THE 
 
 YOUNG MAN'S 
 
 OFFERING. 
 
 COMPRISING 
 
 PROSE AND POETICAL WRITINGS 
 
 MOST EMINENT AUTHORS, 
 
 I LLUSTR ATED. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 PHILLIPS & SAMPSON, 
 
 110 Washington Street. 
 
 1848.
 
 Stack 
 Annex 
 
 fs? 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 IT is believed by the proprietors of this volume of the 
 " Young Man's Offering," that a work of the general 
 character of this has long been wanted, as a useful and 
 entertaining "Gift Book" to young men a book that 
 should be what its title indicates, a suitable and acceptable 
 Offering to Young Men. 
 
 In looking over the various books addressed to them, it 
 was thought sufficient " advice " had already been given ; 
 and accordingly a different plan has been adopted in get- 
 ting up this work. The Tales and Essays it contains 
 have been selected, with great care, by one competent to 
 the task, and by an attentive perusal of them it is hoped 
 the reader's sensibilities to the pure and good may be 
 quickened. If this end is attained in one instance only 
 if by the pictures of life it portrays it shall instruct while 
 it amuses its publishers will feel that it has not been 
 issued in vain. 
 
 Boston, March, 1848.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Golden Age, 7 
 
 Youth and Age, 8 
 
 The Dean of Santiago, 9 
 
 A Country Lodging, 17 
 
 Ahmed the Cobbler, 31 
 
 Rouge et Noir, 54 
 
 The Common Lot, 69 
 
 Hope, 70 
 
 Forgive and Forget, 72 
 
 The Bitter Wedding, 72 
 
 The Rustic Wreath, 85 
 
 The Merchant's Daughter, 92 
 
 Lorely, Ill 
 
 Dream-Children, 125 
 
 John Brown, 130 
 
 Little Rachel, 141 
 
 Ebony and Topaz, 146 
 
 The Three Advices, 162 
 
 The City of the Demons, 169 
 
 Labor, 179 
 
 The Four Eras, 161 
 
 The Past, 182 
 
 Discovery and Conquest of America, 183 
 
 The Soldier's Wife, 185
 
 VI CONTENTS. 
 
 The Lost Child, 190 
 
 The Lying Servant. 196 
 
 Renstern, 200 
 
 A Vindication of Authors, 212 
 
 Courtship and Marriage, 225 
 
 The Play at Venice, 231 
 
 The Son and Heir, 238 
 
 A Scene on the Pont Neuf, 251 
 
 Lacy de Vere, 255 
 
 Calum Dhu, 271 
 
 Hannah, 279 
 
 The Goldsmith of Padua, 285 
 
 Master and Man, 296 
 
 The Venetian Girl, 303 
 
 Cousin Mary, 310
 
 THE 
 
 YOUNG MAN'S OFFERING 
 
 GOLDEN AGE. 
 
 THE golden age was first, when man, yet new, 
 No rule but uncorrupted reason knew, 
 And, with a native bent, did good pursue. 
 Unforced by punishment, unawed by fear, 
 His words were simple, and his soul sincere; 
 Needless was written law, where none oppressed ; 
 The law of man was written on his breast : 
 No suppliant crowds before the judge appeared, 
 No court erected yet, nor cause was heard, 
 But all was safe : for conscience was their guard. 
 The mountain trees in distant prospect please, 
 Ere yet the pine descended to the seas ; 
 Ere sails were spread new oceans to explore, 
 And happy mortals, unconcerned for more, 
 Confined their wishes to their native shore. 
 No walls were yet, nor fence, nor moat, nor mound, 
 Nor drum was heard, nor trumpet's angry sound, 
 Nor swords were forged ; but, void of care and crime, 
 The soft creation slept away their time. 
 The teeming earth, yet guiltless of the plough, 
 And unprovoked, did fruitful stores allow :
 
 8 YOUTH AND AGE. 
 
 Content with food which Nature freely bred, 
 On wildlings and on strawberries they fed ; 
 Cornels and brambleberries gave the rest, 
 And falling acorns furnished out a feast. 
 The flowers unsown, in fields and meadows reigned ; 
 And western winds immortal spring maintained. 
 In following years the bearded corn ensued 
 From earth unasked, nor was that earth renewed. 
 From veins of valleys milk and nectar broke, 
 And honey sweating through the pores of oak. 
 
 YOUTH AND AGE. 
 
 AH me ! alike o'er youth and age I sigh, 
 Impending age, and youth that hastens by ; 
 Swift as a thought the flowing moments roll, 
 Swift as a racer speeds to reach the goal. 
 How rich, how happy the contented guest, 
 Who leaves the banquet soon, and sinks to rest. 
 Damps chill my brow, my pulses fluttering beat, 
 Whene'er the vigorous pride of youth I meet 
 Pleasant, and lovely ; hopeful to the view 
 As golden visions, and as transient too : 
 But ah ! no terrors stop, nor vows, nor tears, 
 Life's mournful evening, and the gloom of years.
 
 THE DEAN OF SANTIAGO. 
 
 IT was but a short hour before noon, when the Dean of 
 Santiago alighted from his mule at the door of Bon Julian, 
 the celebrated magician of Toledo. The house, accord- 
 ing to old tradition, stood on the brink of the perpendicu- 
 lar rock, which, now crowned with the Alcazar, rises to 
 a fearful height over the Tagus. A maid of Moorish 
 blood led the dean to a retired apartment, where Don 
 Julian was reading. The natural politeness of a Castilian 
 had rather been improved than impaired by the studies of 
 the Toledan sage, who exhibited nothing, either in his 
 dress or person, that might induce a suspicion of his deal- 
 ing with the mysterious powers of darkness. " I heartily 
 greet your reverence," said Don Julian to the dean, " and 
 feel highly honored by this visit. Whatever be the object 
 of it, let me beg you will defer stating it till I have made 
 you quite at home in this house. I hear my housekeeper 
 making ready the noonday meal. That maid, sir, will 
 show you the room which has been prepared for you ; and 
 when you have brushed off the dust of the journey, you 
 shall find a canonical capon steaming hot upon the board." 
 The dinner, which soon followed, was just what a pamper- 
 ed Spanish canon would wish it abundant, nutritive, and 
 delicate. " No, no," said Don Julian, when the soup and a 
 bumper of Tinto had recruited the dean's spirits, and he
 
 10 THE DEAN OF SANTIAGO. 
 
 saw him making an attempt to break the object of his visit 
 " no business, please your reverence, while at dinner. 
 Let us enjoy our meal at present ; and when we have dis- 
 cussed the Olla, the capon, and a bottle of Yepes, it will 
 be time enough to turn to the cares of life." The ecclesi- 
 astic's full face had never beamed with more glee, at the 
 collation on Christmas eve, when, by the indulgence of the 
 churc h, the fast is broken at sunset, instead of continuing 
 through the night, than it did now under the influence of 
 Don Julian's good humor and heart-cheering wine. Still 
 it was evident that some vehement and ungovernable wish 
 had taken possession of his mind, breaking out now and 
 then in some hurried motion, some gulping up of a full 
 glass of wine without stopping to relish the flavor, and 
 fifty other symptoms of absence and impatience, which, at 
 such a distance from the cathedral, could not be attributed 
 to the afternoon bell. The time came, at length, of rising 
 from table; and in spite of Don Julian's pressing request 
 to have another bottle, the dean, with a certain dignity 
 of manner, led his good-natured host to the recess of an 
 oriel window, looking upon the river. " Allow me, dear 
 Don Julian," he said, " to open my heart to you ; for even 
 your hospitality must fail to make me completely happy 
 till I have obtained the boon which I came to ask. I 
 know that no man ever possessed greater power than you 
 over the invisible agents of the universe. I die to be- 
 come an adept in that wonderful science ; and if you will 
 receive me for your pupil, there is nothing I should think 
 of sufficient worth to repay your friendship." " Good 
 sir," replied Don Julian, " I should be extremely loath to 
 offend you ; but permit me to say, that, in spite of the 
 knowledge of causes and effects which I have acquired, 
 all that my experience teaches me of the heart of man is 
 not only vague and indistinct, but for the most part un- 
 favorable. I only guess ; I cannot read their thoughts, nor 
 pry into the recesses of their minds. As for yourself, I
 
 THE DEAN OF SANTIAGO. 11 
 
 am sure you are a rising man, and likely to obtain the first 
 dignities of the church. But whether, when you find 
 yourself in places of high honor and patronage, you will 
 remember the humble personage of whom you now ask a 
 hazardous and important service, it is impossible for me to 
 ascertain." " Nay, nay," exclaimed the dean ; " but I 
 know myself, if you do not, Don Julian. Generosity and 
 friendship (since you force me to speak in my own praise) 
 have been the delight of my soul even from childhood. 
 Doubt not, my dear friend (for by that name I wish you, 
 would allow me to call you), doubt not, from this moment, 
 to command my services. Whatever interest I may pos- 
 sess, it will be my highest gratification to see it redound 
 in favor of you and yours." "My hearty thanks for all, 
 worthy sir," said Don Julian ; " but let us now proceed to 
 business ; the sun is set, and, if you please, we will retire 
 to my private study." 
 
 Lights being called for, Don Julian led the way to the 
 lower part of the house ; and dismissing the Moorish 
 maid near a small door, of which he held the key in his 
 hand, desired her to get two partridges for supper, but not 
 to dress them till he should order it : then unlocking the 
 door, he began to descend by a winding stair-case. The 
 dean followed with a certain degree of trepidation, which 
 the length of the stairs greatly tended to increase ; for, to 
 all appearance, they reached below the bed of the Tagus. 
 At this depth a comfortable, neat room was found; the 
 walls completely covered with shelves, where Don Julian 
 kept his works on magic ; globes, planispheres, and strange 
 drawings, occupied the top of the book-cases. Fresh air 
 was admitted, though it would be difficult to guess by 
 what means, since the sound of gliding water, such as is 
 heard at the lower part of a ship when sailing with a gen- 
 tle breeze, indicated but a thin partition between the sub- 
 terraneous cabinet and the river. " Here, then," said 
 Don Julian, offering a chair to the dean, and drawing
 
 12 THE DEAN OF SANTIAGO. 
 
 another for himself towards a small, round table, " we 
 have only to choose among the elementary works of the 
 science for which you long. Suppose we begin to read 
 this small volume." The volume was laid on the table, 
 and opened at the first page, containing circles, concen- 
 tric and eccentric, triangles with unintelligible characters, 
 and the well-known signs of the planets. " This," said 
 Don Julian, " is the alphabet of the whole science. Her- 
 mes, called Trismegistus " The sound of a small 
 
 bell within the chamber, made the dean almost leap out 
 of his chair. " Be not alarmed," said Don Julian ; " it 
 is the bell by which my servants let me know that they 
 want to speak to me." Saying thus, he pulled a silk 
 string, and soon after a servant appeared with a packet of 
 letters. It was addressed to the dean. A courier had 
 closely followed him on the road, and was that moment 
 arrived at Toledo. "Good Heavens!" exclaimed the 
 dean, having read the contents of the letters ; " my great 
 uncle, the archbishop of Santiago, is dangerously ill. 
 This is, however, what the secretary says, from his lord- 
 ship's dictation. But here is another letter from the arch- 
 deacon of the diocese, who assures me that the old man 
 was not expected to live. I can hardly repeat what he 
 adds. Poor dear uncle ! may Heaven lengthen his days ! 
 The chapter seem to have turned their eyes towards me, 
 and pugh ! it cannot be but the electors, according to 
 the archdeacon, are quite decided in my favor." "Well," 
 said Don Julian, " all I regret is the interruption of our 
 studies ; but I doubt not that you will soon wear the mitre. 
 In the mean time, I would advise you to pretend that ill- 
 ness does not allow you to return directly. A few days 
 will surely give a decided turn to the whole affair ; and, 
 at all events, your absence, in case of an election, will be
 
 THE DEAN OF SANTIAGO. 13 
 
 construed into modesty. Write, therefore, your des- 
 patches, my dear sir, and we will prosecute our studies at 
 another time." 
 
 Two days had elapsed since the arrival of the messen- 
 ger, when the verger of the church of Santiago, attended 
 by servants in splendid liveries, alighted at Don Julian's 
 door with letters for the dean. The old prelate was dead, 
 and his nephew had been elected to the see, by the unani- 
 mous vote of the chapter. The elected dignitary seemed 
 overcome by contending feelings; but, having wiped away 
 some decent tears, he assumed an air of gravity, which 
 almost touched on superciliousness. Don Julian address- 
 ed his congratulations, and was the first to kiss the new 
 archbishop's hand. " I hope," he added, " I may also 
 congratulate my son, the young man who is now at the 
 university of Paris ; for I flatter myself your lordship will 
 give him the deanery, which is vacant by your promo- 
 tion." " My worthy friend, Don Julian," replied the 
 archbishop elect, " my obligations to you I can never 
 sufficiently repay. You have heard my character ; I hold 
 a friend as another self. But why would you take the lad 
 away from his studies 1 An archbishop of Santiago can- 
 not want preferment at any time. Follow me to my dio- 
 cese. I will not for all the mitres in Christendom forego 
 the benefit of your instruction. The deanery, to tell 
 you the truth, must be given to. my uncle, my father's 
 own brother, who has had but a small living for many 
 years ; he is much liked in Santiago, and I should lose my 
 character if, to place such a young man as your son 
 at the head of the chapter, I neglected an exemplary 
 priest, so nearly related to me." "Just as you please, 
 my lord," said Don Julian ; and began to prepare for the 
 journey. 
 
 The acclamations which greeted the new archbishop 
 on his arrival at the capital of Galicia were, not long 
 after, succeeded by a universal regret at his translation to
 
 14 THE DEAN OF SANTIAGO. 
 
 the see of the recently-conquered town of Seville. " I 
 will not leave you behind," said the archbishop to Don 
 Julian, who, with more timidity than he showed at Toledo, 
 approached to kiss the sacred ring in the archbishop's 
 right hand, and to offer his humble congratulations; " but 
 do not fret about your son. He is too young. I have my 
 mother's relations to provide for ; but Seville is a rich see ; 
 the blessed King Ferdinand, who rescued it from the 
 Moors, endowed its church so as to make it rival the first 
 cathedrals in Christendom. Do but follow me, and all will 
 be well in the end." Don Julian bowed with a suppress- 
 ed sigh, and was soon after on the banks of the Guadal- 
 quivir, in the suite of the new archbishop. 
 
 Scarcely had Don Julian's pupil been at Seville one 
 year, when his far-extended fame moved the pope to send 
 him a cardinal's hat, desiring his presence at the court of 
 Rome. The crowd of visitors who came to congratulate 
 the prelate, kept Don Julian away for many days. He at 
 length obtained a private audience, and, with tears in his 
 eyes, entreated his eminence not to oblige him to quit 
 Spain. "I am growing old, my lord," he said : " I quitted 
 my house at Toledo only for your sake, and in hopes of 
 raising my son to some place of honor and emolument in 
 the church ; I even gave up my favorite studies, except as 
 far as they were of service to your eminence. My son " 
 "No more of that, if you please, Don Julian," interrupted 
 the cardinal. "Follow me you must; who can tell what 
 may happen at Rome? The pope is old, you know. , But 
 do not tease me about preferment. A public man has 
 duties of a description which those in the lower ranks of 
 life cannot either weigh or comprehend. I confess I am 
 under obligations to you, and feel quite disposed to reward 
 your services; yet I must not have my creditors knocking
 
 THE DEAN OF SANTIAGO. 15 
 
 every day at my door ; you understand, Don Julian. In 
 a week we set out for Rome." 
 
 With such a strong tide of good fortune as had hitherto 
 buoyed up Don Julian's pupil, the reader cannot be sur- 
 prised to find him, in a short time, wearing the papal 
 crown. He was now arrived at the highest place of honor 
 on earth ; but in the bustle of the election and subsequent 
 coronation, the man to whose wonderful science he owed 
 this rapid ascent, had completely slipped off his memory. 
 Fatigued with the exhibition of himself through the streets 
 of Rome, which he had been obliged to make in a sol- 
 emn procession, the new pope sat alone in one of the 
 chambers of the Vatican. It was early in the night. By 
 the light of two wax tapers, which scarcely illuminated the 
 farthest end of the grand saloon, his holiness was enjoy- 
 ing that reverie of mixed pain and pleasure which follows 
 the complete attainment of ardent wishes, when Don 
 Julian advanced, in visible perturbation, conscious of the 
 intrusion on which he ventured. " Holy father," ex- 
 claimed the old man, and cast himself at his pupil's feet ; 
 " holy father, in pity to these gray hairs, do not consign 
 an old servant might I not say an old friend 1 to utter 
 neglect and forgetfulness. My son " " By saint Peter! " 
 ejaculated his holiness, rising from the chair, " your inso- 
 lence shall be checked. You my friend ! A magician the 
 friend of Heaven's vicegerent! Away, wretched man! 
 When I pretended to learn of thee, it was only to sound 
 the abyss of crime into which thou hadst plunged ; I did 
 it with a view of bringing thee to condign punishment. 
 Yet, in compassion to thy age, I will not make an exam- 
 ple of thee, provided thou avoidest my eyes. Hide thy 
 crime and shame where thou canst. This moment thou 
 must quit the palace, or the next closes the gates of the 
 inquisition upon thee." 
 
 Trembling, and his wrinkled face bedewed with tears,
 
 16 THE DEAN OF SANTIAGO. 
 
 Don Julian begged to be allowed but one word more. " I 
 am very poor, holy father," said he : " trusting in your 
 patronage, I relinquished rriy all, and have not left where- 
 with to pay my journey." " Away, I say," answered the 
 pope ; " if my excessive bounty has made you neglect 
 your patrimony, I will no further encourage your waste and 
 improvidence. Poverty is but a slight punishment for 
 your crimes." "But, father," rejoined Don Julian, "my 
 wants are instant; I am hungry: give me but a trifle to 
 procure a supper to-night. To-morrow I shall beg my 
 way out of Rome." " Heaven forbid," said the pope, 
 " that I should be guilty of feeding the ally of the prince 
 of darkness. Away, away from my presence, or I in- 
 stantly call for the guard." " Well, then," replied Don 
 Julian, rising from the ground, and looking on the pope 
 with a boldness which began to throw his holiness into a 
 paroxysm of rage, " if I am to starve at Rome, I had bet- 
 ter return to the supper which I ordered at Toledo." 
 Thus saying, he rang a gold bell which stood on a table 
 next the pope. The door opened without delay, and the 
 Moorish servant came in. The pope looked round, and 
 found himself in the subterraneous study under the Tagus. 
 " Desire the cook," said Don Julian to the maid, " to put 
 but one partridge to roast ; for I will not throw away the 
 other on the Dean of Santiago."
 
 A COUNTRY LODGING. 17 
 
 A COUNTRY LODGING. 
 
 ON my way back to town, the other evening, from a 
 visit, I had the misfortune, at the turning of a road, not to 
 see a projecting gateway, till I came too near it. I leaped 
 the ditch that ran by, but my horse went too close to the 
 side-post ; and my leg was so hurt, that I was obliged to 
 limp into a cottage, and have been laid up ever since. 
 The doctor tells me I am to have three or four weeks of it, 
 perhaps more. 
 
 As soon as I found myself fixed, I looked about me to 
 see what consolations I could get in my new abode. The 
 place was quiet. That was one thing. It was also clean, 
 and had a decent looking hostess. Those were two more. 
 Thirdly, I heard the wind in the trees. This was much. 
 " You have trees opposite the window?" " Yes, sir, some 
 fine elms. You will hear the birds of a morning." " And 
 you have poultry, to take care of my fever with ? and eggs 
 and bacon, when I get better 1 and a garden and a pad- 
 dock, when I walk again, eh? and capital milk, and a milk- 
 maid, whom it's a sight to see carrying it over the field." 
 "Why, sir," said my hostess, good-hufnoredly but gravely, 
 "as to the milk-maid, I can say nothing; but we have 
 capital milk at Pouldon, and good eggs and bacon, and 
 paddocks in plenty, and every thing else that horse or man 
 can desire, in an honest way." 
 
 The curtains were very neat and white, the rest of the 
 furniture corresponding. There was a small couch, and a 
 long-backed arm-chair, looking as if it was made for me. 
 " That settee," thought I, " I shall move into that other 
 part of the room : it will be snugger, and more away from 
 the door. The arm-chair and the table shall go near the 
 window, when I can sit up ; so that I may have the trees 
 at the corner of my eye, as I am writing." The table, a 
 small mahogany one, was very good, and reflected the two 
 2*
 
 18 A COUNTRY LODGING. 
 
 candles very prettily, but it looked bald. There were no 
 books on it. 
 
 "Pray, Mrs. Wilson, have you any books? " 
 " Oh, plenty of books. But won't you be afraid to study, 
 sir, with that leg?" 
 
 " I'll study without it, if you can undo it for me." 
 " Dear me ! sir, but won't it make you feverish? " 
 " Yes, unless I can read all the while. I must study 
 philosophy, Mrs. Wilson, in order to bear it : so, if you 
 have any novels or comedies " " Why, for novels or 
 comedies, sir, I can't say. But I'll show you what there is. 
 When our lady was alive, rest her soul ! eight months 
 ago, the house was nothing but books. I dare say she had 
 a matter of a hundred. But I've a good set too, below ; 
 some of my poor dear husband's, and some of my own." 
 " I see," said I, as she left the room, " that I shall be 
 obliged to send to the clergyman ; and that's a forlorn 
 hope. If there's a philosopher in the village, some Jac- 
 obinical carpenter or shoemaker, there will be another 
 chance. At all events, I shall behave in the most impu- 
 dent manner, and send all round. ' Necessitas non habet 
 LEGS,' as Peter Pindar says. This is the worst of books. 
 A habit of reading is like a habit of drinking. You can- 
 not do without it, especially under misfortune. I wonder 
 whether I could leave off reading, beginning with a para- 
 graph less a day ? " 
 
 Mrs. Wilson returned with an arm full. " This, sir," 
 said she, giving me the top one, "our lady left me for a 
 keep-sake." It was Mrs. Chapone's Essays. " Pray," 
 said I, " Mrs. Wilson, who was the lady whom you desig- 
 nate as the Roman Catholics do the Virgin? Who was 
 Our lady ? " Mrs. Wilson looked very grave, but I 
 thought there was a smile lurking under her gravity in 
 spite of her. "Miss V., sir, was no Roman: and as to 
 the Virgin, by which I suppose, sir, you mean the but 
 however oh, she was an excellent woman, sir ; her mother
 
 A COUNTRY LODGING. 19 
 
 Mas a friend of the great Mr. Samuel Richardson." " Oh 
 ho!" thought I, looking over the books, "then we shall 
 have Pamela." There was the Farrier's Guide, some 
 Treatises on Timber and the Cultivation of Wood (my 
 hostess was a carpenter's widow), Jachin and Boaz (which 
 she called a strange, fantastic book), Mrs. Glasse's Cook- 
 ery, Wesley's Receipts, an old Court Calendar, the Whole 
 Duty of Man, nine numbers of the Calvinist's Magazine, 
 an odd volume of the Newgate Calendar, the Life of Colo- 
 nel Gardiner, and, sure as fate, at the bottom of the heap, 
 Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded. " Virtue Rewarded ! " 
 thought I: "I hate these mercenary virtues ; these bills 
 brought to Heaven for payment ; these clinkings of cash 
 in the white pockets of conscience." " You have one 
 novel, at any rate, Mrs. Wilson." " Sure, sir, it is better 
 than a novel. Oh, it is a book full of good fortune." 
 " Of good fortune ! What, to the maid-servant ? " " To 
 every body that has to do with it. Miss V. was dubious 
 like which of the cottages to live in ; and she fancied 
 ours, because she found Pamela and Colonel Gardiner in 
 the corner-cupboard." " I dare say. Now, here," said I, 
 when left to myself, " here is vanity at second hand. The 
 old lady must take a cottage because she found a book in 
 it, written by an old gentleman, who knew the old lady 
 her mother. And what a book!" With all my admira- 
 tion of Richardson, Pamela had ever been an object of 
 my dislike. I hated her little canting ways, her egotism 
 eternally protesting humility, and her readiness to make a 
 prize of the man, who, finding his endeavors vain to ruin 
 her, reconciled her virtue and vanity together by proposing 
 to make her his wife. Pamela's is the only female face to 
 which I think I could ever have wished to give a good box 
 on the ear. " And this," said I, " was the old maid's 
 taste. It is a pity she was not a servant-maid." While 
 [ was thus venting my spleen against a harmless old 
 woman, in a condition of life which I had always treat-
 
 20 A COUNTRY LODGING. 
 
 eel with respect, and was beginning to regret that I had 
 got into " methodistical " lodgings, my hostess comes 
 hack again. As I did not seem to be very particu- 
 larly satisfied with this collection, the old lady went out 
 again, and presently returned with three more books, to 
 wit, Paradise Lost, Thomson's Seasons, and a volume 
 containing the whole of the Spectator in double columns. 
 " Head of my ancestors ! " cried I, uttering (but inter- 
 nally) a Chinese exclamation : " here thou art at home 
 again, Harry ! This is sense. This is something like. 
 The cottage is an excellent cottage, and, for aught I know, 
 had the honor of being one of the many cottages in which 
 my great grandfather's friend Sir Richard used to eschew 
 the visits of the importunate." 
 
 There was a bed-room as neat as the sitting-room, and 
 with more trees at the window. My leg was very painful, 
 and I had feverish dreams. However, my horseback had 
 made me nothing the worse for my dinner, and, having 
 taken no supper, my dreams, though disturbed, were not 
 frightful. I dreamt of Pamela, and Dick Honeycomb, and 
 my ancestor Nathaniel. I thought that my landlady was 
 Mrs. Harlowe, and that Dick, being pressed to marry, said 
 he would not have his cousin Pamela, but Nell Gwynn ; 
 which the serious commonwealth officer approved, "Be- 
 cause," said he, " of the other's immoral character." 
 
 In the morning, it was delightful to hear the sound of 
 the birds. There is something exhilarating in the singing 
 of birds, analogous to the brilliancy of sunshine. My leg 
 was now worse, but not bad enough to hinder me from 
 noticing the " chancy " shepherds and shepherdesses on 
 the mantel-piece, or those others on the colored bed-cur- 
 tain ; loving pairs with lambs, repeated in the same group 
 at intervals all over the chintz, as if the beholder had a 
 cut-glass eye. The window of the sitting-room has a lit- 
 tle white curtain on a rod. This, of the bed-room, is a 
 p-oper casement with diamond panes ; and you can see
 
 A COUNTRY LODGING 21 
 
 nothing outside, but green leaves. However ill I may be, 
 I am always the worse for lying in bed. I contrived to 
 get up and remove to the settee in the other room ; at 
 which the doctor, when he came, shook his head. But I 
 did very well with the settee. It was brought near the 
 window, with the table ; and I had a very pretty look-out. 
 Opposite the window, you can see nothing but trees, but 
 sitting on the left side, you have a view over a fine meadow 
 to the village church, which is embowered in elms. There 
 is a path and a stile to the meadow, and luxuriant hedge- 
 row trees. I was as well pleased with my situation as a 
 man well could be, who had a leg perpetually reminding 
 him of its existence ; but Pouldon is at a good distance 
 from town, and I was thinking how long it would take a 
 messenger to fetch me some books, when I heard a shot 
 from a fowling-piece. I recollected the month, and thought 
 how well its name was adapted to these Septembrizers of 
 the birds. Looking under the trees, I saw a stout fellow, 
 in a jacket and gaiters, and the rest of the costume of avi- 
 cide, picking his way along the palings, with his gun re- 
 prepared. "Ay," said I, " he has 'shot, as he is used to 
 do,' and laid up some poor thing with a broken thigh. 
 There he goes, sneaking along, to qualify some others for 
 the hospital and they have none." 
 
 I threw up the window, to baffle his next shot with the 
 noise. He turned round. It was Jack Tomkins. " Hallo ! 
 my boy," said he ; " why, where in the world have you 
 got 1 " Jack, who is a man of fortune, and was at Trinity, 
 though the uninitiated would not suppose it, came up im- 
 mediately to the door, and knocked. Presently he came 
 into the room, grinning and breathing like an ogre. 
 
 " My dear Honeycomb," said he, " how are you? An 
 unexpected pleasure, eh 1 The good lady tells me you 
 have hurt yourself. Something about a horse. What, 
 Bayardo the spotless, eh ? Well, I am heartily sorry for it, 
 I declare ; for now, as you have caught me with my Joe
 
 22 A COUNTRY LODGING. 
 
 Manton, I suppose I am to be had up for fetching down a 
 few birds." 
 
 " Why, Jack, as you say, I have caught you in the fact; 
 and I wonder at a fellow of your sense and spirit, that 
 you're not above cutting up a parcel of tomtits." 
 
 " Grouse, Harry, grouse, and partridges, and pheasants, 
 and all that. Tomtits ! let the cockneys try to cut up tom- 
 tits." 
 
 " Well, to be sure, there's a good deal of difference be- 
 tween breaking the legs of partridges and tomtits. The 
 partridge, too, is a fierce bird, and can defend itself. It's 
 a gallant thing, a fight with a partridge ! " 
 
 " Eh 1 Nonsense. Now you are at some of your 
 banter. But it's no joke, I assure you, to me, having a 
 fine morning's sport. You can read, and all that; but 
 every man to his taste. However, I can't stop at present. 
 Here's Needle, poor fellow, wants to be off. Glorious 
 morning never saw such a morning but I'll come back 
 to dinner, if you like, instead of going to the Greyhound. 
 I gave a brace of partridges just now to the good woman : 
 and I say, Harry, if you get me some claret, I'll have it 
 out with you I will, upon my soul -Til rub up my logic, 
 and have a regular spar." 
 
 My friend Jack returned in good time, and had his 
 birds well dressed. I was in despair about the claret, till 
 the host of the Greyhound drew it out from a store which 
 he kept against the month of September ; and Jack being 
 a good-humored fellow, and having had a victorious morn- 
 ing, he did very well. Mrs. Wilson and the doctor had 
 equally protested against my having company to dinner, 
 being afraid of the noise, and the temptation to eat ; but I 
 promised them to abstain, and that I would talk as much 
 as possible to hinder Jack from being obstreperous ; which 
 they thought a dangerous remedy. I got off very well, by 
 dint of talking while Jack ate; and such is vanity, that I 
 was not displeased to see that I rose greatly in my hostess's
 
 A COUNTRY LODGING. 23 
 
 opinion by my defence of the bird creation. It was curi- 
 ous to observe how Jack shattered her, as she came in 
 and out, with his oaths and great voice, and how gratefully 
 she seemed to take breath and substance again under the 
 Paradisaical shelter of my arguments. But I believe I 
 startled her, too, with the pictures I was obliged to draw. 
 This is the worst of such points of discussion. You are 
 obliged to put new ideas of pain and trouble into innocent 
 heads, in the hope of saving pain and trouble itself. But 
 we must not hesitate for this. The one is a mere notion 
 compared with the other. It is soon got rid of or set aside 
 by minds in health ; and the unhealthy ones are liable to 
 worse deductions, if the matter is not fairly laid open. 
 
 However, wishing to let Jack have his ease in perfec- 
 tion, as far as he could, I was for postponing the argument 
 to another day, and seeing him relish his birds and claret 
 in peace. But the more he drank, the less he would hear 
 of it. " Besides," says he, " I've been talking about it to 
 Bilson you know Bilson, the Christ-Church man, and 
 he's been putting me up to some prime good arguments, 
 'faith. I hope I sha'n't forget 'em. By the by, I'll tell 
 you a good joke about. Bilson But you don't eat any 
 thing. What, is your leg so bad as that comes to 1 You 
 don't pretend, I hope, not to eat partridge, because of your 
 love of the birds? " 
 
 "No, Jack; but I'd rather know that you had killed 
 'em than Bilson, because you are a jollier hand ; you don't 
 go to the sport with such reverend sophistry." 
 
 " That's famous. Bilson, to be sure, But stop, don't 
 let me forget another thing, now I think of it. Bilson 
 says you eat poultry. What do you say to that? You eat 
 chicken. " 
 
 " I am not sure that I can apologize for eating grouse, 
 except, as I said before, when you kill 'em. Evil com- 
 munications corrupt good platters. I can only say that no 
 grouse should be killed for me, unless a perfect Tomkins 
 an unerring shot had the bringing of them down. I
 
 A COUNTRY LODGING. 
 
 could give up poultry too ; but death is common to all : a 
 fowl is soon despatched ; and many a fowl would not exist, 
 if death for the dinner-table were not part of his charter. 
 I confess I should not like to keep poultry. There is 
 a violation of fellowship and domesticity in killing the 
 sharers of our homestead, and especially in keeping them 
 to kill. It would make me seem like an ogre. But this 
 is one sentiment : that violated by making a sport of 
 cruelty is another. But I will not argue this matter with 
 you now, Jack. It would be a cruelty itself. It would 
 be inhospitable, and a foppery. I wish to put wine down 
 your throat, and not to thrust my arguments. Besides, as 
 you say, I never shall convince you ; so drink your claret." 
 
 " Mighty considerate persons you Tatler and Spectator 
 men are, and would make fine havoc with our amuse- 
 ments." " Excuse me. It is you that make fine havoc. 
 I would have you amuse yourself to your heart's content, 
 if you would do it without breaking the bones and hearts 
 of your fellow-creatures." " ' Fellow creatures ! ' and 
 their ' hearts ! ' The hearts of woodcocks and partridges! 
 Pooh, pooh ! What Bilson says is very true ; he says, 
 if you come to think of it, there must be pain in the world, 
 and it would be unmanly to think of it in this light." 
 
 " Very well. Then do you, Jack, who are so manly, 
 and so willing to encourage one's sports, stand a little far- 
 ther, and let me crack your shin with this poker." 
 
 " Nonsense. That's a very different thing." 
 
 " Perhaps you'd prefer a good crack on the skull ? " 
 
 " Nonsense." 
 
 " Or a thrust out of your eye ? " 
 
 " No, no : all that's very different." 
 
 " Well : you know what you have been about this morn- 
 ing. Go and pick your way again along the palings there ; 
 and leave me your fowling-piece, and I'll endeavor to 
 shoot you handsomely through the body." 
 
 *' Nonsense, nonsense. I'm a man, you know; and a 
 bird's a bird. Besides, birds don't feel as we do. They're
 
 A COUNTRY LODGING. 25 
 
 not Christians. They are not reasoning beings. They're 
 not made of the same sort of stuff. In short, it's no use 
 talking. There's no end of these things." 
 
 " Just so. This is precisely the way I should argue, if 
 I had the winging of you. Here, I should say, is Mr. 
 John Tomkins. Mind, I am standing with my manning- 
 piece by a hedge." 
 
 " With your what 1 " 
 
 "With my manning-piece. You cannot say fowling- 
 piece, when it is men that are to be brought down." 
 
 " Oh, now you're joking." 
 
 " I beg your pardon ; you will find it no joke presently. 
 ' Here,' says I, ' is Mr. John Tomkins coming ; ' or, ' Here 
 is a Tomkins. Look at him. He's in fine coat and waist- 
 coat (we can't say feather, you know): keep close: now 
 for my Joe Manton : you shall see how I'll pepper him.' 
 'Pray don't,' says my companion. 'A Tomkins is a 
 Tomkins after all, and has his feelings as we have.' 
 ' Stuff! ' says I : ' Tomkinses don't feel as we do. They're 
 not Christians, for they do not do as they would be done 
 by. They're not reasoning beings, for they do not see that 
 a leg's a leg. They're not made of the same sort of stuff; 
 and so, if they bleed, it does not signify; if they die of a 
 torturing fracture, who cares 1 In short, it's no use talk- 
 ing. - There's no end of these things. So here goes. 
 Now, if I hit him, he is killed outright, which is no harm 
 to any body ; and if I wound him, why, he only goes 
 groaning and writhing for three or four days ; and who 
 cares for that 1 ' ' 
 
 " Upon my soul, if I listen, you'll make a milk-sop of 
 me. Consider think of the advantages of fresh air and 
 exercise; of getting up in the morning, and scouring the 
 country, and all that." 
 
 " Excellent: but, my dear Tomkins, the birds are no* 
 bound to suffer, because you want fresh air." 
 
 " But it's the only time of the year, perhaps, that I can 
 3
 
 26 A COUNTRY LODGING. 
 
 get out; and I must have something to do- something to 
 occupy me and lead me about." 
 
 " The birds, Tomkins, are not bound to have their legs 
 and thighs broken, because you are in want of something 
 to lead you about." 
 
 " Well, you know what I mean. I meant that we must 
 not look too nicely into these things, as somebody said 
 about fish ; or we should fret ourselves for nothing. The 
 birds kill one another." 
 
 " Yes, from necessity ; for the want of a meal. But 
 they do not torture or, if they did, that would be because 
 they did not reason as well as you and I, Tomkins." 
 
 "What I meant to say is, that there's pain in the world 
 already ; we cannot help it ; and if we can turn it to 
 pleasure, so much the better. This is manly, I think." 
 
 " Well said, indeed. But to turn pain into pleasure, and 
 to add to 'it by more pain, are two different things, are 
 they not? To bear pain like a man, and to inflict it like 
 a sportsman, are two different things." 
 
 " A sportsman can bear pain as well as any body." 
 
 " Then why does he not begin by turning his own pain 
 into a pleasure ? As it is, he turns his own pleasure to 
 another's pain. Why does he not begin with himself? " 
 
 "How with himself?" 
 
 " Why, you talk of the want of amusement and excite- 
 ment. Now, to say nothing of cricket, and golf, and boat- 
 ing, and other sports, are there no such things to be had as 
 quarter-staves, single-stick, and broken heads? A good 
 handsome pain there is a gallant thing, and strengthens 
 the soul as well as the body. If there must be a certain 
 portion of pain in the world, these were the ways to share it. 
 But to sneak about, safe one's-self, with a gun and a dog, 
 and inflict all sorts of wounds and torments upon a parcel 
 of little helpless birds, Tomkins, you know not what 
 you are at, when you do it ; or you are too much of a man 
 to go on."
 
 A COUNTRY LODGING. 27 
 
 " I cannot think that we inflict those tortures you 
 speak of." 
 
 " How many birds do you wound instead of kill ? Say, 
 upon an average, twenty to one, which is a generous com- 
 putation. How many hundred birds would this make in 
 the course of the day ? How many thousands in the 
 course of a season? To bring them down, and then be 
 obliged to kill them, is butcherly enough ; but to lame, 
 and dislocate, and shatter the joints and bodies of so many 
 that fly off, and leave them to die a lingering death in their 
 agony, I think it would not be unworthy of some philoso- 
 phers and teachers, if they were to think a little of all this 
 as they go, and not talk of the 'sport' and the ' amuse- 
 ment ' like others ; as if men were to be trained up at 
 once into thought and want of thought, into humanity and 
 cruelty. Really, men are not the only creatures in exist- 
 ence ; and the laugh of mutual complacency and approba- 
 tion is apt to contain very sorry and shallow things, even 
 among the ' celebrated ' and ' highly respectable.' I don't 
 speak of you, Jack, but of those who make a profession of 
 thinking, which, you know, you are not under the neces- 
 sity of doing. But what's the matter? " 
 
 " Oh ! " said he, " oh ! " pressing his hand upon his 
 cheek, " I've got a terrible toothache come upon me. Oh! 
 Of all pains, the toothache is the most horrible. I've no 
 patience with it." 
 
 " I'll shut the door. There now never mind the tooth- 
 ache, for I'll bear it capitally." 
 
 " You bear it! That's a good one. Very easy for you 
 to bear it; but how can I? Hm ! hm ! (writhing about) 
 it's the most intolerable pain." 
 
 " Stay here's some oil of cloves Mrs. Wilson has 
 brought you. How does it feel now ? " 
 
 " Wonderfully. The pain is quite gone. It was very 
 bad, I assure you. You must not think I am wanting in 
 proper courage as a man, because it hurt me so You
 
 28 A COUNTRY LODGING. 
 
 know, Harry, I can be as bold as most men, though I say 
 it, who shouldn't." 
 
 " My dear Jack, you have as much right to speak the 
 truth as I have. The boldest of men is not expected to 
 be without feeling. An officer may go bravely into battle, 
 and bear it bravely too, but he must feel it : he cannot be 
 insensible to a shattered knee." 
 
 " Certainly not." 
 
 " Or to a jaw blown away." 
 
 " By no means." 
 
 " Or four of his ribs jammed in." 
 
 " Horrible ! " 
 
 " Or a face mashed, and his nose forced in." 
 
 " Don't speak of it ! " 
 
 " Or his two legs taken off by a cannon ball, he being 
 left to fester to death on a winter's night on a large plain." 
 
 " Upon my soul, you make my flesh creep on my bones." 
 
 " A gallant spirit is not bound to feel all this, or even to 
 hear of it, without shuddering, even though the battle may 
 be necessary, and a great good produced by it to society." 
 
 " Certainly, certainly, God knows." 
 
 " It is only a woodcock or a snipe that ought to bear it 
 without complaining. Your partridge is the only piece of 
 flesh and blood that we may put into such a state for no 
 necessity, but purely for our sport and pleasure." 
 
 " How 1 What's that you say ? " 
 
 " I say it is none but birds that we may, with a perfect 
 conscience, lame, lacerate, mash, and blow their legs and 
 beaks away, and leave, God knows where, to perish of 
 neglect and torture, they being the only masculine crea- 
 tures living, and not to be lowered into comparison with 
 soldiers and gallant men." 
 
 "Hey? Why, as to that Hey? What? 'Fore George, 
 you bewilder me with your list of tortures. But how am 
 I to be sure that a bird feels as you say ? " 
 
 " tt is enough that you know nothing certain. As you
 
 A COUNTRY LODGING. 29 
 
 are not sure, you have no right to hazard the injustice, 
 especially as you cannot help being sure of one thing ; 
 which is, that birds have flesh and blood like ourselves, 
 and that they afford similar evidences of feeling and suf- 
 fering. Allow me to read you a passage that I cut, the 
 other day, out of an old review. It is taken from Fother- 
 gill's Essay on the Philosophy, Study and Use of Natural 
 History ; a book which I shall make acquaintance with as 
 soon as I can. Here it is. 
 
 " ' It may perhaps be said, that a discourse on the iniquity and 
 evil consequences of murder would come with a bad grace from 
 one who was himself a murderer: and so it would; but not if it 
 came from the lips of a repentant murderer. Who can describe 
 that which he has not seen, or give utterance to that which 
 he has not felt? Never shall I forget the remembrance of 
 a little incident which occurred to me during my boyish 
 days an incident which many will deem trifling and unim- 
 portant, but which has been particularly interesting to my 
 heart, as giving origin to sentiments, and rules of action, which 
 have since been very dear to me. Besides a singular elegance 
 of form and beauty of plumage, the eye of the common lap- 
 wing is peculiarly soft and expressive : it is large, black, and 
 full of lustre, rolling, as it seems to do, in liquid gems of dew. 
 I had shot a bird of this beautiful species ; but, on taking it up, 
 I found that it was not dead. I had wounded its breast ; and 
 some big drops of blood stained the pure whiteness of its 
 feathers. As I held the hapless bird in my hand, hundreds of 
 its companions hovered around my head, uttering continued 
 shrieks of distress, and, by their plaintive cries, appeared to be- 
 moan the fate of one to whom they were connected by ties of 
 the most tender and interesting nature ; whilst the poor wound- 
 ed bird continually moaned, with a kind of inward, wailing note, 
 expressive of the keenest anguish ; and, ever and anon, it raised 
 its drooping head, and, turning towards the wound in its breast, 
 touched it with its bill, and then looked up in my face, with an 
 expression that I have no wish to forget, for it had power to 
 touch my heart, whilst yet a boy, when a thousand dry precepts 
 in the academical closet would have been of no avail.' " 
 3*
 
 SO A COUNTRY LODGING. 
 
 " Well, now, Harry, that's touching. He's right about 
 the precepts. You have saved 'em from being dry, eh, 
 with your claret? but all that you have said hasn't touched 
 me like that story. A lapwing ! Hang me if I shall have 
 the heart to touch another lapwing." 
 
 " But other birds, Jack, have feelings as well as lap- 
 wings." 
 
 " What do you say, though, about Providence ? Bilson 
 said some famous things about Providence. What do you 
 say to that ? " 
 
 " Oh ho ! What, he 
 
 1 Admits, and leaves them Providence's care' 
 does he ? You remember the passage, Jack, in Pope 
 
 God cannot love (cries Blunt with tearless eyes) 
 The wretch he starves ; and piously denies. 
 The humbler bishop, with a meeker air, 
 Admits, and leaves them, Providence's care.' 
 
 But we are Providence, Jack. Nay, don't start : I mean 
 that our own feelings, our own regulated feelings and in- 
 structed benevolence, are a part of the general action of 
 Providence, a consequence and furtherance of the Divine 
 Spirit. You see I can preach as well as Bilson. Human- 
 ity is the most visible putting forth of the Deity's hand ; 
 the noblest tool it works with. Or, if this theology doesn't 
 serve, recollect the fable of Jupiter and the Wagoner. Are 
 we content with abstract references to Providence, when we 
 can work out any good for ourselves, or save ourselves from 
 any evil? Did Bilson wait for Providence to induct him 
 to his living ? Did he not make a good stir about it him- 
 self? Push him into a ditch the next time you meet him, 
 and see if he will not bustle to get out of it. Leave him 
 to get out by himself, and see if he does not think you a 
 hard-hearted fellow. Wing him, Jack, wing him ; and 
 see if he'll apply to Providence or a surgeon."
 
 AHMED THE COBBLER. 31 
 
 " Eh ? That would be famous. I say I must be go- 
 ing though : it's getting dark, and I must be in town by 
 nine. Well, Harry, my boy, good bye. I can't say you've 
 convinced me : you know I told you I wasn't to be con- 
 vinced ; but I plainly confess I don't like the story of 
 the lapwing : it makes the bird look like a sort of human 
 creature ; and that's not to be resisted. So I'm taken in 
 about lapwings. Adieu." 
 
 " Well, Jack, you shall say that in print, and perhaps do 
 more good than you are aware. Have you any objection 1 " 
 
 " Not I, 'faith; I'd say it any where, if it came into my 
 head. But how 1 In the Sporting Magazine?" 
 
 " Why, I'm afraid we can hardly attain to such eminence 
 as that, especially on such a subject." 
 
 " I was thinking so. Oh, I see : you'll pull your hive 
 about my ears. Well, so be it. Adieu, Harry ; I'll send 
 you the books." 
 
 AHMED THE COBBLER. 
 
 IN the great city of Isfahan lived Ahmed the cobbler, 
 an honest and industrious man, whose wish was to pass 
 through life quietly ; and he might have done so, had he 
 not married a handsome wife, who, although she had con- 
 descended to accept of him as a husband, was far from 
 being contented with his humble sphere of life. 
 
 Sittara such was the name of Ahmed's wife was ever 
 forming foolish schemes of riches and grandeur; and 
 though Ahmed never encouraged them, he was too fond a 
 husband to quarrel with what gave her pleasure: an in- 
 credulous smile, or a shake of the head, was his only 
 answer to her often-told day-dreams ; and she continued 
 to persuade herself, that she was certainly destined to 
 great fortune.
 
 32 AHMED THE COBBLER. 
 
 It happened one evening, while in this temper of mind, 
 that she went to the Hemmam, where she saw a lady re- 
 tiring dressed in a magnificent robe, covered with jewels, 
 and surrounded by slaves. This was the very condition 
 Sittara had always longed for; and she eagerly inquired 
 the name of the happy person who had so many attend- 
 ants and such fine jewels. She learned it was the wife of 
 the chief astrologer to the king. With this information 
 she returned home. Her husband met her at the door, 
 but was received with a frown ; nor could all his caresses 
 obtain a smile or a word ; for several hours she continued 
 silent, and in apparent misery ; at length she said 
 
 " Cease your caresses ; unless you are ready to give me 
 a proof that you do really and sincerely love me." 
 
 "What proof of love," exclaimed poor Ahmed, "can 
 you desire, which I will not give?" 
 
 " Give over cobbling : it is a vile, low trade, and never 
 yields more than ten or twelve dinars a day. Turn astrolo- 
 ger ', your fortune will be made, and I shall have all I wish, 
 and be happy." 
 
 " Astrologer ! " cried Ahmed ; " astrologer ! Have you 
 forgotten who I am a cobbler, without any learning 
 that you want me to engage in a profession which requires 
 so much skill and knowledge ? " 
 
 " I neither think nor care about your qualifications," 
 said the enraged wife : " all I know is, that if you do not 
 turn astrologer immediately, I will be divorced from you 
 to-morrow." 
 
 The cobbler remonstrated, but in vain. The figure of 
 the astrologer's wife, with her jewels and her slaves, had 
 taken complete possession of Sittara's imagination. All 
 night it haunted her; she dreamt of nothing else; and, on 
 awakening, declared she would leave the house, if her hus- 
 band did not comply with her wishes. What could poor Ah- 
 med do ? He was no astrologer ; but he was dotingly fond
 
 AHMED THE COBBLER. 33 
 
 of his wife, and he could not bear the idea of losing her. 
 He promised to obey ; and, having sold his little stock, 
 bought an astrolabe, an astronomical almanac, and a table 
 of the twelve signs of the zodiac. Furnished with these, 
 he went to the market-place, crying, " I am an astrologer ! 
 I know the sun, and the moon, and the stars, and the 
 twelve signs of the zodiac ; I can calculate nativities ; I 
 can foretell every thing that is to happen ! " 
 
 No man was better known than Ahmed the cobbler. 
 A crowd soon gathered round him. " What, friend Ah- 
 med," said one, " have you worked till your head is turn- 
 ed ? " " Are you tired of looking down at your last," cried 
 another, "that you are now looking up at the planets?" 
 These, and a thousand other jokes, assailed the ears of the 
 poor cobbler, who, notwithstanding, continued to exclaim 
 that he was an astrologer, having resolved on doing wha 
 he could to please his beautiful wife. 
 
 It so happened, that the king's jeweller was passing by 
 He was in great distress, having lost the richest ruby be- 
 longing to the crown. Every search had been made to 
 recover this inestimable jewel, but to no purpose ; and as 
 the jeweller knew he could no longer conceal its loss from 
 the king, he looked forward to death as inevitable. In this 
 hopeless state, while wandering about the town, he reach- 
 ed the crowd around Ahmed, and asked what was the 
 matter. " Don't you know Ahmed the cobbler?" said 
 one of the bystanders, laughing ; " he has been inspired, 
 and is become an astrologer." 
 
 A drowning man will catch at a broken reed. The jew- 
 eller no sooner heard the sound of the word astrologer, 
 than he went up to Ahmed, told him what had happened, 
 and said, " If you understand your art, you must be able 
 to discover the king's ruby. Do so, and I will give you 
 two hundred pieces of gold. But if you do not succeed 
 within six hours, I will use all my influence at court to 
 have you put to death as an impostor." 
 
 Poor Ahmed was thunderstruck. He stood long wjth-
 
 34 AHMED THE COBBLER. 
 
 out being able to move or speak, reflecting on his misfor- 
 tunes, and grieving, above all, that his wife, whom he so 
 loved, had, by her envy and selfishness, brought him to 
 such a fearful alternative. Full of these sad thoughts, he 
 exclaimed aloud, " Oh, woman, woman ! thou art more 
 baneful to the happiness of man than the poisonous drag- 
 on of the desert!" 
 
 The lost ruby had been secreted by the jeweller's wife, 
 who, disquieted by those alarms which ever attend guilt, 
 sent one of her female slaves to watch her husband. This 
 slave, on seeing her master speak to the astrologer, drew 
 near ; and when she heard Ahmed, after some moments 
 of apparent abstraction, compare a woman to a poisonous 
 dragon, she was satisfied he must know every thing. She 
 ran to her mistress, and, breathless with fear, cried, "You 
 are discovered, my dear mistress ; you are discovered by a 
 vile astrologer. Before six hours are past, the whole story 
 will be known, and you will become infamous, if you are 
 so fortunate as to escape with life, unless you can find 
 some way of prevailing on him to be merciful." She then 
 related what she had seen and heard ; and Ahmed's ex- 
 clamation carried as complete conviction to the mind of 
 the terrified mistress as it had done to that of her slave. 
 
 The jeweller's wife, hastily throwing on her veil, went 
 in search of the dreaded astrologer. When she found 
 him, she threw herself at his feet, crying, " Spare my 
 honor and my life, and I will confess every thing." 
 
 " What can you have to confess to me ? " exclaimed 
 Ahmed, in amazement. 
 
 " O nothing, nothing with which you are not already 
 acquainted. You know too well that I stole the ruby from 
 the king's crown. I did so to punish my husband, who 
 uses me most cruelly ; and I thought by this means to ob- 
 tain riches for myself, and to have him put to death. But 
 you, most wonderful man, from whom nothing is hidden, 
 have discovered and defeated my wicked plan. I beg only 
 for mercy, and will do whatever you command me."
 
 AHMED THE COBBLER. 35 
 
 An angel from heaven could not have brought more 
 consolation to Ahmed than did the jeweller's wife. He 
 assumed all the dignified solemnity that became his new 
 character, and said, " Woman, I know all that thou hast 
 done; and it is fortunate for thee that thou hast come to 
 confess thy sin, and beg for mercy before it was too late. 
 Return to thy house, put the ruby under the pillow of the 
 couch on which thy husband sleeps ; let it be laid on the 
 side farthest from the door ; and be satisfied thy guilt shall 
 never be even suspected." 
 
 The jeweller's wife returned home, and did as she was 
 desired. In an hour Ahmed followed her, and told the 
 jeweller he had made his calculations, and found, by the 
 aspect of the sun and moon, and by the configuration of 
 the stars, that the ruby was at that moment lying under 
 the pillow of his couch, on the side farthest from the door. 
 The jeweller thought Ahmed must be crazy ; but as a ray 
 of hope is like a ray from heaven to the wretched, he ran 
 to his couch, and there, to his joy and wonder, found the 
 ruby in the very place described. He came back to Ah- 
 med, embraced him, called him his dearest friend and the 
 preserver of his life, gave him the two hundred pieces of 
 gold, declaring that he was the first astrologer of the age. 
 
 These praises conveyed no joy to the poor cobbler, who 
 returned home more thankful to God for his preservation 
 than elated by his good fortune. The moment he entered 
 the door, his wife ran up to him, and exclaimed, "Well, 
 my dear astrologer, what success?" 
 
 "There!" said Ahmed, very gravely, "there are two 
 hundred pieces of gold : I hope you will be satisfied now, 
 and not ask me again to hazard my life, as I have done this 
 morning." He then related all that had passed. But the 
 recital made a very different impression on the lady from 
 what these occurrences had made on Ahmed. Sittara 
 saw nothing but the gold which would enable her to vie 
 with the chief astrologer's wife at the Hemmam. " Cour-
 
 36 AHMED THE COBBLER. 
 
 age ! " said she, " courage, my dearest husband. This is 
 only your first labor in your new and noble profession. Go 
 on and prosper; and we shall become rich and happy." 
 
 In vain Ahmed remonstrated, and represented the dan- 
 ger : she burst into tears, and accused him of not loving 
 her, ending with her usual threat of insisting upon a di- 
 vorce. 
 
 Ahmed's heart melted, and he agreed to make another 
 trial. Accordingly, next morning, he sallied forth with his 
 astrolabe, his twelve signs of the zodiac, and his almanac, 
 exclaiming, as before, " I am an astrologer! I know the 
 sun, and the moon, and the stars, and the twelve signs of 
 the zodiac ; I can calculate nativities ; I can foretell every 
 thing that is to happen ! " A crowd again gathered round 
 him ; but it was now with wonder, and not ridicule ; for 
 the story of the ruby had gone abroad, and the voice 
 of fame had converted the poor cobbler Ahmed into the 
 ablest and most learned astrologer that was ever seen at 
 Isfahan. 
 
 While^every body was gazing at him, a lady passed by 
 veiled. She was the wife of one of the richest merchants 
 in the city, and had just been at the Hemmam, where she 
 had lost a valuable necklace and ear-rings. She was now 
 returning home in great alarm, lest her husband should 
 suspect her of having given her jewels to a lover. Seeing 
 the crowd around Ahmed, she asked the reason of their 
 assembling, and was informed of the whole story of the 
 famous astrologer ; how he had been a cobbler, was in- 
 spired with supernatural knowledge, and could, with the 
 help of his astrolabe, his twelve signs of the zodiac, and his 
 almanac, discover all that ever had, or ever would happen 
 in the world. The story of the jeweller and the king's 
 ruby was then told her, accompanied by a thousand won- 
 derful circumstances which had never occurred. The lady, 
 quite satisfied 'of his skill, went up to Ahmed, and men- 
 tioned her loss, saying, " A man of your knowledge and
 
 AHMED THE COBBLER. 37 
 
 penetration will easily discover my jewels : find them, and 
 I will give you fifty pieces of gold." 
 
 The poor cobbler was quite confounded, and looked 
 down, thinking only how to escape without a public expo- 
 sure of his ignorance. The lady, in passing through the 
 crowd, had torn the lower part of her veil. Ahmed's down- 
 cast eyes noticed this, and, wishing to inform her of it in a 
 delicate manner, before it was observed by others, he whis- 
 pered to her, " Lady, look down at the rent." The lady's 
 head was full of her loss, and she was at that moment 
 endeavoring to recollect how it could have occurred. Ah- 
 med's speech brought it at once to her mind, and she ex- 
 claimed in delighted surprise, " Stay here a few moments, 
 thou great astrologer. I will return immediately with the 
 reward thou so well deservest." Saying this, she left him, 
 and soon returned, carrying in one hand the necklace and 
 earrings, and in the other a purse with fifty pieces of gold. 
 " There is gold for thee," she said, " thou wonderful 
 man, to whom all the secrets of nature are revealed. I 
 had quite forgotten where I laid the jewels, and without 
 thee should never have found them. But when thou de- 
 siredst me to look at the rent below, I instantly recollected 
 the rent near the bottom of the wall in the bath-room, 
 where, before undressing, I had hid them. I can now go 
 home in peace and comfort ; and it is all owing to thee, 
 thou wisest of men." 
 
 After these words, she walked away, and Ahmed return- 
 ed to his home, thankful to Providence for his preservation, 
 and fully resolved never again to tempt it. His handsome 
 wife, however, could not yet rival the chief astrologer's 
 lady in her appearance at the Hemmam ; so she renewed 
 her entreaties and threats to make her fond husband con- 
 tinue his career as an astrologer. 
 
 About this time, it happened that the king's treasury was 
 robbed of forty chests of gold and jewels, forming the 
 greater part of the wealth of the kingdom. The high-
 
 38 AHMED THE COBBLER. 
 
 treasurer and other officers of state used all diligence to 
 find the thieves, but in vain. The king sent for his astrolo- 
 ger, and declared, that if the robbers were not detected by 
 a stated time, he, as well as the principal ministers, should 
 be put to death. Only one day of the short period given 
 them remained. All their search had proved fruitless, and 
 the chief astrologer, who had made his calculations and 
 exhausted his art to no purpose, had resigned himself to 
 his fate, when one of his friends advised him to send for 
 the wonderful cobbler, who had become so famous for his 
 extraordinary discoveries. Two slaves were immediately 
 despatched for Ahmed, whom they commanded to go with 
 them to their master. " You see the effects of your ambi- 
 tion," said the poor cobbler to his wife ; " I am going to 
 my death. The king's astrologer has heard of my pre- 
 sumption, and is determined to have me executed as an 
 impostor." 
 
