Oh, no! she was too artless, too pure, too ingenuous! But then Spanish females were so prone to love and intrigue ; and music and moonlight were so seductive, and Inez had such a tender soul languisliing in every look. — " Oh ! " would the poor scholar exclaim, cla.sping his hands, " Oh that I could but once behold those loving eyes beaming on me with affection !" It is incredible to those who have not experienced it, on what scanty aliment human life and human love may be sup- ported. A dry crust, thrown now and then to a starving man, will give him a new lease of existence ; and a faint smile, or a kind look, bestowed at casual intervals, will keep a lover lovinfi; on, when a man in his sober senses would despair. vVhen Antonio found himself alone in the laooratory, his mind would be haunted by one of these looks, or smiles, which he had received in passing. He would set it in every possible light, and argue on it with all the self-pleasing, self- teasing^ logic of a lover. The country around him was enough to awaken that volup- tuousness of feeling so favourable to the growth of passion. The window of the tower rose above the trees of the romantic valley of the Darro, and looked down upon some of the loveli- est scenery of the Vega, where groves of citron and orange were refreshed by cool springs and brooks of the purest water. The Xenel and the Darro wound their shining streams along tlie plain, and gleamed fiom among its bowers. The sur- rounding hills were covered with vineyards, and the moun- tains, crowned with snow, seemed to melt into the blue sky. The delicate airs that played about the towers were perfijmed by the fragrance of myrtle and orange blossoms, and the ear was charmed with the fond warbling of the nightingtde, which, in these happy regions, sings the whole day long. Sometimes, too, there was the idle song of the muleteer, aavat- THE STUDF.VT OP SALAMAXCA. 119 tcring alonr;^ the soV'tary road: or the notes of the puitar from some group of pcoHiint^ (liinoint; in the sliade. All these wero enough to fill the head of a young lover with poetie fancies; and Antonio would picture to himself how he could loiter among those happy groves and wander by those gentle rivers, and love away his life with Inez. He felt at times impatient at his own weakness, and would endeavour to brush away these cobwebs of the mind. He would turn his thought, with sudden etf'ort, to his occult stu- dies, or occupy himself in some perplexing process; but often, when he had partially succeeded in fixing his attention, the sound of Inez' lute, or the soft notes of her voice, would come stealing upon the stillness of the chamber, and, as it were, floating roimd the tower. There was no great art in her performance ; but Antonio thought he had never heard music comparable to this. It was perfect witchcraft to hear her warble forth some of her national melodies ; those little Spanish romances and Moorish ballads that transport the hearer, in idea, to the banks of the Guadalquiver, or the walls of the Alhambra, and make him dream of beauties, and bal- conies, and moonlight serenades. Never was poor student more sadly beset than Antonio. Love is a troublesome companion in a study at the best of times; but in the laboratory of an alchyrnist his intrusion is terribly disastrous. Instead of attending to the retorts and crucibles, and watching the process of some experiment intrusted to hia charge, the student would get entranced in one of these love- dreams, from which he would often bo aroused by some fatal cafcistrophe. The philosopher, on returning from his researches in the libraries, would find every thing gone wrong, and Antonio in despair over tho ruins of the whole days work. The old man, however, took all quietly, for his had been a life of experiment and failure. " We must have patience, my son, ' would he say, '* as all the great masters that have gone before us have had. Errors and accidents, and delays, are what we have to contend with. Did not Pontanus err two hundred times before he coiild ob- tain even the matter on which to found his experiments? The great Flamel, too, did he not labour four and-twenty years, before he ascertained the first agent ? What difficul- ties and hardships did not Cartilaceus encounter, at the very threshold of his discoveries ? And Bernard de Treves, even after he had attained a knowledge of all the requisites, was he ^11 120 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. not delnyed full three }'ear8 ? What von consider accidents, my son, are tlie machinations of our invisible enemies. The trcnsurcs and golden secrets of nature are surrounded by spiritM hostile to man. The air about us teems with them. Thev lurk in the fire of the furnace, in the bottom of the crucible and the alembic, and arc ever on the alert to take advantage of those moments when our minds are wandering from intense meditation on the great truth that we are seek- ing. We must only strive the more to purify ourselves from those gross and earthly feelings which becloud the soul, and prevent her from piercing into nature's arcana." "Alas!" thought Antonio, "if to be purified from all earthly feeling requires that I should cease to love Inez, I fear I shall never discover the philosopher's stone !" In this way matters went on for some time at the nlchy- mist's. Day after day was sending the student's gold in vapour up the chimney ; every blast of the furnace made him a ducat the poorer, without apparently helping him a jot nearer to the golden secret. Still the yoimg man stood by, and saw piece after piece disppearing without a murmur : he had daily an opportunity of seeing Inez, and felt as if her £ivour would be better than silver or gold, and that every smile was worth a ducat. Sometimes, in the cool of the evening, when the toils of the laboratory happened to be suspended, he would walk with the alchymist in what had once been a garden belonging to the mansion. There were still the remains of terraces and balus- trades, and here and there a marble urn, or mutilated statue overturned, and buried, among weeds and flowers run wild. It was the favourite resort of the alchymist in his hours of relaxation, where he would give full scope to his visionary flights. His mind was tinctured with the Rosicrucian doc- trines. He believed in elementary beings ; some favourable, others adverse to his pursuits ; and in the exultation of his fancy, had often imagined that he held communion with them in his solitary walks about the whispering groves and echoing walls of this old garden. When accompanied by Antonio, he would prolong these evening recreations. Indeed, he sometimes did it out of con- tuderation for his disciple, for he feared lest his too close application, and his incessant seclusion in the tower, should be injurious to his health. He was delighted and surprised by tms extraordinary zeal and perseverance in so young a THE STUDENT OF SALAMAKCA. 