 On entering the palace of the chief astrologer, he was 
 surprised to see that dignified person come forward to re- 
 ceive him, and lead him to the seat of honor, and not less so 
 to hear himself thus addressed : " The ways of Heaven, 
 most learned and excellent Ahmed, are unsearchable. 
 The high are often cast down, and the low are lifted up. 
 The whole world depends upon fate and fortune. It is my 
 turn now to be depressed by fate ; it is thine to be exalted 
 by fortune." 
 
 His speech was here interrupted by a messenger from 
 the king, who, having heard of the cobbler's fame, de- 
 sired his attendance. Poor Ahmed now concluded that it 
 was all over with him, and followed the king's messenger, 
 praying to God that he would deliver him from his peril. 
 When he came into the king's presence, he bent his body 
 'to the ground, and wished his majesty long life and pros- 
 perity. " Tell me, Ahmed," said the king, " who has 
 stolen my treasure." 
 
 *' It was not one man," answered Ahmed, after some
 
 AHMED THE COBBLER. 39 
 
 consideration : " there were forty thieves concerned in the 
 robbery." 
 
 " Very well," said the king; " but who were they? and 
 what have they done with my gold and jewels ? " 
 
 " These questions," said Ahmed, "I cannot now answer, 
 but I hope to satisfy your majesty, if you will grant me forty 
 days to make my calculations." 
 
 " I grant you forty days," said the king ; " but when 
 they are past, if my treasure is not found, your life shall 
 pay the forfeit." 
 
 Ahmed returned to his house well pleased; for he re- 
 solved to take advantage of the time allowed him, to fly 
 from a city where his fame was likely to be his ruin. 
 " Well, Ahmed," said his wife, as he entered the house, 
 " what news at court? " 
 
 ' No news at all," said he, " except that I am to be put 
 10 death at the end of forty days, unless I find forty chests 
 of gold and jewels, which have been stolen from the royal 
 treasury." 
 
 " But you will discover the thieves." 
 
 " How ? By what means am I to find them 1 " 
 
 " By the same art which discovered the ruby and the 
 lady's necklace." 
 
 " The same art ! " replied Ahmed. " Foolish woman ! 
 Thou knowest that I have no art, and that I have only pre- 
 tended to it for the sake of pleasing thee. But I have had 
 sufficient skill to gain forty days, during which time we 
 may easily escape to some other city ; and, with the money 
 I now possess, and the aid of my former occupation, we 
 may still obtain an honest livelihood." 
 
 " An honest livelihood ! " repeated his lady with scorn. 
 " Will thy cobbling, thou mean, spiritless wretch ! ever 
 enable me to go to the Hemmam like the wife of the chief 
 astrologer ? Hear rue, Ahmed : think only of discovering 
 the king's treasure. Thou hast just as good a chance of 
 doing so as thou hadst of finding the ruby, and the neck-
 
 40 AHMED THE COBBLER. 
 
 lace and earrings. At all events, I am determined that 
 
 O * 
 
 thou shalt not escape ; and shouldst thou attempt to run 
 away, I will inform the king's officers, and have thee taken 
 up, and put to death, even before the forty days are expir- 
 ed. Thou knowest me too well, Ahmed, to doubt my keep- 
 ing my word. So take courage, and endeavor to make 
 thy fortune, and to place me in that rank of life to which 
 my beauty entitles me." 
 
 The poor cobbler was dismayed at this speech ; but, 
 knowing there was no hope of changing his wife's reso- 
 lution, he resigned himself to his fate. " Well," said 
 he, " your will shall be obeyed. All I desire is to pass the 
 few remaining days of my life as comfortably as I can. 
 You know I am no scholar, and have little skill in reckon- 
 ing ; so there are forty dates : give me one of them every 
 night after I have said my prayers, that I may put them in 
 a jar, and, by counting them, may always see how many of 
 the few days I have to live are gone." 
 
 The lady, pleased at carrying her point, took the dates, 
 and promised to be punctual in doing what her husband 
 desired. 
 
 Meanwhile, the thieves, who had stolen the king's treas- 
 ure, having been kept from leaving the city by fear of de- 
 tection and pursuit, had received accurate information of 
 every measure taken to discover "them. One of them was 
 among the crowd before the palace on the day the king 
 sent for Ahmed ; and, hearing that the cobbler had imme- 
 diately declared their exact number, he ran in a fright to 
 his comrades, and exclaimed, " We are all found out ! Ah- 
 med, the new astrologer, has told the king that there are 
 forty of us." 
 
 " There needed no astrologer to tell that," said the cap- 
 tain of the gang. " This Ahmed, with all his simple good 
 nature, is a shrewd fellow. Forty chests having been sto- 
 len, he naturally guessed that there must be forty thieves; 
 and he has made a good hit ; that is all : still, it is prudent
 
 AHMED THK COSHLER. 41 
 
 to watch him; for he certainly has made some strange dis- 
 coveries. One of us must go to-night, after dark, to the 
 terrace of this cobbler's house, and listen to his conversa- 
 tion with his handsome wife ; for he is said to be very fond 
 of her, and will, no doubt, tell her what success he has 
 had in his endeavors to detect us." 
 
 Every bo.ly approved of this scheme ; and, soon after 
 night-fall, one of the thieves repaired to the terrace. He 
 arrived there just as the cobbler had finished his evening 
 prayers, and his wife was giving him the first date. " Ah ! " 
 said Ahmed, as he took it, " there is one of the forty." 
 
 The thief, hearing these words, hastened, in consterna- 
 tion, to the gang, and told them that, the moment he took 
 his post, he had been perceived by the supernatural knowl- 
 edge of Ahmed, who immediately told his wife that one of 
 them was there. The spy's tale was not believed by his 
 hardened companions: something was imputed to his fears: 
 he might have been mistaken : in short, it was determined 
 to send two men the next night at the same hour. They 
 reached the house just as Ahmed, having finished his 
 prayers, had received the second date, and heard him ex- 
 claim, " My dear wife, to-night there are two of them." 
 
 The astonished thieves fled, and told their still incredu- 
 lous comrades what they had heard. Three men were 
 consequently sent the third night, four the fourth, and so 
 on. Being afraid of venturing during the day, they always 
 came as evening closed in, and just as Ahmed was receiv- 
 ing his date : hence they all in turn heard him say that 
 which convinced them he was aware of their presence. 
 On the last night, they all went; and Ahmed exclaimed 
 aloud, " The number is complete. To-night, the whole 
 forty are here." 
 
 All doubts were now removed. It was impossible that 
 
 Ahmed should have discovered them by any natural means. 
 
 How could he ascertain their exact number? and night 
 
 after night, without ever once being mistaken ? He must 
 
 4*
 
 42 AHMED THE COBBLER. 
 
 have learnt it by his skill in astrology. Even the captain 
 now yielded, in spite of his incredulity, and declared his 
 opinion that it was hopeless to elude a man thus gifted ; 
 he therefore advised that they should make a friend of 
 the cobbler, by confessing every thing to him, and bribing 
 him to secrecy by a share of the booty. 
 
 His advice was approved of; and, an hour before dawn, 
 they knocked at Ahmed's door. The poor man jumped 
 out of bed, and, supposing the soldiers were come to lead 
 him to execution, cried out, " Have patience. I know 
 what you are come for. It is a very unjust and wicked 
 deed." 
 
 " Most wonderful man," said the captain, as the door 
 was opened, " we are fully convinced that thou knowest 
 why we are come ; nor do we mean to justify the action of 
 which thou speakest. Here are two thousand pieces of 
 gold, which we will give thee, provided thou wilt swear to 
 say nothing more about the matter." 
 
 " Say nothing about it! " said Ahmed. " Do you think 
 it possible I can suffer such gross wrong and injustice with- 
 out complaining, and making it known to all the world ? " 
 
 " Have mercy upon us ! " exclaimed the thieves, falling 
 on their knees ; " only spare our lives, and we will restore 
 the royal treasure." 
 
 The cobbler started, rubbed his eyes, to see if he were 
 asleep or awake ; and, being satisfied that he was awake, 
 and that the men before him were really the thieves, he 
 assumed a solemn tone, and said, " Guilty men, ye are 
 persuaded that ye cannot escape from my penetration, 
 which reaches unto the sun and moon, and knows the 
 position and aspect of every star in the .heavens. Your 
 timely repentance has saved you. But ye must immedi- 
 ately restore all that ye have stolen. Go straightway, and 
 carry the forty chests exactly as ye found them, and bury 
 them a foot deep under the southern wall of the old Hem- 
 mam, beyond the king's palace. If ye do this punctually,
 
 AHMED THE COBBLER. 43 
 
 your lives are spared ; but if ye fail in the slightest de- 
 gree, destruction will fall upon you and your families." 
 
 The thieves promised obedience to his commands, and 
 departed. Ahmed then fell on his knees, and returned 
 thanks to God for this signal mark of his favor. About 
 two hours after, the royal guards came, and desired Ah- 
 med to follow them. He said he would attend them as 
 soon as he had taken leave of his wife, to whom he deter- 
 mined not to impart what had occurred until he saw the 
 result. He bade her farewell very affectionately. She sup- 
 ported herself with great fortitude on this trying occasion, 
 exhorting her husband to be of good cheer, and said a few 
 words about the goodness of Providence. But the fact 
 was, Sittara fancied that if God took the worthy cobbler 
 to himself, her beauty might attract some rich lover, who 
 would enable her to go to the Hemmam with as much 
 splendor as the astrologer's lady, whose image, adorned 
 with jewels and fine clothes, and surrounded by slaves, 
 still haunted her imagination. 
 
 The decrees of Heaven are just : a reward suited to 
 their merits awaited Ahmed and his wife. The good man 
 stood with a cheerful countenance before the king, who 
 was impatient for his arrival, and immediately said, " Ah- 
 med, thy looks are promising: hast thou discovered my 
 treasure ? " 
 
 " Does your majesty require the thieves or the treasure ? 
 The stars will only grant one or the other," said Ahmed, 
 looking at his table of astrological calculations. " Your 
 majesty must make your choice. I can deliver up either, 
 but not both." 
 
 " I should be sorry not to punish the thieves," answered 
 the king ; " but, if it must be so, I choose the treasure." 
 
 " And you give the thieves a full and free pardon ? " 
 
 " I do, provided I find my treasure untouched." 
 
 " Then," said Ahmed, " if your majesty will follow me, 
 the treasure shall be restored to vou."
 
 44 AHMED THE COBBLER. 
 
 The king and all his nobles followed the cobbler to the 
 ruins of the old Hemmam. There, casting his eyes to- 
 ward heaven, Ahmed muttered some sounds, which were 
 supposed, by the spsctators, to be magical conjurations, but 
 which were, in reality, the prayers and thanksgivings of a 
 sincere and pious heart to God, for his wonderful deliver- 
 ance. When his prayer was finished, he pointed to the 
 southern wall, and requested that his majesty would order 
 his attendants to dig there. The work was hardly begun, 
 when the whole forty chests were found in the same state 
 as when stolen, with the treasurer's seal upon them still 
 unbroken. 
 
 The king's joy knew no bounds : he embraced Ahmed, 
 and immediately appointed him his chief astrologer, as- 
 signed to him an apartment in the palace, and declared 
 that he should marry his only daughter, as it was his duty 
 to promote the man whom God had so singularly favored, 
 and had made instrumental in restoring the treasures of 
 his kingdom. The young princess, who was more beauti- 
 ful than the moon, was not dissatisfied with her father's 
 choice ; for her mind was stored with religion and virtue, 
 and she had learned to value beyond all earthly qualities 
 that piety arid learning which she believed Ahmed to pos- 
 sess. The royal will was carried into execution as soon 
 as formed. The wheel of fortune had taken a complete 
 turn. The morning had found Ahmed in a wretched 
 hovel, rising from a sorry bed, in the expectation of losing 
 his life: in the evening, he was the lord of a rich palace, 
 and married to the only daughter of a powerful king. 
 But this change did not alter his character. As he had 
 been meek and humble in adversity, he was modest and 
 gentle in prosperity. Conscious of his own ignorance, he
 
 AHMED THE COBBLER. 45 
 
 continued to ascribe his good fortune solely to the favor 
 of Providence. He became daily more attached to the 
 beautiful and virtuous princess whom he had married ; and 
 he could not help contrasting her character with that of 
 his former wife, whom he had ceased to love, and of whose 
 unreasonable and unfeeling vanity he was now fully sen- 
 sible. 
 
 As Ahmed did not return to his house, Sittara only heard 
 of his elevation from common rumor. She saw, with de- 
 spair, that her wishes for his advancement had been more 
 than accomplished, but that all her own desires had 
 been entirely frustrated. Her husband was chief astrolo- 
 ger the very situation she had set her heart on : he was 
 rich enough to enable his wife to surpass all the ladies of 
 Isfahan in the number of her slaves, and the finery of 
 her clothes and jewels, whenever she went to the Hem- 
 mam ; but he had married a princess ; and his former 
 wife, according to custom, was banished from his house, 
 and condemned to live on whatever pittance she might re- 
 ceive from a man whose love and esteem she had forever 
 forfeited. These thoughts distracted her mind : her envy 
 was excited by the accounts she daily heard of Ahmed's 
 happiness, and of the beauty of the princess ; and she 
 now became anxious only for his destruction, looking on 
 him as the sole cause of her disappointment. 
 
 An opportunity of indulging her revengeful feelings was 
 not long wanting. The king of Seestan had sent an em- 
 erald, of extraordinary size and brilliancy, as a present, to 
 the king of Irak. It was carefully enclosed in a box, to 
 which there were three keys ; and one of them was given 
 in charge to each of the three confidential servants em- 
 ployed to convey it. When they reached Isfahan, the box 
 was opened, but the emerald was gone. Nothing could 
 exceed their consternation: each accused the other: as 
 the lock was not broken, it was evident one of them must 
 be the thief. They consulted what was to be done. To
 
 46 AHMED THE COBBLER. 
 
 conceal what had happened, was impossible : the very at- 
 tempt would have brought death on them all. It was re- 
 solved, therefore, to lay the whole matter before the king, 
 and beg that by his great wisdom he would deteqt the cul- 
 prit, and that he would show mercy to the other two. 
 
 The king heard the story with astonishment, but was 
 unable to find any clew by which he might ascertain the 
 truth. He summoned his vizier and all the wisest men of 
 his court ; but they were as much at a loss as their mas- 
 ter. The report spread through the city ; and Sittara 
 thought she had now the means of working her husband's 
 ruin. She solicited a private audience of his majesty, on 
 the plea of having a communication of importance to 
 make. Her request was granted. On entering the royal 
 presence, she threw herself at his feet, exclaiming, " Par- 
 don, O king, my having so long concealed the guilt of 
 my husband Ahmed, whose alliance is a disgrace to the 
 royal blood. He is no astrologer, but an associate of 
 thieves, and by that means only did he discover the royal 
 treasure. If any doubts are entertained of my speaking 
 the truth, let his majesty command Ahmed to recover the 
 emerald which the servants of the king of Seestan have 
 stolen. Surely the man, who, by his wonderful art, ascer- 
 tained where all the treasure of the kingdom was conceal- 
 ed, will find it an easy matter to discover a single precious 
 stone." 
 
 The king, who loved his son-in-law, was grieved by this 
 information. Still, as the honor of his family was con- 
 cerned, he resolved to put Ahmed to the test, and, if 
 he found him an impostor, to vindicate the royal dignity 
 by his condign punishment. He therefore sent for Ah- 
 med, told him what had happened, and added, " I give 
 you twenty days to discover who stole the emerald. If 
 you succeed, you shall be raised to the highest honors 
 of the state. If not, you shall suffer death for having de- 
 ceived me."
 
 AHMED THE COBBLER. 47 
 
 Poor Ahmed quitted the presence quite disconsolate. 
 The princess, perceiving his affliction, inquired the cause. 
 Ahmed was by nature as sincere as he was pious and hum- 
 ble. He related, without concealment or disguise, every 
 event of his past life, and concluded with these words : 
 " You must see, from what I have said, how incapable 
 I am of doing what your father enjoins. My life must 
 answer for it ; and my only consolation is, that I shall, in 
 twenty days, relieve you from a husband whom, from this 
 time, you must despise." 
 
 " I only love you the better, my dear Ahmed, for your 
 sincerity and truth," said the princess. " One who has 
 been so favored by Heaven must be dear to every pious 
 heart. Be of good cheer : I will turn astrologer this time, 
 and see whether I can find out the thief. All that I 
 require is, that you endeavor to be composed, while I con- 
 sult the stars and make my calculations." 
 
 Ahmed, delighted by this proof of affection, and re- 
 assured by the confidence of her manner, promised to be 
 obedient, and said he would only venture to assist her 
 exertions by his earnest prayers to that Power which had 
 never deserted him. 
 
 The princess immediately invited the messengers from 
 the king of Seestan to her palace. They were surprised 
 at the invitation, and still more at their reception. " You 
 are strangers," she said to them, " and come from a pow- 
 erful king. It is my wish to show you every attention. 
 As to the lost emerald, think no more of it; it is a mere 
 trifle. I will intercede with the king, my father, to give 
 himself no further concern on the subject, being con- 
 vinced that it has been lost by one of those strange acci- 
 dents for which it is impossible to account." 
 
 The princess entertained the strangers for several days, 
 and during that time the emerald seemed to be forgotten. 
 She conversed with them freely, inquiring particularly of 
 Seestan, and the countries they had seen on their travels.
 
 48 AHMED THE COBBLER. 
 
 Flattered by her condescension, they became confident of 
 their safety, and were delighted with their royal patroness. 
 The princess, seeing them completely off their guard, 
 turned the conversation, one evening, on wonderful occur- 
 rences, and, after each had related his story, said, " I will 
 now recount to you some events in my own life, which 
 you will, I think, deem more extraordinary than any you 
 have ever heard. 
 
 " I am my father's only child, and have therefore been a 
 favorite from my birth. I was brought up in the belief 
 that I could command whatever this world can afford, 
 and was taught that unbounded liberality was the first and 
 most princely of virtues. I early resolved to surpass every 
 former example of generosity. I thought my power of 
 doing good, and making every body happy, was as unlim- 
 ited as my wish to do so ; and I could not conceive the 
 existence of misery beyond my power to relieve. When 
 [ was eighteen, I was betrothed to my cousin, a young 
 prince, who excelled all others in beauty of person and 
 nobleness of mind; and I fancied myself at the summit 
 of happiness. It chanced, however, that, on the morning 
 of my nuptials, I went to walk in a garden near the pal- 
 ace, where I had been accustomed to spend some hours 
 daily from my childhood. The old gardener, with whose 
 cheerfulness I had often been amused, met me. Seeing 
 him look very miserable, I asked him what was the mat- 
 ter. He evaded a direct answer ; but I insisted upon his 
 disclosing the cause of his grief, declaring, at the same 
 time, my determination to remove it." 
 
 " ' You cannot relieve me,' said the old man, with a 
 deep sigh : ' it is out of your power, my beloved prin- 
 cess, to heal the wound of which I am dying.' 
 
 " My pride was roused, and I exclaimed, ' I swear ' 
 
 "' Do not swear,' said the gardener, seizing my hand. 
 
 " ' I do swear,' I repeated (irritated by the opposition). 
 ' I will stop at nothing to make you happy ; and I further
 
 AHMED THE COBBLER. 49 
 
 swear, that I will not leave this spot until you reveal the 
 grief which preys upon you.' 
 
 " The old man, seeing my resolution, spoke with tremu- 
 lous emotion as follows : ' Princess, you know not what 
 you have done. Behold a man who has dared, for these 
 two years, to look upon you with an eye of admiration : his 
 love has at length reached such a pitch, that without you 
 he must be wretched forever ; and unless you consent to 
 meet him in the garden to-night, and become his bride in- 
 stead of that of the prince, he must die.' 
 
 " Shocked by this unforeseen declaration, and trembling 
 at the thought of my oath, I tried to reason with the 
 old gardener, and offered him all the wealth I possessed. 
 ' I told you,' he replied, ' beautiful princess, that you could 
 not make me happy. I endeavored to prevent your rash 
 vow ; and nothing but that should have drawn from me 
 the secret of my heart. Death, I know, is my fate ; for I 
 cannot live and see you the wife of another. Leave me 
 to die. Go to your husband ; go to the enjoyment of your 
 pomp and riches ; but never again pretend to the exercise 
 of a power which depends upon a thousand circumstances 
 that no human being can regulate or control.' 
 
 " This speech conveyed a bitter reproach. I would 
 have sacrificed my life a hundred times, sooner than 
 stain my honor by marrying this man ; but I had made 
 a vow in the face of Heaven, and to break it seemed sac- 
 rilege. Besides, I earnestly wished to die undeceived in 
 my favorite notion, that I could make all who came near 
 me happy. Under the struggle of these different feelings, 
 I told the gardener his desire should be granted, and that 
 I would be in the garden an hour before midnight. After 
 this assurance, I went away, resolved in my own mind not 
 to outlive the disgrace to which I had doomed myself. 
 
 I passed the day in the deepest melancholy. A little 
 before midnight, I contrived to dismiss my attendants, and, 
 arrayed in my bridal apparel, which was covered with the 
 5
 
 50 AHMED THE COBBLER. 
 
 richest jewels, I went towards the garden. I had not pro- 
 ceeded many yards, when I was met by a thief, who, seiz- 
 ing me, said, ' Let me strip you, madam, of these un- 
 necessary ornaments : if you make the least noise, instant 
 death awaits you.' In my state of mind, such threats 
 frightened me little. I wished to die ; but I wished, before 
 I died, to fulfil my vow. I told my story to the thief, be- 
 seeching him to let me pass, and pledging my word to re- 
 turn, that he might not be disappointed of his booty. Af- 
 ter some hesitation, he allowed me to proceed. 
 
 " I had not gone many steps, when I encountered a fu- 
 rious lion, which had broken loose from my father's mena- 
 gerie. Knowing the merciful nature of this animal tow- 
 ards the weak and defenceless, I dropped on my knees, 
 repeated my story, and assured him, if he would let me 
 fulfil my vow, I would come back to him as ready to be 
 destroyed as he could be to make me his prey. The lion 
 stepped aside, and I went into the garden. 
 
 " I found the old gardener all impatience for my arrival. 
 He flew to meet me, exclaiming I was an angel. I told 
 him I was resigned to my engagement, but had not long 
 to live. He started, and asked what I meant. I gave him 
 an account of my meeting with the thief and the lion. 
 ' Wretch that I am ! ' cried the gardener ; ' how much 
 misery have I caused ! But, bad as I am, I am not worse 
 than a thief or a beast of prey ; which I should be, did I 
 not absolve you from your vow, and assure you the only 
 way in which you can now make me happy, is by frrgiv- 
 ing my wicked presumption.' 
 
 " I was completely relieved by these words, and granted 
 the forgiveness desired; but having determined, in spite 
 of the gardener's remonstrances, to keep my promises to 
 the thief and the lion, I refused to accept his protection. 
 On leaving the garden, the lion met me. ' Noble lion,' I 
 said, ' I am come, as I promised yoW I then related to 
 him how the gardener had absolved me from my vow ; and
 
 AHMED THE COBBLER. 51 
 
 I expressed a hope that the king of beasts would not belie 
 his renown for generosity. The lion again stepped aside, 
 and I proceeded to the thief, who was still standing where 
 I left him. I told him I was now in his power, but that, 
 before he stripped me, I must relate to him what had hap- 
 pened since our last meeting. Having heard me, he turn- 
 ed away, saying, ' I am not meaner than a poor gardener, 
 nor more cruel than a hungry lion : I will not injure what 
 they have respected.' 
 
 " Delighted with my escapes, I returned to my father's 
 palace, where I was united to my cousin, with whom I 
 lived happily to his death ; persuaded, however, that the 
 power of human beings to do good is very limited, and 
 that, when they leave the narrow path marked out for them 
 by their Maker, they not only lose their object, but often 
 wander far into error and guilt, by attempting more than 
 it is possible to perform." 
 
 The princess paused, and was glad to see her guests so 
 enchanted with her story, that it had banished every other 
 thought from their minds. After a few moments, she turn- 
 ed to one of them, and asked, " Now, which, think you, 
 showed the greatest virtue in his forbearance the gar- 
 dener, the thief, or the lion 1 " 
 
 " The gardener, assuredly," was his answer ; " to aban- 
 don so lovely a prize, when so nearly his own." 
 
 "And what is your opinion?" said the princess to his 
 neighbor. 
 
 " I think the lion was the most generous: be must have 
 been very hungry ; and, in such a state, it was great for- 
 bearance to abstain from devouring so delicate a morsel." 
 
 " You both seem to me quite wrong," said the third, 
 impatiently ; " the thief had by far the most merit. Gra- 
 cious heavens ! to have within his grasp such wealth, and 
 to refrain from taking it! I could not have believed it 
 possible, unless the princess herself had assured us of 
 the fact."
 
 52 AHMED THE COBBLER. 
 
 The princess, now, assuming an air of dignity, said to 
 the first who spoke, " You, I perceive, are an admirer of 
 the ladies;" to the second, "You are an epicure;" and 
 then, turning to the third, who was already pale with fright, 
 " You, my friend, have the emerald in your possession. 
 You have betrayed yourself, and nothing but an immedi- 
 ate confession can save your life." 
 
 The guilty man's countenance removed all doubt ; and 
 when the princess renewed her assurances of safety, he 
 threw himself at her feet, acknowledged his offence, and 
 gave her the emerald, which he carried concealed about 
 him. The princess rose, went to her husband, and said, 
 " There, Ahmed, what do you think of the success of my 
 calculations ? " She then related the whole circumstance, 
 and bade him carry the jewel to her father, adding, "I 
 trust he will feel a greater admiration than ever for my 
 husband, the wonderful astrologer ! " 
 
 Ahmed took the emerald in silent astonishment, and 
 went with it to the king, of whom he requested a private 
 audience. On its being granted, he presented the emer- 
 ald. The king, dazzled by its brilliancy and size, loaded 
 his son-in-law with the most extravagant praises, extolling 
 him as superior to any astrologer who had ever been seen 
 in the world. Poor Ahmed, conscious how little he de- 
 served such praise, threw himself at the king's feet, and 
 begged that he might be allowed to speak the truth, as he 
 was readier to die than to continue imposing on his majes- 
 ty's goodness. " You impose on me ! " said the king; " that 
 is impossible. Did you not recover my treasure 1 Have 
 you not brought me this emerald 1 " 
 
 " True, O king! " said Ahmed; " I have done so, but 
 without possessing that science for which I have gained a 
 reputation." He then told his history from first to last 
 with perfect sincerity. The king showed great displeas- 
 ure while listening to his earlier adventures; but when 
 Ahmed related the story of the emerald, intermingling his
 
 AHMED THE COBBLER. 53 
 
 tale with fervent expressions of admiration for the wonder- 
 ful wisdom and virtue of the princess, he heard him with 
 delight. After he had finished, the king summoned his 
 vizier and chief counsellors, and desired that his daughter 
 also might attend ; and when they were all assembled, he 
 spake as follows: " Daughter, I have learnt the history of 
 thy husband from his own lips. I have also heard much 
 in confirmation of the belief I have long entertained, 
 that thy knowledge and goodness are even greater than 
 thy beauty. They prove that thou wert born to rule ; and 
 I only obey the will of Heaven, and consult the happi- 
 ness of my people, when I resign my power into thy hands, 
 being resolved to seek that repose which my declining 
 years require. As to thy husband, thou wilt dispose of 
 him as it pleases thee. His birth, I always knew, was 
 low ; but I thought that his wisdom and learning raised 
 him to a level with the highest rank : these, it now appears, 
 he does not possess. If thou deemest his alliance a dis- 
 grace, divorce him. If, on the other hand, thou art will- 
 ing to keep him as thy husband, do so, and give him such 
 share as thou thinkest fit in the authority which I now 
 commit to thee." 
 
 The princess knelt to kiss her father's hand, and an- 
 swered, " May my father's life and reign be prolonged for 
 his daughter's happiness, and for that of his subjects ! I 
 am a weak woman, altogether unequal to the task which 
 his too fond love would impose on me. If my humble 
 counsel is listened to, my father will continue to govern 
 his people, whose gratitude and veneration will make obe- 
 dience light, and rule easy. As to Ahmed, I love and 
 esteem him : he is sensible, sincere, and pious ; and 1 deem 
 myself fortunate in having for my husband a man so pe- 
 culiarly favored and protected by Heaven. What, my dear 
 father, are high rank or brilliant talents without religion 
 and virtue? They are as plants which bear gaudy blos- 
 soms, but yield no fruit." 
 5*
 
 54 ROUGE ET NOIR. 
 
 The king was delighted with his daughter's wisdom and 
 affection. " Your advice," he said, " my beloved daughter, 
 shall be followed. I will continue to govern my kingdom, 
 while you and Ahmed shall assist me with your counsels." 
 
 The good cobbler was soon afterwards nominated 
 vizier ; and the same virtue and piety which had obtain- 
 ed him respect in the humblest sphere of life, caused him 
 to be loved and esteemed in the high station to which he 
 was elevated. 
 
 The designs of Sittara were discovered, but her guilt 
 was pardoned. She was left with a mere subsistence, a 
 prey to disappointment ; for she continued to the last to 
 sigh for that splendor she had seen displayed by the chief 
 astrologer's wife at the Hemmam ; thereby affording a 
 salutary lesson to those who admit envy into their bosoms, 
 and endeavor to attain their ends by unreasonable and 
 unjustifiable means. 
 
 ROUGE ET NOIR. 
 
 " Could I forget 
 
 What I have been, I might the better bear 
 
 What I am destined to. I'm not the first 
 
 That have been wretched but to think how much 
 
 I have been happier ! " SOUTHERN. 
 
 NEVER shall I forget that accursed 27th of September: 
 it is burnt in upon the tablet of my memory ; graven in 
 letters of blood upon my heart. I look back to it with a 
 strangely-compounded feeling of horror and delight ; of 
 horror at the black series of wretched days and sleepless 
 nights of which it was the fatal precursor; of delight at 
 that previous career of tranquillity and self-respect which 
 it was destined to terminate alas, forever !
 
 ROUGE ET NOIR. 55 
 
 On that day, I had been about a fortnight in Paris, and, 
 in passing through the garden of the Palais Royal, had 
 stopped to admire the beautiful jet d'cau in its centre, on 
 which the sun-beams were falling so as to produce a small 
 rainbow, when I was accosted by my old friend, major 
 
 E , of the fusileers. After the first surprises and 
 
 salutations, as he found that the busines? of procuring 
 apartments and settling my family had prevented my see- 
 ing many of the Parisian lions, he offered himself as my 
 Cicerone, proposing that we should begin by making the 
 circuit of the building that surrounded us. With its his- 
 tory, and the remarkable events of which it had been the 
 scene, I was already conversant; but of its detail and ap- 
 propriation, which, as he assured me, constituted its sole 
 interest in the eyes of the Parisians, I was completely 
 ignorant. 
 
 After taking a cursory view of most of the sights above 
 ground in this multifarious pile, I was conducted to some 
 of its subterraneous wonders, to the Cafe du Sauvage, 
 where a man is hired, for six francs a night, to personate 
 that character, by beating a great drum, with all the grin- 
 ning, ranting, and raving of a madman ; to the Cafe des 
 Aveugles, whose numerous orchestra is entirely composed 
 of blind men and women ; and to the Cafe des Varietes, 
 whose small theatre, as well as its saloons and labyrinths, 
 are haunted by a set of sirens not less dangerous than 
 the nymphs who assailed Ulysses. Emerging from these 
 haunts, we found that a heavy shower was falling; and 
 while we paraded once more the stone gallery, my friend 
 suddenly exclaimed, as his eye fell upon the numbers of 
 the houses " One hundred and fifty-four! positively we 
 are going away without visiting one of the " gaming- 
 houses was the meaning of the term he employed, though 
 he expressed it by a word that the fashionable preacher 
 never mentioned to " ears polite." " I have never yet 
 entered," said I, " a Pandsemonium of this sort, and I
 
 56 ROUGE ET NOIR. 
 
 never will: I refrain from it upon principle; ' Principiis 
 obsta.' I am of Dr. Johnson's temperament ; I can prac- 
 tise abstinence, but not temperance ; and every body 
 knows that prevention is better than cure." " Do you re- 
 member," replied E , " what the same Dr. Johnson 
 
 said to Boswell ' My dear sir, clear your mind of cant.' 
 I do not ask you to play ; but you must have often read, 
 when you were a good little boy, that ' vice, to be hated, 
 needs but to be seen,' and cannot have forgotten that the 
 Spartans sometimes made their slaves drunk, and showed 
 them to their children to inculcate sobriety. Love of vir- 
 tue is best secured by a hatred of its opposite : to hate it, 
 you must see it : besides, a man of the world should see 
 every thing." " But it is so disreputable," I rejoined. 
 
 " How completely John-Bullish ! " exclaimed E . 
 
 " Disreputable ! why, I am going to take you to an estab- 
 lishment recognized, regulated, aud taxed by the govern- 
 ment, the upholders of religion and social order, who 
 annually derive six millions of francs from this source of 
 revenue ; and as to the company, I promise you that you 
 shall encounter men of the first respectability, of all sects 
 and parties ; for, in France, every one gambles at these sa- 
 lons, except the devotees, and they play at home." He 
 took my arm, and I walked up stairs with him, merely 
 ejaculating, as we reached the door, " Mind, I don't play." 
 Entering an ante-room, we were received by two or 
 three servants, who took our sticks and hats, for which we 
 received tickets; and by the number suspended around, I 
 perceived that there was a tolerably numerous attendance 
 within. Roulette was the game to which the first cham- 
 ber was dedicated. Tn the middle of a long green table 
 was a circular excavation, resembling a large gilt basin, 
 in whose centre was a rotatory apparatus turning an ivory 
 ball in a groove, which, after sundry gyrations, descended 
 to the bottom of the basin, where there was a round of 
 little numbered compartments or pigeon-holes, into one of
 
 ROUGE ET XO1K. 57 
 
 which it finally settled, when the number was proclaimed 
 aloud. Beside this apparatus, there was painted on the 
 green baize a table of various successive numbers, \vith 
 divisions for odd and even, &c., on which the players de- 
 posited their various stakes. He who was in the compart- 
 ment of the proclaimed number was a winner; and if he 
 had sino-led out that individual one, which of course was 
 
 O * 
 
 of very rare occurrence, his deposit was doubled I know 
 not how many times. The odd or even declared their 
 own fate : they were lost or doubled. This altar of chance 
 had but few votaries; and, merely stopping a moment to 
 admire the handsome decorations of the room, we passed 
 on into the next. 
 
 " This," whispered my companion, for there was a dead 
 silence in the apartment, although the long table was en- 
 tirely surrounded by people playing, " this is only the 
 silver room ; you may deposit here as low as a five franc 
 piece : let us pass on to the next, where none play but 
 those who will risk bank-notes or gold." Casting a pass- 
 ing glance at these comparatively humble gamesters, who 
 were, however, all too deeply absorbed to move their eyes 
 from the cards, I followed my conductor into the sanctuary 
 of the gilded Mammon. 
 
 Here was a rouge et noir table, exactly like the one I 
 had just quitted. In its centre was a profuse display of 
 gold in bowls and rouleaus, with thick piles of bank-notes, 
 on either side of which sat a partner of the bank and an 
 assistant, the dragon guards of this Hesperian fruit. An 
 oblong square, painted on each end of the green table, 
 exhibited three divisions, one for rouge, another for noir, 
 and the centre was for the stakes of those who speculated 
 upon the color of the first and last card, with other rami- 
 fications of the art, which it would be tedious to describe. 
 Not one of the chairs around the table was unoccupied, 
 and I observed that each banker and assistant was provid- 
 ed with a rateau, or rake, somewhat resembling a garden
 
 58 ROUGE ET NOIR. 
 
 hoe, several of which were also dispersed about, that the 
 respective winners might withdraw the gold without the 
 objectionable intervention of fingers. When the stakes 
 are all deposited, the dealer, one of the bankers in the cen- 
 tre, cries out, " Le jeu est fait," after which nothing can 
 be added or withdrawn ; and then, taking a packet of cards 
 from a basket full before him, he proceeds to deal. Thirty- 
 one is the number of the game : the color of the first card 
 determines whether the first row be black or red : the 
 dealer turns up till the numbers on the cards exceed thirty- 
 one, when he lays down a second row in the same man- 
 ner; and whichever is nearest to that amount is the win- 
 ning row. If both come to the same, he cries " Apres," 
 and recommences with fresh cards ; but if each division 
 should turn up thirty-one, the bank takes half of the whole 
 money deposited, as a forfeit from the players. In this 
 consists their certain profit, which has been estimated at 
 ten per cent, upon the total stakes. If the red loses, the 
 banker on that side rakes all the deposits into his treasury ; 
 if it wins, he throws down the number of Napoleons or 
 notes necessary to cover the lodgments made by the play- 
 ers, each one of whom rakes off his prize, or leaves it for 
 
 a fresh venture. E explained to me the functions of 
 
 the different members of the establishment the inspector, 
 the croupier, the tailleur, the messieurs de la chambre, 
 &c., and also the meaning of the ruled card and pins 
 which every one held before him, consulting it with the 
 greatest intenseness, and occasionally calling to the peo- 
 ple in attendance for a fresh supply. This horoscope was 
 divided by perpendicular lines into columns, headed with 
 an alternate R and N, for Rouge and Noir ; and the pin is 
 employed to perforate the card as each color wins, as a 
 groundwork for establishing some calculation in that 
 elaborate delusion termed the doctrine of chances. Some, 
 having several of these records before them, closely pierc- 
 ed all over, were summing up the results upon paper, as
 
 ROUGE ET NOIR. 59 
 
 if determined to play a game of chance without leaving 
 any thing to hazard ; and none seemed willing to adven- 
 ture without having some species of sanction from these 
 Sibylline leaves. 
 
 An involuntary sickness and loathing of heart came 
 over me as I contemplated this scene, and observed the 
 sofas in an adjoining room, which the Parisians, who turn 
 every thing into a joke, have christened " the hospital for 
 the wounded." There, thought I to myself, many a 
 wretch has thrown himself down in anguish and despair 
 of soul, cursing himself and the world with fearful impre- 
 cations, or blaspheming in that silent bitterness of spirit 
 which is more terrific than words. I contrasted the gaudy 
 decorations and paneled mirrors that surrounded me with 
 the smoky and blackened ceiling sad evidence of the 
 nocturnal lamps lighted up at the shrine of this Baal, and 
 of the unhallowed worship prosecuted through the livelong 
 night. Turning to the window, I beheld the sun shining 
 from the bright blue sky : the rain was over, the birds were 
 singing in the trees, and the leaves fluttering in the wind ; 
 the external gayety giving the character of an appalling 
 antithesis to the painful silence, immovable attitudes, and 
 spell-bound looks of the care-worn figures within. One 
 man, a German, was contending against a run of ill-luck 
 with a dogged obstinacy that was obviously making deep 
 inroads upon his purse and his peace: for, though his face 
 was invisible from being bent over his perforated card, the 
 drops of perspiration standing upon his forehead betrayed 
 the inward agitation. All the losers were struggling to 
 suppress emotions which still revealed themselves by the 
 working of some disobedient muscle, the compression of 
 the lips, the sardonic grin, or the glaring wrath of the 
 eye ; while the winners belied their assumed indifference 
 by flushed cheeks and an expression of anxious triumph. 
 Two or three forlorn operators, who had been cleaned out, 
 as the phrase is, and condemned to idleness, were eyeing
 
 60 ROUGE ET NO1R. 
 
 their more fortunate neighbors with a leer of malignant 
 envy ; while the bankers and their assistants, in the cer- 
 tainty of their profitable trade, exhibited a calm and watch- 
 ful cunning, though their features, pale and sodden, be- 
 trayed the effect of confinement, heated rooms, and mid- 
 night vigils. E informed me that the frequenters of 
 
 these houses were authorized to call for refreshments of 
 any description, but no one availed himself of the privi- 
 lege ; the " auri sacra fames," the pervading appetite of 
 the place, had swallowed up every other. The very 
 thought revolted me. What ! eat and drink in this arena 
 of the hateful passions ! in this fatal room, from which 
 many a suicide has rushed out to grasp the self-destroying 
 pistol, or plunge into the darkness of the wave ! in this 
 room, which is denounced to Heaven by the widow's tears 
 and the orphan's maledictions ! Revolving these thoughts 
 in my mind, 1 surveyed once more the faces before me, 
 and could not help exclaiming, " What a hideous study of 
 human nature ! " 
 
 " As we have employed so much time," said E , 
 
 " in taking the latitude, or rather the longitude, of these 
 various phizes, we shall be expected to venture some- 
 thing : I will throw down a Napoleon, as a sop to Cerbe- 
 rus, and will then convoy you home." " Nay," replied I, 
 " it was for my instruction we came hither : the lesson I 
 have received is well worth the money ; so put down this 
 piece of gold, and let us begone." " Let us at least wait 
 till we have lost it," he resumed ; " and in the mean time 
 we will take our places at the table." I felt that I blush- 
 ed as I sat down, and was about to deposit my offering 
 hap hazard, when my companion stopped my hand, and, 
 borrowing a perforated card, bade me remark, that the 
 red and black had zig-zagged, or won alternately for four- 
 teen times ; and that there had subsequently been a long 
 run upon the black, which would now probably cross over 
 to the other color ; from all which premises he deduced
 
 ROUGE ET NOIR. 61 
 
 that I should venture upon the red ; which I accordingly 
 did. Sir Balaam's devil, who " now tempts by making 
 rich, not making poor," was, I verily believe, hovering 
 over my devoted head at that instant; my deposit was 
 doubled, and I was preparing to decamp with my two 
 Naps, when my adviser insisted upon my not balking my 
 luck, as there would probably be a run upon the red ; and 
 I suffered my stake to remain, and go on doubling until I 
 had won ten or twelve times in succession. "Now," 
 
 cried E , " I should advise you to pocket the affront, 
 
 and be satisfied." Adopting his counsel, I could hardly 
 believe his assertion, or my own eyes, when he handed 
 me over bank-notes to the amount of twenty thousand 
 francs, observing that I had made a tolerably successful 
 debut. 
 
 Returning home in some perturbation and astonishment 
 of mind, I resolved to prepare a little surprise for my wife ; 
 and, spreading the bank-notes upon the table with as much 
 display as possible, I told her, upon her entering the room, 
 how I had won them ; and, inquiring whether Aladdin, 
 with his wonderful lamp, could have spent two or three 
 hours more profitably, I stated my intention of appropria- 
 ting a portion of it to her use in the purchase of a hand- 
 some birth-day present. In a moment, the blood rush- 
 ed to her face, and as quickly receded, leaving it of an 
 ashy paleness, when she spurned the notes from her, ex- 
 claiming, with a solemn terror, " I would as soon touch 
 the thirty pieces of silver for which Judas betrayed his 
 Master." Her penetrating mind instantly saw the danger 
 to which I had exposed myself, and her fond heart as 
 quickly gave the alarm to her feelings ; but in a few sec- 
 onds, she threw her arms around me, and ejaculated, as 
 the tears ran down her cheek, " Forgive me, my dear 
 Charles; pardon my vehemence, my ingratitude; I have 
 a present to ask, a boon to implore promise that you will 
 grant it me." "Most willingly," I rejoined, "if it be in 
 6
 
 62 ROUGE ET ROIR. 
 
 my power." " Give me, then, your pledge, never to play 
 again." " Cheerfully," continued I, for I had already 
 formed that resolution. She kissed me with many affec- 
 tionate thanks, adding that I had made her completely 
 happy. I believe it, for at that moment I felt so myself. 
 
 Many men, who are candid and upright in arguing with 
 others, are the most faithless and Jesuitical of casuists in 
 chopping logic with themselves. Let no one trust his 
 head in a contest with the heart : the former, suppressing 
 or perverting whatever is disagreeable to the latter, will 
 assume a demure and sincere conviction, while it has all 
 along been playing booty, and furnishing weapons to its 
 adversary. The will must be honest, if we wish the judg- 
 ment to be so. A tormenting itch for following up my 
 good luck, as I termed it, set me upon devising excuses 
 for violating my pledge to my wife ; and no shuffling or 
 quibbling was too contemptible for my purpose. I had 
 promised never to play again " at that house ;" or, if I 
 had not actually said so, I meant to say so : there could be 
 no forfeiture of my word, therefore, if I went to another. 
 Miserable sophistry! yet, wretched as it was, it satisfied 
 my conscience for the moment ; so easily is a weak man 
 deluded into criminal indulgence. Fortified with such 
 valid arguments, I made my debut at the Salon des Etran- 
 gers, and, after a two hours' sitting, had the singular good 
 luck to return home a winner of nearly as much as 
 I had gained on the first day. Success, for once, made 
 me moderate : in the humility of my prosperous play, I 
 resolved only to continue till I had won ten thousand 
 pounds, when I would communicate my adventures to my 
 wife, with a solemn abjuration of the pursuit in future ; 
 and, as I considered myself in possession of the certain 
 secret of winning whatever I pleased, I took credit to my- 
 self for my extreme moderation. From Frascati, the 
 scene of my third attempt, by a lucky, or rather unlucky 
 fatality, which my subsequent experience only renders the
 
 ROUGE ET NOIR. 63 
 
 more wonderful, I retired with a sum exceeding the whole 
 of my previous profits; when, like the tiger who is render- 
 ed insatiate by the taste of blood, I instantly became rav- 
 enous for larger riches; and, already repenting the paltry 
 limitation of the day before, determined on proceeding 
 until I had doubled its amount. Another day's luck, and 
 even this would have been spurned ; for neither Johnson's 
 Sir Epicure Mammon, nor Massinger's Luke, nor Pope's 
 Sir Balaam, underwent a more rapid developement of 
 latent ambition. Indistinct visions of grandeur floated 
 before my eyes; my senses already seemed to be steeped 
 in a vague magnificence ; and, after hesitating, in a sort 
 of waking dream, between Wanstead House and Font- 
 hill, one of which I held to be too near, and the other too 
 distant from London, I dwelt complacently on the idea of 
 building a mansion at some intermediate station, which 
 should surpass the splendor of both. Sleep presenting to 
 me the same images through a magnifying glass, I went 
 forth next morning to the accomplishment of my destiny 
 with an exaltation of mind little short of delirium. 
 
 Weak and wicked reveries ! A single turn of Fortune's 
 wheel reduced me, not to reason, but to an opposite ex- 
 treme of mortification and despondence. A run of ill 
 luck swept away, in one hour, more than half my gains; 
 and, unfortunately, losing my temper still faster than my 
 money, I kept doubling my stakes in the blindness of my 
 rage, and quitted the table at night, not only lightened of 
 all my suddenly-acquired wealth, but loser of a considera- 
 ble sum besides. I could now judge by experience of the 
 bitterness of soul that I had lately inflicted upon those 
 who had lost what I had won, and inwardly cursed the 
 pursuit whose gratifications could only spring from the 
 miseries of others; but so far from abandoning this inev- 
 itable see-saw of wretchedness, I felt as if I had been de- 
 frauded of my just property, and burned with the desire 
 of taking my revenge. The heart-sickening detail of my
 
 64 ROUGE ET NOIR. 
 
 infirmity, my reverses, and my misery, need not be follow- 
 ed up. Suffice it to say, that a passion, a fury, an actual 
 phrensy of play, absorbed every faculty of my soul : mine 
 was worse than a Promethean fate; I was gnawed and 
 devoured by an inward fire which nothing could allay. 
 Alas ! not even poverty and the want of materials could 
 quench it. In my career of prosperity, I felt not the 
 fraud I was practising upon my wife, for I meant to make 
 my peace with ten or twenty thousand pounds in my 
 hand, and a sincere renunciation of gaming in my heart; 
 but, now that I was bringing ruin upon her and my chil- 
 dren, the sense of my falsehood and treachery imbittering 
 the anguish of my losses, plunged me into unutterable re- 
 morse and agony of soul. Still, I wanted courage to make 
 the fatal revelation, and at last only imparted it to her in 
 the cowardice of impending disgrace. 
 
 Madame Deshoulieres says very truly, that gamesters 
 begin by being dupes, and end by being knaves ; and I am 
 about to confirm it by an avowal to which nothing should 
 have impelled me but the hope of deterring others by an 
 exposure of my own delinquency. A female relation had 
 remitted me seven hundred pounds to purchase into the 
 French funds; with which sum in my pocket I unfortu- 
 nately called at the Salon des Etrangers, in my way to the 
 stock-broker's; and, my evil genius suggesting to me that 
 there was a glorious opportunity of recovering my heavy 
 losses, I snatched the notes from my pocket, threw them 
 
 on the table just before the dealer began and lost ! 
 
 Stunned by the blow, I went home in a state of calm de- 
 spair, communicated the whole to my wife in as few words 
 as possible, and ended by declaring that she was a beggar, 
 and her husband disgraced forever. " Not yet, my dear 
 Charles," replied the generous woman, her eyes beaming 
 with an affectionate forgiveness, " not yet ; we may still 
 exclaim with the French king after the battle of Pavia, 
 ' We have lost every thing but our honor ; and, while we
 
 ROUGE ET NOIR. 65 
 
 retain that, our losses are but as a grain of sand.' We 
 may be depressed by fortune, but we can only be dis- 
 graced by ourselves. As to this seven hundred pounds 
 take my jewels they will sell for more than is required ; 
 and if our present misfortunes induce you to fly from 
 Paris, and abandon this fatal pursuit, they will assured- 
 ly become the greatest blessings of our life." 
 
 No reproach ever passed her lips, or lingered in her 
 eye ; nor did I fail to observe the delicacy which, min- 
 gling up her own fate with mine, strove to soothe my feel- 
 ings, by disguising my individual guilt under the cloak of 
 a joint misfortune. Noble-minded woman ! Mezentius 
 himself could not have devised a more cruel fate than to 
 tie thee to a soul so dead to shame, and so defunct in 
 gratitude as mine. 
 
 Will not the reader loathe and detest me, even worse 
 than I do myself, when I inform him, that, in return for all 
 this magnanimity, I had the detestable baseness to linger in 
 Paris, to haunt the gaming-table, to venture the wretched 
 drainings of my purse in the silver room, to become an 
 habitual borrower of paltry sums under pledges of repay- 
 ment which I knew I had not the means of redeeming, and 
 to submit tamely to the indignity of palpable cuts from 
 my acquaintance in the public streets ? From frequent- 
 ly encountering at the salons, I had formed a slight friend- 
 ship with Lord T , Lord F , Sir G W , 
 
 Colonel T , and particularly with poor S 1, before 
 
 he had consummated the ruin of his fine fortune, and de- 
 bilitated his frame by paralysis, brought on by anxiety ; 
 and I was upon terms of intimacy with others of my 
 countrymen, who, with various success, but much more 
 ample means than myself, were making offerings to the 
 demon of Rouge r.t Noir. Should this brief memoir fall 
 beneath the eye of any of my quondam friends, they may 
 not impossibly derive benefit from its perusal : at all events, 
 they may be pleased to know that I have not forgotten 
 6*
 
 66 ROUGE ET NOTR. 
 
 their kindnesses. I am aware that I abused their assist- 
 ance, and wore out their patience ; but I never anticipa- 
 ted the horror to which the exhaustion of my own means, 
 and the inability to extort more from others, would reduce 
 me. The anguish of my losses, the misery of my degra- 
 dation, the agony of mind with which I reflected upon my 
 impoverished wife and family, were nothing, absolutely 
 nothing, compared to the racking torment of being com- 
 pelled to refrain from gambling. It sounds incredible, 
 but it is strictly true. To sit at the table with empty 
 pockets, and to see others playing, was absolutely insup- 
 portable. I envied even the heaviest losers : could I have 
 found an antagonist, I would have gambled for an eye, an 
 arm, a leg, for life itself. A thousand demons seemed to be 
 gnawing c.t my heart : I believed I was mad : I even hope 
 I was. 
 
 Yes ; I have tasked myself to detail my moral degrada- 
 tion and utter prostration of character, with a fidelity wor- 
 thy of Rousseau himself; and I feel it a duty not to shrink 
 from my complete exposure. After a night passed in the 
 state of mind I have been describing, in one of those 
 haunts which I was justly entitled to denominate a hell, I 
 wandered out at day-break towards the Pont de Jena, as 
 if I could cool my parched lips and burning brain by the 
 heavy shower that was then falling. As the dripping rus- 
 tics passed me on their market-horses, singing and whis- 
 tling, their happiness, seeming to be a mockery of my 
 wretchedness, filled me with a malignant rage. By the 
 time I had reached the bridge, the rain had ceased : the 
 rising sun, glancing upon the river, threw a bloom over 
 the woods in the direction of Sevres and St. Cloud, and 
 the birds were piping in the air. Ever a passionate ad- 
 mirer of Nature, her charms stole me for a moment from 
 myself; but, presently, my thoughts reverting from the 
 heaven without to the hell within, I gnashed my teeth, and 
 fell back into a double bitterness and despair of soul.
 
 ROUGE ET NOIR. 67 
 
 I have always been a believer in sudden and irresistible 
 impulses an idea which will not appear ridiculous to those 
 who are conversant with the records of crime. A portrait 
 of Sarah Malcolm, the murderess, which I had seen many 
 years ago in the possession of Lord Mulgrave, leading me 
 to the perusal of her trial and execution; in the Newgate 
 Calendar, induced me to give perfect credit to the aver- 
 ment, that the idea of the crime came suddenly into her 
 head without the least solicitation, and that she felt driven 
 forward to its accomplishment by some invisible power. 
 Similar declarations from many other offenders offer 
 abundant confirmation of the same fact ; and it will be in 
 the recollection of many, that the murderer of Mr. and 
 Mrs. Bonar at Chiselhurst, repeatedly declared that he 
 had never dreamt of the enormity ten minutes before its 
 commission, but that the thought suddenly rushed into his 
 mind, and pushed him forward to the bloody deed. Many 
 people cannot look over a precipice without feeling tempt- 
 ed to throw themselves down. T know a most affectionate 
 father, who never approaches a window with his infant 
 child, without being haunted by solicitations to cast it into 
 the street; and a gentleman of unimpeachable honor, who, 
 if he happens, in walking the highway, to see a note-case 
 or handkerchief emerging from a passenger's pocket, is 
 obliged to stop short or cross over the way, so vehemently 
 does he feel impelled to withdraw them. These " toys of 
 desperation," generated in the giddiness of the mind at 
 the bare imagination of any horror, drive it to commit the 
 reality as a relief from the fearful vision, upon the same 
 principle that delinquents voluntarily deliver themselves 
 up to justice, because death itself is less intolerable than 
 the fear of it. Let it not be imagined that I am seeking 
 to screen any of these unhappy men from the conse- 
 quences of their hallucination ; I am merely asserting a 
 singular property of the mind, of which I myself am 
 about to record a frightful confirmation.
 
 68 ROUGE ET NOIR. 
 
 Standing on the bridge, and turning away my looks 
 from the landscape in that despair of heart which I have 
 described, my downcast eyes fell upon the waters gliding 
 placidly beneath me. They seemed to invite me to quench 
 the burning fire with which I was consumed : the river 
 whispered to me, with a distinct utterance, that peace and 
 oblivion were to be found in its Lethean bed : every mus- 
 cle of my body was animated by an instant and insupera- 
 ble impulse ; and within half a minute from its first mad- 
 dening sensation, I had climbed over the parapet, and 
 plunged headlong into the water. The gushing of waves 
 in my ears, and the rapid flashing of innumerable lights 
 before my eyes, are the last impressions I recollect. Into 
 the circumstances of my preservation I never had the 
 heart to inquire : when consciousness revisited me, I found 
 myself lying upon my own bed, with my wife weeping be- 
 side me, though she instantly assumed a cheerful look, 
 and told me that I had met with a dreadful accident, hav- 
 ing fallen into the river, when leaning over to examine 
 some object beneath. That she knows the whole truth, 
 I am perfectly convinced ; but we scrupulously avoid the 
 subject, by an understood, though unexpressed compact. 
 It is added in her mind to the long catalogue of my of- 
 fences, never to be alluded to, and, alas ! never to be for- 
 gotten. She left my bedside for a moment, to return with 
 my children, who rushed up to me with a cry of joy ; and 
 as they contended for the first kiss, and inquired after my 
 health with glistening eyes, the cruelty, the atrocity of 
 my cowardly attempt struck with a withering remorse upon 
 my heart.
 
 THE COMMON LOT. 69 
 
 THE COMMON LOT. 
 
 ONCE in the flight of ages past 
 
 There lived a man and who was he ? 
 
 Mortal ! howe'er thy lot be cast, 
 That man resembled thee ! 
 
 Unknown the region of his birth, 
 The land in which he died unknown, 
 
 His name hath perished from the earth, 
 This truth survives alone 
 
 That joy, and grief, and hope, and fear, 
 Alternate triumphed in his breast ; 
 
 His bliss and woe, a smile, a tear ' 
 Oblivion hides the rest. 
 
 The bounding pulse, the languid limb, 
 The changing spirits' rise and fall, 
 
 We know that these were felt by him, 
 For these are felt by all. 
 
 He suffered but his pangs are o'er ; 
 
 Enjoyed but his delights are fled ; 
 Had friends his friends are now no more, 
 
 And foes his foes are dead. 
 
 He loved but whom he loved, the grave 
 Hath lost in its unconscious womb ; 
 
 O she was fair ! but nought could save 
 Her beauty from the tomb.
 
 70 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 The rolling seasons, day and night, 
 
 Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main, 
 
 Ere while his portion, life and light, 
 To him exist in vain. 
 
 He saw whatever thou hast seen, 
 Encountered all that troubles thee, 
 
 He was whatever thou hast been, 
 He is what thou shalt be ! 
 
 The clouds and sunbeams o'er his eye, 
 That once their shade and glory threw, 
 
 Have left, in yonder silent sky, 
 No vestige where they flew ! 
 
 The annals of the human race, 
 Their ruin since the world began, 
 
 Of him afford no other trace 
 Than this THERE LIVED A MAN. 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 AUSPICIOUS Hope ! in thy sweet garden grow 
 
 Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe : 
 
 Won by their sweets, in Nature's languid hour, 
 
 The way-worn pilgrim seeks thy summer bower ; 
 
 There, as the wild-bee murmurs on the wing, 
 
 What peaceful dreams thy handmaid spirits bring ! 
 
 What viewless forms the JEolian organ play, 
 
 And sweep the furrowed lines of anxious thought away !
 
 HOPE. 71 
 
 Angel of life ! thy glittering wings explore 
 Earth's loneliest bounds, and ocean's wildest shore. 
 Lo ! to the wintry winds the pilot yields 
 His bark, careering o'er unfathomed fields ; 
 Now on Atlantic waves he rides afar, 
 Where Andes, giant of the western star, 
 With meteor standard to the winds unfurled, 
 Looks from his throne of clouds o'er half the world. 
 
 Now far he sweeps, where scarce a summer smiles 
 On Behring's rocks, or Greenland's naked isles ; 
 Cold on his midnight watch the breezes blow, 
 From wastes that slumber in eternal snow ; 
 And waft across the waves' tumultuous roar 
 The wolf's long howl from Oonalaska's shore. 
 
 Poor child of danger, nursling of the storm, 
 Sad are the woes that wreck thy manly form ! 
 Rocks, waves, and winds, the shattered bark delay : 
 Thy heart is sad, thy home is far away. 
 
 But Hope can here her moonlight vigils keep, 
 And sing to charm the spirit of the deep : 
 Swift as yon streamer lights the starry pole, 
 Her visions warm the watchman's pensive soul : 
 His native hills that rise in happier climes, 
 The grot that heard his song of other times, 
 His cottage home, his bark of slender sail, 
 His glassy lake, and broomwood blossomed vale, 
 Rush on his thought ; he sweeps before the wind, 
 Treads the loved shore he sighed to leave behind ; 
 Meets at each step a friend's familiar face, 
 And flies at last to Helen's long embrace ; 
 Wipes from her cheek the rapture-speaking tear, 
 And clasps with many a sigh his children dear !
 