121 t)TO, and looked \ipon him as destined to be one of the great luminaries of the ur-. Lest the student should repine nt the time lost in thcs* relaxations, the good nlchymist would fill them up with whulesome knowledge, in matters eonnected with their pursuits ; and would walk up and down the alleys with his disciple, imparting oral instruction, like an ancient philosopher. In all his visionar)* schemes there breathed a spirit of lofty, though chimerical, philanthropy, that won the admiration of the scholar. Nothing sordid, nor sensual; nothing petty, nor selfish, seemed to enter into his views, in respect to the grand discoveries he was anticipating. On the contrar}', his imagination kindled with conceptions of widely dispensated happiness. He looked forward to the time when he should be able to go about the earth relieving the indigent, comforting the distressed ; and, by his unlimited means, de- vising and executing plans for the complete extirpation of poverty, and all its attendant suffering and crimes. Never were grander schemes for general good, for the distribution of boundless wealth and universal competence, devised, than by this poor indigent alchymist in his ruined tower. Antonio would attend these peripatetic lectures with all the ardour of a devotee ; but there was another circumstance which may have given a secret charm to them. The garden was the resort also of Inez, where she took her walks of recrea- tion ; the only exercise that her secluded life permitted. As Antonio was duteously pacing by the side of his instructor, he would often catch a glimpse of the daughter, walking pen- sively about the valleys in the soft twilight. Sometimes they would meet her unexpectedly, and the heart of the studen* would throb with agitation. A blush, too, would crimson the cheek of Inez, but still she passed on, and never joined them. He had remained one evening, until rather a late hour, with the alchymist in this favourite resort. It was a delight- ful night, after a sultry day, and the balmy air of the garden was pecidiarly reviving. The old man was seated on a frag- ment of a pedestal, looking like a part of the ruin on which he sat. He was edifying his pupil by long lessons of wisdom from the stars, as they shone out with brilliant lustre in the dark blue vault of a southern sky; for he was deoply versed in Behmen, and other of the Kosierucians, and ta!ked much of the signature of earthly things, and passing evems, which may be discerned in the heavens ; of the power of the stars over corporeal beings, and their influence on the fortunes of the sons of men. 122 THE STUDENT OP SALAMANCA. By (IcpfTCCs the moon rose, and slied her gloamin;; l'r?ht amonft the proves. Antonio apparently listened with fixed attention to the sage, but his car was drinking in the melody of Inez' voice, who was singling to her lute in one of the moonli}j;ht glades of the garden. The old man having ex- hausted his theme, sat gazing in silent reverie at the heavens. Antonio eoidd not resist an iiielinatiou to steal a look at this coy beauty, who was thus playing the ])art of the nightingale, so sequestered and musical. Leaving the alehymist in his celestial reverie, he stole gently along one of the valleys. The music had ceased, and he thought he heard the sound of voices. He came to an angle of a copse that had screened a kind of green recess, ornamented by a marble fountain. The moon shone full upon the place, and by its light he beheld his unknown serenading rival at the feet of Inez. He was detaining her by the hand, which he covered with kisses; but at sight of Antonio he started up and half drew his sword, while Inez, disengaged, fled back to the house. All the jealous doubts and fears of Antonio wer-i now con- firmed. He did not remain to encounter the resentment of his happy rival at being thus interrupted, but turned from the place in sudden wretchedness of heart. That Inez should love another would have been misery enough; but that she should be capable of a dishonourable amour shocked him to the soul. The idea of deception in so young and apparently artless a being, brought witli it that sudden distrust inhuman natui'e, so sickening to a youthful and ingenuous mind ; but when he thought of the kind, simple parent she was deceiving, whose afiections all centred in her, he felt for a moment a sentiment of indignation, and almost of aversion. He found Uie alehymist still seated in his visionary con- templation of the moon. " Come hither, my son," said he, with his usual enthusiasm, " come, read with me in this vast volume of wisdom, thus nightly unfolded for oi.. perusal. Wisely did the Chaldean sages affirm that the heuven is as a mystic page, uttering speech to those who can rightly under- stand; warning them of good and evil, and instructing them in the secret decrees of fate. " The student s heart ached for his venerable master; and, for a Hioment, he felt the futility of all his occult wisdom. "Alns! poor old man!' thought he, "what avails all thy study? Little dost thou dream, while busied in airy specu- lations among tlie stars, what a treason ugainitt thy happiuen THB STUDEIfT OP SALAMAXCA. 