 72 THE BITTEE WEDDING. 
 
 FORGIVE AND FORGET. 
 
 FORGIVE and forget ! why the world would be lonely, 
 
 The garden a wilderness left to deform, 
 If the flowers but remembered the chilling winds only, 
 
 And the fields gave no verdure for fear of the storm ! 
 Oh, still in thy loveliness emblem the flower, 
 
 Give the fragrance of feeling to sweeten life's way ; 
 And prolong not again the brief cloud of an hour, 
 
 With tears that but darken the rest of the day ! 
 
 Forgive and forget ! there 's no breast so unfeeling 
 
 But some gentle thoughts of affection there live ; 
 And the best of us all require something concealing, 
 
 Some heart that with smiles can forget and forgive ! 
 Then away with the cloud from those beautiful eyes, 
 
 That brow was no home for such frowns to have met ; 
 Oh, how could our spirits e'er hope for the skies, 
 
 If Heaven refused to Forgive and Forget ! 
 
 THE BITTER WEDDING, A SWISS LEGEND. 
 i 
 
 ONE fine summer morning, many hundred years ago, 
 ybung Berthold set out with a very heavy heart from his 
 Alpine hut, with a view of reaching, in the evening, the 
 beautiful valley of Siebenthal, where stood his native vil- 
 lage, and where he designed to be an unknown and silent 
 guest at the dancing and festivity of certain merry-makers.
 
 THE BITTER WEDDING. 73 
 
 " Ah ! " sighed he, " it will be a bitter wedding. Had 
 I died last spring, it were better with me now." 
 
 "Fiddle faddle!" exclaimed a snarling voice from the 
 road-side. "Fiddle faddle! Where Master Almerich 
 touches his fiddle, there it goes merrily : there is the 
 hurly burly, dirling the bottoms out of the tubs and pitch- 
 ers! Good morning, my child! Come, cheer up, my 
 hearty, and let us trudge on together in good fellowship." 
 
 The young herdsman had stopped when he first heard 
 the croaking voice ; and now he could not speak for laugh- 
 ing. An odd-looking, dwarfish figure, mounted upon one 
 leg and a half, and propped upon a crutch, with a nose as 
 long as one's thumb, made half a dozen wry faces as he 
 hobbled up, quite out of breath, from a foot-path on the 
 left side of the road. Behind the dwarf trailed an enor- 
 mous fiddle, on which lay a large wallet appurtenances 
 which seemed to be attached to the little odd figure by 
 way of ballast, lest the rush of the wind down the valley 
 should sweep it away. 
 
 "Good morning!" Berthold at last roared out; "you 
 are a merry fellow, master fiddler, and shall be a comfort 
 to me to-day. In spite of my misfortunes, I could not help 
 laughing at the sight of you and your hugeous fiddle. 
 Take it not amiss; a laugh has been a rare thing with me 
 for many a day." 
 
 "Has it, indeed?" rejoined the. dwarf: "and yet so 
 young! Perhaps you are heart-sick, my son?" 
 
 " Yes"' if you will call it so," replied the herdsman. 
 " Here, in our mountains and valleys, a great many fellows 
 run about fancying themselves in love, while they are all 
 the time eating, drinking, and sleeping, as sound as any 
 marmot, and in one year's time will easily pass from Mar- 
 garet to Rosamond. That is all a mockery. I would 
 much rather die than forget Siegelind ; though with me 
 all rest and joy are forever gone." 
 
 "Ay, ay," replied Master Almerich, "I thought you
 
 74 THE BITTER WEDDING. 
 
 were going to the dance, my hearty. I heard you crying 
 out of a bitter wedding, and I thought to myself, ' Aha, 
 he does not get the right one.' " 
 
 "Ah, that's true enough," replied Berthold; " he does 
 not get the right one that Hildebrand. I will tell you 
 the whole matter, Master Almerich, as you seem to be 
 going the same way, if I understood you aright." 
 
 "Ah, yes!" sighed the dwarf; "surely, surely, if I 
 had only got a pair of stout legs. Look you here, my 
 dear child ; what a miserable stump is this for crawling 
 down the mountain ! I am asthmatic too, and my throat 
 has been enlarging these last fifty years ; and that wal- 
 let has galled my back sore all yesterday in climbing over 
 the rough hills. Heaven knows when I shall get to the 
 wedding. There was such a talking of that feast on the 
 other side of the mountain, that, thought I to myself, I 
 will go thither also, and make some money; so I took 
 my fiddle, and began to crawl up the ascent; yester- 
 day I became quite exhausted, and now I must lay me 
 down here by the side of the road, and submit to fate. 
 Tell me all about the wedding when you return, my hearty, 
 if the wolves have not swallowed or hunger killed me 
 before that time." 
 
 With these words, the dwarf, apparently exhausted, 
 sunk down, with a deep and melancholy sigh, on the near- 
 est stpne, threw his bundle on the grass, and stretched 
 out his bony hand, as if to take a last farewell of young 
 Berthold, who in silence leaned upon his staff, gazing on 
 the fiddler, and quite unable to comprehend what ailed 
 him. % 
 
 " Master," began the herdsman, " how you sink ! You 
 have left all your gay spirits at home. Although it is a 
 weary journey for me as well as you, I will yet endeavor 
 to carry your wallet and fiddle, so I may enjoy your com- 
 pany on the road. You must really hear what presses 
 upon my soul, perhaps I may obtain some relief in speak-
 
 THE BITTER WEDDING. 75 
 
 ing it out, and you will have some pithy word of comfort 
 for me." 
 
 The dwarf thanked him heartily for his kind offer, and 
 quickly transferred his wallet and fiddle to the stout shoul- 
 ders of the herdsman ; then took his crutch, whistled a 
 merry tune, and trudged gayly on by the side of Ber- 
 thold. 
 
 "It is a long story, this wedding," began the herds- 
 man; " but I will be as brief as possible, for it still grieves 
 me to the heart when I think about it; and whoever can 
 understand it at all, understands it soon : my sufferings 
 will never be at an end, though I should talk the whole 
 day about it. 
 
 "In the village there, below us, old Bernhard has a 
 pretty, sweet girl of a daughter, Siegelind : he has lived 
 for many years in a nice little cottage, and his wife Ger- 
 trude with him, close by the stream, where the road strikes 
 off into the wood. Their employment is to make wooden 
 spoons for the herdsmen, by which, and the help of a goat 
 and a couple of sheep, they gain a scanty livelihood. 
 
 " Last winter, having gone thither and got sme ashen 
 spoons and cups nicely cut, I thought with myself, ' That 
 will do exactly : my father is already old, and sends me, 
 with the cattle, to the mountain in spring ; and if I only 
 behave 'there as becomes a herdsman, I descend in autumn, 
 and marry Siegelind, and find myself a right free, happy 
 man.' 
 
 "Ah, Master Almerich, my words do poor justice to my 
 heart : my feelings always get the start of them, and reason 
 comes limping after. 
 
 "I beheld Siegelind, you see, moving actively about, 
 wearing a cheerful countenance late and early, all good- 
 ness and discretion from top to toe, and pretty too, over 
 flowing with gay spirits, and merry songs without number ; 
 all that my eye, my ear, and my heart, drank in smoothly : 
 she was satisfied, and the old .people too : so in summer
 
 76 THE BITTER WEDDING. 
 
 I was to go to the mountain, and at harvest-home to the 
 wedding; and she gave me this waistcoat to wear on the 
 hills in remembrance of her. 
 
 " Meanwhile the spring came, and old Bernhard trav- 
 ersed the forest, selecting the finest stems for his carving 
 work, and exerting all his skill to provide us with fine fur- 
 niture against the wedding. 
 
 " So, one morning, he was ascending the mountain mer- 
 rily, through those ravines where there are some marvel- 
 lously fine trees, when a little man, in an odd sort of dress, 
 hastened to meet him, screaming violently, and beckoning 
 and calling him so earnestly that he could not but go with 
 him. They soon reached a barn, where he found the wife 
 of the little dwarfish stranger lying sick and in extremity. 
 Her he relieved and cured ; but for me bride, peace, and 
 happiness were lost from that hour." 
 
 "Ah, good heavens!" exclaimed Almerich: "you are 
 talking bravely, whilst I am almost starving; hop, hop, 
 hop ; we are trudging incessantly on, and my stomach is 
 as empty as a bagpipe ; yesterday evening nothing ; this 
 morning nothing ; O that brave wedding-dance ; the fid- 
 dle runs off, and Master Almerich is starving here ! " 
 
 " Now, now, the deuce ! " bawled the herdsman ; " what 
 have you got here in this cursed wallet? Here am I toil- 
 ing on with this plagued bag, rubbing the very skin off 
 my shoulder. I thought there were at least ham, and 
 cheese, and fresh bread, in it : if not, why should I be 
 smothered under such a bundle of rags?" 
 
 "Softly, softly, my son," replied the fiddler; "there are 
 treasures in it; an old barret-cap of Siegefried, and an 
 old sword-belt of Dieterich, and a couple of old leathern 
 soles of Ylsan, child ! These are no every-day concerns, 
 my hearty ! They are all sacred relics to him who under- 
 stands the thing. They are worth a whole mountain of 
 sweet wine, and seven acres of thick golden wheat, to him 
 who knows their value."
 
 THE BITTER WEDDING. 77 
 
 "It may be so," said the herdsman; "I only wish we 
 had a few cups of milk in the place of your treasures ; 
 but if it is so with your stomach, my good master, look 
 you here : I have a mouthful of meagre goat-milk cheese, 
 which I meant to serve me for the night; but never mind, 
 I am little disposed. to eat." 
 
 Berthold now produced his provisions, and Almerich 
 devoured them as greedily as if he meant to swallow the 
 herdsman after them by way of dessert. The bread was 
 quickly devoured, and honest Berthold saw his supper de- 
 voured beforehand ; then the fiddler wiped his mouth, 
 leaped briskly up, was again in good spirits, and stumped 
 away before the herdsman as freshly as if nothing had ail- 
 ed him. All this, however, seemed very odd to Berthold ; 
 and when he again felt the annoyance of the wallet, he 
 drew a sigh so deep, that it echoed back from the neigh- 
 boring rocks. 
 
 " Lack-a-day ! " said Almerich again, " the poor lad 
 has lost his bride and his peace of heart. I have been so 
 concerned about him that I could not eat a bit." 
 
 " That fellow could devour the Stockhorn," thought 
 Berthold, somewhat angrily; "the club-foot is not in his 
 right senses, I believe. 
 
 " It was really too bad," began he, at last, aloud ; " the 
 dwarf in the barn returned a profusion of thanks to old 
 Bernhard, and said, ' I am a foreign miner, and have lost 
 the road, with my good wife; so I have nothing to reward 
 you with for your kind services, save a little bit of cheese 
 and a few draughts of wine. So take that, and remember 
 the poor fellow who gave you what he could, and will pray 
 that Heaven may reward you further.' 
 
 " To old Bernhard, the crumb of cheese and the few 
 spoonfuls of wine seemed poor enough ; and he accepted 
 7*=
 
 78 THE BITTER WEDDING. 
 
 the little bottle and piece of cheese only to get rid of the 
 importunity of the dwarf, who would take no refusal. 
 
 " Towards noon, Bernhard was proceeding to his vil- 
 lage : the road was long, and, feeling fatigued, he lay down 
 in the shade of a tree, took out the gift of the dwarf, and 
 began to eat and to drink. Meanwhile my evil stars 
 bring young Hildebrand, the most miserly fellow in the 
 village, in his way : ' God bless you, Father Bernhard ! ' 
 * Thank you, my son.' Thus the conversation proceeded. 
 The niggard sees the old man comfortably enjoying his 
 repast; so he sets himself down beside him, and takes a 
 share. There they eat and eat for about an hour : the 
 wine never gets less, and the cheese is never done ; and 
 both behold the miracle till their hair stands on end. 
 
 " All was now over, master fiddler, and poor Berthold 
 was undone. 
 
 " Hildebrand chose words as polished as marble : they 
 went down with Bernhard as smoothly as honey : my dear, 
 sweet Siegelind was pledged to the rich miser, with the 
 marvellous qheese for her dowry. The old man was quite 
 beside himself; the young man talked finely ; they were 
 to outdo the whole village, and keep their secret to them- 
 selves ; I was called a miserable wretch, and the spirit of 
 mischief just brought me into their way in time to hear 
 the whole sad story." 
 
 " Ah, good heavens !" again exclaimed Almerich: "I 
 am undone with cold ; it is turning a cold, rainy day, and 
 my bones are too naked ! Hew, hew ! how the storm 
 blows into my very soul. This day will be my death ; I 
 thought so before. Go, my son ; I give you the fiddle as a 
 present : leave me the wallet here ; I will stretch myself 
 out to die upon it." 
 
 " The mischief's in it ! " grumbled Berthold ; " if mat- 
 ters are to go on this way, we shall be a year and a day 
 hence still travelling this cursed road. Hark ye, old boy ; 
 you are an odd fellow ; with crutches, without meat and
 
 THE BITTER WEDDING. 79 
 
 drink, and without a worsted coat, wandering through our 
 rough country, with a fiddle as large as a ton, and a wal- 
 let as heavy as seven three-stone cheeses ! That may in- 
 deed be called a tempting of Providence! Why the deuce 
 do you drag after you that ass's burden of old rubbish, and 
 have not the convenience of a cloak in your bundle 1 " 
 
 " It is all very true," said Almerich ; " I am not yet ac- 
 customed to be the lame, feeble man you see me. Thirty 
 years ago, I skipped like a leveret over hills and dales; 
 but now, farewell to friend Almerich; I shall never leave 
 this place ; however, it is all one, perish here or die 
 there, a dying bed is ever a hard one, even though it 
 should be of down and silk." 
 
 " Now really," replied Berthold, " you are too whimsi- 
 cal, fiddler ! The cold blast never hurts a tough fellow 
 who is accustomed to run about the mountains. There, 
 slip into my coat, and walk smartly on, for a shower is ap- 
 proaching, and that rascally wallet is weighing me down." 
 
 "Patience, child, patience!" said Almerich, "that coat 
 is quite warm from your shoulders, 1 feel very comforta- 
 ble in it, slowly, gently ; your story of the marvellous 
 cheese and wine has quite restored me to warmth how 
 did the matter go on 1 " 
 
 " You rogue and rascal," thought Berthold to himself, 
 and then continued his lamentable tale. 
 
 " How did it go on ! Gertrude sang to the same tune 
 as her husband; Siegelind grew sad, and lost her color and 
 strength; the old boy urged the matter, and Hildebrand 
 too. Bernhard was anxious to get the rich and proud son- 
 in-law, and was in great fear lest the enchanted wine 
 should soon dry up. The young fellow had money in his 
 eye, and wished to turn the bewitched cheese to usury. 
 Thus the wedding was determined on, and I was left in sad- 
 ness upon my mountain. I tried to forget it ; I thought 
 Siegelind could not have borne me in her heart, otherwise 
 she would not, to escape death and martyrdom, have mar-
 
 SO THE BITTER WEDDING. 
 
 ried the red-haired Hildebrand. Last night I could find 
 neither rest nor sleep upon my straw. I must go and see 
 her with my own eyes take that miser for her husband. 
 Near the village I will wrap up my head, and dye my 
 hands and cheeks with berries, so that nobody will know 
 me ; and in the bustle of the wedding, when every thing 
 is turning topsy-turvy, not a living soul will care for poor 
 Berthold. When all is over, I will, so it please Heaven, 
 become wise again ; or, if not, my head will turn alto- 
 gether, and that will be a blessing too." 
 
 "My good child," said the dwarf, "all that will pass 
 over. Now, I perceive well that it is a hard journey and 
 a bitter wedding too for you : it is, however, good luck, 
 my child, that you have me for a companion. I will fiddle 
 till your heart leaps again : your sorrow grieves me as 
 much as if it were my own." 
 
 Whilst talking thus, a few drops of rain fell, which proved 
 the prelude to a heavy shower; and, although the travellers 
 had already gone a considerable way, they were still far 
 from the end of their journey, and, gush after gush, the 
 rain poured upon their heads, till the water ran down from 
 their hats as from a spout. 
 
 Berthold trudged silently on, sighing frequently and 
 heavily under his burden : he could have sworn that it in- 
 creased a pound's weight every step ; nevertheless it was 
 impossible for his good nature to think of giving it back 
 to the poor cripple in such a tempest. The moisture be- 
 gan to trickle through his waistcoat, and run in a cold 
 stream down his back ; he wished himself, the dwarf, and 
 the wedding, all far enough, but stalked sullenly on 
 through the mud. as if he had been wading through the 
 highest alpine grass. 
 
 The fiddler limped close behind him, croaking, occa- 
 sionally, through his raven throat, an old spring song, which 
 told of sunshine, and singing birds, and pleasure, and 
 love. He then drew himself snugly together, and expa-
 
 THE BITTER WEDDING. 81 
 
 tiated on the excellence of the herdsman's coat, which, he 
 said, was quite water-proof; next he called to Berthold to 
 step leisurely, to pay particular attention to the wallet and 
 fiddle, and not to overheat himself. 
 
 The herdsman would have lost all patience and courage 
 a thousand times over, in dragging his hundred weight of 
 a load, and playing the fool to the crazy fiddler, if he had 
 not been ashamed to throw away the burden which he had 
 volunteered to carry, and to forsake the person whose 
 company he had himself invited. But in his heart he 
 vowed deeply and solemnly never again to lend his coat to 
 a fiddler, nor give away his cheese, nor carry a fiddle and 
 wallet, and after all be mocked and laughed at by such 
 an odd quiz of a fellow ! " If," thought he at last, " the 
 upshot of all this is a fever in the evening, which carries 
 me quickly off, be it so, it remains a bitter wedding." 
 
 After a few hours of rain, the two companions reached 
 the valley, where a swollen and rapid torrent rushed across 
 their path, which had swept away every vestige of the lit- 
 tle bridge that led to the village, with the exception of a 
 single small plank ; the herdsman heeded not the narrow 
 footing, and was stepping boldly across, when the fiddler 
 began to roar out lustily about the dangers of the path 
 " For my life and soul, I will not move from this spot. 
 Neither cat nor rat could pass over there. T should be a 
 dead man if I ventured on that cursed plank. Let them 
 fiddle yonder who can swim. I wish I was in a down 
 bed, with my fiddle for a pillow." 
 
 " Don't make such a noise about it," cried Berthold ; 
 " if our journey has led us as far as this, we shall surely 
 get on a little farther ; if I have brought the fiddler this 
 length to the bitter dance, I will also bring him to the 
 wedding-house. Though I am a fool, I am, nevertheless, 
 a good-natured one." 
 
 With these words, the herdsman took off the fiddle and 
 wallet from his back, and supplied their place with the
 
 82 THE BITTER WEDDING. 
 
 dwarf, whom he carried over as easily as a bundle of 
 straw. Then he fetched the fiddle, wallet, and crutch, 
 which lay as heavy as so many stones upon his shoul- 
 ders. 
 
 "Well, the best of it now is," said he, " that we shall 
 soon reach the village : either my head is turned, or that 
 wallet is filled with flesh and blood, and Master Almerich's 
 body is stuffed with chaff." 
 
 "Nonsense!" replied the fiddler with a broad grin. 
 " You have behaved well, child : it would be a great pity 
 if the bride yonder should not get you : you have the 
 genuine patience of the lamb in you ; yet I perceive you 
 have also strength enough, with your heart in the right 
 place, and as much wisdom as there is any need of in the 
 country. Come, let us paint your cheeks, and take out 
 the old cap you will find in my wallet, and the green 
 waistcoat, and get that belt about you ; then take up the 
 rest of the things and follow me : to-day you shall be the 
 fiddler's boy, and not a living creature know you." 
 
 The fiddler opened his wallet, and threw out the dis- 
 guise to Berthold ; shut it hastily again ; painted his face 
 with cranberries, and his beard and eyebrows with a bit 
 of coal; and then they walked gayly on, the last quarter of 
 an hour, towards the village. 
 
 Evening was just coming on, and the sun broke out all 
 at once from under the clouds ; the birds began to sing 
 cheerfully ; the flowers opened their leaves as if to listen, 
 and Berthold felt his clothes sooner dry than if he had 
 been sitting close to a large fire. 
 
 In a few minutes, our wanderers mingled with the merry 
 wedding guests; noise and merriment were echoing all 
 around ; and no one looked sad but Siegelind, who kept 
 her tearful eyes fixe,d upon the ground. The old fiddler 
 was welcomed with shouts of applause; the rain had pre- 
 vented the arrival of the band of fiddlers and pipers who 
 had been invited on the occasion, and every body pro-
 
 THE BITTER WEDDING. 83 
 
 nounced it a piece of marvellous good luck for the wed- 
 ding, that Master Almerich should have got through. 
 
 " Now, children," exclaimed the old boy, " fetch us 
 something to drink, and some cheese and bread ; and do 
 not forget that youth who has dragged myself as well as 
 my fiddle here to-day." 
 
 The guests ran about to execute the old fiddler's com- 
 mands ; and even Gertrude and Bernhard seemed well- 
 pleased, and brought whatever was on the table. Poor 
 Berthold's heart was bleeding : he kept, however, eating 
 and drinking, that he might not be obliged to speak. 
 Meanwhile the old fiddler put dry strings on his instru- 
 ment, and began to tune it so stoutly that it thrilled 
 through marrow and bone, and quickly drew the attention 
 of all upon the musician. 
 
 "Bless me!" whispered Bernhard to Gertrude; "upon 
 my faith, it is the very dwarf who gave me the bewitched 
 wine and cheese ! Be gentle to him, wife, and say not a 
 single word." 
 
 All at once the fiddler struck up so stoutly and briskly 
 upon his fiddle, that the very house shook : blow upon blow, 
 he commenced such a furious strain, that the whole com- 
 pany leaped up from their benches, and began dancing as 
 if they were mad. " Heigh ! heigh! " shouted, the people, 
 "tfierc is a fiddle;" and everyone capered and whirled 
 through the wedding-chamber as if they danced for a 
 wager. The young people led out the dance, and the old 
 ones hobbled as fast after them as they could : nobody re- 
 mained in her place but Siegelind, who wished herself 
 ten thousand miles away from the merriment, and Ber- 
 thold, who looked steadfastly and sorrowfully upon his 
 beloved. 
 
 In the midst of his fiddling, Master Almerich beckoned 
 to the beautiful bride to step near to him " There stands 
 a little bottle yonder, where your bridegroom has been 
 seated, and some old cheese with it. I dare say it will
 
 84 THE BITTER WEDDING. 
 
 not be the worst in the house. I would taste a little of it. 
 This playing makes me a little nice in the palate." 
 
 The good-natured bride was little interested in the pres- 
 ervation of the precious articles. She brought them, and 
 placed them upon a chair beside him, thinking the old 
 man might take as much as he could eat. 
 
 The dwarf quickly laid his fiddle aside, raised the be- 
 witched bottle in his right hand, and the cheese in his 
 left, and exclaimed, with a loud voice, "Well, my good 
 people, well, here's the health of that beautiful bride there 
 and her sweetheart : may she live long and joyfully." 
 
 "Long and joyfully," resounded through the room, 
 while fifty bonnets and hats were tossed up into the air. 
 
 But horror-struck and deadly pale did Hildebrand, and 
 Bernhard, and Gertrude, become, when they saw the won- 
 drous wine and enchanted cheese in Almerich's uplifted 
 fist. "Dares he can he will he?" darted through their 
 hearts ; but, wo and alas ! in one turn of his hand, the 
 glutton, with his large ox mouth, had swallowed the be- 
 witched draught and marvellous cheese without leaving a 
 morsel. 
 
 A roar of passion from the red-haired Hildebrand, and 
 a gush of tears from Gertrude, now terrified the people; 
 while old Bernhard stood like one petrified. A cheerful 
 smile flew over the countenance of Siegelind, and Ber- 
 thold rose boldly from his bench, and stood ready to use 
 his fists upon Hildebrand if he should dare to touch the 
 fiddler. 
 
 " You rogue ! you beggar ! " at last exclaimed Hilde- 
 brand, " who told you to give that old fool of a fiddler that 
 gift of Heaven ? You may now give your house, and your 
 bride, too, to the rabble. I do not care a straw more for 
 you and all that remains to you." 
 
 With words of venom and execration, Hildebrand rush- 
 ed out of the room, while, silent and terrified, the outraged 
 Bernhard and his crowd of guests looked after him. " I
 
 A BHAOTIFUL CHILD LAY OX THE &RO UXD, AT SOME LITTLE DISTANCE.'
 
 THE RUSTIC WREATH. 85 
 
 am a dead man!" at last exclaimed Bernhard; "my child 
 and we are all ruined ; the wedding feast and the adorn- 
 ments are all unpaid ! O cursed, horrid miser ! Bring me 
 a knife a knife ! " 
 
 "A fig for a knife !" exclaimed the fiddler. "There 
 the bridegroom has just come, and has brought with him a 
 whole wallet full of gold ; and the bride loves him with all 
 her heart ; and the guests are still together ; and my fid- 
 dle is in glorious tune." 
 
 With these words, Almerich crippled forward to the 
 half- bewildered and yet joyful Berthold, and drew him into 
 the circle. He wiped his face with the skirt of his coat, 
 and showed to the delighted bride and the astonished 
 guests their well-known neighbor, who was dear and wel- 
 come to all. The wallet was hastily dragged forward ; and, 
 Almerich having quickly opened the lock, behold! pure 
 red gold, in coins and chains, tumbled out from it, dazzling 
 the eyes of all with their splendor. Old Bernhard and 
 Gertrude embraced by turns the lovely Siegelind and the 
 ugly dwarf. Almerich took his fiddle, and struck up a 
 tune, which bewitched them all ; and they danced till mid- 
 night in joy and glory. The musician then escaped, and 
 left a whole house full of merry-makers around the two 
 happy lovers, who, till their last day, a thousand times, 
 blessed the bitter wedding, in which they had been so won- 
 derfully united by the benevolent lame dwarf. 
 
 THE RUSTIC WREATH. 
 
 I HAD taken refuge in a harvest field belonging to my 
 
 good neighbor, Farmer Creswell. A beautiful child lay 
 
 on the ground, at some little distance, whilst a young girl, 
 
 resting from the labor of reaping, was twisting a rustic 
 
 8
 
 86 THE RUSTIC WREATH. 
 
 wreath enamelled corn-flowers, brilliant poppies, snow- 
 white lily-bines, and light, fragile hare-bells, mingled with 
 tufts of the richest wheat-ears around its hat. 
 
 There was something in the tender youthfulness of these 
 two innocent creatures, in the pretty, though somewhat 
 fantastic, occupation of the girl, the fresh wild flowers, 
 the ripe and swelling corn, that harmonized with the sea- 
 son and the hour, and conjured up memories of " Dis and 
 Proserpine," and of all that is gorgeous and graceful in old 
 mythology ; of the lovely Lavinia of our own poet, and of 
 the subject of that finest pastoral in the world, the far love- 
 lier Ruth. But these fanciful associations soon vanished 
 before the real sympathy excited by the actors of the scene, 
 both of whom were known to me, and both objects of a 
 sincere and lively interest. 
 
 The young girl, Dora Creswell, was the orphan niece 
 of one of the wealthiest yeomen in our part of the world, 
 the only child of his only brother, and, having lost both 
 her parents whilst still an infant, had been reared by her 
 widowed uncle, as fondly and carefully as his own son, 
 Walter. He said, that he loved her quite as well, perhaps 
 he loved her better ; for, although it were impossible for a 
 father not to be proud of the bold, handsome youth, who 
 at eighteen had a man's strength, and a man's stature, was 
 the best ringer, the best cricketer, and the best shot in the 
 county, yet the fair Dora, who, nearly ten years younger, 
 was at once his handmaid, his housekeeper, his plaything, 
 and his companion, was evidently the very apple of his 
 eye. Our good farmer vaunted her accomplishments as 
 juen of his class are wont to boast of a high-bred horse 
 or a favorite greyhound. She could make a shirt and a 
 pudding, darn stockings, rear poultry, keep accounts, and 
 read the newspaper ; was as famous for gooseberry wine as 
 Mrs. Primrose, and could compound a syllabub with any 
 dairy-woman in the county. There was not such a 
 handy little creature any where ; so thoughtful and trusty
 
 THE RUSTIC WREATH. 87 
 
 about the house, and yet, out of doors, as gay as a lark, 
 and as wild as the wind : nobody was like his Dora. 
 So said and so thought Farmer Creswell; and, before Dora 
 was ten years old, he had resolved that, in due time, she 
 should marry his son Walter, and had informed both par- 
 ties of his intention. 
 
 Now, Farmer CreswelPs intentions were well known to 
 be as unchangeable as the laws of the Medes and Per- 
 sians. He was a fair specimen of an English yeoman, a 
 tall, square-built, muscular man, stout and active, with a 
 resolute countenance, a keen eye, and an intelligent smile : 
 his temper was boisterous and irascible, generous and kind 
 to those whom he loved, but quick to take offence, and 
 slow to pardon, expecting and exacting implicit obedience 
 from all about him. With all Dora's good gifts, the sweet 
 and yielding nature of the gentle and submissive little girl 
 was, undoubtedly, the chief cause of her uncle's partiality. 
 Above all, he was obstinate in the very highest degree, 
 had never been known to yield a point or change a resolu- 
 tion ; and the fault was the more inveterate, because he 
 called it firmness, and accounted it a virtue. For the rest, 
 he was a person of excellent principle and perfect integ- 
 rity ; clear-headed, prudent, and sagacious; fond of agri- 
 cultural experiments, and pursuing them cautiously and 
 successfully; a good farmer, and a good man. 
 
 His son Walter, who was, in person, a handsome like- 
 ness of his father, resembled him, also, in many points of 
 character ; was equally obstinate, and far more fiery, hot, 
 and bold. He loved his pretty cousin much as he would 
 have loved a favorite sister, and might, very possibly, if 
 let alone, have become attached to her as his father wish- 
 ed : but to be dictated to, to be chained down to a distant 
 engagement; to hold himself bound to a mere child, the 
 very idea was absurd ; and restraining, with difficulty, an 
 abrupt denial, he walked down into the village, predis- 
 posed, out of sheer contradiction, to fall in love with the
 
 88 THE RUSTIC WREATH. 
 
 first young woman who should come in his way ; and he 
 did fall in love accordingly. 
 
 Mary Hay, the object of his ill-fated passion, was the 
 daughter of the respectable mistress of a small endowed 
 school at the other side of the parish. She was a delicate, 
 interesting creature, with a slight, drooping figure, and a 
 fair, downcast face, like a snow-drop, forming such a con- 
 trast with her gay and gallant wooer, as Love, in his vaga- 
 ries, is often pleased to bring together. The courtship 
 was secret and tedious, and prolonged from months to 
 years; for Mary shrank from the painful contest which 
 she knew that an avowal of their attachment would occa- 
 sion. At length her mother died ; and, deprived of a home 
 and maintenance, she reluctantly consented to a private 
 marriage. An immediate discovery ensued, and was fol- 
 lowed by all the evils, and more than all, that her worst 
 fears had anticipated. Her husband was turned from the 
 house of his father ; and, in less than three months, his 
 death, by an inflammatory fever, left her a desolate and 
 pennyless widow; unowned and unassisted by the stern 
 parent, on whose unrelenting temper neither the death of 
 his son, nor the birth of his grandson, seemed to make 
 the slightest impression. But for the general sympathy 
 excited by the deplorable situation and blameless deport- 
 ment of the widowed bride, she and her infant must have 
 taken refuge in the workhouse. The whole neighborhood 
 was zealous to relieve and to serve them; but their most 
 liberal benefactress, their most devoted friend, was poor 
 Dora. Considering her uncle's partiality to herself as the 
 primary cause of all this misery, she felt like a guilty 
 creature ; and casting off, at once, her native timidity and 
 habitual submission, she had repeatedly braved his anger, 
 by the most earnest supplications for mercy and for par- 
 don ; and, when this proved unavailing, she tried to miti- 
 gate their distresses by all the assistance that her small 
 means would admit. Every shilling of her pocket-money
 
 THE RUSTIC WREATH. 89 
 
 she expended on her dear cousins; worked for them, beg- 
 ged for them, and transferred to them every present that 
 was made to herself, from the silk frock to a penny tartlet. 
 Every thing that was her own she gave, but nothing of 
 her uncle's ; for, though sorely tempted to transfer some 
 of the plenty around her to those whose claim seemed so 
 just, and whose need was so urgent, Dora felt that she 
 was trusted, and that she must prove herself trustworthy. 
 
 Such was the posture of affairs at the time of my en- 
 counter with Dora and little Walter in the harvest field : 
 the rest will be best told in the course of our dialogue : 
 
 " And so, madam, I cannot bear to see my dear cousin 
 Mary so sick and so melancholy ; and the dear, dear child, 
 that a king might be proud of only look at him ! " ex- 
 claimed Dora, interrupting herself, as the beautiful child, 
 sitting on the ground, in all the placid dignity of infancy, 
 looked up at me, and smiled in my face. " Only look at 
 him ! " continued she, " and think of that dear boy, and 
 his dear mother, living on charity, and they my uncle's 
 lawful heirs, whilst I, that have no right whatsoever, no 
 claim, none at all I that, compared to them, am but a fa"r- 
 off kinswoman, the mere creature of his bounty, should 
 revel in comfort and in plenty, and they starving ! I can- 
 not bear it, and I will not. And then the wrong that he 
 is doing himself; he, that is really so good and kind, to be 
 called a hard-hearted tyrant by the whole country side. 
 And he is unhappy himself, too ; I know that he is. So 
 tired as he comes home, he will walk about his room half 
 the night ; and often, at meal times, he will drop his knife 
 and fork, and sigh so heavily ! He may turn me out of 
 doors, as he threatened ; or, what is worse, call me un- 
 grateful or undutiful, but he shall see this boy." 
 
 "He never has seen him, then? and that is why you 
 are tricking him out so prettily ? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am. Mind what I told you, Walter ; and 
 hold up your hat, and say what I bid you."
 
 90 THE RUSTIC WREATH. 
 
 " Gan-papa's fovvers ! " stammered the pretty boy, in his 
 sweet, childish voice, the first words that I had ever heard 
 him speak. 
 
 " Grand-papa's flowers ! " said his zealous preceptress. 
 
 " Gan-papa's fowers ! " echoed the boy. 
 
 " Shall you take the child to the house, Dora?" asked I. 
 
 " No, ma'am. I look for my uncle here every minute; 
 and this is the best place to ask a favor in, for the very 
 sight of the great crop puts him in good humor ; not so 
 much on account of the profits, but because the land never 
 bore half so much before, and it's all owing to his man- 
 agement in dressing and drilling. I came reaping here 
 to-day on purpose to please him ; for though he says he 
 does not wish me to work in the fields, I know he likes it ; 
 and here he shall see little Walter. Do you think he can 
 resist him, ma'am?" continued Dora, leaning over her in- 
 fant cousin, with the grace and fondness of a young Ma- 
 donna; "do you think he can resist him, poor child, so 
 helpless, so harmless ; his own blood too, and so like his 
 father? No heart could be hard enough to hold out; and 
 I am sure that his will not. Only," pursued Dora, relapsing 
 into her girlish tone and attitude, as a cold fear crossed 
 her enthusiastic hope " only I'm half afraid that Walter 
 will cry. It's strange, when one wants any thing to be- 
 have particularly well, how sure it is to be naughty; my 
 pets, especially. I remember when my lady countess 
 came on purpose to see our white peacock, that we got in 
 a present from India, the obstinate bird ran away behind 
 a bean-stack, and would not spread his train, to show the 
 dead white spots on his glossy white feathers, all we could 
 do. Her ladyship was quite angry. And my red and 
 yellow marvel of Peru, which used to blow at four in the 
 afternoon, as regular as the clock struck, was not open at 
 five, the other day, when dear Miss Julia came to paint it, 
 though the sun was shining as bright as it does now. If 
 Walter should scream and cry! for my uncle does some-
 
 THE RUSTIC WREATH. 91 
 
 times look so stern ; and then it's Saturday, and he has 
 such a beard ! If the child should be frightened ! Be 
 sure, Walter, that you don't cry," said Dora, in great 
 alarm. 
 
 " Gan-papa's fowers ! " replied the smiling boy, holding 
 up his hat ; and his young protectress was comforted. 
 
 At this moment, the farmer was heard whistling to his 
 dog, in a neighboring field ; and, fearful that my presence 
 might injure the cause, I departed, my thoughts full of the 
 noble little girl and her generous purpose. 
 
 I had promised to call the next afternoon, to learn her 
 success ; and, passing the harvest field in my way, found 
 a group assembled there which instantly dissipated my 
 anxiety. On the very spot where we had parted, I saw 
 the good farmer himself, in his Sunday clothes, tossing 
 little Walter in the air ; the child laughing and screaming 
 with delight, and his grandfather apparently quite as much 
 delighted as himself. A pale, slender young woman, in 
 deep mourning, stood looking at their gambols, with an 
 air of intense thankfulness ; and Dora, the cause and the 
 sharer of all this happiness, was loitering behind, playing 
 with the flowers in Walter's hat, which she was holding in 
 her hand. Catching my eye, the sweet girl came to me 
 instantly. 
 
 "I see how it is, my dear Dora; and I give you joy, 
 from the bottom of my heart. Little Walter behaved well, 
 then?" 
 
 " O, he behaved like an angel ! " 
 
 "Did he say 'Gan-papa's fowers'?" 
 
 " Nobody spoke a word. The moment the child took 
 off his hat and looked up, the truth seemed to flash on my 
 uncle, and to melt his heart at once ; the boy is so like his 
 father. He knew him instantly, and caught him up in his 
 arms, and hugged him, just as he is hugging him now." 
 
 " And the beard, Dora ? " 
 
 " Why, that seemed to take the child's fancy : he put
 
 92 THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 up his little hands and stroked it, and laughed in his 
 grandfather's face, and flung his chubby arms round his 
 neck, and held out his sweet mouth to be kissed ; and O 
 how my uncle did kiss him! I thought he would never 
 have done ; and then he sat down on a wheat-sheaf, and 
 cried ; and I cried, too. Very strange, that one should cry 
 for happiness ! " added Dora, as some large drops fell on 
 the rustic wreath which she was adjusting round Walter's 
 hat. " Very strange," repeated she, looking up, with a 
 bright smile, and brushing away the tears from her rosy 
 cheeks, with a bunch of corn-flowers "very strange, 
 that I should cry, when I am the happiest creature alive ; 
 for Mary and Walter are to live with us; and my dear 
 uncle, instead of being angry with me, says that he loves 
 me better than ever. How very strange it is," said Dora, 
 as the tears poured down, faster and faster, " that I should 
 be so foolish as to cry ! " 
 
 THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ALVAREZ DE RAMEIRO was the son of a Portuguese 
 marquis, by an English lady of great beauty and consider- 
 able fortune. The match was particularly obnoxious to 
 the family of the nobleman; and Alvarez, at the death of 
 his mother, found himself heir to her English estates, and 
 to the cordial dislike of his Portuguese relations ; but he 
 was of a light heart and free spirit, and found an antidote 
 to their coldness and neglect in his contempt for their 
 opinion. It naturally followed, however, that he was often, 
 as much " upon compulsion " as from choice, left to the 
 society of his own reflections, which, as he possessed a 
 tolerably well-stored mind and a clear conscience, were 
 very endurable company.
 
 THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 93 
 
 In one of the solitary rambles, in which it was his wont 
 to indulge, he found himself in the vicinity of the pleas- 
 ure-grounds attached to a villa within a league of Lisbon, 
 the country residence of a British merchant. As he 
 approached the garden, which was separated from the 
 road by a deep moat, he perceived, walking on a slight ele- 
 vation or terrace, a young lady, whose form and counte- 
 nance were so entirely to his taste, that his eyes followed 
 her with an earnestness, which, had she observed it, might 
 not have impressed her with a very favorable notion of his 
 good manners. Whether he was desirous of quenching 
 the incipient flame in his bosom, by rushing into the oppo- 
 site element, or of arriving at his object by the shortest 
 possible cut (overlooking in his haste the parenthesis of 
 the ditch), it is neither possible nor essential for me to 
 state ; but certain it is, that the lady was roused from her 
 meditations by the noise of a sudden plunge in the water; 
 and, on turning round, she saw a portion of a mantle 
 floating on the moat, and, immediately afterwards, the hap- 
 less owner floundering about, either ignorant of the art of 
 swimming, or incapacitated for efficient exertion by his 
 cloak and appended finery. 
 
 The lady did not shriek out, for she knew that the gar- 
 dener was deaf, and that her cries would not reach the 
 mansion : she did not tear her hair, for, unless she could 
 have made a rope of it, there had been little wisdom in 
 that ; but she did better ; she seized a rake, and, ap- 
 proaching as near to the moat as she could, literally hook- 
 ed him into shallow water, whence he was enabled to gain 
 the terrace, where he stood before her dripping like a 
 river-god, and sputtering thanks and duck-weed in great 
 profusion. Never did human being present a more equivo- 
 cal appearance than did Alvarez on this occasion, covered, 
 as he was, with mud and weeds. The damsel, at the 
 sight of him, scrambling up the bank, was almost induced 
 to exclaim, with Trinculo, "What have we here? a man
 
 94 THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 or a fish?" And, indeed, until "the creature found a 
 tongue," it would have been no easy task for Linnaeus 
 himself to determine the class of animals to which he be- 
 longed. No meeting between fair lady and gallant knight 
 could, by possibility, be more unromantic ; nay, 'twas the 
 most common-place thing conceivable : whatever may 
 have been the cavalier's sensations, she did not fall in love 
 with him ; for her first impulse, on seeing him safely land- 
 ed, was to laugh most incontinently; and love, as my 
 friend the corporal hath it, is "the most serious thing 
 in life." 
 
 " I pray you, senora," said Alvarez, as soon as he re- 
 covered himself, " to accept my humblest apologies for in- 
 truding upon you so extraordinary an apparition." 
 
 "Apparition! nay, senor, you are encumbered, some- 
 what too pertinaciously, methinks, with the impurities of 
 earth to be mistaken for any thing of the kind ; unless you 
 lay claim to the spiritual character on the score of your 
 intangibility, which I have not the slightest inclination to 
 dispute ; and as for your apologies, you had better render 
 them to those unoffending fishes whose peaceful retreat 
 you have so unceremoniously invaded; for you have raised 
 a tempest where, to my certain knowledge, there has not 
 been a ripple for these twelve months." 
 
 " Indeed, fair lady, I owe them no apologies, since but 
 for you I had been their food. Yon moat, although not 
 wide enough to swim in, possesses marvellous facilities for 
 drowning." 
 
 At this instant, the merchant himself entered the 
 grounds, and approached the scene of the interview 
 His daughter immediately introduced her unbidden guest. 
 " Allow me, my dear papa, to present to you a gentleman 
 who brings with him the latest intelligence from the bot- 
 tom of the rnoat. Behold him dripping with his creden- 
 tials, and the bearer of a specimen of the soil, and a few 
 aquatic plants peculiar to the region he has explored, and
 
 THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 95 
 
 of which, having landed on your territories, he politely re- 
 quests you to relieve him." 
 
 " You are a saucy jade," said the merchant; "and, but 
 that I know your freaks ever stop short of actual mischief, 
 1 could almost suspect you of having pushed him in." 
 
 " Nay, papa, that could not be ; we were on opposite 
 sides of the moat." 
 
 " You forget, lady," rejoined the cavalier, wno oegan 
 to recover his spirits, " that attraction is often as powerful 
 an agent as repulsion, and that therefore your father's con- 
 jecture as to the cause of my misfortune may not be alto- 
 gether groundless." 
 
 " I beseech you, senor," said the daughter, " to reserve 
 your compliments for your next visit to the naiads of the 
 inoat, to whom they are more justly due, and cannot fail 
 to be acceptable from a gentleman of your amphibious 
 propensities. I hope our domestics will be careful in di 
 vesting you of that plaster of mud : I should like the 
 cast amazingly." 
 
 During this colloquy the party were approaching the 
 mansion, where Alvarez was accommodated with a tem- 
 porary change of attire; and it is certain that, if the dam- 
 sel was not captivated by his first appearance, her heart 
 was still less in danger when she beheld him encased in 
 her father's habiliments " a world too wide" for him 
 the merchant being somewhat of the stoutest, while the 
 fair proportions of his guest were not encumbered with 
 any exuberance of flesh. 
 
 Thus originated the acquaintance of Mr. Wentworth 
 and his fair daughter with the most gallant of all Portu- 
 guese cavaliers, Alvarez de Rameiro an acquaintance 
 which, as their amiable qualities mutually developed them- 
 selves, ripened into friendship. Alvarez exhibited a frank- 
 ness of manner which never bordered upon rudeness, and 
 was equally remote from assurance ; while the liberality 
 of his opinions indicated an elevation of mind that the
 
 96 THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 bigotry amid which he had been educated had not been 
 able to overthrow. These qualities well accorded with the 
 straight-forward disposition of the Englishman, who proba- 
 bly found them scarce in Lisbon, and rendered the society 
 of the young foreigner more than ordinarily agreeable 
 to him. 
 
 It happened, one afternoon in the summer, that the 
 merchant and Alvarez were enjoying their glass of wine 
 and cigar, while Mary Wentworth was attending to some 
 plants in a grass-plot before the window. Mr. Wentwortb 
 had told his last story, which was rather of the longest ; 
 but, as his notions of hospitality, in furnishing his table, 
 included conversation as well as refection, he made a 
 point of keeping it up; and, with this general object, 
 rather than any particular one, for he had great simplici- 
 ty of heart, he filled his glass, and, passing the decanter to 
 his guest, resumed the conversation. " It has occurred to 
 me, Alvarez, that your attentions to my Mary have been 
 somewhat pointed of late. Fili your glass, man, and don't 
 keep your hand on the bottle : it heats the wine." 
 
 " Then, sir, my conduct has not belied my feelings ; 
 for I certainly do experience much gratification in Miss 
 Wentworth's society, and her father is the last person 
 from whom I should desire to conceal it." 
 
 " Then have the kindness to push the cigar-dish a little 
 nearer, for mine is out." 
 
 " I hope, sir, that my attentions to your daughter have 
 not been offensive to her." 
 
 " I am sure I don't know, for I never asked her." 
 
 " Nor to yourself, I trust." 
 
 " No, or you would not have had so many opportunities 
 of paying them." 
 
 " They have occasioned you no anxiety or uneasiness, 
 then, sir 2 " 
 
 " Nay, your own honor is my warrant against that; snd 
 I have the collateral security of her prudence."
 
 THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 97 
 
 " May 1, then, without offence, inquire whither your 
 observations tend, and why you have introduced the 
 subject?" 
 
 " In the first instance, simply for want of something 
 else to talk about ; but, now we are upon the subject, it 
 may be as well to know your views in paying the atten- 
 tions to which I have referred." 
 
 " When I tell you honestly that I love your daughter, you 
 will not, with the confidence you are pleased to place in 
 my honor, have any difficulty in guessing them." 
 
 " Guessing is not my forte, and therefore I ever hated 
 riddles : they puzzle the understanding without improving 
 it. Speak out." 
 
 " Why, sir, with your sanction, to make her my wife." 
 
 " Then you will do a very foolish thing ; that is, always 
 supposing that my daughter has no objection to your 
 scheme ; and we, both of us, appear to have left her pretty 
 much out of the argument. Pray, is she aware at all of 
 the preference with which you are pleased to honor her ? " 
 
 " I have never told her, because I know not how she 
 would receive the declaration ; and I prize your daughter's 
 good opinion too dearly to desire to look like a simpleton 
 before her." 
 
 "Well, there's some sense in that. By the way, Alva- 
 rez, without any particular reference to the subject we are 
 discussing, let me exhort you, whenever you make a dec- 
 laration of your love to a woman, never do it upon your 
 knees." 
 
 "Why not, sir?" 
 
 "Because it is the most inconvenient position possible 
 for marching off the field; and, in the event of a repulse, 
 the sooner a man quits it the better." 
 
 " But, sir, I maintain, and I speak it under favor, and 
 with all deference to the sex, that the man who exposes 
 himself to the humiliation of a refusal richly merits it." 
 
 "As how?" 
 9
 
 98 THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 " Because he must be blind, if he cannot, within a 
 reasonable period, find out whether his suit be acceptable 
 or not, and a fool if he declares himself before." 
 
 " You think so, do you 1 Then be so good as to push 
 over that plate of olives ; and, as I said before, in refer- 
 ence to your matrimonial project, I think it a very foolish 
 one." 
 
 "In what respect, sir, may I ask?" 
 
 " In the first place, it is the custom in England for a 
 man and his wife to go to church together ; and you were 
 born a Catholic." 
 
 " Only half a one, sir : my mother was a Protestant." 
 
 " And a heretic." 
 
 " No, sir : my sainted mother was a Christian." 
 
 " You do not mean to call yourself a Protestant? " 
 
 " I do, indeed, sir." 
 
 " Then let me tell you, that your religion is the most 
 unfashionable in all Lisbon, and somewhat dangerous 
 withal." 
 
 " Have you found it so? " 
 
 " Nay ; I am of a country which is given to resent as a 
 nation an injury done to an individual member of it ; and 
 as a British fleet in the bay of Lisbon would not be the 
 most agreeable sight to the good folk of this Catholic city, 
 I presume I may profess what religion I please, without 
 incurring any personal risk : but you have no such safe- 
 guard ; and, although my daughter might have no great 
 objection to your goodly person as it is, she might not 
 relish it served up as a grill, according to the approved 
 method, in this most orthodox country, of freeing the spirit 
 from its earthly impurities." 
 
 " You talk very coolly, my dear sir, upon a rather 
 warm subject ; but I assure you I am under no apprehen- 
 sions on that score." 
 
 "Well, admitting that you are justified in considering 
 yourself safe, do you think that an alliance with the
 
 THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 99 
 
 daughter of a merchant, and a foreigner, would be other- 
 wise than obnoxious to your family?" 
 
 "Why, as to that, my affectionate brothers-in-law, not 
 reckoning upon the pleasure of my society in the next 
 world, have not been at much pains to cultivate it in this; 
 and therefore I apprehend I am not bound to consult their 
 wishes in the matter." 
 
 The conversation was here interrupted by the en- 
 trance of Miss Wentworth; and the subject was of course 
 changed. 
 
 The explanation which had taken place between the 
 merchant and Alvarez was followed by an equally good 
 understanding between the latter and the young lady ; and 
 it was finally arranged among them that Mr. Wentworth, 
 who had been eminently successful in his commercial pur- 
 suits in Lisbon, should only remain to close his accounts, 
 and convert his large property into bills and specie, for 
 the purpose of remitting it to London, when the whole 
 party, Alvarez himself having no ties to bind him to his 
 own country, should embark for England, where the union 
 of the young people was to take place. 
 
 But, alas ! " the course of true love never did run 
 smooth ; " and scarcely had the preliminary arrangements 
 been completed, when the merchant was seized with an in- 
 flammatory fever, which terminated in his death, leaving 
 his daughter, who loved him to a degree of enthusiasm 
 which such a parent might well inspire, overwhelmed by 
 sorrow, a stranger in a foreign land, and without a friend in 
 the world but Alvarez, whose ability to protect her fell in- 
 finitely short of his zeal and devotion to her service. Still, 
 however, he could comfort and advise with her; and she 
 looked up to him with all that confiding affection which 
 the noble qualities of his heart, and the honorable tenor 
 of his conduct, could not fail to create. But even he, her 
 only stay, was shortly taken from her. The holy office, 
 having gained information of their intention of quitting 
 Lisbon with the property of the deceased merchant, avail-
 
 100 THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ed itselt of the pretext afforded by the religious profession 
 of Alvarez to apprehend and confine him, as the most 
 effectual means of delaying the embarkation, relying on 
 ulterior measures for obtaining possession of the wealth 
 of their victims. 
 
 Mary Wentworth's was not a mind to sink supinely un- 
 der misfortune, for she had much energy of character ; 
 but this last blow was enough to paralyze it all. She had 
 no difficulty to guess at the object of the holy office ; and 
 she knew that if any measure could avail her in this emer- 
 gency, it must be speedily adopted. But the power of the 
 inquisition was a fearful one to contend with. There was 
 but one man in Lisbon who could aid her, and to him she 
 was a stranger ; yet to him she determined to appeal. 
 
 The name of Sebastian Joseph de Carvalho, marquis 
 of Pombal, will be familiar, to those who are conversant 
 with the history of Portugal, as that of the prime minister 
 of King Joseph ; to which elevation he appears to have 
 risen from circumstances of extreme indigence and the 
 humble rank of a corporal. He is represented to have 
 been a man of enlarged mind, uncommon personal cour- 
 age, and great decision of character. On the other hand, 
 he is said to have exhibited a haughty, overbearing spirit, 
 to have executed justice with extreme severity, and evin- 
 ced a cruel and ferocious disposition. It is, nevertheless, 
 universally admitted, that, in the majority of his political 
 acts, he had the good of his country at heart, which is evi- 
 denced by the wisdom with which he met, and the suc- 
 cess with which he alleviated, the public calamities con- 
 sequent upon the earthquake at Lisbon in 1755 ; by the 
 salutary restraints which he imposed upon an arrogant 
 aristocracy, as well as upon the tyranny of the inquisition ; 
 and by the decided measures by which he contributed to 
 overthrow the power of the Jesuits. In person, he was 
 of gigantic stature; and his countenance was so singular- 
 ly marked and imposing, that a nobleman, who had open- 
 ed his carriage door with the intention of assassinating
 
 THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 101 
 
 him, was deterred from his purpose by its awful and ter- 
 rible expression. 
 
 To this man, whom the boldest could not approach 
 without awe, Mary Wentworth resolved to appeal. It was 
 night when she presented herself at his palace, where she 
 was refused admittance. While, however, she was parley- 
 ing with the sentinel, Carvalho's steward, who had accom- 
 panied his master on his embassy to the court of London, 
 approached the gate, and, being interested by her English 
 accent, caused her to be admitted. He inquired the nature 
 of her business with the minister, which she briefly ex- 
 plained to him. 
 
 " Alas, my daughter," said the old man, " I fear your 
 errand to Carvalho will prove a fruitless one. I may not 
 safely procure you an interview ; but your countrymen, 
 while I sojourned among them, were kind to me, and I 
 would peril something to do you this service. Fol- 
 low me." 
 
 He preceded her up a flight of stairs, and, pointing to 
 a door partly open, at the end of a long passage, he said, 
 " There, in that room is he whom you seek : may God 
 prosper your errand." With these words, he disappeared 
 by a side-door, and Mary approached the apartment which 
 he had pointed out as that of Carvalho. The door was 
 sufficiently open to admit her ; and, entering, she found 
 herself in a spacious and lofty room, from the ceiling of 
 which depended a lamp immediately over the head of the 
 man at whose frown all Lisbon trembled; and when she 
 beheld his gigantic form and ferocious countenance, she 
 felt that nothing short of the stake which depended on the 
 interview could induce her to persevere in seeking it. 
 
 His head rested on his hand ; his brow was strongly 
 knit ; and his eyes were intently fixed upon some papers. 
 The rustling of her dress, as she drew near the table, at- 
 tracted his attention. He did not start, but, raising his 
 eyes, looked coldly and sternly upon her, and, without 
 9*
 
 102 THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 uttering a word, appeared to wait for an explanation of so 
 extraordinary an intrusion. 
 
 Mary possessed shrewdness and discrimination enough 
 to perceive that, with a man of Carvalho's strength and 
 decision of character, nothing was more likely to preju- 
 dice her cause than circumlocution. She therefore enter- 
 ed at once upon her story, and told it in the fewest possi- 
 ble words, concluding with an appeal rather to his justice 
 than to his feelings : and in this she did wisely. He lis- 
 tened without interrupting her, or betraying in his counte- 
 nance the slightest indication of the effect of her appeal. 
 When she had ended, he waited a few moments, as if to 
 ascertain if she had any thing more to say. His reply was 
 " Senora, were I to try my strength with the holy office 
 upon every occasion of its oppression and injustice, I should 
 have constant occupation, and gain little by the contest. I 
 am not omnipotent : I have checked the power of the in- 
 quisition, but I cannot crush it, or, credit me, not one stone 
 of that hated edifice should stand upon another. Your case 
 is hard, and I compassionate it: but I fear I can do nothing 
 to aid you in obtaining redress. You say your father was 
 a British merchant : what was his name?" 
 
 " Wentworth, senor." 
 
 " Wentworth ! I have good cause to recollect him. 
 Of all my political opponents, that man, if not the most 
 powerful, was the most persevering and unbending. I 
 adopted certain measures which he considered to militate 
 against the commerce of his country, and he combated 
 them with all his might ; but he did it like a man, boldly 
 and open-handed. In the very heat of this controversy, 
 when the feelings of both parties were at the height of 
 their excitement, I was walking, unattended, in the streets 
 of Lisbon, when a mob collected upon my path, and dark 
 looks and threatening gestures were gathering around me. 
 I am not a man to fly from a rabble : I frowned defiance 
 upon my assailants, who continued to press upon me; and
 
 THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 103 
 
 some of them unsheathed their daggers. On a sudden, 
 and from behind me, I was seized by a powerful hand, 
 dragged into a house, the door of which was instantly 
 dosed, and found myself in the presence of your father. 
 ' Carvalho,' said he, 'you are my enemy and my country's; 
 but you shall not die a dog's death while I can protect 
 you.' He kept his word in defiance of the threats and 
 imprecations of the rabble, declaring that they should pull 
 his house upon his head ere they violated its sanctuary. 
 A party of military at last arrived and dispersed the riot- 
 ers. Your father, at parting, said with a smile, ' Now, 
 Carvalho, we are foes again.' And is he dead? Then 
 have I lost an enemy whom to bring back to earth I 
 would freely surrender all who now call themselves my 
 friends. Marvel not, lady, that I am somewhat rough and 
 stern : ingratitude hath made me so. This city was once 
 a ruin : gaunt famine was even in her palaces, and the 
 cry of desolation in her streets. I gave bread to her fam- 
 ishing people, raised her from the dust, and made her what 
 you see ; but I sowed blessings, and curses were the harvest 
 that I reaped. I have labored day and night for the good 
 of this priest-ridden people ; and, because I have consult- 
 ed their welfare rather than their prejudices, there is not a 
 man in Lisbon who would not plunge his dagger into my 
 heart, if he had courage for the deed. A sense of grati- 
 tude to any human being is new to me, and, trust me, I 
 will indulge it. The debt I owe your father, and which 
 his proud spirit would not permit me to acknowledge as I 
 purposed, I will endeavor to repay to his child. Yet how 
 to aid you in this matter I know not. I have to combat 
 the most powerful engine of the church, which, on this oc- 
 casion, will have the prejudices of the people on its side." 
 The minister paced the room, for a few minutes, thought- 
 fully and perplexed : at length he resumed " The holy 
 brotherhood are not wont to do their work by halves, and 
 you will be their next victim. I know of but one way to
 
 104 THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 save you, and him for whom you intercede : it is replete 
 with peril, but it shall be dared. Go home to your dwell- 
 ing ; tell no one that you have seen me ; and, happen what 
 may, I will be with you in the hour of danger, if it be to 
 perish by your side." 
 