123 18 poinf? on under thine eyes; as it were, in thy very Ixwom! — Oh. Iiu'/! Inez! where sliall we look for truth and n»no- cence? where shall we re|x)»e confidence in women, if even you can deceive?"' It was a trite apostrophe, such a.s every lover makes when he find"* his mistress not quite such a podiless as he had Eainted her. With the student, liowever, it sprutij; from onest anguish of heiu-t. He returned to his lo(lj^inj;s in pitiable confusion of mind. Ho now deplored the infatiiation that had l»d him on until his feelin«j;s were so thoroughly engJiged. Ho resolved to abandon his pursuits at the tower, and trust to absence to dispel the fascination by which he had been spell-bound. He no longer thirsted after the discovery of the grand elixir; the dream of alchymy was over; for without Inez, what was the value of the philosopher's stone? He rose, after a sleepless night, with the determination of taking his leave of the alchymist, and tearing himself from Grenada. For several days did he rise with the same resolu- tion, and every night saw him come back to his pillow to repine at his want of resolution, and to make fresh determi- nations for the morrow. In the meanwhile he saw less of Inez than ever. She no longer walked in tb? garden, but remained almost entirely in her apartment. When she met him, she blushed more than usual ; and once hesitated, as if she would have spoken ; but alter a temporary embarrassment, and still deeper blushes, she made some casual observation and retired. Antonio read in this confusion, a consciousness of fault, and of that fault's being discovered. " What copild she have wished to communicate? Perhaps to accouni^ for the scene in the garden ; — but how can she account for it, or why should she account for it to me? What am I to her? ^K)r rather what is she to me? ' exchtimcd he, impatiently, with a new resolution to break through these entanglements of the heart, and fly from this enchanted spot for ever. He was returning that very night to his lodgings, full of this excellent determination, when, in a shadowy part of the road, he passed a person whom he recognized, by his height and form, for his rival: he was (.oing in the direction of the tower. If any lingering doubts remained, here was an oppor- tunity of settling them completely. He determined to follow this unknown mvalier, and, under favour of the dirkncss, observo his movements. If he obtained access to the tower, or in any way a fuvourablo reception, Antonio felt as if it 4 («»( I ^ 124 THE STUDENT 07 SALAMAKCA. ivoulfl be a relief to his mind, and would enable him to fix his wavering resolution. came near the tower, was more in his approaches. He was joined The unknown, as he cautious and stealtliy under a clump of trees by another |)crson, and they had much whispering together. A light was biuT\ing in the chamber of Inez, the curtain was down, but the casement was left open, as the night was warm. After some time, the light was extinguished. A considerable inter^•al elapsed. The cavalier and his companion remained under cover of the trees, as if keeping watch. At length they approached the tower with silent and cautious steps. The cavalier received a dark lantern from his companion, and threw off his cloak. The other then softly brought something from the clump of trees, which Antonio perceived to be a light ladder: he placed it against the wall, and the serenader gently ascended. A sickening sensation came over Antonio. Here was indeed a confirmation of every fear. He was about to leave the place, never to return, when he heard a stifled shriek from Inez* chamber. In an instant the fellow that stood at the foot of the ladder lay prostrate on the ground. Antonio wrested a stiletto from his nerveless hand, and hurried up the ladder. He sprang in at the window, and found Inez struggling in the grasp of his fancied rival : the latter, disturbed from his prey, caught up his lantern, turned its light full upon Antonio, and drawing his sword, made a furious assault; luckily the student saw the light gleam along the blade, and parried the thrust with the stiletto. A fierce, but unequal combat ensued. Antonio fought exposed to the full glare of tlie light, while his anta- gonist was in shadow : his stiletto, too, was but a poor defence against a rapier. He saw that nothing could save him, but closing with his adversary- und getting within his weapon : he rushed furiously upon him, and gave him a severe blow with the stiletto ; but received a wound in return from the short- ened sword. At the same moment a blow was inflicted from behind by the confederate, who had ascended the ladder ; it felled him to the floor, and his antagonists made their escape. By this time the cries of Inez had brought her father and the domestic to the room. Antonio was found weltering in his blood and senseless. He was conveyed to the chamber of the alchymist, who now repaid in kind the attentions which the student had ouco bestowed upon him. Among uis varied THE 8TUDEXT OF SALAMANCA. 12; knowledge he possessed some skill in surgery, winch at this moment was of more value than even his chemieal lore. He stanched and dressed the wounds of his diseiple. which on examination proved less desperate than he had nt first appre- hended. For a few days, however, his case was anxious, and attended with danger. Tlie old man watched over him with the affection of a parent. He felt a double debt of gratitude towards him on account of his daughter and himself; he loved him, too, as a faithful and zealous disciple, and he dreaded lest the world should be deprived of the promising talents of so aspiring an alchymist. An excellent constitution soon medicined his wounds ; and there was a balsam in the looks and words of Inez, that had a healing effect on still seveirer wounds which he carried in his heart. She displayed the strongest interest in his safety ; she called him her deliverer, her preserver. It seemed as if her grateful disposition sought, in the warmth of its acknow- ledgements, to repay him for past coldness. But what most contributed to Antonio's recovery, was her explanation con- cerning his supposed rival. It was some time since he had first beheld her at church, and he had ever since persecuted her with his attentions. He had beset her in her walks, until