 Alvarez had been a prisoner three days, during which 
 his treatment was in no respect rigorous, when he was 
 summoned before the inquisitor. The hall of audience, 
 as it was termed, was a spacious chamber, in the centre 
 of which, upon an elevation or platform, about three inches 
 from the floor, was a long table, covered with crimson 
 cloth : around it were placed chairs decorated with cross- 
 es : at one end of it sat the inquisitor, and at the other the 
 notary of the holy office. At the extremity of the cham- 
 ber was a figure of the Saviour on the cross, which nearly 
 reached the ceiling ; and immediately opposite was a 
 bench appropriated to the prisoners during their examina- 
 tion. The inquisitor wore a kind of cap with a square 
 crown : the notary and the prisoner were, of course, un- 
 covered. Alvarez was first commanded to lay his hand 
 on a Missal which was on the table, and swear that he 
 would truly answer the interrogatories which might be put 
 to him. He was then desired to sit down upon the bench 
 which was at the left hand of the inquisitor, who, after a 
 pause, said " Senor Alvarez, you are doubtless aware of 
 the accusation upon which you have been summoned be- 
 fore this tribunal." 
 
 " Conscious of no offence which should have subjected 
 me to the loss of my .liberty, I hesitate not to pronounce 
 the accusation false, be it what it may." 
 
 " You speak rashly, senor : the holy office is not wont 
 to proceed upon slight grounds. I pray you, therefore, to 
 examine your conscience, and see if not recently, per- 
 haps, but in the course of your life you have never com- 
 mitted any offence of which it is the peculiar province of 
 the inquisition to take cognizance."
 
 THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 105 
 
 " I can only repeat what I have already said ; and if 
 any man have aught against me, let him stand forth." 
 
 " The holy office, for wise reasons, does not confront 
 the accuser and accused, as is the custom in ordinary 
 courts ; neither is it our wont to declare the nature of the 
 charge, which we rather refer to the conscience of the de- 
 linquent : but, willing that you should meet, with as little 
 delay as may be, the accusation which has been brought 
 against you, I will read it. It recites that, having been 
 born of an English mother, you have embraced the tenets 
 of the falsely-called reformed religion, to the danger of 
 your own soul and the scandal of the true faith ; that you 
 have of late been in habits of close intercourse with a 
 pestilent heretic of the same country, since dead, and that 
 you are on the point of marriage with his daughter, also a 
 heretic, contrary to the canons of our holy church. This, 
 Senor Alvarez, is the charge : what have you to urge 
 against its truth?" 
 
 " God forbid that, in hesitating to confess what I believe 
 to be the true faith, I should deny its divine Author. You 
 have reproached me with my English parentage; and if 
 the religion of Cranmer, of Ridley, and of Latimer, be 
 heresy, then am I a heretic ; and, if the cup which was 
 presented to their lips may not pass from mine, may God 
 give me grace to drink it as they did, holding fast by the 
 faith to which I have linked my hopes of Heaven's 
 mercy ! " 
 
 "Nay, Senor Alvarez, the holy office is not willing 
 that any should perish, but rather rejoiceth in the exercise 
 of that mercy which is in its discretion ; and, although 
 the offence of which you have confessed yourself guilty, 
 hath incurred the penalty of a death of ignominy and tor- 
 ture, we have power, by deferring the execution of the 
 sentence, to give you time to repent ; so that, upon a renun- 
 ciation of your errors, you may finally be pardoned, and 
 received into the bosom of the church. By a law, where-
 
 106 THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 by the goods of heretics are confiscated, those of the de- 
 ceased merchant, Wentworth, become the property of the 
 church; and as, from your connection with him and his 
 daughter, you cannot but be informed of the nature and 
 disposition of his wealth, I call upon you, as you would 
 propitiate the holy office by assisting in securing its 
 rights, to put it in possession of all you know upon the 
 subject." 
 
 "Behold," said Alvarez, with a burst of indignation 
 which startled the inquisitor, " the cloven foot of the evil 
 one. Now listen to me. The robber of the mountains, 
 hath kept faith, and the lion of the desert hath spared his 
 prey ; but with the minions of the inquisition there is 
 neither faith nor mercy. I know that he upon whom 
 * your dungeons have once closed, stands upon the brink of 
 the grave, and that his life is beyond human ransom. 
 Were I to answer the question you have so insidiously 
 proposed, I should not only betray the trust reposed in me 
 by a dying father, and make his child a beggar, but I 
 should strengthen the hands of an institution which, if its 
 power were equal to its will, would make this beauteous 
 world a howling wilderness. I will neither betray my 
 trust nor deny my faith : by God's grace, the last act of 
 my life shall not involve the double guilt of treachery and 
 apostasy." 
 
 During this speech, the countenance of the inquisitor 
 was gradually losing that hypocritical expression of mild- 
 ness, under which those holy functionaries were accustom- 
 ed to mask the most cruel and vindictive feelings : his 
 face became flushed with rage, and he exclaimed, when 
 Alvarez had finished, " You vaunt it bravely, senor. We 
 will now try that persuasive power which is wont to make 
 our guests marvellously communicative." 
 
 " You may wring the blood-drops from my heart, but 
 you will not rob it of its secret." 
 
 " Away with him to the torture," roared the inquisitor,
 
 THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 107 
 
 and immediately quitted the apartment, while Alvarez was 
 conducted by another door, and through a long passage, 
 into a spacious chamber, from which the light of day was 
 entirely excluded. The lamp, which was suspended from 
 the centre of the ceiling, was just sufficient to render dis- 
 tinct the tribunal of the inquisitor, the instruments of tor- 
 ture, and the familiars who were appointed to apply them, 
 and whose grim, pale features and frightful habiliments im- 
 parted additional horror to the scene. The remoter parts 
 of the room were involved in darkness. Alvarez looked 
 towards the tribunal, and immediately recognized the in- 
 quisitor by whom he had been previously examined, and 
 who now addressed him with a taunting smile, and said, 
 " Well, Senor Alvarez, we have met again : have you 
 brought your boasted courage with you? " 
 
 " He who hath laid this trial upon me, and for whose 
 truth I suffer, will give me strength to bear it." 
 
 " You will need it all, senor, when your turn shall come ; 
 but we do all things in order : we have one here before 
 you, by whose example you may profit. Bring forward 
 the other prisoner ! " 
 
 Alvarez turned his eyes in the direction in which the 
 inquisitor looked as he spoke, and, with feelings of agony 
 and horror which no language can adequately describe, he 
 beheld in the intended victim' his own Mary. A shriek 
 proclaimed that her feelings at the mutual recognition 
 were not less acute than his; and she fell back, apparently 
 lifeless, into the arms of her terrific attendants. 
 
 Alvarez turned to the inquisitor, and addressed him, for 
 the first time, in the tone of supplication. "If," said he, 
 " there be one instrument of torture more dreadful than 
 another, let me be its victim : tear me piecemeal, limb 
 from limb : but, for the sake of Him whose all-seeing eye 
 is upon you, spare, O spare this beauteous work of his 
 hands. Oh, if you have a human heart, you cannot look 
 upon such loveliness and mar it. Oh, if yon image of
 
 i08 THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 the blessed Jesus be not set up in bitter mockery of his 
 meekness and his mercy, I beseech you harm her not." 
 
 "Nay, senor," replied the inquisitor, with a laugh of 
 irony, " you drew so captivating a portrait of our mercy 
 in the hall of audience, that it were gross injustice in us to 
 prove it false. Let the torture be applied to the female 
 prisoner." 
 
 The preparations to obey the mandate aroused Mary 
 Wentworth from her swoon ; and a faint, and, of course, 
 ineffectual struggle was all she could oppose to the appli- 
 cation of the first instrument of torture intended to be 
 used, namely, the thumb-screw. It was, therefore, soon 
 fixed, and the attendants waited the word from the inquisi- 
 tor to draw the cords. This he was in the act of giving, 
 when, from the gloom in which the extremity of the room 
 was involved, a voice of thunder exclaimed, " Forbear ! " 
 and immediately the speaker advanced to the front of the 
 tribunal, his arm, however, enveloped in the folds of his 
 mantle, concealing his face to the eyes. 
 
 The inquisitor angrily inquired who it was that presum- 
 ed to interrupt the proceedings of the court, and directed 
 the attendants to seize him. The stranger spoke not a 
 word, but, slowly dropping his arm, discovered the stern 
 and haughty countenance of Carvalho. The inquisitor 
 started as if a spectre had risen up before him, but im- 
 mediately recovered himself. 
 
 " Senor Carvalho," said he, " this visit is an honor for 
 which we were not prepared : may I beg to be informed 
 of its object?" 
 
 " Simply the liberation of these prisoners." 
 
 "Upon what authority do you demand it?" 
 
 " My own will." 
 
 " Much as we respect that, senor, it were scarcely suf- 
 ficient warrant to us for their surrender. The circum 
 stances under which they were arrested are such as utterly 
 to preclude us from according to you the courtesy you ask."
 
 THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 109 
 
 "As for your respect, I know well the standard by 
 which to measure it. The circumstances attending their 
 arrest have been reported to me, and leave me at no loss 
 to account for your reluctance to give them up; and as for 
 your courtesy, I pray you keep it until it be asked. I did 
 not come to sue for their liberty, but to demand it." 
 
 "It may not be, senor ; the prisoners must pass to their 
 trial, where they will have justice." 
 
 " Oh, doubtless ! " said Carvalho, with a bitter smile, 
 " such justice as the wolf metes out to the lamb, and the 
 vulture to the dove." 
 
 "I pray you, senor, to reflect upon the unseasonable- 
 ness of a jest upon an occasion like this." 
 
 " In good sooth, jocularity is not my wont, or a jest 
 within the torture-room of the holy office, from any other 
 than an inquisitor, would possess too much of the charm 
 of novelty to be forborne. But, credit me, I was never 
 more in earnest than I am now. Be this the proof. Be- 
 fore I ventured to obtrude myself into your reverend pres- 
 ence, I left instructions with the commandant of artillery, 
 in obedience to which, if I be not with him in half an hour, 
 he will open a fire upon your walls. Now I depart not 
 alone; and you, who best know how the light of day will 
 accord with the secrets of your dungeons, will make your 
 election between surrendering the prisoners or seeing this 
 edifice a smoking ruin." 
 
 "Senor Carvalho," said the inquisitor, who had witness- 
 ed too many awful instances of the minister's veracity, as 
 well as of his power, to doubt, for a moment, that his 
 threat, if disregarded, would be fulfilled with a terrible 
 punctuality, " in yielding to this extraordinary exercise of 
 power, I feel it my duty, in the name of the holy office, 
 solemnly to protest against this interference with its privi- 
 leges; and you will not be surprised, if, in our own justifi- 
 cation, we find it expedient to appeal to the pope." 
 
 " So did the Jesuits ; and in order that their memorial 
 10
 
 110 THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 might not miscarry, I sent the appellants after it by ship 
 loads, until his holiness heartily wished the appeal and the 
 locusts that followed it in the Red Sea. You will do wise- 
 ly to profit by the warning which their example should 
 convey to you." 
 
 Having said this, he turned towards Alvarez and Mary 
 Wentworth, and, passing an arm of each through his own, 
 led them unmolested through the several gates of the 
 prison. Mary glanced at his countenance, and perceived 
 that the sardonic smile, which had marked it while in the 
 presence of the inquisitor, had passed away, leaving in its 
 place his wonted sternness, softened, she thought, by some- 
 what more of solemnity than she had hitherto observed 
 him to assume. He walked on between them in silence 
 until they arrived within a few paces of the principal 
 street in Lisbon, when he stopped, and said " Here we 
 part: I have risked my power, and, it may be, my life, to 
 save you. But be that my care : all I ask of you is, get 
 you out of this city, for it is no abiding place for either of 
 you. There is an English vessel in the bay ; this officer," 
 beckoning to him a person in uniform, whom, for the first 
 time, they observed standing within a few yards of them, 
 " will assist you in getting your effects on board : follow 
 them with all despatch : for twenty-four hours you are 
 safe : beyond that time I will not answer for your lives. 
 Let me hear of your arrival in England. May God bless 
 and keep you ! Farewell ! " He pressed the hand of 
 each, and they saw him no more. 
 
 It is scarcely necessary to add that the advice was fol- 
 lowed : before half of the allotted time had expired, they 
 were on their voyage, which proved safe and prosperous. 
 
 W. H. HARRISON.
 
 LORELEY. Ill 
 
 LORELEY, A RHINE LEGEND. 
 
 FROM yon rock's topmost height, 
 
 Where sleeps the fair moonshine, 
 Looks down a lady bright, 
 
 On the dark-flowing Rhine. 
 
 She looketh down and over ; 
 
 She looketh far and wide, 
 Where 'er the white sails hover : 
 
 Youth, turn thine eyes aside ' 
 
 Fair though her smiles he to thee, 
 
 Beware the spell she flings ; 
 She smiles but to undo thee ; 
 
 With siren heart she sings. 
 
 She looketh on the river 
 
 As if she looked on thee : 
 Heed not the false deceiver 
 
 Be deaf, be blind, and flee. 
 
 For thus she looks on strangers all 
 
 With witching eyes and bright, 
 While her streaming locks around her fall 
 
 In a dance of golden light. 
 
 The light it doth resemble 
 
 The deep wave's deadly gleam 
 As deep and icy. Tremble 
 
 To trust the treacherous stream. 
 
 AN aged huntsman sat on a mossy stone, by the cave 
 of Goar, clause to the banks of the Rhine, and sung these 
 verses to the gentle murmur of the river, whose waves 
 bore a small boat, in which a youth was seated. The frail 
 bark had nearly reached the Bank, a dangerous whirlpool 
 in that part of the river, which calls forth all the art of 
 the helmsman to avoid being carried down in it ; but the
 
 1 J 2 LORELEY. 
 
 beautiful youth, heedless, or unconscious of his danger, 
 kept his eyes steadily fixed on the summit of a high rock, 
 whence a lovely female form looked down, and seemed to 
 smile sweetly upon him. 
 
 The old huntsman raised his voice when he beheld the 
 young man's peril : but he heard not the warning : his lute, 
 his oar, and his cross-bow, had all dropped unnoticed into 
 the stream, and nought remained to the entranced youth 
 but his cap and swan plume, which was fastened by a rib- 
 bon to his neck, while the increasing rush and roar of the 
 waters rendered his situation more perilous, and the voice 
 of the huntsman less audible. It was the lovely maiden, 
 who sat on the top of the rock, that engrossed the youth's 
 whole thought and sense. She seemed to gather glittering 
 pebbles from the rock, and ever and anon to cast them 
 merrily down into the water, where they vanished in the 
 shining foam. The youth thought that the beautiful 
 maiden was smiling upon him ; and he sat motionless, with 
 his arms stretched out towards her, gazing upon her as on 
 a star, till his little skiff was borne upon the sharp rocks, 
 and the whirlpool threw its gigantic arms around the youth, 
 and drew him to its breast. But the lovely Loreley only 
 looked down upon the scene as if it pleased her, and, 
 smiling like a child from under her beautiful long hair, 
 threw down fresh pebbles into the boiling whirlpool. 
 
 The huntsman raised his bugle-horn, and blew so wild- 
 ly on it, that his hounds began to howl around him, and 
 some fishermen, who were occupied at a distance catch- 
 ing salmon, rowed towards him; but the youth was sunk 
 beyond recovery, deep, deep in the whirlpool. Then 
 the huntsman said to the fishers, " Did you see how the 
 witch up yonder rejoiced over the destruction of this poor 
 youth 1 how she bent her ear and listened to the roar of 
 the waves whilst they sucked him in, and hissed over him, 
 as if they mocked his silly love?" But a young fisher- 
 man answered, " Is the maiden who sits up there on the
 
 LORELEY. 113 
 
 ley to blame if an imprudent boy should gaze on her 
 with those eyes which he never should have turned away 
 from the waters? She did not send the whirlpool to meet 
 him : he himself rushed into his own grave." Then the 
 fishermen told the huntsman how sometimes, in the still 
 evenings, the beautiful fairy had appeared to them, sitting 
 quite close on the banks of the river ; and how she had 
 beckoned them with friendly smiles to go hither and thither 
 with their nets; and how they always drew their nets up 
 abundantly filled with fishes, when they followed her direc- 
 tions. " But if you venture to approach her," said they, 
 "and who would not desire to do so? she is so beautiful, 
 she gets angry, and vanishes like a mist. Whether she 
 rises up into the air, or plunges down into the deep, no- 
 body can tell ; and nobody knows who and what she is." 
 
 Shaking his head, the old huntsman went away, in the 
 darkling evening, to the other side, towards Bacharach. 
 Close to this town stood Stahleek, a castle where the pfalzr 
 graf resided. Many tales had been told at the castle of 
 the marvellous lady, who sometimes, in the twilight, or 
 when the moon shone, would appear on the rock; but 
 none of the pfalzgraf's household had ever seen her; and 
 he often warned them not to let themselves be led away by 
 vain curiosity, remarking that he whom God preserved 
 from all intercourse with such phantoms of hell, should 
 rejoice in his mercy, and entertain no wish that it were 
 otherwise. 
 
 But the son of the pfalzgraf, a beautiful youth, whom, 
 it seemed as if the spring had chosen for its harbinger, 
 and who changed all into spring wherever he looked and 
 smiled, had often turned his eyes wistfully towards the 
 place from which came the wonderful tales of Loreley. 
 Yet he dared not go thither : for his father and mother had 
 become aware of his feelings, having been told by his 
 10*
 
 114 LORELET. 
 
 playfellows what a picture he had drawn of the fairy, and 
 how all his thoughts and wishes were directed towards 
 her. Whatever came to his knowledge regarding her, was 
 never forgotten again, but stood forever in transparent 
 beauty before his imagination, which would sometimes 
 picture her seated high upon the rock, surrounded by 
 party-colored snakes, and green lizards, which crept about 
 among the glittering stones; and ants, which came in long 
 troops, as if they were carrying gifts to her ; while the full 
 moon showered down red gold into her lap. Sometimes, 
 when all around the banks and the river was veiled in 
 twilight, he thought he saw Loreley standing there in the 
 rosy solitude, singing her monotonous song, while beneath 
 her the Rhine flowed on with lonely murmurings, and the 
 timid birds, awaking from time to time, flew up into the 
 air, and the late evening glow still hovered above the tops 
 of the mountains. 
 
 The same evening on which the huntsman came to 
 Stahleek, Hagbert for such was the name of the son of 
 the pfalzgraf was seated, with his sister, Wana, on the de- 
 clivity of the neighboring Kiihlberg, opposite the Voights- 
 berg, upon whose sunny sides the costly vine prospers. 
 They saw the boats passing over the water, and many 
 beautiful spots reflected on the river like the looks of love 
 and of longing. Many a tale they had told to one another ; 
 and now the brother and sister sat holding each other's 
 hand in silence. Wana was Hagbert's confidant, and she 
 knew wherefore he sighed, and breathed so ardently to- 
 wards the distant vapor, under whose golden and blue 
 veil the mountains seemed to heave like a bosom, in which 
 many a sweet and many a painful secret is concealed. All 
 around was silent : the trees moved as if they were lulling 
 one another to sleep ; the odorous pinks and violets near 
 the rock shut their eyes; the little brooks alone continued 
 to beat and murmur like the veins of life in a dream: be- 
 hind the darkling trees and- bushes, the tops of the gilded
 
 LORELEY. 115 
 
 forest shot up, and a shower of red sparkles seemed to fall 
 upon the grass, and to inflame it. Suddenly the moon rose 
 behind the mountains, and all at once every thing seemed 
 to burn in clear and enchanted light. " There is Loreley," 
 said Hagbert. " She smiles to us. Do you hear how she 
 calls ? " It was only a bird screaming through the red 
 moonlight night. But Wana drew her brother up from 
 his seat, and said, trembling, " It is time, my brother, that 
 you bring me home to my mother. Let us not again be 
 seated here so late and alone on the declivity; for the 
 charm draws you down, down, and I tremble for you and 
 for myself." 
 
 At the castle they were talking of what had lately been 
 said of the beautiful Loreley, when Wana, in the hand 
 of her brother, and a little afraid of the reproof of her 
 mother, entered the hall, where her parents were seated to- 
 gether, as was their custom at night time. The youth 
 listened in silence to every word which was spoken. "If 
 she is a witch, this wild Loreley," exclaimed Ruthard, a 
 knight of the palatine, " she must be thrown into the fire, 
 were she even as beautiful as the evening star yonder." 
 Then Hagbert sighed, and, leaning on his father's chair, 
 bent over his neck, and said, " Let me catch her, father. 
 I do not fear. If she is a witch, I will bring her to you ; 
 but if there can be found no guilt in her, and if she does 
 not willingly do harm to any one, you will give her to me, 
 and she shall be my own love." Hereat all who were 
 present laughed aloud ; but the pfalzgraf answered, " Peo- 
 ple say Loreley is a cunning fisher : she spreads out a glit- 
 tering, wily net ; but as for you, my son, you are a young 
 inexperienced little fish, and had better keep at a distance 
 from her. Curiosity and the forbidden fruit often excite 
 youth to wish for a thing which they throw away as soon 
 as it is in their possession. If even the ghostly lady 
 should be no monster, she is most probably a mermaid ; 
 and a man shall hold no communion with such creatures.
 
 I 16 LORELEY. 
 
 God has placed them in another house of nature, and 
 their enmity visibly appears as soon as man approaches 
 that which nature has designed should remain at a dis- 
 tance from him." " There are plenty of tales told," re- 
 plied Ruthard, " from which it seems that such intercourse 
 has brought harm and perdition over both ; and it seems 
 to me no guilt to kill such a creature, who tries to insnare 
 men with siren love." " One may quietly pass by," said 
 the countess; "for the water-nymph is said to be a crea- 
 ture without reason ; but man ought not to follow blind 
 instinct, if he does not wish to do so." " I shall not lend 
 you my cross-bow, Ruthard," exclaimed Hagbert, " if 
 your speeches are meant for the poor fair Loreley." " We 
 have talked enough," interrupted the palatine, desir- 
 ing the priest to say the evening prayers. But Hagbert 
 slept uneasily the whole night. It seemed certain to him, 
 that they would attack Loreley ; and he fancied he saw the 
 arrow in her breast, and her blood flowing like a coral 
 string down the dark rock into the deep Rhine. 
 
 One of the following days, several strangers came to 
 visit the castle ; and Hagbert and his hunting com- 
 panions conducted the merry sportsmen through ravines 
 covered with vines into the green foliage of the forest of 
 beeches ; but the pfalzgraf had secretly ordered Ruthard 
 to pay attention to Hagbert, lest his curiosity should lead 
 him after more witching game. Nevertheless, it so hap- 
 pened that Hagbert got out of sight of his companion, and 
 suddenly disappeared. He yet heard the bugle-horns call- 
 ing him back ; but the sounds came from a great distance, 
 and Hagbert's heart beat violently, like the young eagle's, 
 when he no longer hears the wings of the old one around 
 him. Without thinking of what he intended to do, he 
 hastened on as quickly as he could. Sometimes it seemed 
 to him as if he truly intended to catch the mermaid, and 
 thus accomplish the will of his father ; and sometimes 
 he fancied himself called upon to protect her, as if he had
 
 "There stood the maiden, gleiming all silvor white in the light of the moon." 
 
 Page 117.
 
 LORELEY. 117 
 
 long ago seen her and loved her. He now stepped down a 
 ravine. It was at the bending of the river, where it turns 
 into the silent rocky solitude ; the turrets of Oberwesel 
 and the watch-towers of Schonberg glittered behind him ; 
 the last light of day, like a dying flame, played around 
 their tops ; whilst over the mountains the first rosy beams 
 of moonlight appeared like as on that evening when Hag- 
 bert and Wana looked down from the Kuhlberg. 
 
 But from beyond, a wonderful sound was heard, inces- 
 santly repeated, which those who deeply listened to did 
 not perceive was always the same note, and sweet tunes 
 seemed to float in the air around him, like the distant and 
 enchanting call of love. Hagbert looked around ; and, 
 when he saw nothing, he thought how that bird could be 
 called which sings sweeter than a nightingale. Some 
 young people from Oberwesel were now close by him : the 
 water sparkled beneath their oars around the boat, and 
 Hagbert heard them say, " That is Loreley." He then 
 cried to them, "I am the son of the pfalzgraf, and 
 would like to be rowed a little in the light of the moon. 
 Will you ferry me over ? " With these words, he sprung 
 into the boat with his bow and his arrow, his locks stream- 
 ing loosely in the wind around his temples and his neck. 
 " Now, row me over to the rock, where Loreley sings," 
 exclaimed he ; " pull off; show me the fair Loreley." 
 
 The young men rowed on, and soon showed him the 
 rock whence the sweet voice resounded. There stood the 
 maiden, gleaming all silver white in the light of the 
 moon, and twining in her golden hair a wreath of water- 
 flowers and reeds, which she had gathered in the Rhine, 
 while, ever as her hands moved, she kept singing, "Lor- 
 eley Loreley Loreley ! " 
 
 " Row me thither, row me thither! " exclaimed Hagbert; 
 but the helmsman kept at a distance, and said, "It would 
 be the death of you." Then Hagbert replied, " Well, be 
 thou my death, or I catch thee alive, my lovely maiden ; 
 and never shall I part with thee again, nor thou with me !
 
 I 18 LORELEY. 
 
 What! do you delay? " called he again to the young man. 
 " Do you not know my father has sent me to catch the mer- 
 maid ? Therefore I came with my bow and arrows." The 
 rowers bent to their oars, and the old steep rock soon threw 
 its shadow over the boat; but again the boatmen paused, 
 and warned the rash youth of his danger. 
 
 The fair Loreley had opened . her bright eyes : her 
 long, luxuriant ringlets fell undulating down her shoulders, 
 as if longing to leap with her into the waters to entangle 
 the youth : she remained standing at the edge, her song 
 was silenced, and she looked as if partially revealed from 
 a dim mist. The young men now called on Hagbert to 
 place his arrow on the string, as the witch was just stand- 
 ing fair for a mark ; but he took off his weapons, and 
 threw them into the Rhine, calling out, " Be not afraid, 
 lovely maid ; no harm shall be done to you ; but mine you 
 must be, and I am yours forever!" At these words, those 
 who held the oars shuddered, and began to be afraid lest 
 they also should lose their senses, like the son of the pfalz- 
 graf, and so all of them find their death on the spot. 
 Therefore they held off the rock as much as they could, 
 and bent their oars stoutly against the waters. But Hag- 
 bert, endeavoring to spring over to the edge of the rock, 
 missed his step, and sunk down into the waters, and after 
 him, with a sweet and mournful scream, plunged the siren 
 into the flood, as if a silvery beam from the rock had sud- 
 denly glittered over the stream. But the young men fled 
 away, and only thought of saving their own lives. " What 
 shall we do?" they exclaimed; "shall we tell the palatine 
 that his son found his death in the Rhine? And if we 
 conceal it, a still worse suspicion falls upon us; for it can- 
 not remain secret : so let us just say that he hired and 
 forced us to bring him hither, pretending that his father 
 had sent him to kill the mermaid ; and that she bewitched 
 him when he was taking up his weapon, which is all 
 the truth." 
 
 When Hagbert opened his eyes, it seemed to him as if
 
 LORELEY. 119 
 
 he had awoke in the midst of winter, and as if blue and 
 green pieces of ice stood like giants around him ; but a 
 gentle spring breeze blew through the crevice of the rock, 
 and sweetly fanned his cold cheeks. What the boy 
 thpught was cold ice, was quartz and transparent crystal ; 
 and the breeze was Loreley's breath, which played around 
 him like the sighing wave. Forests of rushes and other 
 aquatic plants rustled around the cave ; and through the 
 crystal walls resounded, incessantly, sweet sounds, as if 
 the waves were sighing their love to one another. 
 
 In this deep world Hagbert found himself alone with 
 the beautiful mermaid; but he could not feel comforted 
 here in the midst of those frightful wonders ; and soon he 
 longed, almost more impatiently than he had formerly done, 
 to throw himself into the water, to see again the light of 
 the day, as if it was only there that he could rejoice in the 
 sight of the beautiful fairy, and exchange love for love. 
 He said to her, when she threw around him her silver- 
 white arms, and when her ringlets floated around him like 
 the waves of the stream, " Only where the sun of heaven 
 shines upon us can I rejoice in your sight! " So she took 
 his hand, and led him along a narrow rocky path. It grew 
 darker and darker around him, and waving flowers seemed 
 to shoot down from an immeasurable height into the lonely 
 depth. " The hills and vales are still slumbering," said 
 Loreley, " but the sky does not shut his eyes for so long a 
 time : do you see how they glance down upon us? " And 
 again the wild floods rushed around Hagbert. " Let not 
 your foot glide," said Loreley; " come, sit down here, 
 close by my side, till the sun rises." 
 
 A white cliff glittered in pale light before Hagbert; but 
 it seemed to be assailed by agitated waters, which heaved 
 to and fro among huge mountain-like forms, and threat- 
 ened also the spot where he stood in the silent night. 
 "Where are we?" inquired Hagbert, and felt, not with- 
 out a shudder, Loreley's arms surrounding him. " We
 
 120 LORELEY. 
 
 are in the midst of the Rhine," said the maid. " These 
 are the ancient children of the giants, the mountains: 
 we are seated on the toe of one of them : and it is so 
 long that he stretches it out like an angle for the ships 
 which so merrily go up and down the Rhine. He draws 
 them down at the stone yonder ; and yonder where I look 
 to, up the river, the wrecks appear again ; but no living 
 being ever re-appears there : they have all been swallowed 
 swallowed." 
 
 At the opposite side a small light now appeared : it was 
 a lamp before an altar in the church of St. Clement, on 
 the opposite shore. The feeble glimmer glided slowly 
 through the country, throwing here and there a beam ; and 
 Hagbert thought he could discern the Mauserthurm quite 
 near ; and before and behind him, upon the heights, he saw 
 some well-known castles. " Do you know," said Loreley, 
 as if she had perceived his distrusting fears, " I have been 
 leading you up the stream : the waters were carrying you 
 down : there my kinsmen would never have let you out 
 again from the crystal castle ; but you shall remain mine ; 
 for you I left the beautiful castle : all my longing was for 
 you." " Loreley," exclaimed Hagbert, and, as he glanc- 
 ed on her countenance, her flowing ringlets in the night 
 breeze looked again so beautiful, with the light from be- 
 yond the river falling upon them, " they say you rejoice 
 there above, upon yon rock, when your wild river draws a 
 man down." 
 
 Loreley sighed, and said, " It may be so, dear youth : 
 I did not know better ; I thought it must give pleasure to 
 all to sport with us, and to get fresh and cool in our re- 
 sounding transparent world." " They also say," replied 
 Hagbert, " that you allure the children of men with your 
 sweet song." " I do not care at all for the children of 
 men," said Loreley, peevishly ; "for my pleasure I sang ; 
 for my pleasure T gazed. I called none, and looked for 
 none. If any one thought that I called for him, it some-
 
 I.ORELEY. 121 
 
 times amused me, and I had my sport with them without 
 thinking of it. But now, alas! all is changed: no sport 
 will any more rejoice me. It is you I have chosen ; it is 
 you whom I will draw down into the deep you, whom I 
 will follow through the world ; for I am yours, and you are 
 mine. When you approached with bow and arrow, I felt 
 as if I wished to be a roe, and to have your arrow in my 
 heart, and to fly before you till I had drawn you to the 
 highest top of the rock, where you should have been 
 alone with me." 
 
 From near and far now flamed up the first morning 
 light over the white rocks: their tops glittered in the first 
 dawning of the morning, whilst below them the two lovers 
 were still seated. Hagbert held the beautiful maid in his 
 arms : she leaned her head upon his breast; but, when the 
 cocks began to crow at the shore, she started up, and said, 
 "I must go. There, where you have found me, you will 
 find me again at evening-time. Do not forget." She then 
 threw a stone into the water, which became troubled, boil- 
 ed, and gushed up, and a small boat appeared working its 
 way to the surface. "Leap into it," exclaimed Loreley: 
 "one of the boards was broken in sinking: take it up, and 
 make use of it for an oar, and row to the shore. Fare- 
 well, Hagbert!" With these words she plunged down: 
 and Hagbert, now in the boat, saw her no longer. But 
 below him there sounded a murmuring voice " Loreley, 
 Loreley ! " till it seemed as if tears at last stifled the long- 
 ing sound. 
 
 The frail boat carried Hagbert with as much security 
 over the dangerous spot as if a careless, playful child had 
 been intrusted to its care ; and he reached the shore to 
 the right, where castle Ehrenfels glittered in the morning 
 glow over the merry vines. In the morning beam, Hag- 
 bert awoke gradually from the dreams of the night : he 
 was astonished, and knew not how he felt; doubt and 
 sweet mystery, desire and horror, struggled in him ; Lor- 
 11
 
 LORELEY. 
 
 eley's countenance appeared before him, such as it had 
 smiled upon him in the light of the lamp from the church; 
 and it seemed to him as if he should have placed her in 
 the full glare of that light, and all fear would have fled : 
 then he thought again how the crowing of the cock had 
 frightened her away ; and he felt as if a ghost had been 
 seated near him in the horrors of the night, and wondered 
 that his adventure had not cost him his life. 
 
 He went to the nearest cottage of a vine-dresser, and 
 begged for a warm drink. His clothes were damp, and 
 he left them in the cottage, and put on the jacket of one 
 of the boys. He knew not whether, if he should return to 
 Stahleek, he might hope, as his life had been miraculous- 
 ly preserved, that the anger of his father would be soften- 
 ed ; and then he hoped to obtain the interest of his mother 
 and sister for the fair Loreley, and that they might inter- 
 cede for her with his father. Again, midst his secret shud- 
 dering, the wish awoke in him to fly to the maid of the 
 rock, and to live for her alone ; and again fear overcame 
 his longings. Thus he spent a part of the morning mus- 
 ing upon the shore, till at last he bethought himself it 
 would be best to go straight to Stahleek ; otherwise the 
 maid might come into danger before he could prevent it. 
 He felt more and more anxious, the nearer he approached 
 the castle of his father. He mounted the steps in the 
 rock, which led a nearer way to a small gate; but, in seiz- 
 ing the knocker, he perceived he had lost a little ring 
 which he always wore on his left hand; and he thought 
 the mermaid might have taken it secretly from his finger, 
 to bind him forever to her. 
 
 Night came on. The pfalzgraf, informed of the death 
 of his son, sent Ruthard with a troop of soldiers to catch 
 Loreley, dead or alive. Ruthard had begged hard to be 
 intrusted with this commission. Loreley stood on the 
 top of the rock, when the fierce-looking men came down 
 the dark flood. She gazed up the river, wondering that
 
 LORELEY. 123 
 
 Hagbert did not come, and called aloud, as she was wont, 
 " Loreley, Loretey ! " Then Ruthard cried mockingly 
 to her, " We bring to thee the greetings of your love Hag- 
 bert : he sends by us a kiss to his bride, with which he 
 weds thee : come down to us to get it, or tell us how to 
 come up to thee without flying. O, thou fair and wild 
 Loreley, here is new booty for thee. Dost thou not choose 
 to catch it as thou hast caught Hagbert 1 " 
 
 Loreley lifted her snow-white hand : she pointed with 
 her finger here and there, and showed them how they 
 might climb up the rock; for she thought that they came 
 in peace, and that they surely brought to her Hagbert's 
 greetings. Many of them warned the rash Ruthard, but 
 he laughed at their fears; and two of his savage menials 
 climbed up the rock with him. "Bind her!" called he 
 out, when they had gained the rock. " What do you in- 
 tend? " exclaimed Loreley. "Thou must die : down with 
 thee to the Rhine, thou witch ! " said Ruthard. " Thou 
 must die, siren that thou art, who hast killed the beautiful 
 Hagbert." 
 
 " Hagbert ! " exclaimed Loreley in a melting voice. 
 " Come hither, Hagbert. I am no witch. I am Hagbert's 
 love ; his true love." " Phantom ! " cried Ruthard, " Hag- 
 bert lies in the river." " He is at Stahleek," said Loreley, 
 wringing her snow-white hands, and embracing Ruthard's 
 knee. " O, let me not die! Hagbert, Hagbert, come 
 hither!" 
 
 The hearts of all those who had remained below were 
 moved by her beauty and her accents, so that one cried 
 to the savage knight, " Have patience, Ruthard; I will 
 ride to Stahleek, and see whether the mermaid has spoken 
 the truth : if the son of the pfalzgraf is at the castle if 
 she has saved his life she shall be free." But Ruthard 
 laughed in mockery, and said, " Will you not also bring a 
 priest that he may convert the witch? Although Hagbert 
 were yet living, Loreley must die for having seduced him."
 
 124 LORELEY. 
 
 But Loreley looked with new courage upon the man as he 
 flew away in full speed upon his foaming horse, and said, 
 " Do you wish to throw me into the Rhine ? That I can 
 do better myself. Here, before your eyes, I will leap into 
 it." But Ruthard got her fettered, and a heavy stone was 
 brought, whilst the cruel knight shook his glittering sword 
 above her swan-white neck. 
 
 A swift boat now came through the waves bearing to 
 the edge of the rock the friendly soldier who had ridden 
 to Stahleek. " Loreley," called he up to her, " give back 
 the little ring you have taken from the palatine's son, and 
 your life shall be saved : thus the palatine spoke." " I 
 have no ring of his," said Loreley, lamenting ; " he had 
 none on his hand to give me. Hagbert, alas ! Hagbert, 
 why dost thou not come? Drag me to him in chains, 
 and he will loose them." 
 
 " Do you see ? she will not yield up the ring," replied 
 Ruthard, spitefully. Then Loreley wept, like the implor- 
 ing deer, when the harsh, savage huntsman stands before 
 it; and many of those who stood below wept with Tier, for 
 .Ruthard had no mercy; he granted her no respite; he hung 
 t'ie heavy stone at her neck, and the murderers approach- 
 es; but Loreley looked on them, and said, " My love has 
 betrayed me : no one shall ever see me more." Once 
 more she glanced up the river, and leaned over, as if she 
 wished to see castle Stahleek : she then stepped to the 
 edge of the rock, and leaped down. 
 
 As if changed into stone, Ruthard and his two blood- 
 thirsty companions gazed after her.' They could not find 
 the way down again ; and thus they died a miserable 
 death. But Hagbert was inconsolable when he heard the 
 news of Loreley. 
 
 The following day, a man from Oberwesel brought a net 
 of large, fine fish to the castle; and when they were about 
 to prepare them in the kitchen, they found under the tongue 
 of one of them the ring which the youth had lost, and
 
 DREAM-CHILDREN. 125 
 
 which, doubtless, had fallen from his finger when the flood 
 drew him down. 
 
 Hagbert often rowed up and down the Rhine ; but Lor- 
 eley's lovely form, and her fair countenance, he never saw 
 again. Yet her voice was often heard : she sang no longer, 
 but she answered when called to ; and then it seemed as 
 if she wept, and sighed deeply, and would have said, had 
 she spoken, " Why do you throw away your words upon 
 me, and invite me to play as I formerly did ? It is no 
 longer Hagbert's voice. I have lost him, lost." 
 
 When Hagbert called to her, she answered his words 
 like an echo ; but he could not bear the sound. Once he 
 pressed his sister Wana to his breast, who mournfully 
 stood beside him ; threw the ring into the Rhine ; and lis- 
 tened through the sound of the oars towards the rock ; but 
 his sister kept him back, when he longed to fling himself 
 down into the wild river. 
 
 From the day on which he threw the rich ring into the 
 Rhine, near the rock which still bears the name of the 
 Mermaid, Hagbert declined in health, as if something was 
 gnawing at his heart; and like the sound of the bugle- 
 horn at the Loreley, his young life died away in the long- 
 ings of love. 
 
 DREAM-CHILDREN; A REVERIE. 
 
 CHILDREN love to listen to stories about their elders, 
 when they were children; to stretch their imagination to 
 the conception of a traditionary great-uncle, or grandame, 
 whom they never saw. It was in this spirit that my little 
 ones crept about me, the other evening, to hear about their 
 great-grandmother Field, who lived in a great house in 
 11 *
 
 126 DREAM-CHILDREN. 
 
 Norfolk (a hundred times bigger than that in which they 
 and papa lived), which had been the scene so, at least, 
 it was generally believed in that part of the country of 
 the tragic incidents which they had lately become familiar 
 with, from the ballad of the Children in the Wood. Cer- 
 tain it is, that the whole story of the children and their 
 cruel uncle was to be seen fairly carved out in the wood 
 upon the chimney-piece of the great hall; the whole story 
 down to the robin red-breasts till a foolish rich person 
 pulled it down to set up a marble one of modern inven- 
 tion in its stead, with no story upon it. Here Alice put out 
 one of her dear mother's looks, too tender to be called 
 upbraiding. Then I went on to say, how religious and 
 how good their great-grandmother Field was, how beloved 
 and respected by every body, though she was not, indeed, 
 the mistress of this great house, but had only the charge 
 of it (and yet, in some respects, she might be said to be 
 the mistress of it too) committed to her by the owner, who 
 preferred living in a newer and more fashionable mansion, 
 which he had purchased somewhere in the adjoining coun- 
 ty; but still she lived in it, in a manner as if it had been 
 her own, and kept up the dignity of the great house, in a 
 sort, while she lived, which afterwards came to decay, and 
 was nearly pulled down, and all its old ornaments stripped 
 and carried away to the owner's other house, where they 
 were set up, and looked as awkward as if some one were to 
 carry away the old tombs they had seen lately at the 
 abbey, and stick them up in Lady C.'s tawdry gilt draw- 
 ing-room. Here John smiled, as much as to say, "That 
 would be foolish indeed." And then I told how, when 
 she came to die, her funeral was attended by a concourse 
 of all the poor, and some of the gentry, too, of the neigh- 
 borhood, for many miles round, to show their respect for 
 her memory, because she had been such a good and reli- 
 gious woman ; so good, indeed, that she knew all the Psal- 
 ter by heart .; ay, and a great part of the Testament be-
 
 DREAM-CHILDREN. 127 
 
 sides. Here little Alice spread her hands. Then I told 
 what a tall, upright, graceful person their great-grand- 
 mother Field once was ; and how, in her youth, she was 
 esteemed the best dancer here Alice's little right foot 
 played an involuntary movement, till, upon my looking 
 grave, it desisted the best dancer, I was saying, in the 
 county, till a cruel disease, called a cancer, came, and 
 bowed her down with pain ; but it could never bend her 
 good spirits, or make them stoop ; but they were still up- 
 right, because she was so good and religious. Then I told 
 how she was used to sleep by herself in a lone chamber of 
 the great lone house ; and how she believed that an appari- 
 tion of two infants was to be seen at midnight, gliding up 
 and down the great staircase near where she slept ; but she 
 said, " those innocents would do her no harm ; " and how 
 frightened I used to be, though in those days I had my maid 
 to sleep with me, because I was never half so good or reli- 
 gious as she and yet I never saw the infants. Here John 
 expanded all his eye-brows, and tried to look courageous. 
 Then I told how good she was to all her grandchildren, 
 having us to the great house in the holidays, where I, in 
 particular, used to spend many hours by myself, in gazing 
 upon the old busts of the twelve Caesars, that had been 
 emperors of Rome, till the old marble heads would seem 
 to live again, or I to be turned into marble with them ; how 
 I never could be tired with roaming about that huge man- 
 sion, with its vast empty rooms, with their worn-out hang- 
 ings, fluttering tapestry, and carved oaken panels, with 
 the gilding almost rubbed out ; sometimes in the spacious 
 old-fashioned gardens, which I had almost to myself, un- 
 less when, now and then, a solitary gardening man would 
 cross me ; and how the nectarines and peaches hung upon 
 the walls, without my ever offering to pluck them, because 
 they were forbidden fruit, unless now and then and be- 
 cause I had more pleasure in strolling about among the 
 old melancholy-looking yew-trees, or the firs, and picking
 
 128 DKEAM-CHILDREN. 
 
 up the red berries, and the fir-apples, which were good for 
 nothing but to look at or in lying about upon the fresh 
 grass, with all the fine garden smells around me or bask- 
 ing in the orangery, till I could almost fancy myself ripening 
 too, along with the oranges and the limes, in that grateful 
 warmth or in watching the dace, that darted to and fro 
 in the fish-pond, at the bottom of the garden, with here 
 and there a great sulky pike, hanging midway down the 
 water in silent state, as if it mocked at their impertinent 
 friskings; I had more pleasure in these busy-idle diver- 
 sions than in all the sweet flavors of peaches, nectarines, 
 oranges, and such like common baits of children. Here 
 John slily deposited back upon the plate a bunch of 
 grapes, which, not unobserved by Alice, he had meditated 
 dividing with her ; and both seemed willing to relinquish 
 them for the present as irrelevant. Then, in somewhat a 
 more heightened tone, I told how, though their great- 
 grandmother Field loved all her grandchildren, yet, in 
 an especial manner, she might be said to love their uncle, 
 
 John L , because he was so handsome and spirited a 
 
 youth, and a king to the rest of us ; and, instead of mo- 
 ping about in solitary corners, like some of us, he would 
 mount the most mettlesome horse he could get, when but 
 an imp no bigger than themselves, and make it carry him 
 half over the county in a morning, and join the hunters 
 when there were any out ; and yet he loved the old great 
 house and gardens too, but had too much spirit to be 
 always pent up within their boundaries ; and how their 
 uncle grew up to man's estate as brave as he was hand- 
 some, to the admiration of every body, but of their great- 
 grandmother Field most especially ; and how he used to 
 carry me upon his back, when I was a lame-fooled boy, 
 for he was a good bit older than I, many a mile, when I 
 could not walk for pain ; and how, in after life, he became 
 lame-footed too, and I did not always (I fear) make allow- 
 ances enough for him when he was impatient, and in pain,
 
 DREAM-CHILDREN. 129 
 
 nor remember sufficiently how considerate he had been to 
 me when I was lame-footed ; and how, when he died, 
 though he had not been dead an hour, it seemed as if he 
 had died a great while ago (such a distance there is be- 
 twixt life and death) ; and how I bore his death, as I 
 thought, pretty well at first ; but afterwards it haunted and 
 haunted me ; and though I did not cry or take it to heart 
 as some do, and as I think he would have done if I had 
 died, yet I missed him all day long, and I knew not till 
 then how much I had loved him. I missed his kindness, 
 and I missed his crossness, and wished him to be alive 
 again, to be quarrelling with him (for we quarrelled some- 
 times), rather than not have him again; and was as un- 
 easy without him, as he, their poor uncle, must have been 
 when the doctor took off his limb. Here the children fell 
 a-crying, and asked if their little mourning which they 
 had on was not for uncle John ; and they looked up, and 
 prayed me not to go on about their uncle, but to tell them 
 some stories about their pretty dead mother. Then I told 
 how, for seven long years, in hope sometimes, sometimes 
 in despair, yet persisting ever, I courted the fair Alice 
 W n; and, as much as children cculd understand, I ex- 
 plained to them what coyness, and difficulty, and denial, 
 meant in maidens; when suddenly, turning to Alice, the 
 soul of the first Alice looked out at her eyes, with such a 
 reality of representment, that I became in doubt which 
 of them stood there before me, or whose that bright hair 
 was ; and while I stood gazing, both the children gradu- 
 ally grew fainter to my view, receding, and still receding, 
 till nothing at last but two mournful features were seen in 
 the uttermost distance, which, without speech, strangely 
 impressed upon me the effects of speech: "We are not 
 of Alice, nor of thee, nor are we children at all. The 
 children of Alice call Bartrum father. We are nothing; 
 less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might 
 have been, and must wait upon the tedious shores of
 
 130 JOHN BROWN. 
 
 Lethe millions of ages, before we have existence and a 
 name." And immediately awaking, I found myself quiet- 
 ly seated in my bachelor arm-chair, where I had fallen 
 asleep, with the faithful Bridget unchanged by my side. 
 
 JOHN BROWN. 
 
 JOHN BROWN, the Ayr, or, as he was more commonly 
 designated by the neighbors, the religious carrier, had 
 been absent, during the month of January, 1685, from his 
 home, in the neighborhood of Muirkirk, for several days. 
 The weather, in the meantime, had become extremely 
 stormy, and a very considerable fall of snow had taken 
 place. His only daughter, a girl of about eleven years of 
 age, had frequently, during the afternoon of Saturday, 
 looked out from the cottage door into the drift, in order to 
 report to her mother, who was occupied with the nursing 
 of an infant brother, the anxious occurrences of the even- 
 ing. " Help," too, the domestic cur, had not remained 
 an uninterested spectator of the general anxiety, but, by 
 several fruitless and silent excursions into the night, had 
 given indisputable testimony that the object of his search 
 had not yet neared the solitary shieling. It was a long 
 and a wild road, lying over an almost trackless muir, along 
 which John Brown had to come ; and the cart-track, 
 which, even in better weather, and with the advantage of 
 more day-light, might easily be mistaken, had, undoubted- 
 ly, ere this, become invisible. Besides, John had long 
 been a marked bird, having rendered himself obnoxious to 
 the "powers that were" by his adherence to the Sanquhar 
 declaration; his attending field-preachings, or, as they 
 were termed, " conventicles;" his harboring of persecuted
 
 JOHN BROWN. 131 
 
 ministers; and, above all, by a moral, a sober, and a pro- 
 verbially devout and religious conduct. In an age when 
 immorality was held to be synonymous with loyalty, and 
 irreligion with non-resistance and passive obedience, it 
 was exceedingly dangerous to wear such a character ; 
 and, accordingly, there had not been wanting information 
 to the prejudice of this quiet and godly man. Clavers, 
 who, ever since the affair of Drumclog, had discovered 
 more of the merciless and revengeful despot than of the 
 veteran or hero, had marked his name, according to re- 
 port, in his black list ; and when once Clavers had taken 
 his resolution and his measures, the Lord have mercy upon 
 those against whom these were pointed. He seldom hesi- 
 tated in carrying his plans into effect, although his path 
 lay over the trampled and lacerated feelings of humanity. 
 Omens, too, of an unfriendly and evil-boding import, 
 had not been a-wanting in the cottage of John Brown to 
 increase the alarm. The cat had mewed suspiciously, had 
 appeared restless, and had continued to glare, in hideous 
 indication, from beneath the kitchen bed. The death- 
 watch, which had not been noticed since the decease of 
 the gudeman's mother, was again, in the breathless pause 
 of listening suspense, heard to click distinctly ; and the 
 cock, instead of crowing, as on ordinary occasions, imme- 
 diately before day-dawn, had originated a sudden and an 
 alarming flap of his wings, succeeded by a fearful scream, 
 long before the usual bed-time. It was a gloomy crisis ; 
 and, after a considerable time spent in dark and despair- 
 ing reflection, the evening lamp was at last trimmed, and 
 the peat-fire repaired into something approaching to a 
 cheerful flame. But all would not do; for, whilst the soul 
 within is disquieted and in suspense, all external means 
 and appliances are inadequate to procure comfort, or im- 
 part even an air of cheerfulness. At last, " Help " sud- 
 denly lifted his head from the hearth, shook his ears, 
 sprung to his feet, and, with something betwixt a growl
 
 132 JOHN BROWN. 
 
 and a bark, rushed towards the door, at which the " yird 
 drift" was now entering copiously. It was, however, a false 
 alarm. The cow had moved beyond the " hallan," or 
 the mice had come into sudden contact, and squeaked 
 behind the rafters. John, too, it was reasoned betwixt 
 mother and daughter, was always so regular and point- 
 ed in his arrivals, and this being Saturday night, it was 
 not a little or an insignificant obstruction which could 
 have prevented him from being home, in due time, 
 at least, for family worship. His cart, in fact, had 
 usually been pitched up, with the trams supported 
 against the peat-stack, by two o'clock of the afternoon ; 
 and the evening of his arrival from his weekly excursion 
 to Ayr, was always an occasion of affectionate intercourse 
 and more than ordinary interest. Whilst his disconsolate 
 wife, therefore, turned her eyes towards her husband's 
 chair, and to the family Bible, which lay in a "bole" 
 within reach of his hand, and, at the same time, listened 
 to the howling and intermitting gusts of the storm, she 
 could not avoid it was not in nature that she should 
 contrasting her present with her former situation ; thus im- 
 parting even to objects of the most kindly and comforting 
 association all the livid and darkening hues of her dis- 
 consolate mind. But there is a depth and a reach in true 
 and genuine piety which the plummet of sorrow may 
 never measure. True religion sinks into the heart as the 
 refreshing dew does into the chinks and the crevices of the 
 dry and parched soil; and the very fissures of affliction, 
 the cleavings of the soul, present a more ready and invi- 
 ting, as well as efficient access to the softening influence 
 of piety. 
 
 This poor woman began gradually to think less of dan- 
 ger, and more of God ; to consider, as a set-off against all
 
 JOHN BROWN. 133 
 
 her fruitless uneasiness, the vigilance and benevolence of 
 that powerful Being, to whom, and to whose will, the ele- 
 ments, in all their combinations and relations, are sub- 
 servient; and, having quieted her younger child in the 
 cradle, and intimated her intention by a signal to her 
 daughter, she proceeded to take down the family Bible, 
 and to read out, in a soft and subdued, but most devout 
 and impressive voice, the following lines : 
 
 ' ; I waited for the Lord my God, 
 
 And patiently did bear : 
 At length to me he did incline, 
 My voice and cry to hear." 
 
 These two solitary worshippers of Him whose eyes are 
 on the just, and whose ear is open to their cry, had pro- 
 ceeded to the beginning of the fourth verse of this psalm, 
 and were actually employed in singing, with an increased 
 and increasing degree of fervor and devotion, the follow- 
 ing trustful and consolatory expressions 
 
 " Oh, blessed is the man whose trust 
 Upon the Lord relics," 
 
 when the symphony of another and a well-known voice 
 was felt to be present; and they became at once assured 
 that the beloved object of their solicitude had joined them, 
 unseen and unperceived, in the worship. This was felt 
 by all to be as it ought to have been ; nor did the natural 
 and instinctive desire to accommodate the weary and 
 snow-covered traveller with such conveniences and appli- 
 ances as his present condition manifestly demanded, pre- 
 vent the psalm-singing from going on, and the service from 
 being finished with all suitable decency. Having thus, 
 in the first instance, rendered thanks unto God, and bless- 
 ed and magnified that mercy which pervades, and directs, 
 and overrules, every agent in nature, no time was lost in 
 12
 
 134 JOHN BROWN. 
 
 attending to the secondary objects of inquiry and mani- 
 festation ; and the kind heart overflowed, whilst the tongue 
 and the hand were busied in "answer meet," and "in ac- 
 commodation suitable." 
 
 In all the wide range of Scotland's muirs and moun- 
 tains, straths and glens, there was not to be found, this 
 evening, a happier family than that over which John 
 Brown, the religious carrier, now presided. The affec- 
 tionate inquiries and solicitous attentions of his wife, of 
 his partner trusty and tried, not only under the cares and 
 duties of life, but in the faith, in the bonds of the Cove- 
 nant, and in all that similarity of sentiment and appre- 
 hension upon religious subjects, without which no matri- 
 monial union can possibly ensure happiness, were deeply 
 felt and fully appreciated. They two had sat together in 
 the " Torwood," listening to the free and fearless accents 
 of excommunication, as they rolled in dire and in blasting 
 destiny from the half-inspired lips of the learned and in- 
 trepid Mr. Donald Cargil. They had, at the risk of their 
 lives, harbored for a season, and enjoyed the comfortable 
 communion and fellowship of, Mr. Richard Cameron, im- 
 mediately previous to his death in the unfortunate ren- 
 counter at " Airsmoss." They had followed into and out, 
 through the shire of Ayr, the zealous and eloquent Mr. 
 John King, and that even in spite of the interdict of coun- 
 cil, and after that a price had been set upon the preacher's 
 head. Their oldest child had been baptized by a Pres- 
 byterian and ejected minister under night, and in the 
 midst of a wreath of snow ; and the youngest was still 
 awaiting the arrival of an approven servant of God, to re- 
 ceive the same sanctified ordinance. And if, at times, a 
 darker thought passed suddenly across the disk of their
 
 JOHN BROWN. 135 
 
 sunny hearts, and if the cause of a poor, persecuted 
 remnant, the interests of a reformed, and suffering, and 
 bleeding church, supervened in cloud upon the general 
 quietude and acquiescence of their souls, this was in- 
 stantly relieved and dispersed by a deeper, and more 
 sanctified, and more trustful tone of feeling ; whilst amidst 
 the twilight beams of prophecy, and the invigorating 
 exercise of faith, the heart was disciplined to hope, and 
 reliance, and assurance. And if at times the halloo, and 
 the yells, and the clatter of persecution, were heard upon 
 the hill-side, or up the glen, where the Covenanters' cave 
 was discovered, and five honest men were butchered under 
 a sunny morning, and in cold blood ; and if the voice of 
 Clavers, or of his immediate deputy in the work of bloody 
 oppression, " Red Rob," came occasionally, in the accents 
 of vindictive exclamation, upon the breeze of evening ; 
 yet hitherto the humble "COTTAGE IN THE Mum" had 
 escaped notice, and the tread and tramp of man and horse 
 had passed mercifully, and almost miraculously by. The 
 general current of events closed in upon such occasional 
 sources of agitation and alarm, leaving the house in the 
 muir in possession of all that domestic happiness, and 
 even quietude, which its retirement and its inmates were 
 calculated to ensure and to participate. 
 