she had been obliged to eonfine herself to the house, except when accompanied by hei father. He had besieged her with letters, serenades, and every art by which he could urge a vehement, but clandestine and dishonourable suit. The scene in the garden was as much of a surprise to her as to Antonio. Her persecutor had been attracted by her voice, and had found his way over a ruined part of the wall. He had come upon her unawares ; was detaining her by force and pleading his insulting passion, when the appearance of the student interrupted him, and enabled her to make her escape. She had forborne to mention to her father the persecution which she suffered; she wished to spare him unavailing anxiety and distress, and had determined to confine herself more rigorously to the house ; though it appeared that even here she had not been safe from his daring enterprise. Antonio inquired whether she knew the name of this impetuous admirer? She replied, that he had made his advances under a fictitious name ; but that she had heard him once called by the name of Don Ambrosio de Loxa. Antonio knew him, by report, for one of the most deter- mined and dangerous libertines in all Grenada. Artful, r 126 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. accomplished, and, if he chose to be so, insinuating ; but daring and headlong in tlie pursuit of his pleasures : \iolcnt and implacable in his resentments. He rejoiced to find that Inez had been proof against his seductions, and had been inspired with aversion by his splendid profligacy; but he trembled to think of the danger she had run, and ho felt solicitude about the dangers that must yet environ her. At present, however, it was probable the enemy had a temporary quietus. The traces of blood had been found for some distance from the ladder, until they were lost among thickets ; and as nothing had been heard or seen of him since, it was concluded that he had been seriously wounded. As the student recovered from his wounds, he was enabled to join Inez and her father in their domestic intercourse. The chamber in which they usually met had probably been a saloon of state in former times. The floor was of marble ; the walls partially covered with the remains of tapestry ; the chairs, richly carved and gilt, were crazed with age, and covered with tarnished and tattered brocade. Against the wall hung a long rusty rapier, tlie only rciiquc that the old man retained of the chi^'alry of his ancestors. There might have been something to provoke a smile in the contrast between the mansion and its inhabitants; between present poverty and the traces of departed grandeur ; but the fancy of the student had thrown so much romance about the edifice and its inmates, that every thing was clothed with chaims. The philosopher, with his broken-down pride, and his strange pursuits, seemed to comport with the melancholy ruin he inhabited ; and there was a native elegance of spirit about the daughter, that showed she Mould have graced the mansion in its ha])pier days. What delicious moments were these to the student! Inez was no longer coy and reserved. She was naturally artless and confiding ; though the kind of persecution she had ex- perienced from one admirer had rendered her, for a time, suspicious and circumspect towards the other. She now felt an entire confidence in the sincerity and worth of Antonio, mingled with an overflowing gratitude. When her eyes met his. they beamed with sympathy and kindness ; and Antonio, no longer haimted by the iucu of a favoured rival, once more ospirea to success. At tliesc domestic meetings, however, he had little oppor- tunity of paying his court except by looks. The olchymist, pers OS a Tl «lch] what Ml prest the the thin; tiMdl THE STUDENT OE 8ALAMAKCA. 127 supposing him, like himself, nbsorl>escued from the flames, and rewarded him for their preservation by read- ing copious passaf^cs. He would entertain him with the great and good acts of Flamcl, which he effected through the means of the philoso])her*8 stone, relieving widows and orphans, founding hospitals, building churches, and what not; or with the interrogatories of King Kalid, und the answers of Morienus, the Roman hermit of Hierusalcm ; or the profound questions which Elardus, a necromancer of the province of Catalonia, put to the devil, touching the secrets of alchymy, and the devil's replies. All these were couched in occult language, almost unintel- ligible to the unpractised ear of the disciple. Indeed, the old man delighted in the mystic phrases and symbolical jargon in which the writers that have treated of alchymy have wrapped their communications; rendering them incomprehensible except to the initiated. With what rapture would he elevate his voice at a triumphant passage, announcing the grand discovery! "Thou shalt see," would he exclaim, in the words of Henry Ktihnrade,* " the stone of the philosophers (our king) go forth of the bed-chamber of his glassy sepul- chre in the theatre of this world ; that is to say, regenerated and made perfect, a shining carbuncle, a most temperate splendour, whose most subtle and depurated parts are inseparable, united into one with a concordial mixture, ex- ceeding equal, transparent as chrystal, shining red like a ruby, permanently colouring or ringing, fixt in all tempta- tions or trials; yea, in the examination of the burning sulphur itself, and the devouring waters, and in the most veheraemt persecution of the fire, always ineombustible and permanent as a Siilamander !" The student had a high veneration for the fathers of alchymy, and a profound respect for his instructor ; but what was Henry Kuhnrade, Geber, LuUy, or even Alliertus Magnus himself, compared to the countenance of Inez, which presented such a page of beauty to his perusal ? While, therefore, the good alchymist was doling out knowledge by the \ our, his disciple would forget books, alchymy. every thing but the lovely object before him. Inez, too. unprac- tiaed in the science of the heart, was gradually becoming * Amphitheatre of the Eternal Wisdom. it I' 128 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. fascinated by the silent attentions of her lover. Day by day she seemed more and more perplexed by the kindling and strangely pleasing emotions of her bosom. Her eye was often cast down in thought. Blushes stole to her cheek without any apparent cause, and light, half-suppressed sighs would follow these short fits of musing. Her little ballads, though the same that she had always sung, yet breathed a more tender spirit. Either the tones of her voice were more soft and touching, or some passages were delivered with a feeling which she had never before given them. Antonio, besides his love for the abstruse sciences, had a pretty turn for music ; and never did philosopher touch the guitar more tastefully. As, by degrees, he conquered the mutual embar- rassment that kept them asunder, he ventured to accompany Inez in some of her songs. He had a voice full of fire and tenderness : as he sang, one would have thought, from the kindly blushes of his companion, that he had been pleading his own passion in her ear. Let those who would keep two youtliful hearts asunder, beware of music. Oh, this leaning over chairs, and conning the same music-book, and entwining the voices, and melting away in harmonies !— the German waltz is nothing to it. The worthy alchymist saw nothing of all this. His mind could admit of no idea that was not connected with the dis- covery of the grand arcanum, and he supposed his youthful coadjutor equally devoted. He was a mere child as to human nature ; and, as to the passion of love, whatever he might once have felt of it, he had long since forgotten that there was such an idle passion in existence. But, while he dreamed, the silent amour went on. The very quiet and seclusion of the place were favourable to the growth of romantic passion. The opening bud of love was able to put forth leaf by leaf, without an adverse wind to check its growth. There was neither officious friendship to chill by its advice, nor insidious envy to wither by its sneers, nor an observing world to look on and stare it out of countenance. There was neither declaration, nor vow, nor any other form of Cupid's canting school. Their hearts mingled together, and understood each other without the aid of language. Thev lapcd into the full current of affection, unconscious of its depth, and thoughtless of the rocks that might lurk be- neath its surface. Happy lovers ! who wanted nothing to mako their felicitv complete, but the discovery of the philosopher's stone ! THE 8TUDEXT OF SALAMAITCA. 129 mind le di&- mthful as to Iver he In that ule ho ;t and th of to put !ck its [hiUby Lor an knance. tT form ;ther, Iguage. |OU8 of rk be- ting to >f the At length Antonio's health was sufficiently restored to enable him to return to his lodgings in Grenada. He felt uneasy, however, at leaving the tower, while lurking danger might surround its almost defenceless inmates. He dreaded lest Don Ambrosio, recovered from his wounds, might plot some new attempt, by secret art or open violence. From all that he had heard, he knew him to be too implacable to suffer his defeat to pass unavenged, and too rash and fearless, when his arts were unavailing, to stop at any daring deed in the accomplishment of his purposes. He urged his appre- hensions to the alchymist and his daughter, and proposed that they should abandon the dangerous vicinity of Grenada. "I have relations," said he, "in Valentia, poor indeed, but worthy and affectionate. Among them you will find friend, ship and quiet, and we may there pursue our labours unmo- lested." He went on to paint the beauties and ; delights of Valentia with all the fondness of a native, and all the eloquence with which a lover paints the fields and groves which he is picturing as the future scenes of his happiness. His eloquence, backed by the apprehensions of Inez, was suc- cessful with the alchymist, who, indeed, had led too unsettled a life to be particular about the place of his residence ; and it was determined, that, as soon as Antonio's health was per- fectly restored, they should abandon the tower, and seek the delicious neighbourhood of Valentia.* To recruit his strength, the student suspended his toils in the laboratory, and spent the few remaining days, before de- parture, in taking a farewell look at the enchanting environs of Grenada. He felt returning health and vigour as he in- haled the pure, temperate breezes that play about its hills ; and the happy state of his mind contributed to his rapid recovery. Inez was often the companion of his walks. Her descent, by the mother s side, from one of the ancient Moorish * Here are the strongest silks, the sweetest wines, the rxcellent'st almonds, the beet oyls and beautifull'st females of all Spain. The very bruit animals make themselves beds of rosemary, and other fragrant flowers hereabouts ; and when one is at sea, if the winde blow from the shore, he may smell this soyl before he comes in sight of it many leagnes off, by the strong odoriferous scent it casts. As it is the most pleasant, so it is also the temperat'st clime of all Spain, and they commonly call it the second Italy, which made the Moors, whereof many thousands were disterr'd, and banish *d hence to Uarbary, to think that Paradise was in that part of the heavens which hung over this citie. Howell's LxTTxas. HI 130 XH£ STUDENT OF 8ALAKA.NCA. £unilie8, gave her an interest in this once favourite seat of Arabian power. She gazed with enthusiasm upon its mag- nifieent monuments, and her memory was filled with the traditional talcs and ballads of Moorish chivalry. Indeed the solitary life she had led, and the visionary turn of her father's mind, had produced an effect upon her character, and given it a tinge of what, in modem days, would be termed romance. All this was called into full force by this new passion ; for, when a woman first begins to love, life is all romance to her. In one of their evening strolls, they had ascended to the mountain of the Sun, where is situated the Oeneraliffe, the palace of pleasure in the days of Moorish dominion, but now a gloomy convent of capuchins. They had wandered about its garden, among groves of orange, citron, and