 Early next morning, the cottage of John Brown was 
 surrounded by a troop of dragoons, with Clavers at their 
 head. John, who had probably a presentiment of what 
 might happen, urged his wife and daughter to remain 
 within doors, insisting that, as the soldiers were, in all 
 likelihood, in search of some other individual, he should 
 soon be able to dismiss them. By this time, the noise oc- 
 casioned by the trampling and neighing of horses, com- 
 mingled with the hoarse and husky laugh and vocifera- 
 tions of the dragoons, had brought John, half-dressed and 
 in his night-cap, to the door. Clavers immediately ac- 
 costed him by name ; and, in a manner peculiar to himself,
 
 136 JOHN BROWN. 
 
 intended for something betwixt the expression of fun and 
 irony, he proceeded to make inquiries respecting one 
 " Samuel Aitkin, a godly man, and a minister of the 
 word, one outrageously addicted to prayer, and occasion- 
 ally found with the sword of the flesh in one hand, and 
 that of the Spirit in the other, disseminating sedition, and 
 propagating disloyalty amongst his majesty's lieges." John 
 admitted, at once, that the worthy person referred to was 
 not unknown to him, asserting, however, at the same time, 
 that of his present residence, or place of hiding, he was not 
 free to speak. " No doubt, no doubt," rejoined the ques- 
 tioner ; " you, to be sure, know nothing ! How should you, 
 all innocence and ignorance as you are '? But here is a little 
 chip of the old block, which may probably recollect bet- 
 ter, and save us the trouble of blowing out her father's 
 brains, just by way of making him remember a little 
 more accurately." " You, my little farthing rush-light," 
 said " Red Rob," alighting from his horse, and seizing 
 the girl rudely, and with prodigious force, by the wrists, 
 " you remember an old man, with a long beard, and a bald 
 head, who was here a few days ago, baptizing your sister, 
 and giving many good advices to father and mother, and 
 who is now within a few miles of this house, just up in a 
 nice snug cave in the glen there, to which you can readi- 
 ly and instantly conduct us, you know ? " The girl look- 
 ed first at her mother, who had now advanced into the 
 door-way, then at her father, and at last drooped her head, 
 and continued to preserve a complete silence. " And so," 
 continued the questioner, " you are dumb ; you cannot 
 speak ; your tongue is a little obstinate or so ; and you must
 
 JOHN BROWN. 137 
 
 not tell family secrets. But what think you, my little chick, 
 of speaking with your fingers, of having a pat, and a proper, 
 and a pertinent answer just ready, my love, at your finger 
 ends, as one may say. As the Lord lives, and as my soul lives, 
 but this will make a dainty nosegay " (displaying a thumbi- 
 kin or finger-screw) "for my sweet little Covenanter; and 
 then " (applying the instrument of torture, meanwhile, and 
 adjusting it to the thumb) "you will have no manner of 
 trouble whatever in recollecting yourself: it will just come 
 to you like the lug of a stoup : and don't knit your brows 
 so" (for the pain had become insufferable) " then we shall 
 have you quite chatty and amusing, I warrant." The 
 mother, who could stand this no longer, rushed upon 
 the brutal executioner, and, with expostulations, threats, 
 and the most impassioned entreaties, endeavored to relax 
 the questioner's twist. " Can you, mistress, recollect any 
 thing of this man we are in quest of? " resumed Clavers, 
 haughtily. " It may save us both some trouble, and your 
 daughter a continuance and increase of her present suffer- 
 ing, if you will just have the politeness to make us ac- 
 quainted with what you happen to know upon the subject." 
 The poor woman seemed for an instant to hesitate ; and 
 her daughter looked most piteously and distractedly into 
 her countenance, as if expectant and desirous of respite 
 through her mother's compliance. " Woman! " exclaimed 
 the husband, in a tone of indignant surprise, " hast thou 
 so soon forgot thy God ? and shall the fear of any thing 
 which man can do induce thee to betray innocent blood?" 
 He said no more ; but he had said enough ; for from that 
 instant the whole tone of his wife's feelings was changed, 
 and her soul was wound up, as if by the hand of Omnipo- 
 tence, into resolution and daring. " Bravo! " exclaimed 
 the arch-persecutor, "bravo! old Canticles; thou word'stit 
 well ; and so you three pretty innocents have laid your 
 
 12
 
 138 JOHN BROWN. 
 
 holy heads together ; and you have resolved to die, should 
 it so please God and us, with a secret in your breast, and 
 a lie in your mouth, like the rest of your psalm-singing, 
 hypocritical, canting sect, rather than discover guid Mr. 
 Aitkin ! pious Mr. Aitkin ! worthy Mr. Aitkin ! But 
 we shall try what light this little telescope of mine will af- 
 ford upon the subject," pointing at the same time to a 
 carabine or holster pistol, which hung suspended from the 
 saddle of his horse. " This cold, frosty morning requires 
 that one," continued Clavers, " should be employed, were 
 it for no other purpose than just to gain heat by the exer- 
 cise. And so, old Pragmatical, in order that you may not 
 catch cold by so early an exposure to the keen air, we will 
 take the liberty " (hereupon the whole troop gathered round, 
 and presented muskets), " for the benefit of society, and for 
 the honor and safety of the king, never to speak of the 
 glory of God and the good of souls, simply and uncere- 
 moniously, and in the neatest and most expeditious man- 
 ner imaginable, to blow out your brains." John Brown 
 dropped down instantly, and as it were instinctively, upon 
 his knees, whilst his wife stood by in seeming composure; 
 and his daughter had happily become insensible to all ex- 
 ternal objects and transactions whatever. " What ! " ex- 
 claimed Clavers ; " and so you must pray too, to be sure ; 
 and we shall have a last speech and a dying testimony 
 lifted up in the presence of peat stacks, and clay walls, 
 and snow wreaths ; but as these are pretty stanch and 
 confirmed loyalists, I do not care though we intrust you 
 with five minutes of devotional exercise, provided you steer 
 clear of king, council, and Richard Cameron. So pro- 
 ceed, good Jtfhn, but be short and pithy. My lambs are* 
 not accustomed to long prayers, nor will they readily soften 
 under the pathetic whining of your devotions." But in 
 this last surmise Clavers was for once mistaken ; for the 
 prayer of this poor and uneducated man ascended, that 
 morning, in expressions at once so earnest, so devout, and
 
 JOHN BROWN. 139 
 
 so overpoweringly pathetic, that deep silence succeeded at 
 last to oaths and ribaldry ; and as the following conclud- 
 ing sentences were pronounced, there were evident marks 
 of better and relenting feelings. " And now, guid Lord," 
 continued this death-doomed and truly Christian sufferer, 
 " since thou hast nae mair use for thy servant in this world, 
 and since it is thy good and rightful pleasure that I should 
 serve thee better and love thee more elsewhere, I leave 
 this puir widow woman, with the helpless and fatherless 
 children, upon thy hands. We have been happy in each 
 other here; and now that we are to part for a while, we 
 maun e'en look forward to a more perfect and enduring 
 happiness hereafter. And as for the puir blindfolded and 
 infatuated creatures, the present ministers of thy will, 
 Lord, reclaim them from the error and the evil of their 
 courses ere it be too late ; and may they who have sat in 
 judgment and in oppression in this lonely place, and on 
 this blessed morning, and upon a puir, weak, defenceless 
 fellow-creature, find that mercy at last from thee which 
 they have this day refused to thy unworthy but faithful 
 servant. Now, Isbel," continued this defenceless and 
 amiable martyr, " the time is come at last, of which, you 
 know, I told you on that day, when first I proposed to 
 unite hand and heart with yours; and are you willing, for 
 the love of God and his rightful authority, to part with me 
 thus?" To which the poor woman replied, with perfect 
 composure, " The Lord gave, and he taketh away. I 
 have had a sweet loan of you, my dear John; and I can 
 part with you for his sake, as freely as ever I parted with 
 a mouthful of meat to the hungry, or a night's lodging to 
 the weary and benighted traveller." So saying, she ap- 
 proached her still kneeling and blindfolded husband, 
 clasped him round the neck, kissed and embraced him 
 closely, and then, lifting up her person into an attitude of
 
 140 JOHN BROWN. 
 
 determined endurance, and eyeing from head to foot every 
 soldier who stood with his carabine levelled, she retired 
 slowly and firmly to the spot which she had formerly occu- 
 pied. " Come, come ; let's have no more of this whining 
 work," interrupted Clavers, suddenly. "Soldiers, do your 
 duty." But the words fell upon a circle of statues ; and, 
 though they all stood with their muskets presented, there 
 was not a finger which had power to draw the fatal trigger. 
 There ensued an awful pause, through which a " God Al- 
 mighty bless your tender hearts ! " was heard coming from 
 the lips of the now agitated and almost distracted wife. 
 But Clavers was not in the habit of giving his orders 
 twice, or of expostulating with disobedience. So, extract- 
 ing a pistol from the holster of his saddle, he primed and 
 cocked it, and then, walking firmly and slowly up through 
 the circle close to the ear of his victim, * * * 
 *.* * * * * **## 
 
 There was a momentary murmur of discontent and of dis- 
 approbation amongst the men, as they looked upon the 
 change which a single awful instant had effected , s and 
 even " Red Rob," though a Covenanting slug still stuck 
 smartingly in his shoulder, had the hardihood to mut- 
 ter, loud enough to be heard, "This is too bad!" The 
 widow of John Brown gave one, and but one, shriek of 
 horror as the fatal engine exploded ; and then, address- 
 ing herself leisurely, as if to the discharge of some ordi- 
 nary domestic duty, she began to unfold a napkin from 
 her neck. "What think ye, good woman, of your bonny 
 man now 1 " vociferated Clavers, returning, at the same 
 time, the pistol, with a plunge, into the holster from which 
 it had been extracted. " I had always good reason," re- 
 plied the woman, firmly and deliberately, " to think weel 
 of him; and I think mair o' him now than ever. But how 
 will Graham of Claverhouse account to God and man for 
 this morning's work ? " continued the respondent, firmly. 
 "To man," answered the ruffian, "I can be answerable;
 
 LITTLE RACHEL. 141 
 
 and as to God, I will take him in my own hands." He 
 then marched off, and left her with the corpse. She 
 spread the napkin leisurely upon the snow, gathered up 
 the scattered fragments of her husband's head, covered 
 his body with a plaid, and, sitting down with her youngest 
 and yet unbaptized infant, wept bitterly. 
 
 The cottage, and the kail-yard, and the peat-stack, and 
 the whole little establishment of John Brown, the religious 
 carrier, have long disappeared from the heath and the 
 muir ; but the little spot, within one of the windings of 
 the burn, where the " House in the Muir" stood, is still 
 green, amidst surrounding heath; and in the very centre 
 of that spot, there lies a slab, or flat stone, now almost 
 covered over with grass, upon which, with a little clearing 
 away of the moss from the faded characters, the following 
 rude, but expressive lines may still be read : 
 
 " Clavers might murder godly Brown, 
 But could not rob him of his crown ; 
 Here in this place from earth he took departure ; 
 Now he has got the garland of the martyr." 
 
 LITTLE RACHEL. 
 
 IN one of the wild nooks of heath land, which are set 
 so prettily amidst our richly-timbered valleys, stands the 
 cottage of Robert Ford, an industrious and substantial 
 blacksmith. There is a striking appearance of dingy 
 comfort about the whole demesne, forming, as it does, a 
 sort of detached and isolated territory in the midst of the 
 unenclosed common by which it is surrounded. The am- 
 ple garden, whose thick, dusty, quickset hedge runs along 
 the high road ; the snug cottage, whose gable end abuts on
 
 142 LITTLE RACHEL. 
 
 the causeway ; the neat court, which parts the house from 
 the long, low-browed shop and forge; and the stable, cart- 
 shed, and piggeries, behind, have all an air of rustic opu- 
 lence: even the clear, irregular pond, that adjoins, half- 
 covered with ducks and geese, and the old pollard oak, 
 with a milestone leaning against it, that overhangs the 
 dwelling, seem in accordance with its consequence and 
 character, and give finish and harmony to the picture. 
 
 The inhabitants were, also, in excellent keeping. Robert 
 Ford, a stout, hearty, middle-aged man, sooty and grim as 
 a collier, paced backward and forward between the house 
 and the forge with the step of a man of substance his 
 very leather apron had an air of importance : his wife, 
 Dinah, a merry, comely woman, sat at the open door, in 
 an amplitude of cap, and gown, and handkerchief, darn- 
 ing an eternal worsted stocking, and hailed the passers-by 
 with the cheerful freedom of one well to do in the world; 
 and their three sons, well-grown lads, from sixteen to 
 twenty, were the pride of the village for industry and good 
 humor to say nothing of their hereditary love of cricket. 
 On a Sunday, when they had on their best clothes, and 
 cleanest faces, they were the handsomest youths in the 
 parish. Robert Ford was proud of his boys, as well he 
 might be, and Dinah was still prouder. 
 
 Altogether, it was a happy family, and a pretty scene ; 
 especially of an evening, when the forge was at work, and 
 when the bright firelight shone through the large, unglazed 
 window, illumining, with its strange, red, unearthly light, 
 the group that stood round the anvil ; showers of sparks 
 flying from the heated iron, and the loud strokes of the 
 sledge-hammer resounding over all the talking and laugh- 
 ing of the workmen, reinforced by three or four idlers, who 
 were lounging about the shop. It formed a picture, which, 
 in a summer evening, we could seldom pass without stop- 
 ping to contemplate : beside, I had a roadside acquaint- 
 ance with Mrs. Ford, had taken shelter in her cottage
 
 LITTLE RACHEL. 143 
 
 from thunder-storms and snow-storms, and, even by day- 
 light, could not walk by without a friendly " How d'ye do?" 
 Late in last autumn, we observed an addition to the 
 family, in the person of a pretty, little, shy lass, of some 
 eight years old, a fair, slim, small-boned child, with deli- 
 cate features, large blue eyes, a soft color, light, shining 
 hair, and a remarkable neatness in her whole appearance. 
 She seemed constantly busy, either sitting on a low stool 
 by Dinah's side, at needle-work, or gliding about the 
 kitchen, engaged in some household employment ; for the 
 wide-open door generally favored the passengers with a 
 full view of the interior, from the fully-stored bacon-rack 
 to the nicely-swept hearth ; and the little girl, if she per- 
 ceived herself to be looked at, would slip behind the clock- 
 case, or creep under the dresser, to avoid notice. Mrs. 
 Ford, when questioned as to her new inmate, said that 
 she was her husband's niece, the daughter of a younger 
 brother, who had worked somewhere London-way, and 
 had died lately, leaving a widow, with eleven children, in 
 distressed circumstances. She added, that, having no girl 
 of their own, they had taken little Rachel for good and all, 
 and vaunted much of her handiness, her sempstressship, 
 and her scholarship; how she could read a chapter with 
 the parish clerk, or make a shirt with the schoolmistress. 
 Hereupon she called her to display her work, which was 
 indeed extraordinary for so young a needle-woman, and 
 would fain have had her exhibit her other accomplish- 
 ment of reading ; but the poor little maid hung down her 
 head, and blushed up to her white temples, and almost 
 cried, and, though too frightened to run away, shrank 
 back, till she was fairly hidden behind her portly aunt ; 
 so that that performance was perforce pretermitted. Mrs. 
 Ford was rather scandalized at this shyness, and expos- 
 tulated, coaxed, and scolded, after the customary fashion 
 on such occasions. " Shame-facedness was," she said, 
 "Rachel's only fault; and she believed the child could not
 
 144 LITTLE RACHEL. 
 
 help it. Her uncle and cousins were as fond of her as 
 fond could be: but she was afraid of them all, and had 
 never entered the shop since there she had been. 
 Rachel," she added, " was singular in all her ways, and 
 never spent a farthing on apples or gingerbread, though 
 she had a bran new sixpence, which her uncle had given 
 her for hemming his cravats : she believed that she was 
 saving it to send home." 
 
 A month passed away, during which time, from the 
 mere habit of seeing us frequently, Rachel became so far 
 tamed as to behold me and my usual walking companion 
 without much dismay ; would drop her little courtesy with- 
 out coloring so very deeply, and was even won to accept 
 a bunn from that dear companion's pocket, and to answer 
 yes or no to his questions. 
 
 At the end of that period, as we were returning home, in 
 the twilight, from a round of morning visits, we perceived 
 a sort of confusion in the forge, and heard loud sounds of 
 scolding from within the shop, mixed with bitter lamenta- 
 tions from without. On a nearer approach, we discovered 
 that the object in distress was an old acquaintance, a 
 young Italian boy, such a wanderer from the Lake of 
 Como as he whom Wordsworth has addressed so beau- 
 tifully : 
 
 " Or on thy head to poise a show 
 
 Of plaster craft in seemly row j 
 The graceful form of milk-white steed, 
 Or bird that soared with Ganymede ; 
 Or through our hamlets thou wilt bear 
 The sightless Milton, with his hair 
 
 Around his placid temples curled ; 
 
 And Shakspeare at his side a freight, 
 
 If clay could think, and mind were weight, 
 
 For him who bore the world ! " 
 
 He passed us almost every day, carrying his tray full 
 of images into every quarter of the village. We had often
 
 "The cause of his grief was risible." Page 14o.
 
 LITTLE RACHEL. 145 
 
 wondered how he could find vent for his commodities ; but 
 our farmers' wives patronize that branch of art; and Stefa- 
 no, with his light, firm step, his upright carriage, his danc- 
 ing eyes, and his broken English, was a universal favorite. 
 
 At present, the poor boy's keen Italian features, and 
 bright, dark eyes, were disfigured by crying; and his loud 
 wailings, and southern gesticulations, bore witness to the 
 extremity of his distress. The cause of his grief was visi- 
 ble in the half-empty tray that rested on the window of 
 the forge, and the green parrot which lay in fragments on 
 the footpath. The wrath of Robert Ford required some 
 further explanation, which the presence of his worship 
 instantly brought forth, although the enraged blacksmith 
 was almost too angry to speak intelligibly. 
 
 It appeared that his youngest, and favorite son, Wil- 
 liam, had been chaffering with Stefano for this identical 
 green parrot, to present to Rachel, when a mischievous 
 lad, running along the road, had knocked it from the win 
 dow-sill, and reduced it to the state which we saw. So far 
 was mere misfortune; and, undoubtedly, if left to himself, 
 our good neighbor would have indemnified the little mer- 
 chant ; but poor Stefano, startled at the suddenness of the 
 accident, trembling at the anger of the severe master on 
 whose account he travelled the country, and probably, in 
 the darkness, really mistaking the offender, unluckily ac- 
 cused William Ford of the overthrow ; which accusation, 
 although the assertion was instantly and humbly retracted 
 on William's denial, so aroused the English blood of the 
 father, a complete John Bull, that he was raving, till black 
 in the face, against cheats and foreigners, and threatening 
 the young Italian with whipping, and the treadmill, and 
 justices, and stocks, when we made our appearance ; and 
 the storm, having nearly exhausted its fury, gradually 
 abated. 
 
 By this time, however, the clamor had attracted a little 
 crowd of lookers-on from the house and the road amongst 
 13
 
 146 EBONY AND TOPAZ. 
 
 the rest, Mrs Ford, and, peeping behind ner aunt, little 
 Rachel. Stefano continued to exclaim, in his imperfect 
 accent, " He will beat me ! " and to sob, and crouch, and 
 shiver, as if actually suffering under the impending chas- 
 tisement. It was impossible not to sympathize with such 
 a reality of distress, although we felt that an English boy, 
 similarly situated, would have been too stout-hearted not 
 to restrain its expression. " Sixpence !" and "My master 
 will beat me ! " intermixed with fresh bursts of crying, 
 were all his answers to the various inquiries as to the 
 amount of his loss, with which he was assailed , and 
 young William Ford, " a lad of grace," was approaching 
 his hand to his pocket, and my dear companion had just 
 drawn forth his purse, when the good intentions of the one 
 were arrested by the stern commands of his father, and 
 the other was stopped by the reappearance of Rachel, who 
 had run back to the house, and now darted through the 
 group, holding out her own new sixpence, her hoarded 
 sixpence, and put it into Stefano's hand ! 
 
 It may be imagined that the dear child was no loser by 
 her generosity : she was loaded with caresses by every 
 one, which, too much excited to feel her bashfulness, she 
 not only endured, but returned. Her uncle, thus rebuked 
 by an infant, was touched almost to tears. He folded her 
 in his arms, kissed her and blessed her; gave Stefano half 
 a crown for the precious sixpence, and swore to keep it as 
 Vrelic and a lesson as long as he lived. 
 
 EBONY AND TOPAZ ; A TALE BY VOLTAIRE. 
 
 EVERY body who lives in the province of Candahar 
 knows the story of young Rustan. He was the only son 
 of a mirzah of that country. Mirzah means the same
 
 EBONY AND TOPAZ. 147 
 
 thing as marquis among the French, or baron among the 
 Germans. Rustan's father, the mirzah in question, was 
 pretty well off in the world. It was contemplated to mar- 
 ry young Rustan to a young lady, a mirzahess, of the 
 same rank. Both the families wanted to bring about the 
 match bitterly. He was to become the comfort of his 
 relations, to make his dear wife happy, and to be happy 
 along with her. 
 
 But, as ill luck would have it, he had seen the Princess 
 of Cachemire at the fair of Cabul, which is the largest 
 fair in the world, and more crowded, by all odds, than 
 either that of Bassora or of Astracan ; and this was the 
 reason why the old Prince of Cachemire came to this fair 
 with his daughter. 
 
 Now, he had lost the two most precious things in his 
 treasury. The one was a diamond, as big as your thumb, 
 on which his daughter's likeness was engraved, by an art 
 which those Indians had in those days, and which has 
 been lost since. The other was a dart, which went, of its 
 own accord, wherever you wanted it to go a thing no 
 ways strange among us, though it was thought to be queer 
 among the people at Cachemire. 
 
 One of his highness's faquirs stole these two jewels, 
 and carried them to the princess. " Keep," said he, 
 *' these two articles very carefully. Your fate depends on 
 them." Then he went his ways, and was never seen any 
 more. The Duke of Cachemire, in despair, determined 
 to go to the fair of Cabul, and to see whether, among all 
 the merchants who came there from the four corners of 
 the world, he could not find some one who had his trinket 
 and his weapon. He carried his daughter with him in all 
 his travels. She kept her diamond snugly shut up in her 
 corsage. As for the dart, which she could not so well 
 hide, she had carefully locked it up at Cachemire, in a 
 big Chinese box. 
 
 It was, then, at Cabul, that she and Rustan met, and
 
 148 EBONY AND TOPAZ. 
 
 fell to loving one another, with all the simplicity natural 
 to their time of life, and all the tenderness natural to the 
 climate of their birth. As a pledge of her regard, the 
 princess gave him her diamond ; and Rustan promised to 
 come and see her, privately, at Cachemire. 
 
 The young mirzah had two favorite servants, who acted 
 as his secretaries, squires, major-domos, and valet de 
 chambres. One was named TOPAZ. He was a good- 
 looking, well-made fellow, white as a Circassian, ami- 
 able and supple as an Armenian, and, withal, as wise 
 as a Guebre. The others name was EBONY. He was 
 a negro ; handsome enough, too, and more active and 
 busy than Topaz ; and nothing troubled his conscience. 
 To these gentlemen Rustan communicated his plan of 
 travelling to Cachemire after the princess. Topaz tried 
 to divert him from his purpose, with the discreet zeal of a 
 servant who does not want to offend his master. He told 
 him all the risks he would have to encounter. He would 
 leave, alas ! two interesting families in despair. He would 
 plunge a dagger into the hearts of his parents. He 
 staggered Rustan ; but Ebony reassured him, and re- 
 moved all his scruples. 
 
 The young gentleman wanted cash for such a long jour- 
 ney. The wise Topaz would not have found any to lend 
 him. Ebony made the arrangements. He dexterously 
 abstracted his master's diamond, had another made that 
 looked just like it, which he put in its place, and pawned 
 the true one to an Armenian for some thousands of 
 roupees. 
 
 So soon as the marquis got his roupees, all was ready 
 for starting. They clapped his baggage on an elephant, 
 and himself they mounted on a horse. Topaz then said 
 to his master, " I have taken the liberty of remonstrating 
 with you on your undertaking ; but, having entered my
 
 EBONY AND TOPAZ. 149 
 
 protest, I shall do my duty. I am yours to command. I 
 love you truly, and I will follow you to the world's end. 
 But, as we go along on the road, let us consult the oracle, 
 which is only two parasangs off." Rustan consented. 
 The oracle answered, "If you go to the east, you will 
 be towards the, west."" Rustan did not know what to make 
 out of this answer. Topaz maintained that it boded no 
 good. The eternally complaisant Ebony persuaded his 
 master that it was very favorable indeed. 
 
 There happened to be another oracle at Cabul ; so 
 they went there also. The oracle of Cabul replied, " If 
 thou dost possess, thou shall not possess ; if thou art con- 
 queror, thou shalt not conquer ; if thou art Rustan, thou 
 shalt not be such." This oracle seemed more unintelligi- 
 ble than the other. " Take care of yourself," cried To- 
 paz. " Don't be alarmed," said Ebony. And this last 
 officer, as you may suppose, always had his master's ear, 
 as long as he encouraged his passion and flattered his 
 hopes. 
 
 When they left Cabul, they travelled through a great 
 forest. Here they sat down on the grass to eat, and 'let 
 their cattle feed. They were about unloading the ele- 
 phant, who carried their victuals and dining equipage, 
 when it was observed that Messrs. Topaz and Ebony had 
 disappeared from the little caravan. The servants looked 
 after them in every direction, and filled the woods with 
 their halloos, but came back without seeing any thing of 
 them, or getting an answer. " We have only met," said 
 they to Rustan, " with an eagle fighting with a vulture, 
 and pulling out all his feathers." The mention of this 
 duel excited Rustan's curiosity. He went on foot to the 
 spot. He saw no vulture, and no eagle ; but he saw his 
 own elephant, all loaded with his own baggage, getting 
 attacked by a great big rhinoceros. One beast butted 
 
 13
 
 150 EBONY AND TOPAZ. 
 
 with his horns, the other thwacked with his proboscis. 
 The rhinoceros cleared out when he saw Rustan. His 
 elephant was brought to him ; but they saw no more of 
 the horses. " Strange things happen in forests when one 
 is travelling," observed Rustan. The servants were 
 thrown into consternation ; and their master was dread- 
 fully sorry to lose, at once, his horses, his dear negro, and 
 his wise Topaz, for whom he always had a sneaking re- 
 gard, though he never followed his advice. 
 
 Meanwhile, he was consoled by the thought, that he 
 should soon be at the feet of the beautiful Princess of 
 Cachemire ; whereupon he met a great streaked ass, 
 which a terrible strong peasant was belaboring, with most 
 unmerciful bangs, with a club. There are no animals 
 more beautiful, rare, and gracefully swift, than that kind 
 of asses. This one responded to the shower of licks be- 
 stowed on him by the scoundrel peasant, with such kicks 
 as would have upset an oak with its roots. The young 
 mirzah, as was correct, took the ass's part ; and a charm- 
 ing creature it was. The rustic, thereupon, took to his 
 legs, saying to the ass, "111 fix you one of these days." 
 The ass thanked his deliverer, after his fashion, drew 
 nigh him, suffered himself to be caressed, and caressed 
 Rustan in return. After he had had his dinner, Rustan 
 mounted on this ass, and set forth for Cachemire with his 
 suite, some of whom followed afoot, and others on the 
 elephant. 
 
 But he had scarcely got astride on the ass, when the 
 beautiful animal turned towards Cabul, instead of taking 
 the road to Cachemire. The rider sawed, and jerked, 
 and squeezed with his knees, and pricked with his spurs, 
 gave his charger the reins, and then pulled him in, and 
 flogged him on both sides ; but it was of no use : the ob- 
 stinate beast would go to Cabul. 
 
 Rustan got into a sweat, and worry, and a passion, 
 when a camel merchant met him, and said, " Mister,
 
 EBONY AND TOPAZ. 151 
 
 that's an ugly ass of yours, that will carry you where you 
 don't want to go. If you'll give him to me, you may 
 pick out four of my camels." Rustan thanked Provi- 
 dence for such a good bargain. " Topaz was very wrong," 
 said he, " to be telling me that my journey would prove 
 unfortunate." He got on the prettiest camel, the other 
 three following, rejoined his caravan, and found himself 
 on the high road to his happiness. 
 
 He had advanced scarcely four parasangs, when he was 
 stopped by a deep, full, impetuous torrent, rolling over 
 rocks whitened by its foam. Two frightful precipices 
 rose on either side, confounding his vision, and freezing 
 his courage. There was no way of getting over, nor of 
 turning to the right or left. " I begin to fear," said Rus- 
 tan, "that Topaz was right in dissuading me from my 
 journey, and that I was a great fool for undertaking it. 
 If lie was here now, he might give me some good advice. 
 If Ebony was here, he might console me, and find out ways 
 and means ; but, as it is, I am left to shift for myself." 
 
 His embarrassment was increased by the terrors of his 
 party. The night was black, and they spent it in lamenta- 
 tions. At length, fatigue and exhaustion made our amo- 
 rous traveller fall asleep. He woke up just at day-broak, 
 and beheld a beautiful marble bridge thrown over the 
 torrent, from one shore to the other. 
 
 Then there were quick exclamations and shouts of as- 
 tonishment and of joy. "Is it possible ? Is it a dream ? 
 What a prodigy ! What enchantment ! May we venture 
 to step on it? " All the party threw themselves on their 
 knees, got up again, went to the bridge, kissed the earth, 
 looked up to heaven, stretched out their hands, put out 
 their feet as if treading on eggs, went forward, returned, 
 and got into ecstasies ; and Rustan said, " For this once, 
 Heaven assists me. Topaz did not know what he was 
 talking about. The oracles were in my favor. Ebony 
 was right ; but why is he not here ? "
 
 152 EBONY AND TOPAZ. 
 
 Scarcely had they crossed the torrent, when, behold! 
 the bridge tumbled into the water with a frightful noise. 
 " So much the better ! so much the better ! " cried Rustan. 
 " God be praised ! Heaven be blest ! It is not its will that 
 I should ever go back to my country, where I should al- 
 ways have been a simple gentleman. It is destined that 
 I should espouse her whom I love. I shall be the Prince 
 of Cachemire, so that, by possessing my mistress, I shall 
 not possess my little Candahar marquisate. / shall be 
 Rustan, and I shall not be, because, forsooth, I shall be- 
 come a great prince. Here is the greatest part of the 
 oracle neatly explained in my favor ; and the rest will be 
 explained in the same way. I am too happy ; but why is 
 not Ebony here by my side ? I miss him a thousand times 
 more than Topaz." 
 
 With a joyful heart, he went on for several parasangs ; 
 but, at the close of day^ a circling rampart of moun- 
 tains, steep as a counterscarp, and higher than the tower 
 of Babel would have been, had it ever been finished, bar- 
 red the progress of the caravan, who were seized with 
 trepidation. 
 
 Every one cried out, " It is the will of Heaven that we 
 should perish here. The bridge was destroyed only to 
 take away all hopes of our returning : the mountain has 
 been raised to deprive us of all means of advancing. Oh, 
 Rustan! unhappy marquis! We shall never see Cache- 
 mire. We shall never return to Candahar." 
 
 The most pungent grief, the most profound depression 
 of spirits, succeeded in Rustan's soul, to the immoderate 
 joy he had felt, to the inebriation of hope in which he had 
 indulged. He was now far from interpreting the prophe- 
 cies favorable to himself. "O Heaven! must I then lose 
 my friend Topaz?" 
 
 As he pronounced these words, heaving heavy sighs and 
 weeping abundantly, amidst his despairing followers, lo 
 and behold ! the base of the mountain opened, and there
 
 EBONY AND TOPAZ. 153 
 
 was seen a long vaulted gallery, illuminated with a hun- 
 dred thousand torches, dazzling their eyes; and Rustan 
 began to shout, and his people to throw themselves on 
 their knees, and to tumble backwards from astonishment, 
 and to cry out, " A miracle ! " and to exclaim, " Rustan 
 is the favorite of Vishnou ; the well-beloved of Brahma : 
 he will be the master of the world ! " all which Rustan 
 believed, and was beside himself, saying, " Ah, Ebony, 
 my dear Ebony, where are you ? Why cannot you behold 
 all these wonders? Why have I lost you? Sweet Prin- 
 cess of Cachemire, when shall I see your beauty again 1 " 
 
 So he travelled on, with his servants, his elephant, and 
 camels, under the vaulted arch in the mountain, at the 
 extremity of which he entered a plain, enamelled with 
 flowers and bordered by rivulets ; and at the end of the 
 field there were alleys of trees, gazing down which the 
 sight was lost ; and at the end of these alleys was a river, 
 along which there were a thousand pleasure-houses with 
 delicious gardens ; every where were heard concerts of 
 voices and instruments, and dancing was seen going on. 
 Rustan made haste to cross one of the bridges thrown over 
 the river. He asked the first man whom he met, " What 
 beautiful country is this ? " 
 
 The person addressed replied, " You are in the province 
 of Cachemire. You see the inhabitants enjoying and dis- 
 porting themselves. We are celebrating the nuptials of 
 our beautiful princess, who is going to be married to Lord 
 Barbabou, to whom her papa has promised her. May 
 their happiness endure forever ! " At these words, Rus- 
 tan fell down in a swoon ; and the Cachemirian gentleman 
 supposed he was subject to epilepsy. He had him taken 
 to his house, where he remained some time, without com- 
 ing to his senses. They brought the two most skilful 
 doctors of the province, who felt the sick man's pulse ; 
 and, when he came partially to himself, he sobbed, and 
 rolled about his eyes, and cried out at intervals, " Topaz 1 
 Topaz ! you were right, after all."
 
 154 EBONY AND TOPAZ. 
 
 One of the doctors observed to the Cachemirian gentle- 
 man, " I see, by his accent, that he is a young man from 
 Candahar, with whom the air of this country does not 
 agree. We must send him back again to his home. I 
 see by his eyes that he is crazy. Leave him to me, and I 
 will take him to his own country, and cure him." The 
 other doctor insisted that he was only sick with grief; 
 that he must go to the wedding of the princess, and be 
 made to dance. While they were in consultation, the 
 patient recovered his strength ; the two doctors ere dis- 
 charged, and Rustan remained in company with his host 
 alone. 
 
 " My lord," said he to him, " I beg your pardon for 
 fainting away in your presence, which I know is not at 
 all polite. I pray you, of your courtesy, to accept my ele- 
 phant, as a mark of my gratitude for the kindness you have 
 shown me." Then he related to him all his adventures, 
 carefully avoiding, however, to speak of the object of his 
 journey. " But," said he, " in the name of Vishnou and 
 Brahma, tell me who is this lucky Barbab&u, that is to 
 marry the Princess of Cachemire, and why her father has 
 chosen him for his son-in-law, and why the princess has 
 accepted him for her spouse?" 
 
 " My lord," said the Cachemirian to him, " the princess 
 has not accepted Barbabou, at all. On the contrary, she 
 is in tears, while the whole province joyously celebrates 
 her nuptials. She is shut up in a tower of her palace, 
 and will not witness any of the rejoicings going on upon 
 her account." Rustan, on hearing these words, felt his 
 spirits revive. The brilliant colors, which grief had 
 caused to fade, reappeared on his countenance. " Tell 
 me, I pray you," he added, " why the Prince of Cache- 
 mire is obstinately bent on giving his daughter to a Bar- 
 babou, when she don't want to have him." 
 
 " The case is this," replied the Cachemirian. " Do 
 you know that our august prince lost a diamond and a 
 dart, on which he set great store ? " " O yes, I know
 
 EBONY AND TOPAZ. 155 
 
 that very well," said Rustan. " Well, then," said the 
 host, " our prince, in despair at getting no news of his 
 jewels, after hunting for them a great while all over the 
 world, promised his daughter to whoever would bring him 
 either of them. A Lord Barbabou came along, who had 
 the diamond ; and, on the strength of it, he will marry the 
 princess to-morrow." 
 
 Rustan grew pale, stammered out a parting compliment, 
 took leave of his host, and scoured off, on his dromedary, 
 to the capital city, where the ceremony was to be per- 
 formed. He arrived at the prince's palace, stated that he 
 had matters of importance to communicate, and demanded 
 an audience. He was answered, that the prince was en- 
 gaged in preparing for the nuptials. " That's the very 
 reason," said he, " why I want to talk to him." His im- 
 portunity was such, that he was introduced. " Sire," said 
 he, " may Heaven crown your days with glory and mag- 
 nificence. Your son-in-law is a rascal." 
 
 " How? a rascal ! What is it you dare to say ? Is that 
 the way to talk to a Duke of Cachemire about the son-in- 
 law he has chosen 1 " " Yes, he is a rascal," replied 
 Rustan ; " and, to prove it to your highness, here is your 
 diamond, which I have brought you." 
 
 The duke, in utter consternation, compared the two 
 diamonds, and, as he had little or no knowledge of such 
 matters, could not tell which was genuine. " Here be 
 two diamonds," said he, " and I have only one daughter. 
 See, now, what a strange quandary I am in ! " He caused 
 Barbabou to be sent for, -and asked him if he had not 
 taken him in. Barbabou swore he had bought the dia- 
 mond from an Armenian. Rustan did not tell how he 
 came by his, but suggested an expedient, which was, that, 
 with his highness's approbation, he would forthwith en- 
 gage with his rival in single combat. " It is not enough," 
 said he, " that your son-in-law gives you a diamond. He 
 must also give proofs of his courage. Do you not think 
 it proper, that whoever kills the other shall marry the
 
 156 EBONY AND TOPAZ. 
 
 princess?" " Very proper indeed," answered the prince. 
 " It will be a superb spectacle for my court. Fight one 
 another directly. The conqueror shall have the arms of the 
 vanquished, according to the custom of Cachemire ; and 
 he shall marry my daughter." 
 
 The two suitors descended directly into the court. A 
 magpie and crow were sitting on the stairs. The crow 
 cried, " Fight away, fight away ; " the magpie, " Don't 
 fight." This made his highness laugh. The two rivals 
 scarce regarded it, and commenced the conflict, all the 
 courtiers making a ring round them. The princess, keep- 
 ing herself still shut up in her tower, would not attend the 
 exhibition. She had not the least suspicion that her lover 
 was at Cachemire, and had such a horror of Barbabou, 
 that she would not see him. The combat was despatched 
 with great expedition. Barbabou was killed in short or- 
 der ; and the people were delighted, because he was ugly, 
 and Rustan was very handsome. This is what almost al- 
 ways wins the favor of the public. 
 
 The conqueror put on the coat of mail, scarf, and hel- 
 met of the vanquished, and marched, followed by all the 
 court, with a flourish of trumpets, to present himself under 
 the window of his mistress. All the people cried out, 
 " Beautiful princess, come and see your beautiful husband, 
 who has killed his rascally rival ! " Her women repeated 
 these words. The princess, unluckily, put her head in 
 the window, and, seeing the armor of the man she detest- 
 ed, ran, in despair, to her Chinese cabinet, and drew forth 
 the fatal dart, which flew to transfix her dear Rustan, in 
 spite of his cuirass. He uttered a piercing cry ; and in 
 that cry the princess thought she recognized the voice of 
 ner unhappy lover. 
 
 She came down, all dishevelled, with death in her eyes 
 and in her heart. Rustan had already fallen, covered 
 with blood, into the arms of her father. She saw him. 
 Oh, what a moment ! Oh, what a sight ! Oh, what a 
 recognition, whose grief, and tenderness, and horror, none
 
 EBONY AND TOPAZ. 157 
 
 can describe ! She threw herself upon him, and embraced 
 him. " Receive," she cried, " the first and last kisses of 
 thy lover and thy murderess ! " She plucked the dart from 
 the wound, plunged it into her own bosom, and died upon 
 the lover she adored. Her father, terrified, confounded, 
 almost as dead as herself, strove in vain to recall her to 
 life. She was no more. He cursed the fatal dart, broke 
 it into pieces, threw far from him the two fatal jewels, and, 
 while they were making preparations for his daughter's 
 funeral, instead of her marriage, directed them to carry 
 into the palace the bleeding Rustan, who yet showed 
 symptoms of life. 
 
 They put him to bed. On that death-bed, the first 
 thing he saw, standing on each side, was Topaz and Eb- 
 ony. His surprise brought back a little strength. " Ah, 
 cruel men," said he, " why did you forsake me? Perhaps 
 the princess would be yet living, if you had been near the 
 unhappy Rustan." " I never deserted you for a single 
 moment," said Topaz. " I have always been near you," 
 said Ebony. 
 
 " Oh ! what is it you say ? Why thus mock me in my 
 last moments ? " said Rustan, with a languid voice. 
 " You may believe me," said Topaz. " You know I never 
 approved of this fatal journey, the horrible fruits of which 
 I foresaw. I was the eagle who fought with the vulture, 
 and plucked out his feathers. I was the elephant who 
 carried the baggage, in order to force you to return to 
 your own country. I was the streaked ass, who was bear- 
 ing you home to your father, in spite of yourself. It was 
 I who sent your horses astray. I made the torrent, which 
 stopped your passage ; I raised the mountain, which shut 
 you out from your fatal route. I was the doctor, who pre- 
 scribed your native air. I was the magpie, who cried out 
 to you not to fight." 
 
 " And I," said Ebony, " I was the vulture whom the 
 eagle plucked ; the rhinoceros, who gave the elephant a 
 14
 
 158 EfiONY AND TOPAZ. 
 
 hundred blows with his horns ; the peasant, who flogged 
 the streaked ass ; the merchant, who gave you the camels 
 to proceed with to your destruction. I built the bridge, 
 over which you crossed. I dug out the cavern, through 
 which you passed. I was the doctor, who advised your 
 proceeding ; the crow, who cried out to you to fight." 
 
 " Alas ! -remember the oracles," said Topaz. " If you 
 go to the east, you will be toward the west." " Yes," said 
 Ebony, " they bury the dead here, with their faces turned 
 toward the west. The oracle was clear enough. How 
 came you not to understand it 1 You were possessed, and 
 did not possess ; for you had the diamond, but it was a 
 false one ; and you knew nothing about it. You are con- 
 queror, and you are dying. You are Rustan, and you are 
 ceasing to be so. All has been accomplished." 
 
 While he thus spoke, four white wings covered the 
 body of Topaz, and four black wings that of Ebony. 
 ' What do I behold 1 " cried Rustan. Topaz and Ebony 
 replied together, " Thou seest thy two genii." " Oh, 
 gentlemen," said the unlucky Rustan to them, "why did 
 you meddle with this business ? Why two genii for one 
 poor man ? " " That's the law," said Topaz : " every 
 body has his two genii. Plato said so first, and others have 
 repeated it after him. Thou seest nothing is more true. 
 I, who speak to thee, am thy good genius ; and it was my 
 business to watch over thee, to the last moment of thy 
 life a trust which I have conscientiously discharged." 
 
 " But," said the dying man, " if it was thy duty to wait 
 on me, I am then of an order far superior to thine ; and, 
 that being the case, how darest thou tell me that thou art 
 my good genius, when thou hast suffered me to be foiled 
 in all my undertakings, and thou now sufferest me and 
 my mistress to die miserably ? " " Alas ! it was thy des- 
 tiny," said Topaz. " What, then, is a genius good for? 
 And thou, Ebony, with thy four black wings, thou art, it 
 seems, my evil genius 1 " " You have said it," answered
 
 EBONY AND TOPAZ. 159 
 
 Ebony. " But wast them also the evil genius of my prin- 
 cess?" "No; she had her own. I have helped him 
 regularly." " Oh ! cursed Ebony ! since thou art so 
 wicked, thou dost not belong to the same master with 
 Topaz. You were severally formed by different princi- 
 ples, one of which is good, and the other evil, in its na- 
 ture." " That does not follow of course," said Ebony; 
 " but it is a very difficult point." " It is not possible," 
 said the sufferer, " that a benevolent being should create 
 so baleful a genius." " Possible or not possible," said 
 Ebony, " the fact is as I tell thee." " Alas ! " said To- 
 paz, "my poor friend, dost thou not see that this knave 
 has yet the malice to make thee get into an argument, to 
 heat thy blood, and hasten the hour of thy death?" "Be- 
 gone ! I am scarcely better pleased with thee than with 
 him," said the sorrowful Rustan. " He, at least, avows 
 that he meant to do me mischief; and thou, who pretend- 
 est to be my guardian, thou hast been to me of no sort of 
 service." " I am very sorry for it," said the good genius. 
 " So am I," said the moribund man. " There is some- 
 thing about this that I don't understand." " Nor I either," 
 said the poor good genius. " I shall find it out soon," 
 said Rustan. " That is as it may be," said Topaz. Then 
 the whole scene vanished. Rustan found himself in his 
 father's house, whence he had never departed, and in his 
 own bed, where he had been asleep for an hour. 
 
 He awoke with a start, perspiring all over, and quite 
 bewildered. He handled himself, called, cried out, and 
 rung for his valet. Topaz ran to him in his nightcap, 
 yawning woundily. " Am I dead? Am I in the land of 
 the living ?" cried Rustan. " The beautiful Princess of 
 Cachemire, will she recover ? " " Ts my lord dream- 
 ing ? " coolly asked Topaz. " Ah ! " said Rustan, " what 
 has become, then, of that barbarous Ebony, with his four 
 black wings? It was he who made me die by a death so 
 cruel." " My lord, I left him snoring up aloft. Shall he
 
 160 EBONY AND TOPAZ. 
 
 be told to come down ? " " The scoundrel ! it is now six 
 months that he has been persecuting me. It was he who 
 took me to that fatal fair at Cabul. It was he who jock- 
 eyed me out of the diamond which the princess gave me. 
 He was the only cause of my journey, of the death of my 
 princess, and of the wound with the dart, by which I am 
 dying in the flower of my youth." 
 
 " Console yourself," said Topaz ; " you have never been 
 to Cabul. There is no Princess of Cachemire. The 
 prince has only two sons, who are now at college. You 
 never had any diamond. The princess can't be dead, 
 because she never was born ; and you are in charming 
 good health." 
 
 " How ? Is it not true that you attended my death-bed 
 in the palace of the Prince of Cachemire ? Did you not 
 confess, that, to protect me from so many evils, you had 
 been an eagle, elephant, streaked ass, doctor, and mag- 
 pie ? " " My lord, you have dreamed all that. Our ideas 
 are no more under our own control when asleep than 
 when awake. It has pleased Heaven that this train of 
 ideas should pass through your head, in order, it should 
 seem, to give you a lesson which may be profitable." 
 
 " Thou art jesting with me," quoth Rustan. " How 
 long have I been asleep? " " My lord, you have not been 
 asleep more than one hour." " Why, you most abomina- 
 ble of logicians, how do you suppose that in an hour's 
 time I should have been at the fair at Cabul six months 
 ago. have gotten back, made a journey to Cachemire, and 
 all three of us be dead, Barbabou, the princess, and I?" 
 " My lord, there is nothing more easy and common ; and 
 you might actually have made the tour of the world, and 
 had many more adventures, in much less time. Is it not 
 true that you can read in one hour the abridgment of the 
 Persian history, written by Zoroaster ? Yet that abridg- 
 ment comprises eight hundred thousand years. All the 
 events it records pass before your eyes, one after the other,
 
 EBONY AND TOPAZ. 161 
 
 in one hour. Now, you will grant me, that it is as easy 
 for Brahma to compress them all within the compass of 
 an hour, as to extend them over a period of eight hundred 
 thousand years. It is an instance exactly in point. Im- 
 agine to yourself that time revolves on a wheel, whose 
 diameter is infinite. Within this immense wheel are an 
 innumerable multitude of wheels, one within another. 
 That which is central is imperceptible, and makes an in- 
 finite number of revolutions, precisely in the same time 
 that the great wheel performs one. It is obvious, that all 
 events, from the creation of the world to its end, might 
 happen, successively, in less time than the hundred thou- 
 sandth part of a second. And we may even say that such 
 is the fact." 
 
 " I don't understand a word of that," said Rustan. 
 
 " If you please," said Topaz, "I have a parrot, who 
 will make you comprehend it very easily. He was born 
 some time before the deluge, was in the ark, and has seen 
 a great deal. For all that, he is only a year and a half 
 old. He will tell you his story, which is very interesting." 
 
 " Go, instantly, and find your parrot," said Rustan : 
 '* he will amuse me till I can fall asleep again." 
 
 " He is with my sister, the nun," said Topaz. " I will 
 go and find him. You will be pleased with him. His 
 memory is faithful. He tells his story with simplicity, 
 without trying to show his wit all the while, and without 
 making fine sentences." 
 
 "All the better," said Rustan ; " that is just the way in 
 which I like to hear stories." The parrot was brought, 
 who spoke to him as follows : 
 
 14
 
 162 THE THREE ADVICES. 
 
 THE THREE ADVICES. 
 
 THERE once came, what of late happened so often in 
 Ireland, a hard year. When the crops failed, there was 
 beggary and misfortune from one end of the island to 
 the other. At that time, a great many poor people 
 had to quit the country, from want of employment, and 
 through the high price of provisions. Among others, 
 John Carson was under the necessity of going over to 
 England, to try if he could get work, and of leaving 
 his wife and family behind him, begging for a bite and a 
 sup up and down, and trusting to the charity of good 
 Christians. 
 
 John was a smart young fellow, handy at any work, 
 from the hay-field to the stable, and willing to earn the 
 bread he ate ; and he was soon engaged by a gentleman. 
 The English are mighty strict upon Irish servants: he was 
 to have twelve guineas a year wages ; but the money was 
 not to be paid until the end of the year, and he was to 
 forfeit the entire twelve guineas in the lump, if he miscon- 
 ducted himself, in any way, within the twelve months. 
 John Carson was, to be sure, upon his best behavior, and 
 conducted himself, in every particular, so well, for the 
 whole time, there was no faulting him late or early; and 
 the wages were fairly his. 
 
 The term of his agreement being expired, he determin- 
 ed on returning home, notwithstanding his master, who 
 had a great regard for him, pressed him to remain, and 
 asked him if he had any reason to be dissatisfied with his 
 treatment. 
 
 "No reason in life, sir," said John: "you've been a 
 good master and a kind master to me : the Lord spare 
 you over your family : but I left a wife with two small 
 children of my own at home, after me in Irelniu 1 ; and
 
 THE THREE ADVICES. 163 
 
 your honor would never wish to keep me from them 
 entirely the wife and the children ! " 
 
 "Well, John," said the gentleman, "you have earned 
 your twelve guineas; and you have been, in every respect, 
 so good a servant, that, if you agree, I intend giving you 
 what is worth the twelve guineas ten times over, in place 
 of your wages. But you shall have your choice : will you 
 take what I offer, on my word?" 
 
 John saw no reason to think that his master was jest- 
 ing with him, or was insincere in making the offer, and, 
 therefore, after slight consideration, told him that he 
 agreed to take, as his wages, whatever he would advise, 
 whether it was the twelve guineas or not. 
 
 " Then listen attentively to my words," said the gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 " First, I would teach you this ' Never to take a by- 
 road, when you have the high-way.' 
 
 " Secondly, ' Take heed not to lodge in the house 
 where an old man is married to a young woman.' 
 
 " And thirdly, ' Remember that honesty is the best 
 policy.' 
 
 " These are the three advices I would pay you with ; 
 and they are, in value, far beyond any gold : however, 
 here is a guinea for your travelling charges, and two cakes, 
 one of which you must give to your wife, and the other 
 you must not eat yourself until you have done so; and I 
 charge you to be careful of them." 
 
 It was not without some reluctance on the part of John 
 Carson, that he was brought to accept mere words for 
 wages, or could be persuaded that they were more precious 
 than golden guineas. His faith in his master was, how- 
 ever, so strong, that he at length became satisfied. 
 
 John set out for Ireland the next morning early; but 
 he had not proceeded far, before he overtook two pedlers, 
 who were travelling the same way. He entered into con- 
 versation with them, and found them a pair of merry fel-
 
 164 THE THREE ADVICES. 
 
 lows, who proved excellent company on the road. Now, it 
 happened, towards the end of their day's journey, when 
 they were all tired with walking, that they came to a wood, 
 through which there was a path that shortened the distance 
 to the town they were going towards, by two miles. The 
 pedlers advised John to go with them through the wood ; 
 but he refused to leave the highway, telling them, at the 
 same time, he would meet them again at a certain house in 
 the town, where travellers put up. John was willing to try 
 the worth of the advice which his master had given him ; 
 and he arrived in safety, and took up his quarters at the 
 appointed place. While he was eating his supper, an old 
 man came hobbling into the kitchen, and gave orders 
 about different matters there, and then went out again. 
 John would have taken no particular notice of this ; but, 
 immediately after, a young woman young enough to be 
 the old man's daughter came in, and gave orders exactly 
 the contrary of what the old man had given, calling him, 
 at the same time, a great many hard names, such as old 
 fool, and old dotard, and so on. 
 
 When she was gone, John inquired who the old man 
 was. "He is the landlord," said the servant; "and, 
 Heaven help him ! a dog's life he has led since he married 
 his last wife." 
 
 "What," said John with surprise, "is that young 
 woman the landlord's wife ? I see I must not remain in 
 this house to-night ; " and, tired as he was, he got up to 
 leave it, but went no farther than the door, before he met 
 the two pedlers, all cut and bleeding, coming in ; for they 
 had been robbed and almost murdered in the wood. John 
 was very sorry to see them in that condition, and advised 
 them not to lodge in the house, telling them, with a sig- 
 nificant nod, that all was not right there ; but the poor 
 pedlers were so weary and so bruised, that they would 
 stop where they were, and disregarded the advice. 
 
 Rather than remain in the house, John retired to the
 
 THE THREE ADVICES. 165 
 
 stable, and laid himself down upon a bundle of straw, 
 where he slept soundly for some time. About the middle of 
 the night, he heard two persons come into the stable, and, 
 on listening to their conversation, discovered that it was 
 the landlady and a man, laying a plan how to murder her 
 husband. In the morning, John renewed his journey ; but, 
 at the next town he came to, he was told that the landlord 
 in the town he had left had been murdered, and that two 
 pedlers, whose clothes were found all covered with blood, 
 had been taken up for the crime, and were going to be 
 hanged. John, without mentioning to any person what he 
 had overheard, determined to save the pedlers, if possible, 
 and so returned, to attend their trial. 
 
 On going into the court, he saw the two men at the bar ; 
 and the young woman and the man, whose voices he had 
 heard in the stable, swearing their innocent lives away. 
 But the judge allowed him to give his evidence, and he 
 told every particular of what had occurred. The man 
 and the young woman instantly confessed their guilt: the 
 poor pedlers were at once acquitted ; and the judge order- 
 ed a large reward to be paid to John Carson, as, through 
 his means, the real murderers were brought to justice. 
 
 John now proceeded towards home, fully convinced of 
 the value of two of the advices which his master had given 
 him. On arriving at his cabin, he found his wife and chil- 
 dren rejoicing over a purse full of gold, which the eldest 
 boy had picked up on the road that morning. Whilst he 
 was away, they had endured all the miseries which the 
 wretched families of those who go over to seek work in 
 England are exposed to. With precarious food, without 
 a bed to lie down on, or a roof to shelter them, they had 
 wandered through the country, seeking food from door to 
 door of a starving population, and, when a single potato 
 was bestowed, showering down blessings and thanks on 
 the giver, not in the set phrases of the mendicant, but in a 
 burst of eloquence too fervid not to gush direct from the
 
 166 THE THREE ADVICES. 
 
 heart. Those only who have seen a family of such beg- 
 gars as I describe, can fancy the joy with which the poor 
 woman welcomed her husband back, and told him of the 
 purse full of gold. 
 
 " And where did Mick ma boJiil find it? " inquired 
 John Carson. 
 
 " It was the young squire, for certain, who dropped it," 
 said his wife ; "for he rode down the road this morning, 
 and was leaping his horse in the very gap where Micky 
 picked it up ; but sure, John, he has money enough be- 
 sides ; and never the halfpenny have I to buy my poor 
 childer a bit to eat this blessed night." 
 
 "Never mind that," said John; "do as I bid you, and 
 take up the purse at once to the big house, and ask for 
 the young squire. I have too cakes which I brought every 
 step of the way with me from England, and they will do 
 for the children's supper. I ought surely to remember, as 
 good right I have, what my master told me for my twelve 
 months' wages, seeing I never, as yet, found what he said 
 to be wrong." 
 
 "And what did he say?" inquired his wife. 
 
 " That honesty is the best policy," answered John. 
 
 " 'Tis very well, and 'tis mighty easy for them to say so, 
 that have never been sore tempted, by distress and famine, 
 to say otherwise; but your bidding is enough for me, 
 John." 
 
 Straightway she went to the big house, and inquired for 
 the young squire ; but she was denied the liberty to speak 
 to him. 
 
 " You must tell me your business, honest woman," said 
 a servant, with a head all powdered and frizzled like a 
 cauliflower, and who had on a coat covered with gold and 
 silver lace, and buttons, and every thing in the world. 
 
 " If you knew but all," said she, "I am an honest
 
 THE THREE ADVICES. 167 
 
 woman , for I've brought a purse full of gold to the young 
 master, that my little boy picked up by the road-side ; for 
 surely it is his, as nobody else could have so much 
 money." 
 
 " Let me see it," said the servant. " Ay, it's all right. 
 I'll take care of it. You need not trouble yourself any 
 more about the matter ; " and so saying, he slapped the 
 door in her face. When she returned, her husband pro- 
 duced the two cakes which his master gave him on part- 
 ing; and, breaking one to divide between his children, 
 how was he astonished at finding six golden guineas in it ! 
 and when he took the other and broke it, he found as 
 many more. He then remembered the words of his gen- 
 erous master, who desired him to give one of the cakes to 
 his wife, and not to eat the other himself until that time ; 
 and this was the way his master took to conceal his wages, 
 lest he should have been robbed, or have lost the money 
 on the road. 
 
 The following day, as John was standing near his 
 cabin door, and turning over in his own mind what he 
 should do with his money, the young squire came riding 
 down the road. John pulled off his hat, for he had not 
 forgot his manners through the means of his travelling to 
 foreign parts, and then made so bold as to inquire if his 
 honor had got the purse he lost. 
 
 " Why, it is true enough, my good fellow," said the 
 squire, "I did lose my purse yesterday, and I hope you 
 were lucky enough to find it ; for, if that is your cabin, 
 you seem to be very poor, and shall keep it as a reward 
 for your honesty." 
 
 " Then the servant up at the big house never gave it to 
 your honor last night, after taking it from Nance, she's 
 my wife, your honor, and telling her it was all right?" 
 
 " O, I must look into this business," said the squire. 
 
 "Did you say your wife, my poor man, gave my purse 
 to a servant ? To what servant ? "
 
 168 THE THREE ADVICES. 
 
 " I can't tell his name rightly," said John, " because I 
 don't know it; but never trust Nance's eyes again, if she 
 can't point him out to your honor, if so your honor is de- 
 sirous of knowing." 
 
 "Then do you and Nance, as you call her, come up to 
 the hall this evening, and I'll inquire into the matter, I 
 promise you." So saying, the squire rode off. 
 
 John and his wife went up, accordingly, in the evening, 
 and he gave a small rap, with the big knocker, at the great 
 door. The door was opened by a grand servant, who, 
 without hearing what the poor people had to say, exclaim- 
 ed, "O go! go! what business can you have here?'' 
 and shut the door. 
 
 John's wife burst out crying " There," said she, sob- 
 bing as if her heart would break, "I knew that would be 
 the end of it." 
 
 But John had not been in merry England merely to get 
 his twelve guineas packed in two cakes. " No," said he, 
 firmly, " right is right; and I'll see the end of it." So he 
 sat himself down on the step of the door, determined not 
 to go until he saw the young squire; and, as it happened, 
 it was not long before he came out. 
 
 "I have been expecting you some time, John," said he; 
 "come in, and bring your wife in;" and he made them go 
 before him into the house. Immediately, he directed all 
 the servants to come up stairs; and such an army of them 
 as there was! It was a real sight to see them. 
 
 " Which of you," said the young squire, without making 
 further words, " which of you all did this honest woman 
 give my purse to?" But there was no answer. "Well, I 
 suppose she must be mistaken, unless she can tell herself." 
 
 John's wife at once pointed her finger towards the head 
 footman. "There he is," said she, " if all the world were 
 to the fore clargyman magistrate judge jury and all 
 there he is, and I'm ready to take my Bible oath to him; 
 there he is who told me it was all right when he took
 
 THE CITY OF THE DEMONS. 169 
 
 the purse, and slararned the door in my face, without as 
 much as Thank ye for it." 
 
 The conscious footman turned pale. 
 
 "What is this I hear?" said his master. " If this 
 woman gave you my purse, William, why did you not give 
 it to me ? " 
 
 The servant stammered out a denial; but his master in- 
 sisted on his being searched, and the purse was found in 
 his pocket. 
 
 " John," said the gentleman, turning round, "you 
 shall be no loser by this affair. Here are ten guineas for 
 you. Go home now ; but I will not forget your wife's 
 honesty." 
 
 Within a month, John Carson was settled in a nice, 
 new-slated house, which the squire had furnished and 
 made ready for him. What with his wages, the reward 
 he got from the judge, and the ten guineas for returning 
 the purse, he was well to do in the world, and was soon 
 able to stock a small farm, where he lived respected all 
 his days. On his death-bed, he gave his children the very 
 three advices which his master had given him on parting : 
 
 Never to take a by-road, when they could follow the 
 highway ; 
 
 Never to lodge in the house where an old man was 
 married to a young woman ; 
 
 And, above all, to remember that honesty is the best 
 policy. 
 
 THE CITY OF THE DEMONS. 
 