cypress, where the waters, leaping in torrents, or gushing in fountains, or tossed aloft in sparkling jets, fill the air with music and freshness. There is a melancholy mingled with all the beauties of this garden, that gradually stole over the feelings of the lovers. The place is full of the sad story of past times. It was the favourite abode of the lovely queen of Grenada, where she was surrounded by the delights of a gay and voluptuous court. It was here, too, amidst her own bowers of roses, that her slanderers laid the base story of her dishonour, and struck a fatal blow to the line of the gallant Abencerragcs. The whole garden has a look of ruin and neglect. Many of the fountains are dry and broken ; the streams have wandered from their marble channels, and are choked with weeds and yellow leaves. The reed whistles to the wind where it had once sported among roses, and shaken perfume from the orange blossom. The convent bell flings its sullen sound, or the drowsy vesper hymn floats along these solitudes, which once resounded with the song, and ^e dance, and the lover's serenade. Well may the Moors lament over the loss of this earthly paradise ! well may they remember it iu their prayers, and beseech heaven to restore it to the faithful* well may their ambassadors smite their breast when they behold these monuments of their race, and sit down and weep amung the fading glories of Ghrenada ! It is impossible to wander about these scenes of departed love and gaiety, and not feel the tenderness of the heart awakened. It was then that Antonio first ventured to breathe his passion, and to express by words what his eyes guit wild enthi girls tassel graeef basqi nets, evenii WhI AntonJ Moot allude ?;ueen I t was! Spain, [ Bess, tenderl listenc she THE STUDEKT OF SALAMAKCJU 131 had long since so eloquently revealed. He made his avo^val with fervour, but with frankness. He had no gay prospocts to hold out ; he was a poor scholar, dependent on his *' good spirits to feed and clothe him." But a woman in love is no interested calculator. Inez listened to him with downcast eyes, but in them was a humid gleam that showed her heart was with him. She had no prudery in her nature ; and she had not been sufficiently in society to acquire it. She loved him with all the absence of worldliness of a genuine woman ; and amidst timid smiles and blushes, he drew from her a modest acknowledgment of her affection. They wandered about the garden with that sweet intoxica- tion of the soul which none but happy lovers know. The world about them was all faiiy land ; and, indeed, it spread forth one of its fairy scenes before their eyes, as if to fulfil their dreams of earthly happiness. They looked out from between groves of orange upon the towers of Grenada below them ; the magnificent plain of the Vega beyond, streaked with evening simshine, and the distant hills tinted with rosy and purple hues ; it seemed an emblem of the happy future that love and hope was decking out for them. As if to make the scene complete, a group of Andalusians struck up a dance, in one of the vistas of the garden, to the guitars of two wandering musicians. The Spanish music is wild and plaintive, yet the people dance to it with spirit and enthusiasm. The picturesque figures of the dancers ; the girls with their hair in silken nets, that himg in notes and tassels down their backs, their mantillas floating round their graceful forms, their slender feet peeping from under their basquinas, their arms tossed up in the air to play the casta- nets, had a beautiful effect on this airy height, with the rich evening landscape spreading out below them. When the dsmce was ended, two of istie parties approached Antonio and Inez; one of them began a soft and tender Moorish ballad, accompanied by the other on the lute. It alluded to the story of the garden, the wrongs of the fair queen of Grenada, and the misfortunes of the Abencerrages. It was one of those old ballads that abound in this part of Spain, and live, like echoes, about the ruins of Moorish great- ness. The heart of Inez was at that moment open to eveny tender impression ; the tears rose into her eyes, as she listened to the tale. The singer approached nearer to her ; she WB8 striking in her appearance ; young, beautiful, with £2 132 THE STUDEirr or SALA.MA.KCA. a mixture of 'wildncss and melancholy in her fine black eyes. She fixed them mournfully and expressively on Inez, and suddenly varying her manner, sang another ballad, which treated of impending danger and treachery. All this might have passed for a mere accidental caprice of the singer, had there not been something in her look, manner, and gesticula- tion, that made it pointed and startling. Inez was about to ask the meaning of this evidently personal application of the song, when she was interrupted by Antonio, who gently drew her fi:om the place. Whilst she had been lost in attention to the music, he had remarked a group of men in the shadows of the trees, whispering together, lliey were enveloped in the broad hats and great cloaks so much yrom by the Spaniards, and while they were regarding him- ^If and Inez attentively, seemed anxious to avoid observa- tion. Not knowing what might be their character or inten- tion, he hastened to quit a place where the gathering shadows of evening might expose them to intrusion and insult. On their way down the hill, as they passed through the woods of elms, mingled with poplars and oleanders, that skirt the road leading from the Alhambra, he again saw these men, appa- rently following at a distance ; and he afterwards caught sight of them among the trees on the banks of the Darro. He said nothing on tiie subject to Inez, uor her father, for he would not awtdcen unnecessary alarm ; but he felt at a loss how to ascertain or avert any machinations that might be devising against the helpless inhabitants of the tower. He took his leave of them late at night, full of this per- {dexity. As he left the dreary old pile, he saw some one urking in the shadow of the wall, apparently watching his movements. He hastened after the figure, but it glided away, and disappeared among some ruins. Shortly after he heard a low whistle, which was answered from a little dis- tance. He had no longer a doubt but that some mischief was on foot, and turned to hasten back to the tower, and put its inmates on their guard. He had scarcely tmned, however, before he found himself suddenly seized from behind, by some one of Herculean strength. His struggles were in vain ; he was surroimded by armed men. One threw a mantle over him that stifled his cries, and enveloped him in its folds ; and the was hurried off with irresistible rapidity. The next day passed without the appearance of Antonio at -the alchymist's. Another, and anoUier day succeeded, and hi «4 THE STUDEIVT OF SALAMANCA. 