 IN days of yore, there lived, in the flourishing city 
 of Cairo, a Hebrew rabbi, by name Jochonan, who was 
 15
 
 170 THE CITY OF THE DEMONS. 
 
 the most learned of his nation. His fame went over the 
 East ; and the most distant people sent their young men to 
 imbibe wisdom from his lips. He was deeply skilled in 
 the traditions of the fathers; and his word on a disputed 
 point was decisive. He was pious, just, temperate, and 
 strict; but he had one vice a love of gold had seized 
 upon his heart, and he opened not his hand to the poor. 
 Yet he was wealthy above most, his wisdom being to him 
 the source of riches. The Hebrews of the city were griev- 
 ed at this blemish on the wisest of their people ; but, though 
 the elders of the tribes continued to reverence him for his 
 fame, the women and children of Cairo called him by no 
 other name than that of Rabbi Jochonan the miser. 
 
 None knew, so well as he, the ceremonies necessary for 
 initiation into the religion of Moses ; and, consequently, 
 the exercise of those solemn offices was to him another 
 source of gain. One day, as he walked in the fields about 
 Cairo, conversing with a youth on the interpretation of 
 the law, it so happened, that the angel of death smote the 
 young man suddenly, and he fell dead before the feet of 
 the rabbi, even while he was yet speaking. When the 
 rabbi found that the youth was dead, he rent his gar- 
 ments, and glorified the Lord. But his heart was touch- 
 ed, and the thoughts of death troubled him in the visions 
 of the night. He felt uneasy when he reflected on his 
 hardness to the poor ; and he said, " Blessed be the name 
 of the Lord ! The first good thing that I am asked to do, 
 in that holy name, will I perform." But he sighed, for 
 he feared that some one might ask of him a portion of 
 his gold. 
 
 While yet he thought upon these things, there came a 
 loud cry at his gate. 
 
 *' Awake, thou sleeper ! " said the voice, " awake ! A 
 child is in danger of death, and the mother hath sent me 
 for thee, that thou mayest do thine office." 
 
 " The night is dark and gloomy," said the rabbi,
 
 THE CITY OF THE DEMONS. 171 
 
 coming to his casement, " and mine age is great. Are 
 there not younger men than I in Cairo?" 
 
 " For thee only, Rabbi Jochonan, whom some call the 
 wise, but whom others call Rabbi Jochonan the miser, 
 was I sent. Here is gold," said he, taking out a purse of 
 sequins. " I want not thy labor for nothing. I adjure 
 thee to come, in the name of the living God." 
 
 So the rabbi thought upon the vow he had just made; 
 and he groaned in spirit, for the purse sounded heavy. 
 
 " As thou hast adjured me by that name, I go with 
 thee," said he to the man ; " but I hope the distance is not 
 far. Put up thy gold." 
 
 " The place is at hand," said the stranger, who was a 
 gallant youth, in magnificent attire. " Be speedy, for 
 time presses." 
 
 Jochonan arose, dressed himself, and accompanied the 
 stranger, after having carefully locked up all the doors of 
 his house, and deposited his keys in a secret place at 
 which the stranger smiled. 
 
 " I never remember," said the rabbi, " so dark a night. 
 Be thou to me as a guide, for I can hardly see the way." 
 
 " I know it well," replied the stranger with a sigh : "it 
 is a way much frequented, and travelled hourly by many. 
 Lean upon mine arm, and fear not." 
 
 They journeyed on ; and, though the darkness was 
 great, yet the rabbi could see, when it occasionally bright- 
 ened, that he was in a place strange to him. " I thought," 
 said he, " I knew all the country for leagues about Cairo; 
 yet I know not where I am. I hope, young man," said 
 he to his companion, " that thou hast not missed the way." 
 And his heart misgave him. 
 
 " Fear not," returned the stranger. " Your journey is 
 even now done." And, as he spoke, the feet of the rabbi 
 slipped from under him, and he rolled down a great height. 
 When he recovered, he found that his companion had 
 fallen also, and stood by his side.
 
 172 THE CITY OF THE DEMONS. 
 
 " Nay, young man," said the rabbi, " if thus thou 
 sportest with the gray hairs of age, thy days are number- 
 ed. Wo unto him who insults the hoary head ! " 
 
 The stranger made an excuse, and they journeyed on 
 some little further in silence. The darkness grew less ; 
 and the astonished rabbi, lifting up his eyes, found that 
 they had come to the gates of a city which he had never 
 before seen. Yet he knew all the cities of the land of 
 Egypt, and he had walked but half an hour from his 
 dwelling in Cairo. So he knew not what to think, but 
 followed the man with trembling. 
 
 They soon entered the gates of the city, which was 
 lighted up as if there were a festival in every house. The 
 streets were full of revellers ; and nothing but a sound of 
 joy could be heard. But when Jochonan looked upon 
 their faces, they were the faces of men pained within ; 
 and he saw, by the marks they bore, that they were 
 Mazikin. He was terrified in his soul ; and, by the 
 light of the torches, he looked also upon the face of his 
 companion, and, behold! he saw upon him, too, the mark 
 that showed him to be a demon. The rabbi feared ex- 
 cessively ; almost to fainting ; but he thought it better to 
 be silent ; and sadly he followed his guide, Vho brought 
 him to a splendid house, in the most magnificent quarter 
 of the city. 
 
 "Enter here," said the demon to Jochonan, "for this 
 house is mine. The lady and the child are in the upper 
 chamber." And, accordingly, the sorrowful rabbi as- 
 cended the stair to find them. 
 
 The lady, whose dazzling beauty was shrouded by 
 melancholy beyond hope, lay in bed : the child, in rich 
 raiment, slumbered on the lap of the nurse, by her side. 
 
 " I have brought to thee, light of my eyes ! " said the 
 demon, " Rebecca, beloved of my soul ! I have brought
 
 THE CITY OF THE DEMONS. 173 
 
 thee Rabbi Jochonan the wise, whom thou didst desire. 
 Let him, then, speedily begin his office. I shall fetch all 
 things necessary ; for he is in haste to depart." 
 
 He smiled bitterly as he said these words, looking at the 
 rabbi, and left the room, followed by the nurse. 
 
 When Jochonan and the lady were alone, she turned in 
 the bed towards him, and said 
 
 "Unhappy man that thou art! knowest thou where 
 thou hast been brought? " 
 
 " I do," said he, with a heavy groan ; " I know that I 
 am in a city of the Mazikin." 
 
 "Know then, further," said she, and the tears gushed 
 from eyes brighter than the diamond, " know then, fur- 
 ther, that no one is ever brought here, unless he hath 
 sinned before the Lord. What my sin hath been imports 
 not to thee ; and I seek cot to know thine. But here 
 thou remainest forever lost, even as I am lost." And 
 she wept again. 
 
 The rabbi dashed his turban on the ground, and, tear- 
 ing his hair, exclaimed, " Wo is me ! Who art thou, 
 woman, that speakest to me thus?" 
 
 "I am a Hebrew woman," said she, "the daughter of 
 a doctor of the laws, in the city of Bagdad ; and, being 
 brought hither, it matters not how, I am married to a 
 prince among the Mazikin, even him who was sent for 
 thee. And that child, whom thou sawest, is our first- 
 born ; and I could not bear the thought that the soul of 
 our innocent babe should perish. I therefore besought 
 my husband to try to bring hither a priest, that the law of 
 Moses (blessed be his memory !) should be done ; and thy 
 fame, which has spread to Bagdad, and lands farther to- 
 wards the rising of the sun, made me- think of thee. Now, 
 my husband, though great among the Mazikin, is more 
 just than the other demons; and he loves me, whom he 
 hath ruined, with a love of despair. So he said, that the 
 name of Jochonan the wise was familiar unto him, and 
 15*
 
 174 THE CITY OF THE DEMONS. 
 
 that he knew thou wouldst not be able to refuse. What 
 thou hast done, to give him power over thee, is known to 
 thyself." 
 
 " I swear, before Heaven," said the rabbi, "that I have 
 ever diligently kept the law, and walked steadfastly ac- 
 cording to the traditions of our fathers, from the day of 
 my youth upward. I have wronged no man in word or 
 deed; and I have daily worshipped the Lord, minutely 
 performing all the ceremonies thereto needful." 
 
 " Nay," said the lady, " all this thou mightest have 
 done, and more, and yet be in the power of the demons. 
 But time passes ; for I hear the foot of my husband mount- 
 ing the stair. There is one chance of thine escape." 
 
 " What is that, O lady of beauty ! " said the agonized 
 rabbi. 
 
 " Eat not, drink not, nor take fee or reward while here ; 
 and as long as thou canst do thus, the Mazikin have no 
 power over thee, dead or alive. Have courage, and per- 
 severe." 
 
 As she ceased from speaking, her husband entered the 
 room, followed by the nurse, who bore all things requisite 
 for the ministration of the rabbi. With a heavy heart, he 
 performed his duty; and the child was numbered among 
 the faithful. But when, as usual, at the conclusion of the 
 ceremony, the wine was handed round to be tasted by the 
 child, the mother, and the rabbi, he refused it, when it 
 came to him, saying, 
 
 " Spare me, my lord, for I have made a vow that I fast 
 this day; and I will eat not, neither will I drink." 
 
 " Be it as thou pleasest," said the demon : " I will not 
 that thou shouldest break thy vow." And he laughed 
 aloud. 
 
 So the poor rabbi was taken into a chamber, looking 
 into a garden, where he passed the remainder of the night 
 and the day, weeping, and praying to the Lord, that he 
 would deliver him from the city of demons. But when
 
 THE CITY OF THE DEMONS. 175 
 
 the twelfth hour came, and the sun was set, the prince of 
 the Mazikin came again unto him, and said, 
 
 " Eat now, I pray thee, for the day of thy vow is past." 
 And he set meat before him. 
 
 " Pardon again thy servant, my lord," said Jochonan, 
 " in this thing. I have another vow for this day also. I 
 pray thee be not angry with thy servant." 
 
 "I am not angry," said the demon: "be it as thou 
 pleasest : I respect thy vow." And he laughed louder 
 than before. 
 
 So the rabbi sat another day in his chamber by the gar- 
 den, weeping and praying. And when the sun had gone 
 behind the hills, the prince of the Mazikin again stood 
 before him, and said, 
 
 " Eat now, for thou must be an hungered. It was a 
 sore vow of thine." And he offered him daintier meats. 
 
 And Jochonan felt a strong desire to eat ; but he prayed 
 inwardly to the Lord, and the temptation passed, and he 
 answered, 
 
 " Excuse thy servant yet a third time, my lord, that I 
 eat not. I have renewed my vow." 
 
 " Be it so, then," said the other : " arise, and follow me." 
 
 The demon took a torch in his hand, and led the rabbi 
 through winding passages of his palace, to the door of a 
 lofty chamber, which he opened with a key that he took 
 from a niche in the wall. On entering the room, Jocho- 
 nan saw that it was of solid silver floor, ceiling, walls, 
 even to the threshold and the door-posts. And the curi- 
 ously carved roof and borders of the ceiling shone in the 
 torch-light, as if they were the fanciful work of frost. In 
 the midst were heaps of silver money, piled up in im- 
 mense urns of the same metal, even over the brim. 
 
 " Thou hast done me a serviceable act, rabbi," said the 
 demon : " take of these what thou pleasest ; ay, were it the 
 whole." 
 
 "I cannot, my lord," said Jochonan. "I was adjured
 
 176 THE CITY OF THE DEMONS. 
 
 by thee to come hither in the name of God; and in that 
 name I came, not for fee or for reward." 
 
 " Follow me," said the prince of the Mazikin ; and Jo- 
 chonan did so, into an inner chamber. 
 
 It was of gold, as the other was of silver. Its golden 
 roof was supported by pillars and pilasters of gold, rest- 
 ing upon a golden floor. The treasures of the kings of 
 the earth would not purchase one of the four-and-twenty 
 vessels of golden coins, which were disposed in six rows 
 along the room. No wonder ! for they were rilled by the 
 constant labors of the demons of the mine. The heart of 
 Jochonan was moved by avarice, when he saw them shin- 
 ing in yellow light, like the autumnal sun, as they reflect- 
 ed the beams of the torch. But God enabled him to 
 persevere. 
 
 "These are thine," said the demon: "one of the ves- 
 sels which thou beholdest, would make thee richest of the 
 sons of men ; and I give thee them all." 
 
 But Jochonan refused again ; and the prince of the 
 Mazikin opened the door of a third chamber, which was 
 called the Hall of Diamonds. When the rabbi entered, 
 he screamed aloud, and put his hands over his eyes ; for 
 the lustre of the jewels dazzled him, as if he had looked 
 upon the noonday sun. In vases of agate were heaped 
 diamonds beyond numeration, the smallest of which was 
 larger than a pigeon's egg. On alabaster tables lay 
 amethysts, topazes, rubies, beryls, and all other precious 
 stones, wrought by the hands of skilful artists, beyond 
 power of computation. The room was lighted by a car- 
 buncle, which, from the end of the hall, poured its ever- 
 living light, brighter than the rays of noontide, but cooler 
 than the gentle radiance of the dewy moon. This was a 
 sore trial on the rabbi ; but he was strengthened from 
 above, and he refused again. 
 
 " Thou knowest me, then, I perceive, O Jochonan, son 
 of Ben-David," said the prince of the Mazikin. " I am a
 
 THE CITY OF THE DEMONS. 177 
 
 demon, who would tempt thee to destruction. As thou hast 
 withstood so far, I tempt thee no more. Thou hast done 
 a service which, though I value it not, is acceptable in the 
 sight of her whose love is dearer to me than the light of 
 life. Sad has been that love to thee, my Rebecca! Why 
 should I do that which would make thy cureless grief 
 more grievous ? You have yet another chamber to see," 
 said he to Jochonan, who had closed his eyes, and was 
 praying fervently to the Lord, beating his breast. 
 
 Far different from the other chambers, the one into 
 which the rabbi was next introduced was a mean and 
 paltry apartment, without furniture. On its filthy walls 
 hung innumerable bunches of rusty keys, of all sizes, dis- 
 posed without order. Among them, to the astonishment 
 of Jochonan, hung the keys of his own house, those which 
 he had put to hide when he came on this miserable jour- 
 ney ; and he gazed upon them intently. 
 
 "What dost thou see," said the demon, "that makes 
 thee look so eagerly ? Can he who has refused silver, and 
 gold, and diamonds, be moved by a paltry bunch of rusty 
 iron?" 
 
 " They are mine own, my lord," said the rabbi: " them 
 will I take, if they be offered me." 
 
 " Take them, then," said the demon, putting them into 
 his hand : " thou mayest depart. But, rabbi, open not thy 
 house only, when thou returnest to Cairo, but thy heart 
 also. That thou didst not open it before, was that which 
 gave me power over thee. It was well that thou didst one 
 act of charity in coming with me without reward ; for it 
 has been thy salvation. Be no more Rabbi Jochonan 
 the miser." 
 
 The rabbi bowed to the ground, and blessed the Lord 
 for his escape. " But how," said he, "am I to return? for 
 I ki v w not the way." 
 
 " Close thine eyes," said the demon. He did so, and, in
 
 178 THE CITY OF THE DEMONS. 
 
 the space of a moment, heard the voice of the prince of 
 the Mazikin ordering him to open them again. And, be- 
 hold, when he opened them, he stood in the centre of his 
 own chamber, in his house at Cairo, with the keys in his 
 hand. 
 
 When he recovered from his surprise, and had offered 
 thanksgivings to God, he opened his house, and his heart 
 also. He gave alms to the poor ; he cheered the heart of 
 the widow, and lightened the destitution of the orphan. 
 His hospitable board was open to the stranger, and his 
 purse was at the service of all who needed to share it. 
 His life was a perpetual act of benevolence, and the bless- 
 ings showered upon him by all were returned bountifully 
 upon him by the hand of God. 
 
 But people wondered, and said, " Is not this the man 
 who was called Rabbi Jochonan the miser ? What hath 
 made the change ? " And it became a saying in Cairo. 
 When it came to the ears of the rabbi, he called his 
 friends together, and he avowed his former love of gold, 
 and the danger to which it had exposed him, relating all 
 which has been above told, in the hall of the new palace 
 that he built by the side of the river, on the left hand, as 
 thou goest down the course of the great stream. And wise 
 men, who were scribes, wrote it down from his mouth, for 
 the memory of mankind, that they might profit thereby. 
 And a venerable man, with a beard of snow, who had 
 read it in these books, and at whose feet I sat, that I might 
 learn the wisdom of the old time, told it to me. And I 
 write it in the tougue of England, the merry and the free, 
 on the tenth day of the month Nisan, in the year, accord- 
 ing to the lesser supputation, five hundred ninety and 
 seven, that thou mayest learn good thereof; if not, the 
 fault be upon tliee.
 
 LABOR. 179 
 
 LABOR. 
 
 HEART of the People ! Working men ! 
 
 Marrow and nerve of human powers j 
 Who on your sturdy backs sustain 
 
 Through streaming tune this world of ours ; 
 Hold by that title, which proclaims 
 
 That ye are undismayed and strong, 
 Accomplishing whatever aims 
 
 May to the sons of earth belong. 
 
 Yet not on ye alone depend 
 
 These offices, or burdens fall ; 
 Labor, for some or other end, 
 
 Is lord and master of us all. 
 The high-born youth from downy bed 
 
 Must meet the morn with horse and hound, 
 While industry for daily bread 
 
 Pursues afresh his wonted round. 
 
 With all his pomp of pleasure, he 
 
 Is but your working comrade now, 
 And shouts and winds his horn, as ye 
 
 Might whistle by the loom or plough; 
 In vain for him has wealth the use 
 
 Of warm repose and careless joy, 
 When, as ye labor to produce, 
 
 He strives, as active, to destroy. 
 
 But who is this with wasted frame, 
 
 Sad sign of vigor overwrought ? 
 What toil can this new victim claim ? 
 
 Pleasure, for pleasure's sake besought.
 
 180 LABOR. 
 
 How men would mock her flaunting shows, 
 Her golden promise, if they knew 
 
 What weary work she is to those 
 Who have no better work to do ? 
 
 And he who still and silent sits 
 
 In closed room, or shady nook, 
 And seems to nurse his idle wits 
 
 With folded arms or open book ; 
 To things now working in that mind 
 
 Your children's children well may owe 
 Blessings that hope has ne'er denned, 
 
 Till from his busy thoughts they flow. 
 
 Thus all must work : with head or hand, 
 
 For self or others, good or ill ; 
 Life is ordained to bear, like land, 
 
 Some fruit, be fallow as it will ; 
 Evil has force itself to sow 
 
 Where we deny the healthy seed, 
 And all our choice is this, to grow 
 
 Pasture and grain, or noisome weed. 
 
 Then in content possess your hearts, 
 
 Unenvious of each other's lot, 
 For those which seem the easiest parts 
 
 Have travail which ye reckon not : 
 And he is bravest, happiest, best, 
 
 Who, from the task within his span, 
 Earns for himself his evening rest, 
 
 And an increase of good for man.
 
 THE FOUR ERAS. 181 
 
 THE FOUR ERAS. 
 
 THE lark has sung his carol in the sky ; 
 
 The bees have hummed their noontide harmony; 
 
 Still in the vale the village-bells ring round, 
 
 Still in Llewellyn-hall the jests resound : 
 
 For now the caudle-cup is circling there, 
 
 Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer, 
 
 And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire 
 
 The babe, the sleeping image of his sire. 
 
 A few short years and then these sounds shall hail 
 The day again, and gladness fill the vale ; 
 So soon the child a youth, the youth a man, 
 Eager to run the race his fathers ran. 
 Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin ; 
 The ale, now brewed, in floods of amber shine ; 
 And, basking in the chimney's ample blaze, 
 Mid many a tale told of his boyish days, 
 The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled, 
 " 'T was on these knees he sat so oft and smiled." 
 
 And soon again shall music swell the breeze j 
 Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees 
 Vestures of nuptial white ; and hymns be sung, 
 And violets scattered round ; and old and young, 
 In every cottage porch, with garlands green, 
 Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene ; 
 While, her dark eyes declining, by his side 
 Moves in her virgin-veil the gentle bride. 
 
 And once, alas ! nor in a distant hour, 
 Another voice shall come from yonder tower ; 
 16
 
 182 THE PAST. 
 
 When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen, 
 And weepings heard where only joy has been; 
 When by his children borne, and from his door 
 Slowly departing to return no more, 
 He rests in holy earth with them that went before. 
 
 THE PAST. 
 
 How wild and dim this life appears ! 
 
 One long deep heavy sigh, 
 When o'er our eyes, half closed in tears, 
 The images of former years 
 Are faintly glittering by ! 
 
 And still forgotten while they go ! 
 As, on the sea-beach, wave on wave 
 
 Dissolves at once in snow. 
 The amber clouds one moment lie, 
 Then, like a dream, are gone ! 
 Though beautiful the moonbeams play 
 On the lake's bosom, bright as they, 
 And the soul intensely loves their stay, 
 Soon as the radiance melts away, 
 We scarce believe it shone ! 
 Heaven-airs amid the harp-strings dwell ; 
 
 And we wish they ne'er may fade ; 
 They cease ; and the soul is a silent cell, 
 
 Where music never played ! 
 Dreams follow dreams, through the long night-hours, 
 
 Each lovelier than the last ; 
 But, ere the breath of morning-flowers, 
 
 That gorgeous world flies past ;
 
 DISCOVERY AND CONQUEST OF AMERICA. 183 
 
 And many a sweet angelic cheek, 
 Whose smiles of love and fondness speak, 
 
 Glides by us on this earth ; 
 While in a day we cannot tell 
 Where shone the face we loved so well, 
 In sadness, or in mirth ! 
 
 DISCOVERY AND CONQUEST OF AMERICA. 
 
 THEN first Columbus, with the mighty hand 
 Of grasping genius, weighed the sea and land ; 
 The floods o'erbalanced : where the tide of light, 
 Day after day, rolled down the gulf of night, 
 There seemed one waste of waters : long in vain 
 His spirit brooded o'er the Atlantic main ; 
 When sudden, as creation burst from nought, 
 Sprang a new world through his stupendous thought, 
 Light, order, beauty! While his mind explored 
 The unveiling mystery, his heart adored ; 
 Where'er sublime imagination trod, 
 He heard the voice, he saw the face of God. 
 
 The winds were prosperous, and the billows bore 
 The brave adventurer to the promised shore ; 
 Far in the west, arrayed in purple light, 
 Dawned the new world on his enraptured sight : 
 Not Adam, loosened from the encumbering earth, 
 Waked by the breath of God to instant birth, . 
 With sweeter, wilder wonder gazed around, 
 When life within, and light without, he found ; 
 When, all creation rushing o'er his soul, 
 He seemed to live and breathe throughout the whole.
 
 184 DISCOVERY AND CONQUEST OF AMERICA. 
 
 So felt Columbus, when, divinely fair, 
 At the last look of resolute despair, 
 The Hesperian isles, from distance dimly blue, 
 With gradual beauty opened on his view. 
 In that proud moment, his transported mind 
 The morning and the evening worlds combined, 
 And made the sea, that sundered them,before, 
 A bond of peace, uniting shore to shore. 
 
 Vain, visionary hope ! rapacious Spain 
 Followed her hero's triumph o'er the main, 
 Her hardy sons in fields of battle tried, 
 Where Moor and Christian desperately died. 
 A rabid race, fanatically bold, 
 And steeled to cruelty by lust of gold, 
 Traversed the waves, the unknown world explored, 
 The cross their standard, but their faith the sword ; 
 Their steps were graves ; o'er prostrate realms they trod ; 
 They worshipped Mammon while they vowed to God. 
 
 Let nobler bards in loftier numbers tell 
 How Cortez conquered, Montezuma fell ; 
 How fierce Pizarro's ruffian arm o'erthrew 
 The sun's resplendent empire in Peru ; 
 How, like a prophet, old Las Casas stood, 
 And raised his voice against a sea of blood, 
 Whose chilling waves recoiled, while he foretold 
 His country's ruin by avenging gold. 
 That gold, for which unpitied Indians fell, 
 That gold, at once the snare and scourge of hell, 
 Thenceforth by righteous Heaven was doomed to shed 
 Unmingled curses on the spoiler's head ; 
 For gold the Spaniard cast his soul away 
 His gold and he were every nation's prey.
 
 THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. 185 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. 
 
 IT is now many years since the first battalion of the 
 17th regiment of foot, under orders to embark for In- 
 dia, that far distant land, where so many of our brave 
 countrymen have fallen victims to the climate, and where 
 so few have slept in what soldiers call the " bed of glory," 
 were assembled in the barrack-yard of Chatham, to be 
 inspected previously to their passing on board the trans- 
 port which lay moored in the Downs. 
 
 It was scarcely daybreak when the merry drum and 
 fife were heard over all parts of the town, and the soldiers 
 were seen sallying forth from their quarters, to join the 
 ranks, with their bright firelocks on their shoulders, and 
 the knapsacks and canteens fastened to their backs by 
 belts as white as snow. Each soldier was accompanied 
 by some friend or acquaintance, or by some individual 
 with a dearer title to his regard than either ; and there 
 was a strange and sometimes a whimsical mingling of 
 weeping and laughing among the assembled groups. 
 
 The second battalion was to remain in England ; and 
 the greater portion of the division were present to bid 
 farewell to their old companions in arms. But among the 
 husbands and wives, uncertainty, as to their destiny, pre- 
 vailed ; for the lots were yet to be drawn the lots that 
 were to decide which of the women should accompany the 
 regiment, and which should remain behind. Ten of each 
 company were to be taken, and chance was to be the only 
 arbiter. Without noticing what passed elsewhere, I con- 
 fined my attention to that company which was command- 
 ed by my friend Captain Loder, a brave and excellent offi- 
 cer, who, I am sure, has no more than myself forgotten 
 the scene to which I refer. 
 
 The women had gathered round the flag-sergeant, who 
 16*
 
 186 THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. 
 
 held the lots in his cap ten of them marked "To go' 
 and all the others containing the fatal words " To remain." 
 It was a moment of dreadful suspense j and never have 
 I seen the extreme of anxiety so powerfully depicted 
 in the countenances of human beings as in the features of 
 each of the soldiers' wives who composed that group. 
 One advanced, and drew her ticket ; it was against her, 
 and she retreated sobbing. Another ; she succeeded, and, 
 giving a loud huzza, ran off to the distant ranks to em- 
 brace her husband. A third came forward with hesita- 
 ting step : tears were already chasing each other down her 
 cheeks, and there was an unnatural paleness on her in- 
 teresting and youthful countenance. She put her small 
 hand into the sergeant's cap, and I saw, by the rise and 
 fall of her bosom, even more than her looks revealed. 
 She unrolled the paper, looked upon it, and, with a deep 
 groan, fell back, and fainted. So intense was the anxiety 
 of every person present, that she remained unnoticed un- 
 til all the tickets had been drawn, and the greater number 
 of the women had left the spot. I then looked round, and 
 beheld her supported by her husband, who was kneeling 
 upon the ground, gazing upon her face, and drying her 
 fast-falling tears with his coarse handkerchief, and now 
 and then pressing it to his own manly cheek. 
 
 Captain Loder advanced towards them. " I am sorry, 
 HenryJenkins,'' said he, " that fate has been against you ; 
 but oearup, and be stout-hearted." 
 
 " I am so, captain," said the soldier, as he looked up, 
 and passed his rough hand across his face ; " but 'tis a 
 hard thing to part from a wife, and she so soon to be a 
 mother." 
 
 " Oh, captain," sobbed the young woman, " as you are 
 both a husband and a father, do not take him from me ! I 
 have no friend in the wide world but one, and you will let 
 him bide with me ! Oh, take me with him take me with 
 him for the love of God, take me with him, captain ! "
 
 THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. 187 
 
 She fell on her knees, laid hold of the officer's sash, clasped 
 it firmly between her hands, and looked up in his face, 
 exclaiming, " Oh, leave me my only hope, at least till God 
 has given me another ! " and repeated, in heart-rending 
 accents, " Oh take me with him ! take me with him ! " 
 
 The gallant officer was himself in tears. He knew that 
 it was impossible to grant the poor wife's petition without 
 creating much discontent in his company ; and he gazed 
 upon them with that feeling with which a good man always 
 regards the sufferings he cannot alleviate. At this mo- 
 ment, a smart young soldier stepped forward, and stood be- 
 fore the captain with his hand to his cap. 
 
 " And what do you want, my good fellow 1 " said the 
 officer. 
 
 " My name's John Carty, please yer honor ; and I belong 
 to the second battalion." 
 
 " And what do you want here ?" 
 
 " Only, yer honor," said Carty, scratching his head, 
 " that poor man and his wife there are sorrow-hearted at 
 parting, I'm thinking." 
 
 " Well, and what then? " 
 
 " Why, yer honor, they say I'm a likely lad, and I know 
 I'm fit for sarvice ; and if your honor would only let 
 that poor fellow take my place in Captain Bond's company, 
 and let me take his place in yours, why, yer honor would 
 make two poor things happy, and save the life of one of 
 them, I'm thinking." 
 
 Captain Loder considered for a few minutes, and, direct- 
 ing the young Irishman to remain where he was, proceed- 
 ed to his brother officer's quarters. He soon made ar- 
 rangements for the exchange of the soldiers, and returned 
 to the place where he had left them. 
 
 " Well, John Carty," said he, " you go to Bengal with 
 me ; and you, Henry Jenkins, remain at home with your 
 wife."
 
 188 THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. 
 
 " Thank yer honor," said John Carty, again touching 
 his cap as he walked off. 
 
 Henry Jenkins and his wife both rose from the ground, 
 and rushed into each other's arms. " God bless you, cap- 
 tain ! " said the soldier as he pressed his wife closer to his 
 bosom. " Oh, bless him forever ! " said the wife ; " bless 
 him with prosperity and a happy heart ! bless his wife, 
 and bless his children ! " and she again fainted. 
 
 The officer, wiping a tear from his eye, and exclaiming, 
 " May you never want a friend when I am far from you 
 you, my good lad, and your amiable and loving wife ! " 
 passed on to his company, while the happy couple went in 
 search of John Carty. 
 
 ********* 
 
 About twelve months since, as two boys were watching 
 the sheep confided to their charge, upon a wide heath in 
 the county of Somerset, their attention was attracted by a 
 soldier, who walked along apparently with much fatigue, 
 and at length stopped to rest his weary limbs beside the 
 old finger-post, which at one time pointed out the way to 
 the neighboring villages, but which now afforded no in- 
 formation to the traveller ; for age had rendered it 
 useless. 
 
 The boys were gazing upon him with much curiosity, 
 when he beckoned them towards him, and inquired the 
 way to the village of Eldenby. 
 
 The eldest, a fine, intelligent lad, of about twelve years 
 of age, pointed to the path, and asked if he were going 
 to any particular house in the village. 
 
 " No, my little lad," said the soldier, " but it is on the 
 high road to Frome, and I "have friends there ; but, in truth, 
 I am very wearied, and perhaps may find in yon village 
 some person who will befriend a poor fellow, and look to 
 God for a reward. 
 
 " Sir," said the boy, " my father was a soldier many years
 
 THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. ISO 
 
 ago, and he dearly loves to look upon a red coat. If you 
 come with me, you may be sure of a welcome." 
 
 " And you can tell us stories about foreign parts," said 
 the younger lad, a fine, chubby-cheeked fellow, who, with 
 his watch-coat thrown carelessly over his shoulder, and 
 his crook in his right hand, had been minutely examining 
 every portion of the soldier's dress. 
 
 The boys gave instructions to their intelligent dog, 
 who, they said, would take good care of the sheep during 
 their absence ; and in a few minutes the soldier and his 
 young companions reached the gate of a flourishing farm- 
 house, which had all the external tokens of prosperity and 
 happiness. The younger boy trotted on a few paces before, 
 to give his parents notice that they had invited a stranger to 
 rest beneath their hospitable roof; and the soldier had 
 just crossed the threshold of the door, when he was re- 
 ceived by a joyful cry of recognition from his old friends 
 Henry_Jenkins and his wife ; and he was welcomed as a 
 brother to the dwelling of those, who, in all human prob- 
 ability, were indebted to him for their present enviable 
 station. 
 
 It is unnecessary to pursue this story further than to 
 add, that John Carty spent his furlough at Eldenby farm ; 
 and that, at the expiration of it, his discharge was pur- 
 chased by his grateful friends. He is now living in their 
 happy dwelling ; and his care and exertions have contrib- 
 uted greatly to increase their prosperity. Nothing has 
 been wrong with them since John Carty was their 
 steward. 
 
 " Cast thy bread upon the waters," said the wise man, 
 " and it shall be returned to thee after many days."
 
 190 THE LOST CHILD. 
 
 THE LOST CHILD. 
 
 LUCY was only six years old, but bold as a fairy ; she 
 had gone by herself a thousand times about the braes, and 
 often upon errands to houses two or three miles distant. 
 What had her parents to fear ? The footpaths were all 
 firm, and led through no places of danger; nor are infants 
 of themselves incautious, when alone in their pastimes. 
 Lucy went singing into the coppice-woods, and singing 
 she reappeared on the open hill-side. With her small 
 white hand on the rail, she glided along the wooden 
 bridge, or, lightly as the ousel, tripped from stone to stone 
 across the shallow streamlet. The creature would be 
 away for hours, and no fears be felt on her account by any 
 one at home whether she had gone with her basket un- 
 der her arm to borrow some articles of household use from 
 a neighbor, or, merely for her own solitary delight, wander- 
 ed off to the braes to play among the flowers, coming 
 back laden with wreaths and garlands. With a bonnet 
 of her own sewing, to shade her pretty face from the sun, 
 and across her shoulders a plaid in which she could sit 
 dry during an hour of the heaviest rain beneath the 
 smallest beild, Lucy passed many long hours in the day- 
 light, and thus knew, without thinking of it, all the topog- 
 raphy of that pastoral solitude, and even something of 
 the changeful appearances in the air and sky. 
 
 The happy child had been invited to pass a whole day, 
 from morning to night, at Ladyside (a farm-house about 
 two miles off), with her playmates, the Maynes; and she 
 left home about an hour after sunrise. She was dressed 
 for a holiday, and father and mother, and aunt Isobel, all 
 three kissed her sparkling face before she set off by her-
 
 THE LOST CH I L D, Page 190.
 
 THE LOST CHILD. 191 
 
 self, and stood listening to her singing, till her small voice 
 was lost in the murmur of the rivulet. During her ab- 
 sence, the house was silent but happy ; and, the evening 
 being now far advanced, Lucy was expected home e-very 
 minute, and Michael, Agnes, and Isobel, went to meet her 
 on the way. They walked on and on, wondering a little, 
 but in no degree alarmed, till they reached Ladyside, and 
 heard the cheerful din of the imps within, still rioting at 
 the close of the holiday. Jacob Mayne came to the 
 door ; but, on their kindly asking why Lucy had not been 
 sent home before daylight was over, he looked painfully 
 surprised, and said that she had not been at Ladyside. 
 
 Agnes suddenly sat down, without speaking one word, 
 on the stone seat beside the door, and Michael, supporting 
 her, said, " Jacob, our child left us this morning at six 
 o'clock, and it is now near ten at night. God is merciful, 
 but, perhaps, Lucy is dead." Jacob Mayne was an ordi- 
 nary, common-place, and rather ignorant man ; but his 
 heart leaped within him at these words, and, by this time, 
 his own children were standing about the door. " Yes, 
 Mr. Forrester, God is merciful ; and your daughter, let us 
 trust, is not dead. Let us trust that she yet liveth ; and, 
 without delay, let us go to seek the child." Michael trem- 
 bled from head to foot, and his voice was gone: he lifted 
 up his eyes to heaven, but it seemed not as if he saw 
 either the moon or the stars. " Run over to Raeshorn, 
 some of you," said Jacob, " and tell what has happened. 
 Do you, Isaac, my good boy, cross over to a' the towns on 
 the Inverlethen-side, and Oh ! Mr. Forrester Mr. For- 
 rester, dinna let this trial overcome you sae sairly " for 
 Michael was leaning against the wall of the house, and 
 the strong man was helpless as a child. " Keep up your 
 heart, my dearest son," said Isobel, with a voice all unlike 
 her usual, " keep up your heart, for the blessed bairn is, 
 beyond doubt, somewhere in the keeping of the great 
 God, yea, without a hair of her head being hurt. A
 
 192 THE LOST CHILD. 
 
 hundred things may have happened to her, and death not 
 among the number. Oh ! no no surely not death that 
 would, indeed, be too dreadful a judgment." And aunt 
 Isobel, oppressed by the power of that word, now needed 
 the very comfort that she had in vain tried to bestow. 
 
 Within two hours, a hundred people were traversing the 
 hills in all directions, even to a distance which it seemed 
 most unlikely that poor Lucy could have reached. The 
 shepherds and their dogs, all night through, searched every 
 nook every stony and rocky place every little shaw 
 every piece of taller heather every crevice that could 
 conceal any thing alive or dead, but no Lucy was there. 
 Her mother, who, for a while, seemed inspired with super- 
 natural strength, had joined in the search, and, with a 
 quaking heart, looked into every brake, or stopped and 
 listened to every shout and halloo reverberating among the 
 hills, if she could seize on some tone of recognition or 
 discovery. But the moon sank ; and then all the stars, 
 whose increased brightness had for a short time supplied 
 her place, all faded away; and then came the gray dawn 
 of morning, and then the clear brightness of the day, and 
 still Michael and Agnes were childless. " She has sunk 
 into some mossy or miry place," said Michael to a man 
 near him, into whose face he never looked. " A cruel, 
 cruel death for one like her ! The earth on which my 
 child walked has closed over her, and we shall never see 
 her more ! " 
 
 At last, a man, who had left the search and gone in a 
 direction towards the high road, came running with some- 
 thing in his arms towards the place where Michael and 
 others were standing beside Agnes, who lay apparently 
 exhausted almost to dying on the sward. He approached 
 hesitatingly; and Michael saw that he carried Lucy's bon- 
 net, clothes, and plaid. It was impossible not to see some
 
 THE LOST CHILD. ii;o 
 
 spots of blood upon the frill that the child had worn round 
 her neck. " Murdered murdered," was the one word 
 whispered or ejaculated all around ; but Agnes heard it 
 not ; for, worn out by that long night of hope and despair, 
 she had fallen asleep, and was perhaps seeking her lost 
 Lucy in her dreams. 
 
 Isobel took the clothes, and, narrowly inspecting them 
 with eye and hand, said, with a fervent voice that was heard 
 even in Michael's despair, " No, Lucy is yet among the 
 living. There are no marks of violence on the garments 
 of the innocent no murderer's hand has been here. 
 These blood-spots have been put there to deceive. Be- 
 sides, would not the murderer have carried off these 
 things? For what else would he have murdered her? 
 But oh ! foolish despair ! What speak I of ? For, wicked 
 as this world is ay, desperately wicked there is not, on 
 all the surface of the wide earth, a hand that would mur- 
 der our child ! Is it not plain as the sun in heaven, that 
 Lucy has been stolen by some wretched gipsy beggar, and 
 that, before that sun has set, she will be saying her prayers 
 in her father's house, with all of us upon our knees beside 
 her, or with our faces prostrate upon the floor?" 
 
 Agnes opened her eyes, and beheld Lucy's bonnet and 
 plaid lying close beside her, and then a silent crowd. Her 
 senses all at once returned to her, and she rose up "Ay, 
 sure enough, drowned drowned drowned but where 
 have you laid her? Let me see our Lucy, Michael, for in 
 my sleep I have already seen her laid out for burial." The 
 crowd quietly dispersed, and horse and foot began to scour 
 the country. Some took the high-roads, others all the by- 
 paths, and many the trackless hills. Now that they were 
 in some measure relieved from the horrible belief that the 
 child was dead, the worst other calamity seemed nothing, 
 for hope brought her back to their arms. Agnes had been 
 able to walk to Bracken-Braes, and Michael and Isobel sat 
 by her bed-side. Lucy's empty little crib was just as the 
 17
 
 194 THE LOST CHILD. 
 
 child had left it in the morning before, neatly made up 
 with her own hands, and her small red Bible was lying on 
 her pillow. 
 
 " Oh ! my husband, this is being indeed kind to your 
 Agnes, for much it must have cost you to stay here ; but 
 had you left me, my silly heart must have ceased to beat 
 altogether, for it will not lie still even now that I am well 
 nigh resigned to the will of God." Michael put his hand 
 on his wife's bosom, and felt her heart beating as if it were 
 a knell. Then, ever and anon, the tears came gushing ; 
 for all her strength was gone, and she lay at the mercy of 
 the rustle of a leaf, or a shadow across the window ; and 
 thus hour after hour passed on till it was again twilight. 
 
 "I hear footsteps coming up the brae," said Agnes, who 
 had for some time appeared to be slumbering ; and, in a 
 few moments, the voice of Jacob Mayne was heard at the 
 outer door. It was no time for ceremony, and he advan- 
 ced into the room where the family had been during all 
 that trying and endless day. Jacob wore a solemn ex- 
 pression of countenance ; and he seemed, from his looks, 
 to bring them no comfort. Michael stood up between 
 him and his wife, and looked into his heart. Something 
 there seemed to be in his face that was not miserable. " If 
 he has heard nothing of my child," thought Michael, " this 
 man must care but little for his own fireside." " Oh, speak, 
 speak," said Agnes; "yet why need you speak? All 
 this has been but a vain belief, and Lucy is in heaven." 
 " Something like a trace of her has been discovered a 
 woman, with a child, that did not look like a child of hers, 
 was last night at Clovenford, and left it by the daw'ing." 
 "Do you hear that, my beloved Agnes? "said Isobel; 
 " she'll have tramped away with Lucy up into Ettrick 
 or Yarrow ; but hundreds of eyes will have been upon 
 her; for these are quiet, but not solitary glens; and the 
 hunt will be over long before she has crossed down upon 
 Hawick. I knew that country in my young days. What 
 say ye, Mr. Mayne ? There's the light o' hope on your
 
 THE LOST CHILD. 195 
 
 face." " There's nae reason to doubt, ma'am, that it was 
 Lucy. Every body is sure o't. If it was my ain Rachel, 
 I should ha'e nae fear o' seeing her this blessed night." 
 
 Jacob Mayne now took a chair, and sat down, with even 
 a smile upon his countenance. " I may tell you, noo, 
 that Watty Oliver kens it was your bairn ; for he saw her 
 limping after the limmer at Galla-Brigg ; but ha'eing nae 
 suspicion, he did na tak' a second leuk o' her but ae. 
 leuk is sufficient, and he swears it was bonny Lucy For- 
 rester." Aunt Isobel, by this time, had bread and cheese, 
 and a bottle of her own elder-flower wine, on the table. 
 " You have had a long and hard journey, wherever you 
 have been, Mr. Mayne tak' some refreshment," and 
 Michael asked a blessing. Jacob saw that he might now 
 venture to reveal the whole truth. " No no Mrs. 
 Irvine, I'm ower happy to eat or to drink. You are a' 
 prepared for the blessing that awaits you your bairn is 
 no far aff and I mysel' for it was I mysel' that faund 
 her will bring her by the han', and restore her to her 
 parents." Agnes had raised herself up in her bed at 
 these words ; but she sunk gently back on her pillow ; 
 aunt Isobel was rooted to her chair ; and Michael, as he 
 rose up, felt as if the ground were sinking under his feet. 
 
 There was a dead silence all around the house for a 
 short space, and then the sound of many joyful voices, 
 which again, by degrees, subsided. The eyes of all then 
 looked, and yet feared to look, towards the door. Jacob 
 Mayne was not so good as his word ; for he did not brino- 
 Lucy by the hand to restore her to her parents ; but, dress- 
 ed again in her own bonnet, and her gown, and her own 
 plaid, in rushed their child, by herself, with tears and 
 sobs of joy, and her father laid her within her mother's 
 bosom.
 
 196 1HE LYING SERVANT. 
 
 THE LYING SERVANT. 
 
 THERE lived in Suabia a certain lord, pious, just, and 
 wise; to whose lot it fell to have a serving-man, a great 
 rogue, and, above all, much addicted to the vice of lying. 
 The name of the lord is not in the story ; therefore the 
 reader need not trouble himself about it. 
 
 The knave was given to boast of his wondrous travels. 
 He had visited countries which are no where to be found in 
 the map, and seen things which mortal eyes never beheld. 
 He would lie through the twenty-four hours of the clock ; 
 for he dreamed falsehoods in his sleep, to the truth of 
 which he swore when he was awake. His lord was a cun- 
 ning as well as a virtuous man, and used to see the lies in 
 the varlet's mouth ; so that he was often caught hung, as 
 it were, in his own untruths, as in a trap. Nevertheless, 
 he persisted still the more in his lies ; and when any one 
 said, " How can that be?" he would answer, with fierce 
 oaths and protestations, that so it was. He swore, stone 
 and bone, and might the devil have his soul, and so forth ! 
 Yet was the knave useful in the household; quick and 
 handy : therefore he was not disliked of his lord, though 
 verily he was a great liar. 
 
 It chanced, one pleasant day in spring, after the rains 
 had fallen heavily, and swollen much the floods, that the 
 lord and the knave rode out together; and their way 
 passed through a shady and silent forest. Suddenly 
 appeared an old and well-grown fox: "Look!" exclaim- 
 ed the master of the knave ; " look ! what a huge beast ! 
 never before have I seen a renard so large ! " " Doth 
 this beast surprise thee by its hugeness? " replieth straight 
 the serving groom, casting his eye slightingly on the ani- 
 mal, as he fled for fear, away into the cover of the brakes : 
 " by stone and bone, I have been in a kingdom where the
 
 TJiK L.VTING SERVANT. 197 
 
 foxes are as big as are the bulls in this ! " Whereupon, 
 hearing so vast a lie, the lord answered calmly, but with 
 mockery in his heart, " In that kingdom there must be 
 excellent lining for the cloaks, if furriers can there be 
 found well to dress skins so large ! " 
 
 And so they rode on ; the lord in silence ; but soon he 
 began to sigh heavily. Still he seemed to wax more and 
 more sad in spirit, and his sighs grew deeper and more 
 quick. Then inquired the knave of the lord what sud- 
 den affliction or cause of sorrow had happened. " Alas!" 
 replied the wily master, " I trust in Heaven's goodness that 
 neither of us two hath to-day, by any frowardness of for- 
 tune, chanced to say the thing which is not; for assuredly 
 he that hath so done must this day perish." The knave, 
 on hearing these doleful words, and perceiving real sorrow 
 to be depicted on the paleness of his master's countenance, 
 instantly felt as if his ears grew more wide, that not a 
 word, or syllable, of so strange a discovery might escape 
 his troubled sense ; and so, with eager exclamations, he 
 demanded of the lord to ease his suspense, and to explain 
 why so cruel a doom was now about to fall upon compan- 
 ionable liars. 
 
 " Hear, then, dear knave," answered the lord to the 
 earnestness of his servant ; " since thou must needs know, 
 hearken ! and God grant that no trouble come to thee 
 from what I shall say. To-day we ride far ; and in our 
 course is a vast and heavy-rolling flood, of which the ford 
 is narrow, and the pool is deep. To it hath Heaven given 
 the power of sweeping down into its dark holes, all deal- 
 ers in falsehoods, who may rashly venture to put them- 
 selves within its truth-loving current ! But to him who 
 hath told no lie there is no fear of this river. Spur we 
 our horses, knave, for to-day our journey must be long!" 
 
 Then the knave thought, " long indeed must the journey 
 be for some who are now here ; " and, as he spurred, he 
 sighed heavier and deeper than his master had done be- 
 17 *
 
 llO THE LYING SERVANT. 
 
 fore him, who now went gayly on ; nor ceased he to cry, 
 " Spur we our horses, knave, for to-day our journey must 
 be long ! " 
 
 Then came they to a brook. Its waters were small and 
 its channel such as a boy might leap across. Yet, never- 
 theless, the knave began to tremble ; and falteringly he 
 asked, " Is this now the river where harmless liars must 
 perish ? " " This ! ah no," replied the lord : " this is but a 
 brook no liar need tremble here." Yet was the knave 
 not wholly assured ; and, stammering, he said, " My gra- 
 cious lord, thy servant now bethinks him that he to-day 
 hath made a fox too huge: that of which he spake was 
 verily not so large as is an ox ; but, stone and bone, as big 
 as is a good-sized roe ! " 
 
 The lord replied, with wonder in his tone, " What of 
 this fox concerneth me? If large or small, I care not. 
 Spur we our horses, knave, for to-day our journey must 
 belong!" 
 
 " Long indeed," still thought the serving groom ; and in 
 sadness he crossed the brook. Then they came to a stream 
 running quickly through a green meadow, the stones 
 showing themselves in many places above its frothy water. 
 The varlet started, and cried aloud, "Another river! 
 surely of rivers there is to-day no end : was it of this thou 
 talkedst heretofore?" "No," replied the lord, "not of 
 this; " and more he said not ; yet marked he, with inward 
 gladness, his servant's fear. " Because, in good truth," 
 rejoined the knave, " it is on my conscience to give thee 
 note, that the fox of which I spake was not larger than a 
 calf! " " Large or small, let me not be troubled with thy 
 fox : the beast concerneth not me at all ! " 
 
 As they quitted the woody country, they perceived a 
 river in the way, which gave sign of having been swollen 
 by the rains; and on it was a boat. " This, then, is the 
 doom of liars," said the kriave; and he looked earnestly 
 towards the passage-craft. " Be informed, my good lord,
 
 THE LYING SERVANT. 199 
 
 that renard was not larger than a fat wedder-sheep I " 
 The lord seemed angry, and answered, " This is not yet 
 the grave of falsehood : why torment me with this cursed 
 fox ! Rather spur we our horses, for we have far to go. 
 " Stone and bone," said the knave to himself, " the end 
 of my journey approacheth ! " 
 
 Now, the day declined, and the shadows of the travellers 
 lengthened on the ground ; but darker than the twilight 
 was the sadness on the face of the knave. And, as the 
 wind rustled the trees, he ever and anon turned pale, and 
 inquired of his master, if the noise were of a torrent or 
 stream of water. Still, as the evening fell, his eyes strove 
 to discover the course of a winding river. But nothing 
 of the sort could he discern, so that his spirits began to 
 revive, and he was fain to join in discourse with the lord ; 
 but the lord held his peace, and looked as one who expects 
 an evil thing. 
 
 Suddenly the way became steep, and they descended 
 into a low and woody valley, in which was a broad and 
 black river, creeping fearfully along, like the dark stream 
 of Lethe, without bridge or bark to be seen near. " Alas, 
 alas ! " cried the knave, and the anguish oozed from the 
 pores of his pale face. " Ah miserable me ! this, then, is 
 the river in which liars must perish ! " " Even so," said 
 the lord : " this is the stream of which I spake : but the 
 ford is sound and good for true men. Spur we our 
 horses, knave, for night approacheth, and we have yet 
 far to go." 
 
 " My life is dear to me," said the trembling serving- 
 man; "and thou knowest that, were it lost, my wife would 
 be disconsolate. In sincerity, then, I declare, that the 
 fox, which I saw in the distant country, was not larger 
 than he who fled from us in the wood this morning /" 
 
 Then laughed the lord aloud, and said, "Ho, knave! 
 wast thou afraid of thy life, and will nothing cure thy 
 lying ? Is not falsehood, which kills the soul, worse than 
 death, which has mastery only over the body ? This river
 
 '200 RENSTERN. 
 
 is no more than any other ; nor hath it a power such as I 
 feigned. The ford is safe, and the waters gentle as those 
 we have already passed. But who shall pass thee over the 
 shame of this day 1 In it thou must needs sink, unless 
 penitence come to help thee over, and cause thee to look 
 back on the gulf of thy lies, as on a danger from which 
 thou hast been delivered by Heaven's grace." And, as he 
 railed against his servant, the lord rode on into the water, 
 and both in safety reached the opposite shore. Then 
 vowed the knave, by stone and bone, that from that time 
 forward he would duly measure his words and glad was 
 he so to escape. Such is the story of the lying servant 
 and the merry lord by which let the reader profit. 
 
 RENSTERN. 
 
 RENSTERN was born to the inheritance of all the lands 
 of Frankenthall. They extend from Ranstadt, in Bavaria, 
 as far as Eindort ; and he who could walk round them 
 from morning to his evening meal, would earn it well. 
 Renstern was of an inquiring mind, more given to his 
 studies than to his pleasures; for, though his father left 
 him in unrestricted possession at eighteen, he was rarely 
 a partaker in those amusements and pursuits which his 
 youth might have been supposed to incite him to, and which 
 his fortune would have enabled him to follow. Renstern, 
 though a philosopher, was not indifferent to the charms 
 of woman. Philosophy, indeed, generally gave way in 
 the beginning ; but in the end it was sure to regain its 
 ascendency. A fearful inroad, however, was made upon 
 his studies by the charms of Ermance Rosenheim, just 
 growing into woman, the daughter of the Baron Rosen- 
 heim, a Bavarian. There may, perhaps, have been love- 
 lier girls than Ermance Rosenheim, but never one more
 
 RENSTERN. 201 
 
 -/ V 
 
 gentle and innocent. She had that, too, which beauty/ 
 sometimes wants, that perfect charm of youth and fresh- 
 ness, which seems as if sorrow never could shadow it. 
 Her smile was like the day-break on an Italian landscape, 
 and the melody of her voice seemed an emanation from 
 the harmony of her soul. Often would Renstern sit down 
 to his metaphysics in the castle of Frankenthall, and re- 
 main absorbed in study, till, suddenly, the image of Er- 
 in ance presenting itself, he would close his books, order 
 his horse, and gallop over to Eindort, to press a silky hand, 
 and admire fair tresses. Do not imagine, that, because 
 Renstern was a philosopher, he knew not how to woo. 
 Renstern could say as gallant things as any man in Bava- 
 ria ; but it was not gallantry he spoke to Ermance. He 
 had an easy task ; for he was sincere, and Ermance 
 smiled upon him. It was often late when Renstern re- 
 turned to Frankenthall ; but, finding his books lying as if 
 waiting to be read, he would relight his lamp, and plunge 
 into metaphysics again ; and morning would often surprise 
 him at his studies. But this could not last. Renstern mar- 
 ried Ermance on his twenty-first birth-day ; she was seven- 
 teen ; and for more than a year he forgot, in her arms, all his 
 metaphysics and theology. But the dominant passion of 
 the human mind will continue to be dominant. Love is 
 only an episode in a man's life; it cannot occupy his ex- 
 istence. The other sex give up all to the affections, and 
 many of them can live forever upon their exercise ; but 
 they are always deceived. Gentle, kind, affectionate wo- 
 man ! we are too hard-hearted to be your mates : it is true 
 we can love ardently ; but it is you alone who know to love 
 constantly. Renstern was again often among his books ; 
 and Ermance wondered that he was so often absent from 
 her, and so silent when with her. Renstern still loved 
 Ermance : he mingled in no amusement in which she 
 was not a partaker, nor could he have found any pleasure 
 where she did not share it. He thought he loved her as
 
 v \> 
 
 202 RENSTERN. 
 
 much as on the day when he led her from the altar in 
 maiden bashfulness and beauty; and if his affection had 
 depended upon her charms and her bashfulness, he would 
 have been right ; for Ermance was as lovely and as bash- 
 ful as ever. But Renstern deceived himself. Ermance 
 could no longer satisfy his existence. Ermance was no 
 metaphysician ; he could not talk to her of first causes and 
 future contingents. The marriage state gives rise to many 
 subjects of conversation less elevated than that which pre- 
 cedes it ; and it is not wonderful that Renstern should 
 often be silent and thoughtful in her company, since do- 
 mestic affairs, or even tenderer topics, would cut but a 
 sorry figure in the mind of a man who had just been trav- 
 elling in the immensity of time and space, and whose 
 mind was occupied with eternal existences, and the na- 
 ture of a Supreme Intelligence. 
 
 Renstern betrayed, indeed, no want of affection, except- 
 ing that Ermance had little of his company : his time was 
 divided betwixt study and reverie. Poor Ermance ! she 
 was often given up to reverie too; for often did she think 
 of the first months that succeeded her marriage, and often 
 did she recall the words of Renstern, that he had attain- 
 ed the summit of happiness in possessing her. Alas ! he 
 spoke too truly : happiness cannot continue at one 
 elevation. 
 
 Six months had passed away. One evening, said Ren- 
 stern to Ermance, " Ermance, there is no reason why we 
 should not live as our fortune and rank entitle us to do. 
 We must enjoy life, my love." " Do we not, Otto ? " re- 
 plied she. " How would you that we should live ? " "I 
 would carry you to Vienna,'' replied he ; "I would intro- 
 duce you at court; I would show you the world." Er- 
 mance did not see that living in greater splendor, or being 
 introduced at the court of Vienna, would add to her en- 
 joyment. Her happiest days had been spent at Franken- 
 thall ; and if Renstern would be again the Renstern he
 
 REN STERN. 203 
 
 had once been, she could be as happy as ever. The rec- 
 ollection of those days, ^however, led her to indulge an 
 undefined hope, that perhaps a change of scene might 
 produce good. Besides, Ermance was too affectionate to 
 oppose any thing which Renstern might desire, whatever 
 might be her own wishes. She immediately, therefore, 
 expressed her willingness to go to Vienna. Their journey 
 might be called a happy one. Renstern was himself again, 
 and with Ermance former days were renewed. Renstern 
 had an end in view, and all was novelty to Ermance. 
 She was astonished, pleased, and affrighted, by turns; 
 she felt all that exhilaration of spirit, and infantine enjoy- 
 ment, in crossing the boundaries of another kingdom, 
 which every young person experiences, when it is the first 
 time it has happened. There is no circumstance in life 
 which draws closer the affections than travelling. In 
 every thing that occurs, there is a certain degree of com- 
 mon sympathy ; and numerous occasions arise in which 
 the protector must show an interest in the protected 
 There was nothing to distract Renstern's mind ; and the 
 simplicity, and astonishment, and happiness, of Ermance 
 pleased and occupied him. Never had she appeared more 
 charming either. The excitation had restored for a season 
 that tint to her cheek which reminded him of Eindort; 
 and one of the chains which had originally bound Ren- 
 stern was beauty. Let no one speak lightly of the charm 
 of beauty: it is fragile, indeed; and what is not? Are 
 health and youth more durable ? and do we despise them 1 
 Is the painted flower we gaze upon less perishable ? 
 Beauty may be, perchance, a fatal dowry, and, at rare times, 
 it may interpret falsely, like the Pontine marshes, which 
 are covered with verdure and flowers; but how beautiful- 
 ly is an angelic soul reflected in celestial features ! 
 
 Behold the Baron Renstern of Frankenthall, and the 
 fair Ermance, at the court of Vienna. The manners of 
 Vienna are not those of Ranstadt. There, as in every
 
 204 RENSTERN. 
 
 other capital city, innocence and simplicity are despised"; 
 vice and virtue are judged by^ the changing verdict of 
 fashion, in place of the eternal tribunal of truth, and 
 things can no longer be recognized by their names. Er- 
 mance found herself singular in her opinions, and for 
 their correctness she appealed to Renstern ; but Renstern 
 saw no distinction betwixt vice and virtue. 
 
 Six months of Vienna ruined Renstern. No one in 
 Vienna gave such magnificent entertainments; no one 
 was more distinguished for the splendor of his equipages. 
 These, however, his fortune could have supported ; but he 
 gave magnificent presents to his favorites, gambled, and 
 was ruined. During this period, what were the feelings 
 and occupations of Ermance ? Alas ! sadness had begun 
 to grow to her heart, and had already overcast her brow. 
 Her charms were more touching than ever, though the 
 light of her beauty was gone, like the charm of a southern 
 night, whose beauty testifies to the splendors of the day 
 which preceded it. She had mingled in gayety without 
 relish, and in society she had found no friend. The 
 flattery she met with disgusted her, and the court that 
 was paid to her fatigued her. She had seen her husband 
 play deep, and she feared that he played deeper when she 
 saw him not. Of his intrigues she knew nothing, and 
 suspected nothing. She was too innocent to suppose it 
 possible that her husband would forget his vows, and 
 plight his faith to others ; but she saw that he too often 
 preferred to hers the society of others ; and she wished 
 that she possessed their charms, or that she had never 
 left Frankenthall. " Ermance," said Renstern to her, one 
 morning, " we must leave Vienna." Ermance was de- 
 lighted to hear the . intelligence. "I have no desire to 
 remain in Vienna," replied she; " I love Frankenthall bet- 
 ter." " But we shall not go to Frankenthall," said he; 
 " Frankenthall is no longer mine." The truth flashed upon 
 Ermance ; but her looks expressed affection and resigna-
 
 RENSTEHN. 205 
 
 tion, not reproach. Renstern was, for a moment, touch- 
 ed by her charms and her goodness, and fondly took her 
 hand, and called her his dear Ermance, and embraced 
 her. It is strange how mysteriously pain and pleasure 
 are sometimes mingled. In the moment of learning her 
 ruin, Ermance tasted a moment of perfect happiness ; 
 and Renstern, in communicating it, forgot, in that mo- 
 ment, that he was ruined. There is a certain point at 
 which the human mind gathers strength from its calamity : 
 it grasps, as with giant strength, the very shaft that pierces ; 
 and, in the consciousness of its power, rises for a time 
 above humanity, and consequently above that calamity 
 which is human. But Renstern had told the truth : the 
 lands of Frankenthall had passed into other hands. 
 Renstern, however, like all gamblers, thought it possible 
 that his fortune might be regained, and therefore made it 
 a condition of the sale, that he should have a power of 
 redeeming his possessions within one year. 
 
 In a few days after this communication, Renstern and 
 Ermance left Vienna, and retired to the village of Holt in 
 Swabia, in the neighborhood of which his uncle resided, 
 who had offered Renstern a house upon his property. 
 The Comte Font-barre was a man of immense fortune, of 
 retired habits, and of a philosophical turn of mind ; he 
 had been long a widower, and his only son had, a few 
 years before, married, contrary to his father's wish, and 
 gone abroad under his displeasure ; but Font-barre often 
 talked of forgiving him, and of recalling him to cheer 
 the evening of his days. It was impossible that Ren- 
 stern's uncle should not disapprove of the conduct which 
 had brought his nephew to ruin ; but he felt so much in- 
 terest in Ermance, that he would not wound her feelings 
 by looking cold upon her husband ; and it may be, also, 
 that he was too happy to have a philosophical compan- 
 ion, to dwell much upon the cause which brought about the 
 event. 
 
 18
 
 206 REN STERN. 
 
 For some time after Renstern arrived at Holt, he was 
 silent and gloomy, seeming to enjoy nothing, and to ex- 
 ist without interest. He had joined in pleasures whose 
 enjoyment is a fever, but which leaves an apathy and a 
 void more insupportable than the agonies which attend 
 it ; and he had tasted of unholy joys, which had left the 
 memory of their intoxication. Renstern, in the village 
 of Holt, was differently regarded by the world from Ren- 
 stern in the castle of Frankenthall ; and he knew not that 
 the world's homage was sweet, until it was refused to him. 
 One pang, the severest pang of all, his principles spared 
 him the consciousness that his misfortunes were the 
 fruit of his own misconduct. He laid them at the door 
 of destiny ; but he had forgotten to acquire that philoso- 
 phy, the most important of all, which teaches man to ac- 
 commodate himself to the lot which that destiny shall point 
 out. Suddenly a change was visible in the manners of 
 Renstern : he was often more cheerful than he was ever 
 remembered to have been. He was still sometimes 
 thoughtful, but he was no longer gloomy or morose ; and 
 at times there was a playfulness in his manner which re- 
 minded Ermance of happier days. It would have required 
 a deeper discerner of human character than Ermance, to 
 have discovered that it was like an occasional ripple upon 
 deep water, which hinders its profundity from being seen. 
 She was rejoiced at the change ; she had more of Ren- 
 stern's company than she had had since the first year of 
 their marriage ; and though she was somewhat surprised 
 at its suddenness, it was not the less agreeable on that ac- 
 count ; and she fondly flattered herself that former times 
 were about to be renewed. She could not, however, help 
 remarking one circumstance as somewhat extraordinary : 
 it was, that, when Renstern was with his uncle, his gayety 
 was unbounded, and even unnatural to his character ; but 
 that before, and after his visit, he was always thought- 
 ful, gloomy, and absent. The circumstance would have
 
 RENSTERN. 207 
 
 remained unnoticed by Ermance, had it not been that 
 these occasional reminiscences of former days were pain- 
 ful to her. They were all that she had now to complain 
 of; and, as her husband's change of manner had restored 
 her to almost all her former familiarity, she determined to 
 ask the reason. " Otto," said Ermance, one morning, ex- 
 tending to him, in sweet confidence, her fair hand, " how I 
 rejoice to see your spirits so much improved ! " She paus- 
 ed a moment, and then timidly added, " There is now 
 only one occasion on which you are gloomy." " What is 
 that, my love ? " demanded Renstern. " Before and after 
 visiting your uncle ; and you are always so gay when with 
 him." Before Ermance had finished the sentence, Ren- 
 stern had risen, and walked across the room ; but he im- 
 mediately returned, and said, "I am not aware, Ermance, 
 of my being either gay or sad on these occasions ; but is it 
 not natural to be gay when with our friends, and sorry 
 when we leave them ? " Ermance asked no further expla- 
 nation, and hardly thought more of it. It passed rapidly 
 across her mind, indeed, that one ought not to be sad be- 
 fore visiting one's friends, and that quitting those whom 
 we are to see next day is hardly a cause for sadness ; but 
 the thought passed away. 
 
 About the commencement of Renstern's change of 
 manner, a circumstance occurred which it is necessary 
 to notice. One evening, when Renstern and Ermance 
 were with Font-barre, he addressed his nephew thus : 
 "Renstern," said he, "I feel that I can forgive my son ; 
 but the overture must come from him. Do you write to 
 your cousin, and say you have reason to think, that, if he 
 would ask his father's pardon, it would be granted." 
 Renstern promised ; and often since, the good man had 
 expressed his disappointment, that there was yet no an- 
 swer from his son. 
 
 It was now ten months since Renstern had left Vienna. 
 He had gone to Ulm on account of some little affair, and
 
 208 RENSTERN. 
 
 returned upon the day which he and Ermance were in the 
 weekly habit of passing with Font-barre. " Ermance,'" 
 said he, " I have some business to talk over with my un- 
 cle to-day ; and I have brought you some baubles from 
 Ulm, to amuse you during my absence." Renstern re- 
 turned late from his uncle's, and found Ermance reading 
 her prayers. Next morning Font-barre was no more. An 
 early summons informed Renstern of his loss. Being the 
 nearest relation on the spot, he acted as executor ; and a 
 will was discovered, by which Font-barre's son was disin- 
 herited, and Renstern made heir to his uncle's wealth. 
 Ermance trusted that her lord would be generous to his 
 cousin she was sure he would ; but is it to be wondered 
 at, that she was pleased at an event which restored her 
 husband to the rank which she thought him so worthy to 
 hold? 
 
 The year was about to expire, within which Renstern 
 had the power to redeem his lands. The gold was told 
 out, and Renstern was again Lord of Frankenthall. 
 
 Do you hear how merrily the bells of Ranstadt are ring- 
 ing ? Children strew flowers on the streets ; and the 
 sound of welcome and rejoicing fills the air, as the mag- 
 nificent equipage drives under the Munich gate. Six 
 horsemen, upon richly-caparisoned Hungarians, ride be- 
 fore, blowing silver trumpets ; six horses, in magnificent 
 trappings, lead rapidly on the chariot, where sit the Baron 
 of Frankenthall and the fair Ermance ; and twelve of the 
 chief vassals, upon prancing steeds, bring up the rear, 
 arrayed in the colors of the house, and bearing its trophies. 
 Sweetly did Ermance smile, and kiss her hand to the peo- 
 ple who adored her, as she passed along the streets ; and 
 often did the baron bow in affable dignity. 
 
 It was a beautiful May day : the sun looked out joyfully, 
 and the gayety of external nature seemed to invite happi- 
 ness to harmonize with it. Never had the abode of Ren- 
 stern looked more lovely. The trees were covered with
 
 RENSTERN. 209 
 
 leaves and blossoms ; the earth was full of flowers, the 
 last of the spring and the first-born of summer ; the 
 perfumes of the hawthorn and the violet mingled together, 
 and made harmoay of sweet smells, as the birds made 
 harmony of sounds. Ermance was happy. 
 
 There was a great feast that day at Frankenthall : all 
 Ranstadt and Eindort were invited to partake of it, and 
 many nobles came from far to renew their friendship with 
 its possessor. The feast was loud and joyous, and, long 
 after the vassals had retired, the hall resounded with the 
 mirth of the nobles ; but at length it was past, and all 
 was silent, and Renstern walked forth to taste the cool of 
 the night air. He looked down upon Ranstadt and Ein- 
 dort : the fires yet blazed on the neighboring heights; the 
 illuminations were not quite extinct, and the sound of 
 distant mirth occasionally broke upon the silence. Around 
 and above all was calm and still. 
 
 It had been intended that Renstern and Ermance 
 should remain a short time at Frankenthall, and then re- 
 pair to Vienna. Sad as were Ermance's associations 
 with Vienna, she looked forward to the time with eager- 
 ness and joy; for, alas ! she was miserable at Frankenthall. 
 Renstern was hardly ever with her, and his presence 
 brought no comfort with it. All day long he would walk 
 or ride over the country ; and it was only when day closed 
 that he returned to Frankenthall. When Ermance spoke 
 to him, he seemed hardly to hear her : he was in a state 
 of constant restlessness : the least noise seemed to alarm 
 him ; and if at night a knock was heard at the gate, he 
 would start from his chair. He invited the neighboring 
 gentry to the castle ; but they liked not the visit, and sel- 
 dom came. Renstern, they said, was changed ; he seemed 
 absent and uncourtly, and looked upon his guests suspi- 
 ciously. Sometimes he would drink deep, Ermance the 
 only witness; and then he would laugh loud, and speak 
 of the pleasures of Vienna, and call her his sweet mistress, 
 18*
 
 210 RENSTERN. 
 
 and declare that life must be enjoyed. Remorse is like a 
 cancer; it eats life away: the mind becomes a volcano; 
 the flame may burn low ; but the fire lives on ; and, be- 
 neath an outward calmness, there is a hell. 
 
 All was mystery to Ermance ; but she was miserable. 
 How changed were her smiles ! They came, like unlook- 
 ed-for strangers, to those lips, where, in former days, they 
 lay enamored, like the golden clouds that worship around 
 the sun. They came suddenly, as if to keep tears down 
 in the fountain of sorrow ; they were like sun-beams fall- 
 ing upon thick mists, or like the lamps which illumine a 
 sepulchre. Often would her tears choke the utterance of 
 her prayers ; and then she would raise her streaming eyes 
 to heaven, and think of the goodness of God, and the 
 misery of her husband ; that misery which, though hidden 
 from her, was no mystery to the Eternal. Often would 
 she wander slowly among the beautiful environs of the 
 castle, to try if the beauty and calmness of nature would 
 communicate tranquillity to her soul. Alas! the charm 
 of nature can soothe that sorrow alone whose pangs would 
 yield to time ; but the sorrows which are mingled with un- 
 certainty the calmness of nature cannot still. Sometimes 
 she was on the point of telling her misery to Renstern, 
 of throwing herself into his arms, and asking leave to 
 console him ; but his looks were forbidding, and she 
 feared to learn evil. At last the misery of uncertainty 
 triumphed over her diffidence and her fears. " Otto," 
 said she, fearfully, and with a trembling voice, " when we 
 drove through Ranstadt, I thought we should be happy at 
 Frankenthall." Renstern made no reply ; but she could 
 no longer hide her wretchedness and her tears : she threw 
 herself upon her husband's neck and sobbed bitterly. 
 Renstern did not repulse her. " Ermance," said he, " my 
 kind one, I shall be less gloomy to-morrow, and then you 
 will be happier." The morrow came, and Ermance per- 
 ceived a change in his manner : he remained at Franken-
 
 RENSTERN. 211 
 
 thall all day, and spoke more, and looked with more kind- 
 ness upon her, than she had remembered for a long time. 
 
 It was the evening, and they were sitting together, and 
 alone ; a bright fire blazed on the hearth, and Ermance 
 felt that a ray of hope and happiness had entered her 
 heart. "Ermance," said Renstern to her, "I will tell 
 you a story. There was once a Silesian ; and this Silesian 
 was an atheist. You know, Ermance, what an atheist 
 is ? " " Yes," replied she, " but I do not wish to hear a 
 story about atheists." " This Silesian," continued he, 
 " inherited great possessions ; but they passed from him, 
 no matter how. The Silesian had a rich relative, who 
 had an only son ; but the son was in a foreign land ; and 
 what do you think the Silesian did ? " "I know not," 
 said Ermance. " Nay, but guess," said he ; " the sequel 
 is the best of it." " Indeed I cannot; but look less wild- 
 ly, Otto." " He forged a will in his own favor, and poi- 
 soned his uncle." " His uncle, did you say ? " interrupt- 
 ed Ermance. " I know not," continued he ; " his rela- 
 tive ; but it matters not : the Silesian recovered his lands, 
 and he thought he should then enjoy himself." " Enjoy 
 himself!" interrupted Ermance; "how could a murderer 
 hope to enjoy himself? " " But I have told you," contin- 
 ued Renstern, " that the Silesian was an atheist. He 
 knew that the deed could not be discovered in this world ; 
 and as he did not believe in any other, he thought he had 
 nothing to fear." " He had his conscience to fear," said 
 Ermance. " I know not," continued Renstern; " but the 
 Silesian was deceived. He became the slave of fear, and 
 he knew not of what, but yet he was miserable. He was 
 afraid to look around him, lest he should see his uncle; 
 but his fear was foolish, for he knew his uncle could not 
 rise from his grave. He heard forever a silent talking in 
 the air a horrid silence, which was not silence. The 
 most common things became, in his eyes, objects of ter- 
 ror ; even the implements of household use took, in his
 
 212 A VINDICATION OF AUTHORS 
 
 imagination, shapes of hideous deformity, which he dared 
 not look upon. The least noise would alarm him." 
 
 Ermance trembled : the traits of resemblance had pro- 
 duced no suspicion ; still the resemblance affrighted her, 
 and an undefined horror thrilled through her. " Renstern, 
 Otto," said she, " finish this dreadful tale." " Presently," 
 continued he : " the Silesian dreaded his sleeping hours the 
 most ; and he tried to keep himself awake. His dreams ! 
 but they were too dreadful to tell you. He thought of re- 
 questing his wife to awake him when he slept." " Alas ! 
 he had a wife then?" said Ermance. "He had," con- 
 tinued Renstern ; but she knew nothing of his deeds un- 
 til the day when he poisoned himself." " Alas ! his poor 
 wife ! " said Ermance. " The Silesian found existence 
 insupportable ; and he knew that death would terminate 
 his misery. It might be in the evening about this time, 
 that the Silesian entered the room where his wife was, 
 after he had drunk poison, and he said he would tell her 
 
 the story of a Bavarian, who " Renstern stopped 
 
 death was upon his cheek his eyes closed. " God of 
 mercy ! " cried Ermance ; and she sprung to him. But 
 death kept his prey. He was buried at the old church- 
 yard of Ranstadt ; and Ermance lived a life of sorrow, 
 loved and lamented by all, and said daily masses for the 
 soul of Renstern. 
 
 A VINDICATION OF AUTHORS AGAINST THE VUL- 
 GAR CHARGE OF POVERTY. 
 
 IT is not very difficult to see from what arose the vulgar 
 opinion of the poverty of authors. Bad authors have been
 
 FROM THE VULGAR CHARGE OF POVERTY. 213 
 
 always poor as it is quite fair that they should be ; upon 
 the same principle that bad painters, or bad architects, or 
 bad boot-makers, or bad carpenters, or bad any things, 
 have been and always must be poor; for the rule applies 
 equally to tables and tragedies, sermons and shoes. Bad 
 writers have always existed in a much greater number than 
 good ; and, their works being most deservedly neglected, 
 or as deservedly ridiculed, they complained very loudly 
 and very absurdly: they were unfit for writing; therefore 
 they refused to turn bricklayers : they lived in poverty, 
 and died in want, because they persisted in writing books 
 which nobody would read ; and the worse writers they 
 were, the more, of course, they cried out about the injus- 
 tice with which they were treated, and the poverty to 
 which they were condemned. Mr. D'Israeli has compos- 
 ed two corpulent volumes about their "Calamities," to 
 which we shall presently recur ; and the history must be 
 aJlowed to be sufficiently melancholy, though any reader 
 of that diligent compiler's " Calamities of Authors" can- 
 not fail to be convinced, that all the miseries of all these 
 gentlemen arose from their having mistaken their vocation 
 that they were either utterly bad writers, or prodigal 
 persons, who would have ruined themselves under any 
 circumstances ; and that a history of the calamities of in- 
 capable tailors, or inept shoe-makers, may be made up by 
 some one belonging to these classes of operatives, which 
 shall contain as pathetic pictures of the public neglect, or 
 condemnation of their works, as Mr. D'Israeli has assem- 
 bled in his collection of calamities. 
 
 The wits and satirists of the age in which these bad 
 writers lived (for their misery, like their existence, was 
 always forgotten in the next) found their poverty an excel- 
 lent subject for mirth and ridicule ; and, extending it to 
 the whole tribe of authors, they consecrated to their use 
 forever 
 
 " Want, the garret, and the jail."
 
 214 A VINDICATION OF AUTHORS 
 
 To say nothing of the Greeks, Horace, Martial, Chau- 
 cer, Ariosto, Cervantes, Spenser, Shakspeare, Butler, 
 Milton, Moliere, Dryden, Boileau, Prior, Swift, Congreve, 
 Addison, Le Sage, Pope, Gay, Arbuthnot, Voltaire, John- 
 son, Fielding, Smollett, Rousseau, comic writers, poets, 
 epigrammatists, satirists, novelists, wits, all have joined 
 in representing authors as poor, for the sake of the jests 
 that have since set many a table in a roar. But let our 
 readers recur to our list, and they will see that the names 
 of those who have thus held up authors to ridicule are the 
 most successful whom the Muse has " admitted of her 
 crew ; " that they are among the most eminent names in 
 ancient and modern literature ; that they all lived in com- 
 fort, and some even in opulence ; that those who were not 
 rich, were poor from causes totally independent of their 
 literary vocation : and let it be remembered that no com- 
 plaint has ever been made, in prose or rhyme, by any au- 
 thor, of the general poverty of his tribe, except for the 
 sake of pointing a jest, or heightening a picture. 
 
 We might easily be long and dull upon the theme, but 
 we refrain. We have said enough to introduce our proofs 
 of the comfort or affluence in which authors have lived 
 since the earliest days of authorship; and we beg here to 
 premise, that we shall consider the profits arising to au- 
 thors from places or pensions obtained on account of their 
 works, as the legitimate profits of their writings. 
 
 We trust our readers will excuse us for omitting all in- 
 vestigation into the private circumstances of Hermes 
 Trismegistus, the inventor of the Egyptian Statutes at 
 Large ; of Cadmus, the inventor of the Greek letters, and 
 consequently the cause of the introduction of birch into 
 English schools ; of Amphion, Orpheus, and other great 
 poets of those days; and even of Zoroaster, the hero of 
 many a novel, and some pantomimes. We say, we trust 
 our readers will pardon us for omitting all notice of these 
 gentlemen, seeing that we write this article in a country
 
 FROM THE VULGAR CHARGE OF POVERTY. 215 
 
 town in France, where we have access to few books of 
 any kind, and to none at all regarding their works or auto- 
 biography. The most fastidious admirer of antiquity, we 
 are persuaded, will be satisfied with such a respectable age 
 as that of Hesiod and Homer, which carries us back ten 
 centuries before the birth of Christ ; and, in taking this 
 for our point of starting, we think we may fairly be allow- 
 ed to have complied with the judicious advice given by 
 the Giant Moulineau to Count Hamilton's historiographi- 
 cal ram, to " begin with the beginning." 
 
 The father of Hesiod, it is quite clear, left behind him 
 an estate : this was to have been divided between the poet 
 and his brother Perses : the latter corrupted the judges, 
 and defrauded him ; yet, notwithstanding this, he tells us 
 in various passages of his poems, that he was not only 
 above want, but capable of assisting others. The name 
 of Homer has passed into a proverb of poverty ; yet Thes- 
 torides made a vast fortune by reciting the poems of Ho- 
 mer as his own. Homer was indeed a mendicant for 
 some time ; but this was only while he was regarded as an 
 impostor, pretending to be the author of poems which he 
 did not compose. His subsequent effusions, however, dis- 
 closed the true author of the Iliad ; and he died in happi- 
 ness, affluence, and honor. 
 
 Passing over the intervening centuries, in which no very 
 eminent names of authors appear, we arrive at the fifth 
 and sixth B. C. Anacreon, according to Madame Dacier, 
 was related to Solon, and was consequently allied to the 
 Codridse, the noblest family in Athens. Few events of 
 his life are known ; but this fact is enough to prove that he 
 could not, at all events, have been poor. We know, how- 
 ever, that he was the friend of kings of Polycrates and 
 Hipparchus : it is pretty clear from his poems, that he 
 lived in luxury, which poor authors seldom do ; and his 
 death was caused by swallowing a grape-stone in drinking 
 some new wine. Pindar was not noble, like Anacreon ;
 
 216 A VINDICATION OF AUTHORS 
 
 he was even of low origin; but this did not prevent him 
 from being courted by princes, and honored like a deity 
 in his lifetime. Even the priestess of Delphi ordained him 
 a share of the offerings to the god : statue? were erected in 
 honor of him, during his life, by his patron Hiero of Syra- 
 cuse ; and he died in a public theatre, which would seem 
 to argue that his life was not particularly unhappy. The 
 brother of JEschylus commanded a squadron of ships at the 
 battle of Salamis; the poet himself was largely patronized 
 by Hiero of Syracuse; his funeral was splendid, and plays 
 were performed at his tomb in honor of his memory. Of 
 the condition of Sophocles, little is known ; but he must 
 have been left in easy circumstances by his father, since 
 the latter, according to Athenaeus, was rich enough to af- 
 ford the vast expense of educating his son in all the polite 
 accomplishments of his polite country : he was taught music 
 and dancing by Lampros, and poetry by vEschylus. He 
 filled some of the highest offices in the state ; and Strabo 
 mentions him as accompanying Pericles in his expedition 
 to conquer the rebel Samians. Herodotus certainly had 
 the means of travelling during a great portion of his life ; 
 and he must have been no inconsiderable person, since 
 his influence contributed mainly to the expulsion of the 
 tyrant Lygdamis. Euripides was of noble descent, and 
 prime minister to Archelaus of Macedon. Thucydides 
 was of the royal blood of the Thracian kings; he had a 
 high command in the army, and joined to his own afflu- 
 ence many rich mines of gold, which he acquired by 
 marriage. Plato was descended on the paternal side from 
 Codrus, on the maternal from Solon ; and though it does 
 not appear that he was very wealthy, it is certain that he 
 lived delightfully in the elegant retreat purchased with his 
 own drachmas 
 
 " The olive-grove of Academe, 
 
 His sweet retirement, where the Attic bird 
 Trilled her thick-warbled notes the summer long. 1 ' 
 
 Paradise Regained.
 
 FROM THE VULGAR CHARGE OF POVERTY. 217 
 
 There he lived, the unambitious friend and counsellor of 
 kings, amidst his statues, his temples, and his cypresses, 
 and, reposing by the whispering and haunted stream which 
 flowed through them, he meditated the peace on earth 
 and happiness to men, which he afterwards taught in the 
 language of the gods, whose eloquence he was said by his 
 panegyrists to have stolen. 
 
 Descending to the fourth century B. C., we come to 
 Aristophanes ; but of his circumstances we know noth- 
 ing. Even if it were proved, however, that they were in- 
 different, we should not be justified in making him an ex- 
 ception; for his whole life was one long and self-sought 
 war with powerful living adversaries, and therefore could 
 not be very happy. Aristotle, after the death of his friend 
 Plato, visited Hermias, king of the Atarnenses. On the 
 fall of the latter, he erected a statue to him, and after- 
 wards married his sister Pythias. He was, moreover, as 
 every one knows, the master and the friend of Alexander 
 the Great. Menander was probably rich, from the fact of 
 his adoration of the expensive Glycera: he alludes also 
 frequently to his own habits of luxurious dress. The kings 
 of Egypt and Macedon so highly honored and esteemed 
 him, that they sent ambassadors to invite, and fleets to 
 convey him to their courts. Xenophon was of high rank, 
 a commander in the army, and the favorite of Cyrus; and 
 the father of Demosthenes, we know, left him enough of 
 property to make it worth his while to plead for its recov- 
 ery from the hands of iniquitous guardians. What a for- 
 tune would amount to, that should render such a proceed- 
 ing in a court of equity at the present day at all judicious, 
 our readers may ascertain by the aid of a very powerful 
 calculus. 
 
 In the third and second centuries, we have Theocritus, 
 
 who was patronized by Ptolemy Philadelphus, and lived 
 
 at his court ; Plautus, a slave, who, after gaining a great 
 
 deal of money by his plays, lost it in commercial specula- 
 
 19
 
 218 A VINDICATION OF AUTHORS 
 
 tions; and lastly, Terence, who, though a slave, rose to 
 be the intimate friend of Scipio and Lselius, and whose 
 wealth, gained by his comedies, enabled him to mnrry his 
 daughter to a Roman noble. He received three thousand 
 sesterces for one performance of " The Eunuch " alone ; 
 and as it was usual to pay the author of a play each time 
 it was performed, the sums which Terence received must 
 have been enormous. He left a splendid house and 
 gardens. 
 
 The first century B. C., and the first after, present us 
 with a long list of noble and opulent authors. Of the life 
 of Lucretius few particulars are known. Cicero was of a 
 noble family ; he was successively quaestor, praetor, and 
 consul, and might have been a fourth party in the govern- 
 ment formed by Pompey, Caesar, and Crassus. His wealth 
 must have been great ; for he gave for his house on the 
 Palatine, alone, a sum exceeding 30,000 sterling. The 
 father of Catullus was the friend of Julius Caesar ; Catullus 
 himself was praetor, and afterwards governor of Bithynia; 
 and Lesbia was the sister of the noble and rich CIo- 
 dius, the enemy of Cicero. Virgil inherited a patrimony 
 from his father at Mantua ; was enriched by Augustus, 
 and received a sum equivalent to ,2000 sterling for his 
 verses about Marcellus alone. Tibullus was the son of a 
 knight and a man of fortune. Propertius was also noble, 
 and possessed of a considerable estate ; he was the friend 
 of Maecenas and Gallus. Horace was, to be sure, the son 
 of a frcedman ; but that freedman was a tax-gatherer, and, 
 it is almost needless to say, rich. His father's estate was, 
 for some reason or no reason, confiscated by the govern- 
 ment, but restored to Horace by Augustus. The emperor 
 offered him the office of private secretary ; but he refused 
 all court honors. Ovid was the younger son of a Roman 
 noble, and, on the death of his elder brother, inherited his 
 fortune. Livy was of an illustrious and wealthy family, 
 which had given many consuls to Rome. Seneca, the
 
 FROM THE VULGAR CHARGE OF POVERTY. 219 
 
 tutor of Nero, was quaestor, praetor, and consul. His 
 houses, gardens, and walks, were the most magnificent in 
 Rome ; and he had received of the public money more 
 than two millions and a half sterling in about four years. 
 Persius was opulent, and bequeathed a large fortune to 
 his friend Cornutus. Pliny the Elder arrived at the high 
 dignity of augur : he was procurator, or treasurer, to Tibe- 
 rius, and was offered for part of his MSS. 400,000 ses- 
 terces. Juvenal's father was a freedman a class generally 
 rich at Rome. He, at all events, gave his son a liberal 
 and learned education. Pliny the Younger was augur, 
 consul, proconsul of Bithynia, and the friend of Trajan. 
 Martial was ennobled by Domitian, and married a wife so 
 rich, that (to use his own words) " she made him a kind 
 of monarch." Quinctilian was paid liberally out of the 
 public treasury for teaching oratory under Galba : he was 
 patronized by Domitian, became consul, and died rich. 
 Tacitus was son-in-law of Agricola, and patronized by 
 Vespasian, Titus, and Domitian. It may be inferred that 
 his family was wealthy and powerful, from the fact that 
 M. Claudius Tacitus, who was created emperor in A. D. 
 275, was descended from him. The father of Lucan, a 
 Roman knight, was brother to Seneca, one of the wealth- 
 iest men in Rome. Lucan himself was opulent, and fill- 
 ed the offices of qurestor and augur. 
 
 The second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh cen- 
 turies after Christ do not present us with many names : 
 we shall therefore class them all in one paragraph, which 
 will bring us down to modern authors. 
 
 Plutarch was of an old family ; his lectures were highly 
 popular with the Roman nobility, and he was the friend 
 of Trajan. Apuleius was a successful lawyer, and mar- 
 ried a very rich widow. Longinus was tutor to the chil- 
 dren of Zenobia. Mahomet was related to the heads of 
 one of the noblest and wealthiest of the Arab tribes ; and 
 he himself was as wealthy as he was successful.
 
 220 A VINDICATION Of AUTHORS 
 
 The eleventh, twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth centu- 
 ries we shall gather, like the last, under a single head. 
 
 Dante was descended from one of the greatest families 
 in Florence, and held a distinguished place at his native 
 city. It is true that the political events of his time, in 
 which he mingled, occasioned his exile and poverty ; but 
 he died in a palace. Petrarch was the son of a wealthy 
 Italian notary. He was the friend of the Colonnas, and 
 resided in their palaces, and was familiar with kings, 
 emperors, and pontiffs. Boccaccio was the son of a Flor- 
 entine merchant, when merchants were princes: he in- 
 herited property from his father, and was beloved by the 
 daughter of the king (Robert), who was his patron. Chau- 
 cer, according to Leland, was of noble origin : he was ap- 
 pointed ambassador to Genoa, by Edward III., and possess- 
 ed <1000 a year an enormous income for that period. 
 
 We have now arrived at the fifteenth century. Pulci 
 was the intimate and jocular friend of Lorenzo the Mag- 
 nificent. Sannazaro was patronized by Frederic, son of 
 the king of Naples, from whom he received a pension and 
 the beautiful country-house of Mergellina ; he was courted 
 by all the great of his time, and enjoyed the friendship of 
 two popes. Marot lived among princes. Erasmus was 
 not rich ; but then he never lived long in one place, and 
 always expensively and luxuriously. Macchiavelli was 
 secretary of the Florentine republic. Bojarda was a man 
 of large possessions, and count of Scandiano. Ariosto 
 was of a noble family, was patronized by the Este family, 
 and by Leo X. ; and he must have had some pretensions to 
 wealth and influence, since he expected a cardinal's hat. 
 Guicciardini was of a noble Florentine family, the chief 
 counsellor in Florence, married the daughter of the most 
 distinguished person there, and was created governor of 
 Bologna by the pope. Rabelais lived a joyous and luxurious 
 life, both as a Benedictine monk, and as cure of Meudon. 
 
 We are rapidly approaching more familiar names ; for
 
 FROM THE VULGAll CHARGE OF POVERTY. 221 
 
 we are now arrived at the sixteenth century. Buchanan 
 is the first. Though tutor to a prince and to the most in- 
 teresting and seductive of queens, we fear his temper and 
 his tastes were too much like those of Erasmus to allow 
 us to class him with the rich in our catalogue. He was, 
 moreover, addicted to personalities and to quarrels, which 
 made him disliked in his own country, and caused him to 
 be persecuted in others. The name which comes next in 
 our catalogue has passed into a proverb of poverty but 
 unjustly. The misfortunes of Camoens arose from causes 
 altogether independent of his literary pursuits. If he met 
 with misfortunes, his poetical genius, so far from being 
 the cause of them, tended to alleviate their bitterness, 
 and gained him honor, friends, and (at one time) riches. 
 Montaigne was a country gentleman of fortune. Tasso 
 was courted and happy up to the period of his insanity ; 
 for he was undoubtedly insane. Cervantes was chamber- 
 lain to one cardinal, pensioned by another, and patronized 
 by a viceroy ; and his " Don Quixote " was so popular, 
 that 12,000 copies of the first part were sold before the 
 second was printed. Sydney was a candidate for the 
 crown of Poland. Spenser had fifty pounds a year as 
 poet laureate (no inconsiderable sum in those days) ; 
 he was sheriff of Cork, with 3000 acres of land ; and 
 was patronized by Elizabeth, Lord. Essex, and the noble 
 family to which he belonged. De Thou and Sully 
 were statesmen. Bacon was lord chancellor of England, 
 and enormously rich. Lope de Vega was a knight of 
 Malta, and held a rich office under Urban VIII. Cal- 
 deron de la Barca was first a knight of St. lago, and af- 
 terwards a fat and comfortable canon of Toledo. To re- 
 turn to our own authors Shakspeare made a fortune, and 
 died the richest man in Stratford-upon-Avon. Jonson 
 gained prodigious sums by his plays, though his extrava- 
 gant and careless life made him always poor. Little is 
 known of the private lives of Beaumont and Fletcher; 
 19*
 
 222 A VINDICATION OF AUTHORS 
 
 but we know that Beaumont's father was a judge, and 
 Fletcher's a bishop. Grotius was a wealthy lawyer and 
 statesman ; Selden a member of parliament. Of Massin- 
 ger we know nothing but that his plays were popular. Of 
 Ford we know almost as little ; but, at all events, he was 
 the son of a justice of the peace. Butler's misfortunes 
 were owing to the times, and the character of the reign- 
 ing monarch ; and 3000 were ordered to be paid to the 
 author of " Hudibras," though he never received the 
 money. Hobbes lived in easy circumstances at Cha-ts- 
 worth. Even after Charles withdrew his patronage from 
 him, he was visited, in his old age, by the most illustrious 
 men of his time, and by princes and ambassadors. Sir 
 Thomas Drown was a wealthy physician. Waller was 
 rich, a member of parliament, and a favorite at court. 
 Corneille was not only the most successful author of his 
 day, but he was pensioned by Richelieu. Milton left be- 
 hind him ,1500 ; but even if it could be shown that he 
 was poor, his persecutions on political accounts, and the 
 fanaticism of the times, would account for his poverty. 
 Cowley lived in elegant retirement, and his poetry was 
 eminently successful. Moliere was poor, till he made a 
 fortune by his plays. La Fontaine was a gentleman, and 
 married a rich wife. Jeremy Taylor was a bishop. Dry- 
 den was a person of old family ; and he gained by his 
 writings, at least, 500 a year; equal to .1500 at the 
 present day. Boileau gained an ample pension by his 
 writings ; so did Racine. Bayle's works caused him 
 twice to be chosen professor of philosophy. Fenelon was 
 a rich archbishop. Prior was an ambassador. Swift died 
 rich ; so did Congreve, Addison, Gay, and Pope. Le Sage 
 was the most popular of novel-writers, and an eminently- 
 successful dramatist. When Steele lost the patent of his 
 theatre, he computed the loss at ten thousand pounds. 
 Marivaux was one of the most successful of authors. 
 Arbuthnot was the court physician. Vanbrugh was poor,
 
 FROM THE VULGAR CHARGE OF POVERTY. 2&3 
 
 but this was in spite of his success as an author and archi 
 tect, and his enjoyment of some of the most lucrative 
 situations under the crown. Richardson died as rich as 
 a Jew ; so did Voltaire. 
 
 We now arrive at the eighteenth century. Thomson, 
 in spite of his indolence, obtained several lucrative situa- 
 tions under government, in consequence of his works. 
 Dr. Johnson got a pension, and might have become rich 
 by means of his writings, had he not been the most indo- 
 lent of authors. Franklin raised himself by his literary 
 talents. Fielding's profuse extravagance swallowed up 
 the profits of his successes as an author; but he died 
 a justice of the peace. Linnaeus had a grant of land 
 conferred on him for his discoveries, and he was en- 
 nobled by the king of Sweden. Hume had nothing, 
 till his works procured him ,1000 a year. Rous- 
 seau's name is not worth mentioning here : his miseries 
 and poverty were voluntary. Grimm and Diderot received 
 large pensions for their literary merits. Sterne passed his 
 life in painting, fiddling, and shooting occupations not 
 at all indicative of poverty. Garrick, who died very rich, 
 made his fortune as an author and actor. Smollett receiv- 
 ed large sums for all his works. Goldsmith was in the 
 last stage of poverty, till his writings raised him to inde- 
 pendence. Burke was a statesman. Cowper received 
 vast sums for his works; so did Gibbon ; yet Cowper had 
 a private fortune, and Gibbon had held lucrative situations 
 under the crown. Chatterton, indeed, died poor; but he 
 had employment from his literary patrons as long as he 
 chose to accept it. Burns was poor, not in consequence 
 of being an author, but in spite of it. Schiller, Goethe, 
 and Werner, were all enriched or ennobled by their poetry. 
 
 Here we close our catalogue; for we do not venture to 
 quote instances from the writers of our own times. But 
 it may be stated in general, and hundreds of instances 
 will occur to the memory of every one, that there ip
 
 224 A VINDICATION OF AUTHORS 
 
 scarcely one eminent individual of the present day, who 
 does not owe his riches, or rise, or distinctions, in some 
 way to literature. Let our readers refer to the list we 
 have given above, and they will see that scarcely one 
 great, or even second-rate name in literature has been 
 omitted, and that on not one can the reproach of poverty 
 in consequence of authorship fall ; while it will be uni- 
 formly seen that literary merit has been always of advan- 
 tage to those who were unfortunate from other causes. 
 We have carefully looked over Mr. D'Israeli's " Calami- 
 ties of Authors," and have found, without one exception, 
 either that the authors who suffered the calamities in ques- 
 tion were bad authors persons who were not in their 
 " vocation " intruders without the wedding garment 
 who of course deserved to suffer for their want of due 
 qualifications or that the "calamities" alluded to con- 
 sisted in a little gentle castigation in reviews ridicule 
 in popular novels or the infliction of a satirical couplet. 
 Verily these be great " calamities," Mr. D'Israeli ! 
 
 " It is not in our bond " to show, that not only good 
 authors have never been poor, but that they have been, 
 frequently, persons of noble or distinguished families, 
 people of title, and even of royal blood. We shall, never- 
 theless, refer our readers to the brief notices of authors 
 which have been already given, to show that authors have 
 in general been gentlemen ; and that the Greek and Ro- 
 man writers were generally noble or royal ; but we have 
 not room for a list of our own noble and royal authors. 
 Walpole's work under that title, will furnish them with a 
 list of more than one hundred and fifty literary names 
 which have been illustrated by high birth ; and if the 
 catalogue were continued down to our own days, the pro- 
 portion would be increased rather than diminished.
 
 COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE. 225 
 
 COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE. 
 
 THERE lived in a country not a thousand miles from 
 Edinburgh, a decent farmer, who, by patient industry and 
 frugality, and without being avaricious, head made himself 
 easy in circumstances. He enjoyed life without being 
 profuse ; for he tempered his enjoyments with moderation. 
 At the age of sixty, lie still retained the bloom of health 
 on his cheek. He lived till that age a bachelor ; but his 
 household affairs were regulated by a young woman, 
 whose attentive zeal for her master's interest made it 
 easy for him to enjoy his home without a wife. She was 
 only in the character of his humble servant, but she was 
 virtuous and prudent. Betty allotted the tasks to the ser- 
 vants in the house, performed the labor within doors, dur- 
 ing harvest, when all the others were engaged. She saw 
 every thing kept in order, and regulated all with strict re- 
 gard to economy and cleanliness. She had the singular 
 good fortune to be at once beloved by her fellow-servants, 
 as well as respected and trusted by her master. Her 
 master even consulted her in matters where he knew 
 she could give advice, and found it often his interest to do 
 so. But her modesty was such, that she never tendered 
 her advices gratuitously. Prudence regulated all her 
 actions, and she kept the most respectful distance from her 
 master. She paid all attention to his wants and wishes ; 
 nor could a wife or daughter have been more attentive. 
 When he happened to be from home, it was her province 
 to wait upon him when he returned, provide his refresh- 
 ment, and administer to all his wants. Then she reported 
 to him the occurrences of the day, and the work which 
 had been done. It did not escape her master's observa- 
 tion, however, that, though she was anxious to relate 
 the truth, she still strove to extenuate and hide the faults
 
 226 COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE. 
 
 of those who had committed misdemeanors. Her whole 
 conduct was such, that, for the period of fifteen years, 
 the breath of slander dared not to hazard a whisper 
 against her. 
 
 It happened, however, that a certain maiden lady in 
 the neighborhood had cast an eye upon the fanner. She 
 was the niece of a bachelor minister, and lived at the 
 manse in the character of housekeeper. But, with all op- 
 portunity to become a competitor with Betty, she could 
 never gain her character. Those people who want per- 
 sonal attractions take strange means of paying court, and 
 endeavoring to open the way for themselves. What they 
 cannot effect by treaty, they endeavor to do by sapping. 
 Scandal is their magazine, by which they attempt to 
 clear their way from all obstructions. This maiden lady 
 made some sinister remarks, in such a way, and in such 
 a place, as were sure to reach the farmer's ear. The far- 
 mer was nearly as much interested for the character of 
 his servant as he was for his own, and so soon as he dis- 
 covered the authoress, made her a suitable return. But 
 he made ample amends to Betty for the injury she had 
 suffered, and, at the same time, rewarded her for her ser- 
 vices, by taking her for his wife. By this event, the lady, 
 whose intentions had been well understood, and who had 
 thought of aggrandizing herself at the expense and ruin 
 of poor Betty, found that she had contributed the very 
 means to advance her to the realization of a fortune she 
 had never hoped for. May all intermeddlers of the same 
 cast have the same punishment : they are pests to society. 
 
 Betty's success had created some speculation in the 
 country. Though every one agreed that Betty deserved 
 her fortune, it was often wondered how such a modest, 
 unassuming girl had softened the heart of the bachelor, 
 who, it was thought, was rather flinty in regard to the fair 
 sex. Betty had an acquaintance, who was situated in 
 nearly the same circumstances as herself, in being at the
 
 COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE. 227 
 
 head of a bachelor farmer's house ; but it would appear 
 that she had formed a design of conquering her master. 
 If Betty used artifice, however, it was without design. 
 But her neighbor could not, it would appear, believe that 
 she had brought the matter to a bearing without some 
 stratagem ; and she wished Betty to tell her how she had 
 gone about " courting the old man." There was, withal, 
 so much native simplicity about Betty, and the manner 
 of relating her own courtship and marriage is so like her- 
 self, that it would lose its naivete unless told in her own 
 homely Scotch way. Betty, into all, had a lisp in her 
 speech, that is, a defect in speech, by which the s is always 
 pronounced as tit, which added a still deeper shade of 
 simplicity to her manner ; but it would be trifling to suit 
 the orthography to that common defect. The reader can 
 easily suppose that he hears Betty lisping, while she is 
 relating her story to her attentive friend. 
 
 " Weel, Betty," says her acquaintance, " come, gi'e 
 me a sketch, an' tell me a' about it ; for I may ha'e a 
 chance mysel'. We dinna ken what's afore us. We're 
 no the waur o' ha'ein' somebody to tell us the road, whan 
 we dinna ken a' the cruiks and thraws in't." " Deed," 
 says Betty, " there was little about it ava. Our maister 
 was awa at the fair ae day selling the lambs, and it was 
 gey late afore he cam' hame. Our maister verra seldom 
 steys late, for he's a douce man as can be. Weel, ye see, 
 he was mair herty than I had seen him for a lang time ; 
 but I opine he had a gude merket for his lambs, and ther's 
 room for excuse whan ane drives a gude bergen. Indeed, 
 to tell even on truth, he had rather better than a wee drap 
 in his e'e. It was my usual to sit up till he cam' hame, 
 when he was awa. When he cam' in and gaed up stairs, 
 he fand his sipper ready for him. ' Betty,' says he, very 
 saft-like. ' Sir,' says I. ' Betty,' says he, ' what has been 
 gaun on the day a's right, I houp? ' ' Ouy, sir,' says I. 
 ' Very weel, very weel,' says he, in his ain canny way.
 
 228 COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE. 
 
 He ga'e me a clap on the shouther, and said I was a gude 
 lassie. When I had telt him a' that had been dune throu' 
 the day, just as I aye did, he ga'e me another clap on the 
 shouther, and said he was a fortunate man to ha'e sic a 
 carefu' person about the house. I never had heard him say 
 as muckle to my face before, tho' he aften said mair ahint 
 my back. I really thocht he was fey. Our maister, when he 
 had gotten his sipper finished, began to be verra joky ways, 
 and said that I was baith a gude and bonny lassie. I kent 
 that folks arna' themsels whan in drink, and they say rath- 
 er mair than they wad do if they were sober. Sae I cam' 
 awa' doon into the kitchen. 
 
 " Twa or three days after that, our maister cam' into 
 the kitchen ' Betty,' says he. ' Sir,' says I. ' Betty,' 
 says he, ' come up stairs ; I want to speak t'ye,' says he. 
 ' Verra weel, sir,' says I. Sae I went up stairs after him, 
 thinking a' the road that he was gaun to tell me something 
 about the feeding o' the swine, or killing the heefer, or 
 something like that. But whan he telt me to sit doun, I 
 saw there was something serious, for he never bad me sit 
 doun afore but ance, and that was whan he was gaun to 
 Glasgow fair. ' Betty,' says he, ' ye ha'e been lang a ser- 
 vant to me,' says he, ' and a gude and honest servant. 
 Since ye're sae gude a servant, I aften think ye'll make a 
 better wife. Ha'e ye ony objection to be a wife, Betty ? ' 
 says he. ' I dinna ken, sir,' says I. ' A body canna just 
 say hou they like a bargain till they see the article.' 
 ' Weel, Betty,' says he, ' ye're verra right there again. I 
 ha'e had ye for a servant these fifteen years, and I never 
 knew that I could find fau't wi' ye for onything. Ye're 
 
 carefu', honest, an' attentif, an' .' ' O, sir,' says I, 
 
 * ye always paid me for't, and it was only my duty.' 
 ' Weel, weel,' says he, ' Betty, that's true ; but then I 
 mean to mak' amens t'ye for the evil speculation that Tib- 
 by Langtongue raised about you and me, and forby, the 
 warld are taking the same liberty : sae, to stop a' their
 
 COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE. 229 
 
 mouths, you and I sail be married.' ' Verra weel, sir,' 
 says 1 ; for what cou'd I say 1 
 
 "Our maister looks into the kitchen another day, an' 
 says, ' Betty,' says he. ' Sir,' says I. ' Betty,' says he, 
 ' I am gaun to gi'e in our names to be cried in the kirk, 
 this and next Sabbath.' ' Verra weel, sir,' says I. 
 
 " About eight days after this, our maister says to me, 
 ' Betty,' says he. ' Sir,' says I. ' I think,' says he, ' we 
 will ha'e the marriage put owre neist Friday, if ye ha'e 
 nae objection.' ' Verra weel, sir,' says I. ' And ye'll 
 tak' the grey yad, and gang to the toun on Monday, 
 an' get your bits o' wedding braws. I ha'e spoken to Mr. 
 Cheap, the draper, and ye can tak' aff onything ye want, 
 an' please yoursell, for I canna get awa that day.' ' Ver- 
 ra weel, sir,' says I. 
 
 " Sae I gaed awa to the toun on Monday, an' bought 
 some wee bits o' things ; but I had plenty o' claes, and I 
 cou'dna think o' being 'stravagant. I took them to the 
 manty-maker, to get made, and they were sent hame on 
 Thursday. 
 
 " On Thursday night, our maister says to me, ' Betty,' 
 says he. ' Sir,' says I. ' To-morrow is our wedding-day,' 
 says he, ' an' ye maun see that a' things are prepared for 
 the denner,' says he, ' an' see every thing dune yoursel,' 
 says he, ' for I expect some company, an' I wad like to 
 see every thing feat and tiddy in your ain way,' says he. 
 ' Very weel, sir,' says I. 
 
 " I had never ta'en a serious thought about the matter 
 till now ; and I began to consider that I must exert mysel 
 to please my maister and the company. Sae I got 
 every thing in readiness, and got every thing clean I 
 cou'dna think ought was dune right except my ain hand 
 was in't. 
 
 " On Friday morning, our maister says to me, ' Betty,' 
 says he. ' Sir,' says I. l Go away and get yoursel dress- 
 ed,' says he, ' for the company will soon be here, and ye 
 20
 
 230 COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE. 
 
 maun be decent. An' ye maun stay in the room up stairs,' 
 says he, ' till ye're sent for,' says he. ' Verra \veel, sir,' 
 says I. But there was sic a great deal to do, and sae 
 many grand dishes to prepare for the dinner to the com- 
 pany, that I could not get awa', and the hail folk were 
 come afore I got mysel dressed. 
 
 " Our maister cam' doun stairs, and telt me to go up 
 that instant and dress mysel, for the minister was jusf 
 comin doun the loan. Sae I was obliged to leave every 
 thing to the rest of the servants, an' gang up stairs, an' 
 pit on my claes. 
 
 " When I was wanted, Mr. Brown o' the Haaslybrae 
 cam' and took me into the room among a' the gran' fouk, 
 an' the minister. I was maist like to fent ; for I never 
 saw sae mony gran' folk together a' my born days afore, 
 an' I didna ken whar to look. At last, our maister took 
 me by the han', an' I was greatly relieved. The minister 
 said a great deal to us but I canna mind it a' and then 
 he said a prayer. After this, I thought I should ha'e been 
 worried wi' folk kissing me, mony a yin shook hands 
 wi' me I had never seen afore, and wished me much joy. 
 
 " After the ceremony was o'er, I slipped awa' doun 
 into the kitchen again amang the rest o' the servants to 
 see if the dinner was a' right. But in a wee time our 
 maister cam' into the kitchen, an' says, ' Betty,' says he. 
 ' Sir,' says I. ' Betty,' says he, ' ye must consider that 
 ye're no longer my servant, but my wife,' says he ; ' and 
 therefore ye must come up stairs and sit amongst the rest 
 of the company,' says he. 'Verra weel, sir,' says I. Sae 
 what could I do, but gang up stairs to the rest of the com- 
 pany, an' sit doun among them ? I sat there in a corner, 
 as weel out o' sight as I could, for they were a' speaking 
 to me or looking at me, an' I didna ken how to behave 
 amang sic braw company, or how to answer them. I sat 
 there till it was gey late, and our maister made me drink 
 the company's healths, and they gaed a' away.
 
 THE PLAY AT VENICE. 231 
 
 " When the company were a' gaen awa', I went doun 
 to the kitchen, and saw that every thing was right; and 
 after I put a candle into my maister's bed-room, I took an- 
 other, and gaed away up to my ain wee room in the garret. 
 Just whan I was casting aff my shune, I hears our maister 
 first gang into his ain room, and then come straight awa' 
 up towards mine. I think I can hear him yet, for it was 
 siccan extraord'nar thing, and I never saw him there afore ; 
 and every stamp o' his feet gaed thunt, thunt to my very 
 hert. He stood at the cheek o' the door, and said, very 
 saftly, ' Betty,' says he. ' Sir,' says I ' But what brought 
 ye here, sir,' says I. ' Naething,' says he. ' Verra weel, 
 naething be it, sir,' says I. ' But,' says he, ' remember 
 that ye're no longer my servant, but my wife,' says he. 
 ' Verra weel, sir,' says I ; 'I will remember that.' ' And 
 ye must come down stairs,' says he. ' Verra weel, sir,' 
 says I ; for what could I do ? I had always obeyed my 
 maister before, and it was nae time to disobey him now. 
 
 " Sae, Jean, that was a' that was about my courtship 
 or marriage." 
 
 THE PLAY AT VENICE. 
 
 SOME years since, a German prince, making a tour 
 of Europe, stopped at Venice for a short period. It was 
 the close of summer ; the Adriatic was calm, the nights 
 were lovely, and the Venetian women in the full enjoyment 
 of those delicious spirits, that, in their climate, rise and 
 fall with the coming and the departure of the finest season 
 of the year. Every day was given by the illustrious 
 stranger to research among the records and antiquities of 
 this singular city, and every night to parties on the Bren-
 
 THE PLAY AT VENICE. 
 
 ta. When the morning was nigh, it was the custom to 
 return from the water to sup at some of the palaces of the 
 nobility. 
 
 In the commencement of his intercourse, all national 
 distinctions were carefully suppressed; but, as his inti- 
 macy increased, he was forced to see the lurking vanity 
 of the Italian breaking out. One of its most frequent 
 exhibitions was in the little dramas that wound up these 
 stately festivals. The wit was constantly sharpened by 
 some contrast of the Italian and the German, some slight 
 aspersions on Teutonic rudeness, some remark on the 
 history of a people untouched by the elegance of southern 
 manners. The sarcasm was conveyed with Italian grace, 
 and the offence softened by its humor. It was obvious 
 that the only retaliation must be humorous. 
 
 At length the prince, on the point of taking leave, in- 
 vited his entertainers to a farewell supper. He drew the 
 conversation to the infinite superiority of the Italian, and 
 above all of the Venetian, acknowledged the darkness in 
 which Germany had been destined to remain so long, and 
 looked forward with infinite sorrow to the comparative 
 opinion of posterity upon the country to which so little of 
 its gratitude must be due. " But, my lords," said he, 
 " we are an emulous people, and an example like yours 
 cannot be lost even upon a German. I have been charmed 
 with your dramas, and have contrived a little arrangement 
 to give one of our country, if you will condescend to fol- 
 low me to the great hall." The company rose and follow- 
 ed him through the splendid suit of Venetian villas to the 
 hall, which was fitted up as a German barn. 
 
 The aspect of the theatre produced first surprise, and 
 next an universal smile. It had no resemblance to the 
 gilded and sculptured saloons of their own sumptuous little 
 theatres. However, it was only so much the more Teu- 
 tonic. The curtain drew up. The surprise rose into loud 
 laughter, even among the Venetians, who have been sel-
 
 THE PLAY AT VENICE. 233 
 
 dom betrayed into any thing beyond a smile, for genera- 
 tions together. 
 
 The stage was a temporary erection, rude and uneven. 
 The scenes represented a wretched and irregular street, 
 scarcely lighted by a few twinkling lamps, and looking 
 the fit haunt of robbery and assassination. On a narrow 
 view some of the noble spectators began to think it had a 
 kind of resemblance to an Italian street, and some actu- 
 ally discovered in it one of the leading streets of their 
 own famous city. But the play was on a German story ; 
 they were under a German roof. The street was, not- 
 withstanding its ill-omened similitude, of course, German. 
 The street was solitary. At length a traveller, a German, 
 with pistols in a belt round his waist, and apparently ex- 
 hausted by his journey, came pacing along. He knock- 
 ed at several doors, but could obtain no admission. He 
 then wrapped himself up in his cloak, sat down on a 
 fragment of a monument, and soliloquized. 
 
 " Well, here have I come ; and this is my reception. 
 All palaces, no inns ; all nobles, and not a man to tell me 
 where I can lie down in comfort or in safety. Well, it 
 cannot be helped. A German does not much care ; cam- 
 paigning has hardened us. Hunger and thirst, heat and 
 cold, dangers of war, and the roads, are not very formida- 
 ble, after what we have had to work through from father 
 to son. Loneliness, however, is not so well, unless a man 
 can labor or read. Read ! that's true ; come out, Zim- 
 merman." He took a volume from his pocket, moved 
 nearer to the decaying lamp, and soon seemed absorbed. 
 
 Another soon shared the eyes of the spectators. A long, 
 light figure came with a kind of visionary movement, 
 from behind the monument, surveyed the traveller with 
 keen curiosity, listened with apparent astonishment to his 
 words, and in another moment had fixed itself gazing over 
 his shoulder on the volume. The eyes of this singular 
 20*
 
 THE PLAY AT VENICE. 
 
 being wandered rapidly over the page ; and, when it was 
 turned, they were lifted to heaven with the strongest 
 expressions of wonder. The German was weary; his head 
 soon drooped over his study, and he closed the book. 
 
 "What," said he, rising, and stretching his limbs; "is 
 there no one stirring in this comfortless place ? Is it not 
 near day?" He took out his repeater, and touched the 
 pendent ; it struck four. His mysterious attendant had 
 watched him narrowly ; the repeater was traversed over 
 with an eager gaze ; but when it struck, delight was min- 
 gled with wonder, that had till then filled its pale intelli- 
 gent countenance. " Four o' clock," said the German. 
 " In my country, half the world would be thinking of go- 
 ing to their day's work by this time. In another hour, it 
 will be sunrise. Well, then, I'll do you a service, you 
 nation of sleepers, and make you open your eyes." He 
 drew out one of his pistols, and fired it. The attendant 
 form, still hovering behind him, had looked curiously upon 
 the pistol, but, on its going off, started back in terror, and 
 with a loud cry that made the traveller turn. 
 
 " Who are you ? " was his greeting to this strange in- 
 truder. 
 
 " I will not hurt you," was the answer. 
 
 " Who cares about that ? " was the German's retort ; 
 and he pulled out the other pistol. 
 
 " My friend," said the figure, " even that weapon of 
 thunder and -lightning cannot reach me now; but if you 
 would know who I am, let me entreat you to satisfy my 
 curiosity a moment. You seem a man of extraordinary 
 powers." 
 
 "Well, then," said the German, in a gentler voice, " if 
 you come as a friend, I shall be glad to give you informa- 
 tion : it is the custom of our country to deny nothing to 
 those who love to learn." 
 
 The former sighed deeply, and murmured, " And yet
 
 THE PLAY AT VENICE. 235 
 
 you are a Teuton. But you were just reading a little case 
 of strange, and yet most interesting figures : was it a 
 manuscript? " 
 
 " No, it was a printed book." 
 
 " Printed ? What is printing ? I riever heard but of 
 writing." 
 
 " It is an art by which one man can give to the world, 
 in one day, as much as three hundred could give by writ- 
 ing, and in a character of superior clearness, correctness, 
 and beauty ; one by which books are made universal, and 
 literature eternal." 
 
 " Admirable, glorious art ! " said the inquirer ; " who 
 was its illustrious inventor ? " 
 
 " A German." 
 
 " But another question. I saw you look at a most curi- 
 ous instrument traced with figures : it sparkled with dia- 
 monds ; but its greatest wonder was its sound. It gave 
 the hour with miraculous exactness, and the strokes were 
 followed by tones superior to the sweetest music of my 
 day ? " 
 
 " That was a repeater." 
 
 " How ? When I had the luxuries of the earth at my 
 command, I had nothing to tell the hour better than the 
 clepsydra and the sun-dial. But this must be incompara- 
 ble from its facility of being carried about, from its suit- 
 ableness to all hours, from its exactness. It must be an 
 admirable guide even to a higher knowledge. All de- 
 pends upon the exactness of time. It may assist naviga- 
 tion, astronomy. What an invention ! Whose was it ? 
 He must be more than man." 
 
 " He was a German." 
 