133 vet he did not come ; nor had any thing been hoard of him at his lodgings. His absence caused, at first, surprise and con- jecture, and at length alarm. Inez recollected the singular intimations of the ballad-singer upon the mountain, which seemed to warn her of impending danger, and her mind was full of vague forebodings. She sat listening to every sound at the gate, or footstep on the stairs. She would take up her guitar, and strike a few notes, but it would not do ; her heart was sickening with suspense and anxiety. She had never before felt what it was to be really lonely. She now was con- scious of the force of that attachment which had taken posses- sion of her breast; for never do we know how much we love, never do we do know how necessary the object of our love is to our happiness, until we experience the weary void of separation. The philosopher, too, felt the absence of his disciple almost as sensibly as did his daughter. The animating buoyancy of the youth had inspired him with new ardour, and had given to his labours the charm of full companionship. However, he had resources and consolations of which his daughter wa9 destitute. His pursuits were of a nature to occupy every thought, and keep the spirits in a state of continual excite- ment. Certain indications, too, had lately manifested them- selves, of the most favourable nature. Forty days and forty nights had the process gone on successfully; the old man' 9 hopes were constantly rising, and he now considered the glorious moment once more at hand, when he should obtain not merely the major lunaria, but likewise the tinctura Solaris, the means of multiplying gold, and of prolonging existence. He remained, therefore, continually shut up in his laboratory, watching his furnace; for a moment's inadvertency might once more defeat all his expectations. He was sitting one evening at one of his solitary vigils, wrapped up in meditation ; the hour was late, and his neigh- bour, the owl, was hooting from the battlement of the tower, when he heard the door open behind him. Supposing it to be his daughter coming to take her leave of him for the night, as was her frequent practice, he called her by name, but a harsh voice met his ear in reply. He was grasped by the arms, and looking up, perceived three strange men m the chamber. He attempted to shake them off, but in vain. He called for help, but they scoffed at his cries. ** Peace, dotard!" cried one, ** think'st thou the servants of r 1.1 ■ a 134 THE STUDEJCr OP SALAMANCA. the most holy inquuitiou are to be daunted by thy clamours ? Comrades, away with him !" Without heeding his remonstrances and entreaties, they seized upon his books and papers, took some note of the apartment and the utensils, and then bore him off a prisoner. Inez, left to herself, had passed a sad and lonely evening; seated by a casement which looked into the garden, she had pensively watched star after star sparkle out of the blue depths of the sky, and was indulging a crowd of anxious thoughts about her lover, until the rising tears began to flow. She was suddenly alarmed by the sound of voices that seemed to come from a distant part of the mansion. There was not long after a noise of several persons descending the stairs. Surprised at these unusual soimds in their lonely habitation, she remained for a few moments in a state of trembling, yet indistinct apprehension, when the servant rushed into the room, with terror in her countenance, and informed her that her father was carried off by armed men. Inez did not stop to hear farther, but flew down stairs to overtake them. She had scarcely passed the threshold, when she found herself in the grasp of strangers. — " Away ! — away!'* —-cried she, wildly; " do not stop me — let me follow my iather." *' We come to conduct you to him, senora," said one of the men, respectfully. "Where is he, then?" " He is gone to Grenada," replied the man ; " an unexpected circumstance requires his presence there immediately; but he ifi among friends." " We have no friends in Crrenada," said Inez, drawing back; but then the idea of Antonio rushed into her mind; something relating to him might have called her father thither. '.'Is senor Antonio de Castro with him.^" demanded she with agitation. " I know not, senora," replied the man. ** It is very pos- sible. I only know that your &ther is among friendsi, and is anxious for you to follow him." " Let us go, then," cried she, eagerly. The man led her a Uttle distance to where a mule was waiting, and, assisting her to mount, they conducted her slowly towards the city. , Grenada was on that evening a scene of fanciful revel. It was one of the festivals of the Maestranza, an association of the nobility to keep np some of the gallant customs of aneient raised of he kr One entei with! TUB STUDENT OF SALAMAMCA. 135 chivalry. There had been a representation of a toumamrnt in one of the squares; the streets would still occasionally resound with the beat of a solitary drum, or the bray of a trumpet, from some straggling party of revellers. Sometimes they were met by eavaliers, richly dressed in ancient cos- tumes, attended by their squires, and at one time they passed in sight of a palace brilliantly illuminated, from whence came the mingled sounds of music and the dance. Shortly after they came to the square, where the mock tournament had been held. It was thronged by the populace, recreating themselves among booths and stalls where refreshments were •old ; and the glare of torches showed the temporary galleries and gay-coloured awnings, and armorial trophies, and other paraphemaUa of the show. The conductors of Inez endea- voiured to keep out of observation, and to traverse a gloomy part of the square; but they were detained at one place by the pressure of a crowd surrounding a party of wandering miisicians, singing one of those ballads of which the Spanish populace are so passionately fond, llie torches, which were held by some of the crowd, threw a strong mass of light upon Inez, and the sight of so beautiful a being, without mantilla or veil, looking so bewildered, and conducted by men, who seemed to take no gratification in the surrounding gaiety, occasioned expressions of curiosity. One of the ballad-singers approached, and striking her guitar with peculiar earnestness, began to sing a doleful air. Ml of sinister forebodings. Inez started with surprise. It was the same ballad-singer that had addressed her in the garden of Generaliffe. It was the same air that she had then sung. It spoke of impending dangers; they seemed, indeed, to be thickening around her. She was anxious to speak with the girl, and to ascertain whether she really had a knowledge of any definite evil that was threaten- ing her ; but as she attempted to address her, the mule on which she rode was suddenly seized, and led forcibly through the throng by one of her conductors, while she saw another addressing menacing words to the ballad-singer. The latter raised her hand with a warning gesture as Inez lost sight of her. While she was yet lost in perplexity, caused by this singu- lar occurrence, they stopped at the gate of a large mansion. One of her attendants knocked, the door was opened, and th^ entered a paved court. "Where are we?" demanded Inez with anxiety. *' At the house of a friend, senora," replied * . n \ k\\ 136 THE STUDEITT OF SALAMANCA. the man. ** Ascend this staircase with me, and in a moment you will meet your father." They ascended a staircase that led to a suite of splendid apartments. They passed through several, iintil they came to an inner chamber. The door opened, some one approached ; but what was her terror at perceiving, not her fitther, but Don Ambrosio ! The men who had seized upon the alchymist had, at least, been more honest in their professions. They were, indeed, fiiimiliars of the inquisition. lie was conducted in silence to the gloomy prison of that horrible tribunal. It was a man- sion whose very aspect withered joy, and almost shut out hope. It was one of those hideous abodes which the bad passions of men conjure up in this fair world, to rival the fancied dens of demons and the accursed. Day after day went heavily by without any thing to mark the lapse of time, but the decline and reappearance of the light that feebly glimmered through the narrow window of the dimgeon in which the unfortunate alchymist was buried, rather than confined. His mind was harassed with uncertainties and fears about his daughter, so helpless and inexperienced. He endeavoured to gather tidings of her from the man who brought his daily portion of food. The fellow stared, as if astonished at being asked a question in that mansion of silence and mystery, but departed without saying a word. Every succeeding attempt was equally fruitless. The poor alchymist was oppressed by many griefs; and it IK as not the least that he had been again interrupted in his labours on the very point of success. Never was alch}'mist so near attaining the golden secret — a little longer, and dl his hopes would have been realized. The thoughts of these dis- appointments afflicted him more even than the fear of all that he might suffer from the merciless inquisition. His waking thoughts would follow him into his dreams. He would be transported in fancy to his laboratory, busied again among retorts and alembics, and surrounded by Lully, by D'Abano, by Olybius, and the other masters of the sublime art. The moment of projection would arrive ; a seraphic form would rise out of tne furnace, holding forth a vessel, containing tho precious elixir, but before he could grasp the priie, he would awake, and find himself in a dungeon. All the devices of inouisitorial ingenuity were employed to ensnare the old man, ana to draw from him evidence that might THE STI7DSKT OF SALAMANCA. 137 be brought against himself, and might corroborate certain secret information that had been given against him. He had been accused of practising necromancy and judicial astrology, and a cloud of evidence had been secretly brought forward to substantiate the charge. It would be tedious to enumerate all the circumstances, apparently corroborative, which had been industriously cited by the secret accuser. The silence which prevailed about the tower, its desolateness. the very quiet of its inhabitants, had been adduced as proofs that some- wing sinister was perpetrated within. The alchymist's con* versations and soliloquies in the garden had been overheard and misrepresented. The lights and strange appearances at night in the tower were given with violent exaggerations. Shrieks and yells were said to have been heard from thence at midnight, when, it was confidently asserted, the old man raised fiuuiliar spirits by his incantations, and even com- pelled the dead to rise from their graves and answer to hit questionings. The alchymist, according to the custom of the inquisition, was kept in complete ignorance of his accuser; of the wit- nesses produced against him : even of the crimes of which he was accused. He was examined generally, whether he knew why he was arrested, and was conscious of any guilt that might deserve the notice of the holy office ? He was examined as to his country, his life, his habits, his pursuits, his actions, and opinions. The old man wis fi^nk and simple in his re- plies ; he was conscious of no guili, capable of no art, practised in no dissimulation. After receiving a general admonition to bethink himself whether he had not committed any act deserving of punishment, and to prepare, by confession, to secure the well