 "What, still a barbarian ! I remember his nation. I 
 once saw an auxiliary legion of them marching towards 
 Rome. They were a bold and brave, blue-eyed troop. 
 The whole city poured out to see those northern warriors , 
 but we looked on them only as savages. I have one
 
 236 THE PLAY AT VENICE. 
 
 more question, the most interesting of all. I saw you 
 raise your hand, with a small truncheon in it : in a mo- 
 ment something rushed out, that seemed a portion of the 
 fire of the clouds. Were they thunder and lightning that 
 I saw ? Did they come by your command ? Was that 
 truncheon a talisman 1 and are you a mighty magician ? 
 Was that truncheon a sceptre commanding the elements ? 
 Are you a god 1 " 
 
 The strange inquirer had drawn back gradually as his 
 feelings rose. Curiosity was now solemn wonder, and 
 he stood gazing upward in an attitude that mingled awe 
 with devotion. The German felt the sensation of a supe- 
 rior presence growing on himself, as he looked on the 
 fixed countenance of this mysterious being. It was in 
 that misty blending of light and darkness, which the 
 moon leaves as it sinks just before morn. There was a 
 single hue of pale gray in the east, that touched its visage 
 with a chill light ; the moon, resting broadly on the hori- 
 zon, was setting behind : the figure seemed . as if it was 
 standing in the orb. Its arms were lifted towards heaven, 
 and the light came through its drapery with the mild 
 splendor of a vision ; but the German, habituated to the 
 vicissitudes of " perils by flood and field," shook off his 
 brief alarm, and proceeded calmly to explain the source 
 of this miracle. He gave a slight detail of the machinery 
 of the pistol, and alluded to the history of gunpowder. 
 " It must be a mighty instrument in the hands of man, 
 for either good or ill," said the former. " How much it 
 must change the nature of war ! How much it must in- 
 fluence the fate of nations ! By whom was this wondrous 
 secret revealed to the treaders upon earth ? " 
 
 " A German." 
 
 The form seemed suddenly to enlarge ; its feebleness 
 of voice was gone ; its attitude was irresistibly noble. Be- 
 fore it uttered a word, it looked as made to persuade and 
 command. Its outer robe had been flung away : it stood
 
 THE PLAY AT VENICE. 237 
 
 with an antique dress of brilliant white, gathered in many 
 folds, and edged with a deep border of purple ; a slight 
 wreath of laurel, dazzling green, was on its brow. It 
 looked like the genius of eloquence. " Stranger," it said, 
 pointing to the Apennines, which were then beginning to 
 be marked by the twilight, " eighteen hundred years have 
 passed since I was the glory of all beyond those mountains. 
 Eighteen hundred years have passed into the great flood 
 of eternity since I entered Rome in triumph, and was 
 honored as the leading mind of the great intellectual 
 empire of the world. But I knew nothing of those things. 
 I was a child to you ; we were all children to the discov- 
 erers of those glorious potencies. But has Italy not been 
 still the mistress of mind 1 She was then first of the 
 first : has she not kept her superiority ? Show me her no- 
 ble inventions. I must soon sink from the earth let me 
 learn still to love my country." 
 
 The listener started back. " Who, what are you ? " 
 " I am a spirit. I was Cicero. Show me, by the love 
 of a patriot, what Italy now sends out to enlighten man- 
 kind." 
 
 The German looked embarrassed; but, in a moment 
 after, he heard the sound of a pipe and tabor. He point- 
 ed in silence to the narrow street from which the inter- 
 ruption came. A ragged figure tottered out with a barrel 
 organ at his back, a frame of puppets in his hand, a hur- 
 dy-gurdy round his neck, and a string of dancing dogs in 
 his train. Cicero uttered but one sigh " Is this Italy ! " 
 The German bowed his head. The showman began his 
 cry " Raree show, fine raree show against the wall ! 
 Fine Madama Catrina dance upon de ground. Who come 
 for de galantee show ! " The organ struck up, the dogs 
 danced, the Italian capered round them. Cicero raised 
 his broad gaze to heaven. " These the men of my coun- 
 try ! These the orators, the poets, the patriots of man- 
 kind ! What scorn and curse of Providence can have
 
 238 THE SON AND HEIR. 
 
 fallen upon them! " As he gazed, tears suddenly suffused 
 his eyes ; the first sun-beam struck across the spot where 
 he stood; a purple mist rose around him, and he was gone ! 
 
 ********* 
 
 The Venetians, with one accord, started from their 
 seats and rushed out of the hall. The prince and his 
 suite had previously arranged every thing for leaving the 
 city, and they were beyond the Venetian territory by sun- 
 rise. Another night in Venice, they would have been on 
 their way to the other world. 
 
 THE SON AND HEIR; A STORY FOR THE 
 IRASCIBLE. 
 
 MY youth was passed in the thoughtless and extrava- 
 gant gayety of the French court. My temper was always 
 violent ; and I returned home one morning, long after mid- 
 night, frantic with rage at some imaginary insult which I 
 had received. My servant endeavored to speak to me as 
 I entered the house; but I repulsed him violently, and 
 rushed up to my room. I locked the door, and sat down 
 instantly to write a challenge. My hand trembled so much 
 that it would not hold the pen : I started up and paced the 
 room : the pen was again in my hand, when I heard a low 
 voice speaking earnestly at the door, entreating to be ad- 
 mitted. The voice was that of my father's old and favorite 
 servant. I opened the door to him. The old man looked 
 upon me with a very sorrowful countenance, and I hastily 
 demanded the reason of his appearance. He stared at me 
 with surprise, and spoke not : he walked to the table where I 
 had sat down, and took from it a letter, which, in my rage, 
 I had not noticed. It announced to me the dangerous ill- 
 jss of my father : it was written by my mother, and en-
 
 THE SON AND HElR. 239 
 
 treatingly besought me instantly to return to them. Be- 
 fore dawn I was far from Paris. My father's residence 
 was in the north of England. I arrived here only in time 
 to follow the corpse of my beloved father to the grave. 
 Immediately on my return from the funeral, my mother 
 sent to me, requesting my attendance in her own apart- 
 ment. Traces of a deep-seated grief were fresh upon her 
 fine countenance; but she received me with calm serious- 
 ness. Lore for her living child had struggled with her 
 sorrow for the dead ; and she had chosen that hour to 
 rouse me from the follies, from the sins of my past life. 
 My mother was always a superior woman. I felt, as I 
 listened to her, the real dignity of a Christian matron's 
 character. She won me by the truth, the affection, the 
 gentleness of her words. She spoke plainly of my de- 
 grading conduct, but she did not upbraid me. She set 
 before me the new duties which I was called upon to per- 
 form. She said, " I know you will not trifle with those 
 duties. You are not your own, my son ; you must not 
 live to yourself; you profess the name of Christian ; you 
 can hold no higher profession. God hath said to each of 
 us, ' My son, give me thine heart.' Have you given your 
 heart and its desires to God ? Can you be that pitiful 
 creature, a half Christian ? I have spoken thus, because 
 I know that, if you have clear ideas of your first duties, 
 and do strive to perform them, then will your relative du- 
 ties be no longer lightly regarded. Oh, my SOD, God knows 
 what I feel in speaking to you thus in my heaviest hour 
 of affliction ; and 1 can only speak as a feeble and per- 
 plexed woman. I know not how to counsel you; but I do 
 beseech you to think for yourself, and to pray earnestly to 
 God for his wisdom and guidance." Before I left my 
 mother's presence, she spoke to me also on my master 
 passion, anger, mad ungovernable rage. She told me that, 
 even in the early years of my childhood, she had trem- 
 bled at my anger : she confessed that she dreaded to hear,
 
 240 THE SON AND HEIR. 
 
 while I was absent, that it had plunged me into some hor- 
 rid crime. She knew not how just her fears had been ; 
 for had not my father's death recalled me to England, I 
 should probably have been the murderer of that thought- 
 less strippling who had unknowingly provoked me, and 
 whom I was about to challenge to fight on the morning I 
 left Versailles. 
 
 My mother did not speak to me in vain. I determined 
 to turn at once from my former ways, to regulate my con- 
 duct by the high and holy principles of the religion I pro- 
 fessed, and to reside on my own estate, in habits of manly 
 and domestic simplicity. 
 
 About three years after I had succeeded to the titles 
 and possessions of my forefathers, I became the husband 
 of the Lady Jane N e; and I thought myself truly happy. 
 Two years passed away, and every day endeared my sweet 
 wife to my heart ; but I was not quite happy. We had no 
 chiH. I had but one wish; one blessing seemed alone 
 denied the birth of a son. My thoughts, in all their 
 wanderings, reverted to one hope the birth of a son an 
 heir to the name, the rank, the estates of my family. 
 When I knelt before God, I forgot to pray that he would 
 teach me what to pray for ; I did not entreat that his wis- 
 dom would direct me how to use what his goodness gave. 
 No, I prayed as for my life, I prayed without ceasing, but 
 I chose the blessing. I prayed for a son my prayers 
 were at last granted a son was born to us a beautiful, 
 healthy boy. I thought myself perfectly happy. My de- 
 light was more than ever to live in the pleasant retirement 
 of my own home, so that year after year passed away, and 
 only settled me down more entirely in the habits of domes- 
 tic life. My boy grew up to be a tall and healthy lad ; his 
 intellect was far beyond his years; and I loved to make 
 him my companion, as much from the charming freshness 
 of his thoughts, as from the warmth of my attachment to- 
 wards the child. I learned to wonder at the satisfaction
 
 THE SON AND HEIR. 241 
 
 I had once felt in mere worldly society, as I studied the 
 character of my son. He was not without the faults which 
 all children possess, which are rooted deep in human na- 
 ture ; but in all his faults, in his deceit, and what child is 
 not taught deceit by his own heart ? there was a charm- 
 ing awkwardness, an absence of all worldly trick, which 
 appeared then very new to me. I used all my efforts to 
 prevent vice from becoming habitual to him ; I strove to 
 teach him the government of himself, by referring not only 
 every action, but every thought, to one high and holy prin- 
 ciple of thinking and acting to God ; and I strove to build 
 up consistent habits on the foundation of holy principle. 
 I was so anxious about my son, that I did not dare to treat 
 his faults with a foolish indulgence. I taught him to know 
 that I could punish, and that I would be obeyed ; yet he 
 lived with me, I think, in all confidence of speech and 
 action, and seemed never so happy as when he sat at my 
 feet, and asked me, in the eagerness of his happy fancies, 
 more questions than I could, in truth, answer. I cannot 
 go on speaking thus of those joyous times which are gone 
 forever ; I will turn to a darker subject to myself. 
 While I gave up my time, my thoughts, my soul's best en- 
 ergies to my child, I neglected myself, the improvement 
 of my own heart and its dispositions. This may seem 
 strange and improbable to some. It may be imagined that 
 the habits of strict virtue which I taught to my son would, 
 in the teaching, have been learnt by myself; and that, in 
 the search after sound wisdom for him, I must have turn- 
 ed up, as it were, many treasures needed by myself. It 
 would be so in most instances, perchance ; it was not so in 
 mine. The glory of God had not been my first wish when 
 I prayed for a son. I had imposed upon myself in think- 
 ing that I acted in the education of my child upon that 
 sacred principle. It was honor among men I looked for. 
 I had sought to make my son every thing that was excel- 
 lent ; but I had not sought to make myself hi for the work 
 21
 
 242 THE SON AND HEIR. 
 
 I undertook. My own natural faults had been suffered by 
 me to grow almost unchecked, while I had been watchful 
 over the heart of my child. Above all, the natural infirm- 
 ity of my character anger, violent, outrageous anger was 
 at times the master, the tyrant of my soul. Too frequent- 
 ly had I corrected my child for the fault which he inherit- 
 ed from me ; but how had I done so ? when passionately 
 angry myself, I had punished my boy for want of temper. 
 Could it be expected that Maurice would profit by my in- 
 structions, when my example too often belied my words ? 
 But I will pass on at once to my guilt. 
 
 The countess, my mother, had given to Maurice a beau- 
 tiful Arabian horse. I loved to encourage the boy in all 
 manly exercises. While a mere child, he rode with a grace 
 which I have seldom seen surpassed by the best horsemen. 
 How nobly would he bear himself, as, side by side on our 
 fleet horses, we flew over the open country ! Often, often 
 do I behold in memory his clear, sparkling eyes glancing 
 with intelligence ; his fair brow contracted with that slight 
 and peculiar frown, which gives assurance that the mind 
 shares in the smile of the lips. Often do I see before me 
 the pure glow flooding over his cheek, the waves of bright 
 hair floating away from his shoulders, as he galloped full 
 in the face of the fine free wind. 
 
 My boy loved his Araby courser as all noble-spirited 
 boys love a favorite horse. He loved to dress, and to feed, 
 and to caress the beautiful creature ; and Selim knew his 
 small, gentle hand, and would arch his sleek and shining 
 neck when the boy drew nigh, and turn his dark, lustrous 
 eye, with a look like that of pleased recognition, on him, 
 when his master spoke. 
 
 My child was about eleven years old at the time I must 
 now speak of. He usually passed many hours of the morn- 
 ing in the library with me. It was on the 17th of June, a 
 lovely spring morning, Maurice had been very restless and 
 inattentive to his books. The sunbeams dazzled his eyes,
 
 THE SON AND HEIR. 243 
 
 and the fresh wind fluttered among the pages before him. 
 The boy removed his books, and sat down at a table far 
 from the open window. I turned round, an hour after, 
 from a volume which had abstracted all my thoughts. 
 The weather was very hot, and the child had fallen fast 
 asleep. He started up at once when I spoke. I asked 
 him if he could say his lesson? He replied, " Yes," and 
 brought the book instantly ; but he scarcely knew a word, 
 and he seemed careless, and even indifferent. I blamed 
 him, and he replied petulantly. I had given back the 
 book to him, when a servant entered, and told me that a 
 person was waiting my presence below. With a somewhat 
 angry tone, I desired the boy not to stir from the room 
 till I returned, and then to let me hear him say his lesson 
 perfectly. He promised to obey me. There is a small 
 closet opening from the library ; the window of this closet 
 overlooks the stable. Probably the dear child obeyed me 
 in learning perfectly his lesson ; but I was detained long ; 
 and he went to the closet in which I had allowed him to 
 keep the books belonging to himself. A bow and arrows, 
 which I had lately given him, were there; perhaps the 
 boy could not resist looking on them ; they were lying on 
 the floor when I entered afterwards. From that closet 
 Maurice heard the sound of a whip he heard quick and 
 brutal strokes falling heavily. Springing up, he ran to the 
 window ; beneath, he saw one of the grooms beating, with 
 savage cruelty, his beautiful and favorite little courser. 
 The animal seemed almost maddened with the blows ; and 
 the child called out loudly to bid the man desist. At first 
 the groom scarcely heeded him, and then, smiling coldly 
 at the indignant boy, told him that the beating was neces- 
 sary, and that so young a gentleman could not understand 
 how a horse should be managed. In vain did my child 
 command the brutal fellow to stop. The man pretended 
 not to hear him, and led the spirited creature farther away 
 from beneath the window. Instantly the boy rushed from
 
 244 THE SON AND HEIR. 
 
 the room, and in a few moments was in the yard below. 
 I entered the library shortly after my son had left it. The 
 person who had detained me, brought news which had 
 much disconcerted, nay, displeased me. I was in a very 
 ill humor when I returned to the room where I had left 
 Maurice ; I looked vainly for him, and was very angry to 
 perceive that my request had been disobeyed ; the closet 
 door was open ; I sought him there. While I wondered 
 at his absence, I heard his voice loud in anger. For some 
 moments, I gazed from the window in silence. Beneath 
 stood the boy, holding with one hand the reins of his 
 courser, who trembled all over, his fine coat and slender 
 legs reeking and streaming with sweat ; in his other hand 
 there was a horse-whip, with which the enraged boy was 
 lashing the brutal groom. In a voice of loud anger, I 
 called out. The child looked up ; and the man, who had 
 before stood with his arms folded, and a smile of calm in- 
 solence on his face, now spoke with pretended mildness, 
 more provoking to the child, but which then convinced 
 me that Maurice was in fault. He spoke, but I silenced 
 him, and commanded him to come up to me instantly. He 
 came instantly, and stood before me yet panting with emo- 
 tion, his face all flushed, and his eyes sparkling with pas- 
 sion. Again he would have spoken, but I would not 
 hear. " Tell me, sir," I cried ; " answer me one ques- 
 tion ; are you right, or wrong 1" "Right," the boy re- 
 plied, proudly. He argued with me my fury burst out. 
 Alas ! I knew not what I did ! but I snatched the whip 
 from his hand ; I raised the heavy handle ; I meant not 
 to strike where I did. The blow fell with horrid force on 
 his fair head. There was iron on the handle, and my 
 child, my only son, dropped lifeless at my feet. Ere he 
 fell, I was deadly cold, and the murderous weapon had 
 dropped away from my hand. Stiffened with horror, I 
 stood over him speechless, and rooted awhile to the spot. 
 At last the yells of my despair brought others to me ; the
 
 THE SON AND HETR. 245 
 
 wretched groom was the first who came I saw no more, 
 but fell in a fit beside my lifeless child. 
 
 When I woke up to a sense of what passed around me, 
 I saw the sweet countenance of my wife bent over me 
 with an expression of most anxious tenderness. She was 
 wiping away the tears from her eyes, and a faint smile 
 broke into her face as she perceived my returning sense. 
 
 I caught hold of her arm with a strong grasp, and lifted 
 up my head ; but my eyes looked for the body of my 
 child it was not there. "Where is it?" I cried; 
 " where is the body of my murdered boy 1 " When I 
 spoke the word "murdered," my wife shrieked I was 
 rushing out she stopped me, and said, "He is not dead; 
 he is alive." My heart melted within me, and tears rain- 
 ed from my eyes. My wife led me to the chamber where 
 they had laid my child. He was alive, if such a state 
 could be called life. Still his eyelids were closed ; still 
 his cheeks, even his lips, were of a ghastly whiteness ; 
 still his limbs were cold and motionless. They had un- 
 dressed him, and my mother sat in silent grief beside his 
 bed. When I came near, she uncovered his fair chest, 
 and placed my hand over his heart. I felt a thick and 
 languid beating there, but the pulse of his wrists and tem- 
 ples was scarcely perceptible. My mother spoke to me. 
 " We have examined the poor child," she said, " but we 
 find no wound, no bruise, no marks of violence. Whence 
 is this dreadful stupor ? No one can answer me." " I 
 can answer you," I said : " no one can answer but myself. 
 I am the murderer of the child. In my hellish rage, I 
 struck his blessed head." I did not see the face of my 
 wife, or my mother; as I spoke, I hung my head ; but I 
 felt my wife's hand drop from me ; I heard my mother's 
 low, heart-breaking groan. I looked up, and saw my wife. 
 She stood before me like a marble figure rather than a 
 creature of life ; yet her eyes were fixed on me, and her 
 soul seemed to look out in their gaze. " Oh, my husband," 
 21 *
 
 246 THE SON AND HEIR. 
 
 she cried out at length, " I see plainly in your face what 
 you suffer. Blessed God, have mercy, have mercy on 
 him ! He suffers more than we all. His punishment is 
 greater than he can bear ! " She flung her arms round 
 my neck ; she strove to press me nearer to her bosom ; 
 but I would have withdrawn myself from her embrace. 
 " Oh, do not shame me thus," I cried ; " remember, you 
 must remember, that you are a mother." " I cannot for- 
 get that I am a wife, my husband," she replied, weeping. 
 " No, no; I feel for you, and I must feel with you in every 
 sorrow. How do I feel with you now, in this overwhelm- 
 ing affliction ! " My mother had fallen on her knees when 
 I declared my guilt ; my wife drew me towards her ; and, 
 rising up, she looked me in the face. " Henry," she said, 
 in a faint, deep voice, " I have been praying for you, for 
 us all. My son, look not thus from me." As she was 
 speaking, the surgeon of my household, who had been 
 absent when they first sent for him, entered the chamber. 
 My kind mother turned from me, and went at once with 
 him to the bedside of the child. I perceived her inten- 
 tion to prevent my encountering the surgeon. She would 
 have concealed, at least for a while, her son's dis- 
 grace ; but I felt my horrid guilt too deeply to care about 
 shame. Yet I could not but groan within me, to per- 
 ceive the good man's stare, his revolting shudder, while 
 I described minutely the particulars of my conduct to- 
 wards my poor boy. I stood beside him as he examined 
 the head of my child. I saw him cut away the rich curls; 
 and he pointed out to me a slight swelling beneath them; 
 but in vain did he strive to recover the lifeless form : his 
 efforts were, as those of my wife and mother had been, 
 totally without success. For five days, I sat by the bed- 
 side of my son, who remained, as at first, still in that death- 
 like stupor, but gradually a faint, life-like animation stole 
 over him ; so gradually indeed, that he opened not his eyes 
 till the evening of the fourth day; and, even then, he knew
 
 THE SON AND HEIR. 247 
 
 us not, and noticed nothing. Oh, few can imagine what 
 my feelings were ! How my first faint hopes lived, and 
 died, and lived again, as the beating of his heart became 
 more full and strong as he first moved the small hand, 
 which I held in mine, and at last stretched out his limbs. 
 After he had unclosed his eyes, he breathed with the soft 
 and regular respiration of a healthy person, and then 
 slept for many hours. It was about noon on the fifth day, 
 that he woke from that sleep. The sun had shone so 
 full into the 'room, that I partly closed the shutters to 
 shade his face. Some rays of sunshine pierced through 
 the crevices of the shutter, and played upon the coverlet 
 of his bed. My child's face was turned towards me, and 
 I watched eagerly for the first gleam of expression there. 
 He looked up, and then around him, without moving his 
 head. My heart grew sick within me, as I beheld the 
 smile which played over his face. He perceived the dan- 
 cing sunbeam, and put his fingers softly into the streak of 
 light, and took them away, and smiled again. I spoke to 
 him, and took his hand in my own ; but he had lost all 
 memory of me, and saw nothing in my face to make him 
 smile. He looked down on my trembling hand, and play- 
 ed with my fingers , and when he saw the ring which I 
 wore, he played with that, while the same idiot smile came 
 back to his vacant countenance. 
 
 My mother now led me from the room. I no longer re- 
 fused to go. I felt that it was fit that I should " commune 
 with my own heart, and in my chamber, and be still." 
 They judged rightly in leaving me to perfect solitude. 
 The calm of my misery was a change like happiness to 
 me. A deadness of every faculty, of all thought and feel- 
 ing, fell on me like repose. When Jane came to me, I 
 had no thought to perceive her presence. She took my 
 hands tenderly within hers, and sat down beside me on 
 the floor. She lifted up my head from the boards, and 
 supported it on her knees. I believe she spoke to me
 
 248 THE SON AND HEIR. 
 
 many times without my replying. At last I heard her, 
 and rose up at her entreaties. " You are ill; your hands 
 are burning, my beloved," she said. "Go to bed, I be- 
 seech you. You need rest." I did as she told me. She 
 thought I slept that night ; but the lids seemed tightened 
 and drawn back from my burning eye-balls. All the next 
 day I lay in the same hot and motionless state I cannot 
 call it repose. 
 
 For days I did not rise. I allowed myself to sink un- 
 der the weight of my despair. I began to give up every 
 idea of exertion. 
 
 My mother, one morning, came to my chamber. She 
 sat down by my bedside, and spoke to me. I did not, 
 could not, care to notice her who spoke to me. My 
 mother rose, and walked round to the other side of the 
 bed, towards which my face was turned. There she stood, 
 and spoke again solemnly. " Henry," she said, " I com- 
 mand you to rise. Dare you to disobey your mother ? No 
 more of this unmanly weakness. I must not speak in 
 vain. I have needed to command before. My son, be your- 
 self. Think of all the claims which this life has upon 
 you; or, rather, think of the first high claim of Heaven, 
 and let that teach you to think of other duties, and to per- 
 form them. Search your own heart. Probe it deeply. 
 Shrink not. Know your real situation in all its bearings. 
 Changed as it is, face it like a man, and seek the strength 
 of God to support you. I speak the plain truth to you. 
 Your child is an idiot. You must answer to God for your 
 crime. You will be execrated by mankind, for your hand 
 struck the mind's life from him. These are harsh words, 
 but you can bear them better than your own confused and 
 agonizing thoughts. Rise up and meet your trial. Tell 
 me simply that you obey me. I will believe you, for you 
 never yet have broken your word to me." I replied im- 
 mediately, rising up, and saying, " I do promise to obey 
 you. Within this hour I will meet you, determined to
 
 THE SON AND HEIR. 
 
 know my duties, and to perform them by the help of God." 
 Oh ! with what a look did my noble mother regard me, as 
 I spoke. " God strengthen you, and bless you," she said; 
 " I cannot now trust myself to say more." Her voice was 
 feeble and trembling now; her lip quivered, and a bright 
 flush spread over her thin, pale cheek; she bent down 
 over me, and kissed my forehead, and then departed. 
 
 Within an hour from the time when my mother left me, 
 I went forth from my chamber with a firm slep, determin- 
 ed again to enter upon the performance of my long-neg- 
 lected duties. I had descended the hist step of the grand 
 staircase, when I heard a laugh in the hall beyond. I 
 knew there was but one who could then laugh so wildly ; 
 and too well I knew the sound of the voice which broke out 
 in tones of wild merriment ere the laugh ceased. For some 
 moments my resolution forsook me. I caught hold of the 
 balustrade to support my trembling limbs, and repressed, 
 with a violent effort, the groans which I felt bursting from 
 my heart. I recovered myself, and walked into the hall. 
 In the western oriel window, which is opposite the door 
 by which I entered, sat my revered mother : she lifted 
 up her face from the large volume which lay on her knees, 
 as my step sounded near : she smiled upon me, and look- 
 ed down again without speaking. I passed on, but stop- 
 ped again to gaze on those who now met my sight. In 
 the centre of the hall stood my wife, leaning her cheek 
 on her hand. She gazed upon her son with a smile ; but 
 the tears all the while trickled down her face. Maurice 
 was at her feet, the floor around him strewed over with 
 playthings, the toys of his infancy, which he had for years 
 thrown aside, but had discovered that very morning ; and 
 he turned from one to the other as if he saw them for the 
 first time, and looked upon them all as treasures. An ex- 
 pression of rapturous silliness played over the boy's fea- 
 tures ; but, alas ! though nothing but a fearful childishness 
 was on his face, all the child-like bloom and roundness of
 
 250 THE SON AND HEIR. 
 
 that face were gone. The boy now looked, indeed, older 
 by many years. The smiles on his thin lips seemed to 
 struggle vainly with languor and heaviness ; his eyelids 
 were half closed, his cheeks and lips colorless, his whole 
 form wasted away. My wife came to me, and embraced 
 me ; but Maurice noticed me not for many minutes. He 
 looked up at me then, and, rising from the ground, walk- 
 ed towards me. I dreaded lest my mournful appearance 
 should affright him; and I stood breathless with my fears. 
 He surveyed me from head to foot, and came close to me, 
 and looked up with pleased curiosity in my face, and then 
 whistled as he walked back to his toys whistled so loudly, 
 that the shrill sound seemed to pierce through my brain ! 
 
 Sunday, August ZOth. 
 
 I have just returned from divine service in the chapel 
 attached to my house. While the chaplain was reading 
 the Psalms, Maurice walked softly down the aisle, and en- 
 tered my pew. He stood before me with his eyes fixed on 
 my face. Whenever I raised my eyes, I met that fixed but 
 vacant gaze. My heart melted within me, and I felt tears 
 rush into my eyes his sweet, but vacant look must often 
 be present with me it seemed to appeal to me ; it seemed 
 to ask for my prayers. Sinner as I am, I dared to think so. 
 It must be, to all, an affecting sight to see an idiot in the 
 house of God. It must be a rebuke to hardened hearts, 
 to hearts too cold and careless to worship there; it must 
 be a rebuke to know that one heart is not unwilling, but 
 unable to pray. Bitterly I felt this as I looked upon my 
 child. He stood before me a rebuke to all the coldness 
 and carelessness which had ever mingled with my prayers. 
 His vacant features seemed to say, " You have a mind 
 whose powers are not confused ; you have a heart to feel, 
 to pray, to praise, and to bless God. The means of grace 
 are daily given to you; the hopes of glory are daily visible 
 to you." O God ! my child stood before me as a more
 
 A SCENE ON THE PONT NEUF. 251 
 
 awful rebuke as a rebuke sent from thee. Did not his 
 vacant look say also, " Look upon the wreck which your 
 dreadful passions have made ? Think upon what / was ? 
 Think upon what / am 1 " With a broken heart, I listen- 
 ed to the words of life ; for, while I listened, my poor idiot 
 child leaned upon me, and seemed to listen too. When I 
 bowed my head at the name of Jesus, the poor boy bowed 
 his. They all knelt down ; but, just then, I was lost in the 
 thoughtfulness of my despair : my son clasped my hand ; 
 and, when I looked round, I perceived that we alone were 
 standing in the midst of the congregation. He looked me 
 earnestly in the face ; and, kneeling down, he tried to pull 
 me to kneel beside him. He seemed to invite me to pray 
 for him. I did fall on my knees to pray for him and for 
 myself; and I rose up, hoping that, for my Saviour's sake, 
 my prayers were heard, and trusting that our heavenly 
 Father feedeth my helpless child with spiritual food that 
 we know not of. 
 
 A SCENE ON THE PONT NEUF. 
 
 IF the French do not follow, in all respects, the pre- 
 cepts of the gospel, at least it must be confessed that they 
 pay due regard to the apostle's injunction, " Weep with 
 those that weep, and rejoice with those that rejoice." I 
 have seen a thousand instances of this disposition ; but I 
 do not know that I ever witnessed one with more pleasure 
 than that which I am about to relate. 
 
 I was crossing the Pont Neuf at the moment when a 
 porter, belonging to the Bank of France, tired of the 
 weight he carried ^it was a bag containing nine thousand 
 francs in silver), stopped to rest himself by leaning against
 
 252 A SCENE ON THE PONT NEUF. 
 
 the parapet wall of the bridge ; but, at the moment that he 
 did so, his valuable load, either from awkwardness or 
 carelessness, slipped out of his hands, and fell into the 
 Seine, which is very deep just in that spot. 
 
 Never shall I forget his look of despair. He made a 
 movement to jump over, and, I believe, would have effect- 
 ed his purpose, but for the presence of mind of a girl, a 
 little delicate-looking thing, about sixteen, a violet seller, 
 who, clasping her arms around him, cried for help, which 
 in an instant was afforded. Myself and some others seiz- 
 ed him : he struggled with us desperately. " Let me go ! " 
 cried he; "I am ruined forever! My wife, my children, 
 what will become of you ? " A multitude of voices were 
 raised at once, some to console, others to inquire ; but 
 above the rest were heard the clear and silver tones of the 
 little violet girl " My friend, have patience, you have lost 
 nothing." 
 
 " Nothing ! Oh, heavens ! " 
 
 " No, no ; I tell you, no. Let some one run for the 
 divers : there is no doubt that they will succeed in bring- 
 ing it up." 
 
 " She is right," resounded from a number of voices, 
 and from mine among the rest ; and in an instant half a 
 dozen people ran to fetch the divers. Those who remain- 
 ed exerted themselves, each in his way, for the solace of 
 the poor porter. One brought him a small glass of liqueur ; 
 another a little brandy, and a third some eau de Cologne. 
 The little violet girl had been before all the rest in admin- 
 istering a cordial, and perhaps hers was the most effica- 
 cious, a glass of pure water, which she held to his trem- 
 bling lips, and made him swallow. "Drink," cried she, 
 "drink it up; it will do you good." Whether it was the 
 water, or the kind and sympathetic manner with which it 
 was offered, that relieved him, I know not ; but certainly 
 one of the two had its effect, for his looks grew less wild, 
 and he became composed enough to make his acknowl-
 
 A SCENE ON THE PONT NEUF. 253 
 
 edgments to the humane spectators, who had shown such 
 interest in his misfortune. 
 
 The divers soon came; and one of them descended with- 
 out loss of time. Never did I witness such an intense 
 anxiety as the search excited : if the fate of every one 
 present had hung on the success, they could not have tes- 
 tified greater interest in it. Soon he reappeared, bringing 
 up, not the bag of silver, but a small iron box. It was in- 
 stantly broken open, and found to be full of twenty-franc 
 pieces in gold : they were soon counted, and found to 
 amount to nearly twelve thousand francs (about four hun- 
 dred and fifty pounds sterling). 
 
 There were three divers, who, overjoyed at their good 
 fortune, speedily divided the prize among themselves ; and, 
 directly afterwards, another descended in search of the 
 porter's bag. This time he returned with it in triumph. 
 The poor fellow could scarcely speak when they put it in- 
 to his hands. On coming to himself, he cried with vehe- 
 mence, " God reward you : you know not the good you 
 have done. I am the father of five children. I was for- 
 merly in good circumstances; but a series of misfortunes 
 reduced me to the greatest distress. All that I had left 
 was an irreproachable character, and that procured me 
 my present situation. I have had it but a week. To-day 
 I should, without your help, have lost it. My wife, my 
 children would have been exposed to all the horrors of 
 want: they would have been deprived of a husband and a 
 father ; for never, no, never, could I have survived the ruin 
 I had brought upon them! It is you who have saved us all. 
 God will reward you he alone can. While he thus spoke, 
 he rummaged in his pocket, and drew out some francs. 
 "This is all I have; 'tis very little; but tell me where you 
 lire, and to-morrow " " Not a farthing," interrupted 
 they with one voice ; and one of them added, " Stop a bit; 
 let me talk to my comrades." They stepped aside for a 
 moment ; I followed them with my eyes, and saw, by their
 
 254 A oCENE ON THE PONT NEUF. 
 
 gestures, that they listened to their companion with emo- 
 tion. " We are all of a mind," said he, returning with 
 them. " Yes, my friend, if we have been serviceable to 
 you, you also have been the cause of our good fortune : 
 it seems to me, then, that we ought to share with you what 
 God has sent to us through your means. My companions 
 think so too ; and we are going to divide it into four equal 
 parts." 
 
 The porter would have remonstrated, but his voice was 
 drowned by the acclamations of the spectators. " Gen- 
 erous fellows ! " " Much good may it do you ! " " The 
 same luck to you many more times ! " resounded from 
 every mouth. There was not one present but seemed 
 as happy as if he or she were about to participate in the 
 contents of the box. 
 
 .The money was divided, and, in spite of his excuses, 
 the porter was forced to take his share. The generous 
 divers went their way ; the crowd began to disperse ; but 
 the porter still lingered, and I had the curiosity to remain 
 in ordgr to watch his motions. He approached the little 
 violet girl. "Ah! my dear," cried he, "what do I not 
 owe you ! But for you, it had been all lost with me. My 
 wife, my little ones must thank you." 
 
 " Ma foil it is not worth mentioning. Would you 
 have me stand by and see you drown yourself? " 
 
 "But your courage, your strength ! could one have ex- 
 pected it from so young a girl ? " 
 
 "Ah! there is no want of strength wherever there is 
 good will." 
 
 "And nobody ever had more of that. Give me six 
 of your bouquets, my dear ; my children are so fond of 
 violets and never have they prized any as well as they 
 will these." 
 
 She twisted a bit of thread round six of her fairy nose-
 
 LACY D VERE. 255 
 
 gays, and presented them to him. He deposited them 
 carefully in his bosom, and slipped something into her 
 hand ; then, without waiting to hear the acknowledg- 
 ments which she began to pour forth, took to his heels as 
 if his bag had been made of feathers. 
 
 The girl looked after him with pleasure dancing in her 
 eyes. " What will you take for the rest of your nose- 
 gays?" said I, going up to her. "Whatever you are 
 pleased to give," cried she with vivacity ; " for that good 
 man's money will burn my purse till I get home to give it 
 to my mother. O how glad she will be to have all that, 
 and still more when she knows why it has been given to 
 me!" The reader will easily believe that my purchase 
 was speedily made: the good girl's purse was something 
 the heavier for it, and I had the pleasure of thinking that 
 I contributed, in a small degree, to reward the goodness 
 of heart she had so unequivocally displayed. She hasten- 
 ed home with her little treasure, and I returned to my 
 lodgings to put my violets into water, promising myself, as 
 I did so, to be a frequent customer to the little nosegay 
 girl of the Pont Neuf. 
 
 LACY DE VERE. 
 
 THE founder of the family of the De Veres came over 
 with the first William, but not as an adventurer, allured 
 by the prospect of gain and the hope of acquiring titular 
 distinction; for the insignia of knighthood had already 
 been bestowed upon him in his own land. When, how- 
 ever, the Conquest rendered it alike the duty and policy 
 of William to attach his Norman followers to his person, 
 Rupert de Vere was one of the first who received solid
 
 256 LACY DB FERE. 
 
 proofs of that monarch's favor. Generation followed gene- 
 ration ; king after king succeeded to the throne ; centu- 
 ries of change, romance, and tragedy, fulfilled their che- 
 quered fate ; and in the historv of all, the De Veres were 
 eminently conspicuous. 
 
 " But Time, that lifts the low, 
 And level lays the lofty brow," 
 
 began, at length, to exercise an evil influence on the 
 fortunes of the house ; and towards the middle of the fif- 
 teenth century, Hugh, the then Baron de Vere, had little 
 to transmit to his children beyond the name and noble 
 nature of his ancestors. Instead of the broad manors and 
 princely dwellings once connected with the title, he found 
 himself reduced to a single castle, situated on the sea- 
 coast in the north of England ; one that, in the proud 
 days of the family, had been erected as a mere hold for 
 the protection of the northern vassals from the incursions 
 of the Scottish borderers. At the period in question, the 
 tears of the Roses those suicidal wars of the same peo- 
 ple were at their height. Every county became, in turn, 
 a field of battle, till the whole kingdom was saturated 
 with the blood of its inhabitants. The ties of neighbor- 
 hood, even of kindred, were dissolved. Inhabitants of the 
 same village, members of one household, separated only 
 to meet again in hatred and blood-thirstiness only to re- 
 unite in the fierce onset of battle neighbors as strangers, 
 friends as rivals, children of one mother as sworn foes ! 
 
 Though it was in consequence of these wars that the 
 family of the De Veres became extinct, from one sorrow, 
 and one disgrace, they were free they neither espoused 
 the cause of rebellion, nor were they divided amongst them- 
 selves. At the first raising of King Henry's standard, the 
 old baron braced on his armor ; and if, owing to the 
 changed fortunes of his house, many went forth to the 
 service of that monarch with a larger train of vassals, not
 
 LACY ])E VERE. 257 
 
 one, whether prince or knight, could compete with Hugh 
 de Vere in the value of his offering. He brought six 
 brave sons, devoted to him and to each other the pillars 
 of his house, the guardians of his age. Even the young- 
 est, the fair stripling Lacy, girt with the sword which his 
 father, when himself a youth, had wielded at Agincourt 
 he, too, was there, stately in step, and bold of heart as 
 the mailed man of a hundred battles. 
 
 That was neither a time nor a court calculated to en- 
 courage tenderness of heart ; and she, the guiding spirit 
 of both, was little subject to its influence; yet, as the bar- 
 on presented his sons, each after each according to his 
 age, an expression of sorrow passed, for an instant, over 
 the countenance of Queen Margaret, when Lacy stepped 
 from the circle and kneeled down. " Nay, nay, my 
 lord," said she, hastily, "leave the boy behind; why 
 expose a life that can benefit neither friend nor foe 1 
 Rise, rise, poor child ; what canst thou do for us ? " "I 
 can DIE ! " said the noble boy, with a passionate enthu- 
 siasm, that thrilled his father's heart with mingled 
 pride and sorrow. "Well said!" replied the queen, 
 fixing her cold, proud eye on Lacy's countenance, yet 
 glowing with emotion. He understood its meaning, and 
 returned the searching glance with something like an ex- 
 pression of indignant defiance. " I perceive he is a De 
 Vere," said the queen, turning to the old baron, for whom 
 the compliment and its accompanying smile were intended. 
 " But where is poor Blanche ? " continued she, again ad- 
 dressing Lacy : " if thou hast left her in the north, she, 
 too, may need a knight's protection : thou art a brave 
 spirit ; but dost thou well to leave her in charge of hire- 
 lings ? For her sake for thine own peril not thy youth 
 in our cause. Lord Hugh, command him back to thy 
 castle : if Warwick keep court in the north, he may 
 chance to see fighting even there." This was no common 
 strain with Margaret of Anjou ; but her own princely boy, 
 22*
 
 258 LACY DE VERB. 
 
 the magnanimous, ill-fated Edward, stood beside her, and 
 the woman and the mother triumphed, for an instant, over 
 the imperious and dark-minded queen. " Craving your 
 grace's favor," said Lacy, in a determined tone, before 
 his father had time to reply, '* were Blanche my wife, in- 
 stead of my sister, I would neither live nor die like a bird 
 in a cage : when the arrow finds me," and the boy pointed 
 as he spoke to his device, a falcon in full flight, " it shall 
 be thus, free and fearless." 
 
 No further expostulation or entreaty was attempted. 
 Lacy accompanied his father and brothers ; and ere time 
 had written manhood on his brow, he had borne his part 
 in many a well-fought field. The various changes in the 
 royal fortune are, however, too well known to require enu- 
 meration here; indeed, except as connected with the for- 
 tunes of Lacy de Vere, they are irrelevant. On him and 
 his they told so soon and so fatally, that, at the period to 
 which this legend is supposed to refer, he was no longer 
 the fair stripling who had vowed to die before he well 
 knew the nature of death. The years that had elapsed 
 since then were, it is true, few in number ; but they had 
 been years of strife and storm, crowded with fearful alter- 
 nations of victory and defeat, flight and pursuit, alike 
 grievous and unavailing. The great struggle was yet un- 
 decided. Lacy de Vere was still a youthful warrior ; but, 
 oh, how changed, how care-worn ! The bloom had forsa- 
 ken his cheek ; buoyancy had left his spirit ; prompt in 
 fight, and cool in council, he played his part in the despe- 
 rate game like one to whom life and death, success and 
 failure, were alike uncertain and indifferent. And to him 
 all things else were changed. He no longer rode forth 
 encouraged by the presence of his father and five brave 
 brothers ; one by one that little company was cut off; each 
 after each, in the order of birth, fell by his side ; and 
 he, the youngest of his father's house, became its 
 head the sole heir of a race of heroes, the last Baron 
 de Vere.
 
 LACY UE VERE. 259 
 
 It was the battle of Towton which invested Lacy with 
 these melancholy honors, and rendered him at the same 
 time a fugitive ; for that battle, so sanguinary in itself, 
 was fatal to the queen and her adherents. Stung to mad- 
 ness by the death of his last surviving brother, and the 
 utter ruin of that cause in defence of which all that was 
 dear to him had perished, the words of Margaret, the tears 
 of Blanche, rushed upon his memory ; that tie of kindred, 
 which he had once so lightly esteemed, now that it was 
 the only one remaining, assumed its rightful sway over 
 his wounded spirit. He found that the relative love 
 which God had planted in the human heart, however it 
 may be outraged for a time by stoicism, by worldly wis- 
 dom, or worldly glory, will return to the proudest bosom 
 in the dark day of adversity. Lacy de Vere, who once, 
 in the delirium of martial pride, scorned his home, and 
 deserted her, who, as the offspring of the same birth, was 
 bound to him by a more than common sisterhood, now 
 flung down the insignia of his rank and bearing, and fled 
 from the field of battle. True to that instinct which gov- 
 erns all men in their misfortunes, he fled towards his 
 long-deserted home ; and he found it, as his fears had well 
 predicted, desolate and in ruins. One horrible peculiari- 
 ty in the present contest was the license assumed by both 
 parties to devastate whatever part of the country they 
 passed through, whether hostile or friendly to their inter- 
 ests. Even those engaged in the same cause were not al- 
 ways safe from each other ; many an old feud was aveng- 
 ed, many a rival removed, or his property destroyed, ap- 
 parently by some excess on the part of the troops, but 
 frequently at the command of their more interested 
 leaders. The devastation which had been wrought in 
 the present instance, seemed more than the result of de- 
 stroyers animated by merely general motives ; there ap- 
 peared to have been a guiding spirit at work. There did 
 not remain sufficient building to shelter a beggar from the
 
 260 LACY DE VERE. 
 
 storm : not a tree, not a shrub, but was either cut down or 
 mutilated ; the grass and corn had been consumed with lire 
 as they stood ; even the paltry hovels which had sheltered 
 the domestic laborers wers levelled with the earth : all 
 was destroyed, without distinction or remorse destroyed 
 in the spirit of hatred. 
 
 Lacy de Vere walked round the remains of this the last 
 hold of his race ; and, in the anguish of a noble spirit 
 brought low by self-reproach, he rejoiced that his father 
 and brothers were in the grave. But when he reached a 
 spot which had once been a little herb-garden walled 
 round, now open on all sides, and choked with the drifted 
 sea sand, rage and grief overcame him he could no lon- 
 ger refrain from the expression of his inward emotions. 
 " Yes," said he, with a bitter Smile, " yes, an enemy hath 
 done this ; but no enemy of King Henry and his cause : 
 it was no Robin of Redsdale with his marauders ; no vin- 
 dictive Warwick ; no savage borderers ; it was my enemy, 
 the enemy of my house : Lionel Wethamstede, thou didst 
 this evil ! Assassin serpent, twice I spared thee in battle, 
 and twice didst thou ride off bidding me seek my flourish- 
 ing home and fair sister ! Blind, blind fool, to cherish a 
 tiger till it longed for its keeper's blood ! Lionel, Lionel 
 Wethamstede," continued the speaker more vehemently, 
 while his whole frame was tremulous with passion, " didst 
 thou slaughter the lamb in the fold ? was the bird crushed 
 with the nest 1 Oh, Lionel, if thou didst spare Blanche 
 in the day of destruction, all, all, were thy sins thousand- 
 fold, shall be forgiven ! If Blanche lives if thou hast 
 spared her I, even I, thine enemy, will bless thee ! " 
 
 Lacy was too much engrossed by his own emotions to 
 be aware that he was watched, or even observed, by a boy 
 couched amongst the rubbish. At the first glaince, the 
 intruder appeared nothing more than a young peasant, 
 worn with fright and famine ; but, upon a second view, 
 his attire, coarse as it was, could not disguise the natural
 
 LACY DE VERB. 21 
 
 grace of the wearer ; nor even the dark cloth bonnet, 
 though of the kind only worn by menials, give a sordid 
 expression to the noble countenance which it shaded. 
 Hitherto he had remained perfectly quiet, eyeing Lacy 
 with mingled anxiety and interest ; but when the last 
 words of the young knight's passionate invocation died 
 upon the air, he rose from his hiding-place with a slow 
 and stately step, and addressed him in a tone that struck 
 like the east wind to the listener's heart a tone of re- 
 proach, if aught so sweet could be said to convey reproach, 
 of affection and deep sorrow. " And where wert thou, 
 Lacy de Vere, when the spoiler stole upon thy heritage 1 
 Where was thy care when she for whom thou mournest 
 prayed thee, by that mystery of love which unites those 
 born in the same hour, to stay and shield her from treach- 
 ery and violence 1 And didst thou spare Lionel Wetham 
 stede ? Look to it ; for, of a truth, in the day of his pow- 
 er, not so will he spare thee : look to it ; for he hath vowed 
 vengeance against all who bear thy name, and all who 
 call thee master; but few, few are those. He hath begun 
 his work well ; think ye not he will finish ? When thou 
 wert young, thou hatedst him ; for the lying lip and craven 
 spirit are hateful to the brave and true. But he saw it 
 he withered in the scornful glances of thy dark eye and 
 he swore to have vengeance slow, secret, but sure ven- 
 geance, on thee and thine ! " " He hath it, he hath it ! " 
 groaned Lacy ; " he hath it, to the last drop of bitterness." 
 " He hath it not," resumed the boy, solemnly. " Dost 
 not thou, the offender, live ? and she who spurned 
 him as a reptile when he proffered her safety and 
 his hand ? Look to it, last of a lordly race ; spare 
 him not the third time. He hath laid thy dwelling in the 
 dust : those who were hirelings he corrupted ; those who 
 were faithful he slew ; and she, who was born to mate 
 with princes, fled for her life to the dark and noisome 
 cavern of the rock. Yet is the work of vengeance in-
 
 262 LACY DE VERE. 
 
 complete. Weep on, Lacy de Vere," continued the mys- 
 terious speaker, after a pause, only interrupted by the bar- 
 on's convulsive sobs; "though thou art a warrior, weep 
 on what knowest thou of grief? It hath come to thee 
 in its royal robes, amid sounding trumpets, and gorgeous 
 banners, and the shout of victory, and the presence of 
 mighty warriors ; but grief hath come to me in lowlier 
 guise in darkness, and cold, and neglect, and hunger, 
 and sickness of heart, and loneliness as of the grave ; 
 and I shall weep no more, unless perchance for thee ! " 
 " Curse, curse me, Blanche ! " said Lacy, vehemently ; 
 for his heart told him that she herself was by his side. 
 " I can bear all things, now I have found thee ; " and say- 
 ing this, he drew her to his bosom, and wept over her like 
 a child. 
 
 Love is a child, that speaks in broken words. It is easy 
 to conceive of the self-reproaches uttered by Lacy, and the 
 sweet forgiveness and consolation spoken by Blanche ; 
 of the anxious question and fond reply; their mutual 
 mourning over the past, and mutual cares for the future, 
 both softened by the reflection, that, come weal, come wo, 
 the bond of affection would never more be divided. 
 There needed neither vow nor witness ; yet there, amid 
 the ruins of that home which had sheltered them through- 
 out a happy childhood, on the hearth-stone round which, for 
 centuries, their ancestors had gathered, the twins, the last 
 of their race, knelt down and vowed to separate no more, 
 but to have, living or dying, one fate, one home, one 
 grave ; and they called upon the spirits of their father and 
 brethren, whose bones lay bleaching on many a field of 
 battle, to witness and sanctify the vow. They arose 
 homeless and friendless nevertheless they arose comfort- 
 ed ; for that love which neither change nor sorrow can 
 lastingly imbitter or absorb, again triumphed in the soul 
 of each. 
 
 The refuge which Blanche had found for herself, on the
 
 LACY DE VERE. 263 
 
 destruction of her home, and the death or flight of those 
 left to guard it, was too fearful a spot to have been select- 
 ed by one less courageous, or under circumstances less 
 appalling. A line of rock extended along the sea-shore 
 for about the space of half a mile, gradually rising from 
 one extremity, and as gradually declining to the other. 
 It appeared one vast parapet, a continued range of stone 
 battlements, erected by nature at once to overlook and 
 brave the ocean beneath. The front was as completely 
 perpendicular as if hewn by the hammer and the chisel, 
 while lichens, mosses, ivy every variety of graceful 
 creeping shrub overspread its surface, as though trained 
 there by the hand of man. It was wonderful to view what 
 seemed a gigantic wall of cold hard stone, thus magnifi- 
 cently embroidered with the foliage of earth, while here 
 and there masses of the hoary, weather-stained rock show- 
 ed like ruined castles amid the clinging " greenery." 
 Nearly at the summit of the highest point, inaccessible, 
 as it would seem, except to the sea-bird and the goat, 
 was a natural arch, scooped out of the rock, and opening 
 into a cavern. The ivy spread around that arch with pecu- 
 liar beauty ; adjacent parts of the rock brightened in the 
 beams of morning, or in the moonlight ; but that cav- 
 ern always retained the same aspect dark, noisome, un- 
 earthly. This was Blanche's refuge the dwelling-place 
 of her who had been delicately reared, as befitted the only 
 daughter of a noble house. Lacy was mute with surprise 
 and terror when he first saw her ascend what appeared to 
 him as inaccessible to the foot as any castle wall. There 
 were, however, though he perceived them not, inequalities 
 on the surface ; and, now clinging to a bush, now grasp- 
 ing a root of ivy, her nailed peasant's shoes tinkling, at 
 every step, against the stony path, her slight figure al- 
 ternately hidden and revealed amongst the shrubs, 
 Blanche, to whom habit had familiarized the perilous as- 
 cent, reached the cavern ; but, as she stood in the dark
 
 264 LACY DE VERE. 
 
 entrance, the moonlight glimmering on her countenance, 
 and her voice coming down from that vast height, a mere 
 "filament of sound," Lacy could have believed her a 
 creature of another world and species. 
 
 She was not, however, companionless in this her aerial 
 home : the goats often repaired thither to rest ; the sea- 
 bird there deposited her eggs ; and to them had she fre- 
 quently been indebted for sustenance when the rock and 
 the shore failed to afford their natural tribute of berries 
 and shell-fish. Necessity, that teacher sterner and more 
 efficient even than duty, soon accustomed Lacy to that 
 difficult ascent and rude hiding-place. He had been too 
 familiar with hardship and sorrow to mourn over outward 
 privations ; and, ere long, he loved that " dim retreat," 
 hallowed as it was by repose and safety, and cheered by 
 the presence of her who was not only his sister, but his 
 best and only friend. 
 
 " His garb was humble ; ne'er was seen 
 Such garb with such a noble mien : 
 Among the shepherd-grooms no mate 
 Had he, a child of strength and state. 
 Yet lacked not friends for solemn glee, 
 And a cheerful company, 
 That learned of him submissive ways, 
 And comforted his private days. 
 To his side the fallow-deer 
 Came and rested without fear; 
 The eagle, lord of land and sea, 
 Stooped down to pay him fealty." 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 The desires which once consumed his spirit were extin- 
 guished ; the vain strife and yet vainer joys and ambitions 
 of the world no longer occupied his mind. " Revenge 
 and all ferocious thoughts were dead : " he could remem- 
 ber his enemies, ay, even Lionel Wethamstede, in peace ; 
 and when he walked among the neighboring herdsmen, 
 lowlier in lot than themselves, or stood in the opening of 
 his mountain-hold, and looked on the ocean roaring be-
 
 LACY Dk. VERE. 265 
 
 neath, or the host of heaven shining quietly above, Lacy 
 de Vere forgot the past, and, calling his sister to his side, 
 pronounced himself a happy man. 
 
 But this retreat, this respite from misfortune, was not 
 destined to remain long unmolested. The battle of Tow- 
 ton had, it is true, placed Edward, Duke of York, on the 
 throne, and wholly destroyed or scattered the adherents 
 of Queen Margaret ; but that remorseless prince, deeming 
 his power only to be secured by continued bloodshed, 
 still allowed his followers to ravage the north, as having 
 been the stronghold of the Lancastrian cause. Among 
 the most active in this murderous employment was Lionel 
 Wethamstede. He knew that Lacy de Vere yet lived, 
 concealed, as he had reason to suspect, in the neighbor- 
 hood of his former dwelling. Except as affording .means 
 of gaining fortune and distinction, the cause of King 
 Edward or Queen Margaret were alike indifferent to him. 
 It was personal hatred which induced him to hunt out the 
 Lancastrians with such relentless zeal the desire to dis- 
 cover and exterminate the last of that family, whose pro- 
 tection he had so long enjoyed and cruelly requited. Du- 
 ring childhood and youth, he had been a favorite with the 
 old Baron de Vere, and, as such, allowed to be an inmate 
 of the castle : before him he had masked, under the 
 show of humility and devoted zeal, the designing, treach- 
 erous spirit, which crouches that it may the more se- 
 curely spring upon its prey, and lays in servile submis- 
 sion the foundation of despotic power. The young Lacy, 
 bold and open as became his birth, instinctively scorned 
 the minion, even before he discovered how well that scorn 
 was merited. Many a proud glance and bitter taunt were 
 bestowed by the fearless youth, little dreaming that of all 
 such, however unnoticed at the time, Lionel kept a too 
 faithful record, and would one day claim for them a dead- 
 ly recompense. And now that day was near at hand. 
 Hatred, once formed in the heart, turns neither to 
 23
 
 266 LACY DE \ERE. 
 
 the right hand nor to the left till its work is done. Love, 
 even the love of a mother for her babe, may be diverted 
 grief, though of a father for his dead first-born, be forgot- 
 ten gratitude may pass like the morning dew, and pity 
 as a noon-day cloud HATRED alone can survive all 
 change, all time, all circumstance, all other emotions ; nay, 
 it can survive the accomplishment of revenge, and, like 
 the vampire, prey on its dead victim ! 
 
 " I know not," said Lacy, as he and Blanche stood to- 
 gether, one evening in the archway of their cavern " I 
 know not why, when all around me is so fair, sadness and 
 forebodings of coming evil should hang so heavily on my 
 heart." " Nay, nay, dear Lacy," replied Blanche ; " look 
 at our castle, which will resist both fire and violence ; our 
 faithfal rock, with all its luxuriant garniture flashing in 
 the light of that departing sun : what should we fear ? 
 Art thou weary of repose, Lacy? or dost thou mistrust 
 thy warder? " continued she, with affectionate playfulness, 
 at the same instant placing her arm within his. But the 
 cloud passed not from her brother's brow, and he replied, 
 in the low, broken voice men use when troubled in spirit, 
 " I tell thee, Blanche nay, count not my words idle, for an 
 influence is on me which I can neither gainsay nor resist 
 I tell thee, evil hangs over us my end is near. Twice 
 I spared Lionel Wethamstede ; and twice, since the last 
 going down of yonder sun, have I beheld myself in his 
 power. Oh ! it was a dark vision, a dream more fearful 
 than a field of battle ! " " Dreams, Lacy, visions ! what 
 of them ? When I dwelt here alone, oh ! how often did I 
 see thee prisoner wounded dying dead ! I, too, had 
 dreams and visions, and yet they came not true; why, 
 then, should thine 1 " Lacy made no reply to this inqui- 
 ry, for he heard it not ; and when he again spoke, his 
 words were but the expression of the melancholy reverie 
 into which he had fallen. " Yes, it was down there 
 stealing along the foot of the rock, half-hidden by the trees
 
 LACY DE VERB. 267 
 
 and underwood, Lionel and his black band six black 
 in spirit as in outward guise not one ever known to 
 strike twice or to spare I knew them all and why they 
 came." " Lacy ! Baron de Vere ! " exclaimed Blanche, 
 shaking his arm, which she held, with her utmost strength, 
 " rouse from this unmanly mood ; let the babe and the 
 peasant start at shadows ; but thou, I pray thee let 
 me not have to blush for him whom I ought to honor ! " 
 " And for whom thou wilt ere long weep," replied Lacy, 
 in an unaltered voice. " Blanche de Vere, misjudge me 
 not ! I spoke neither of flight, nor fear, nor supplication 
 for life, nor of aught that may disgrace a warrior I did 
 but speak of DEATH death, that were welcome if it came 
 only to myself; but my sister, dearer than all the kindred I 
 have lost, were all now living my last, last friend death 
 is on its way to thee too ! " "It will not be death, if 
 shared with thee," replied Blanche, fervently ; " death 
 would be to live when thou wert gone. I did thee wrong, 
 noble, generous brother ! forgive it." And she sat down 
 at his feet, and covered her face with her hands. " Glo- 
 rious orb! " said Lacy, after having for some minutes ear- 
 nestly regarded the sun, which was now slowly descend- 
 ing into the ocean with more than meridian pomp, " un- 
 changed, unchangeable bright at thy setting as on thy 
 first rising most glorious orb, farewell ! And thou too, 
 earth, steeped in the tears and blood of thy children, pol- 
 luted with crime, groaning with sorrow, yet withal so beau- 
 teously appareled, many graves hast thou afforded my 
 father's house : spare it yet another the last : and now," 
 said he, the steady, solemn tone in which he had hitherto 
 spoken changing to one of indignant defiance, while a 
 change as complete overspread his countenance, " now, 
 even now, that grave is needed the appointed hour is 
 arrived yonder the murderers come, black and silent as 
 in the vision ; but the last De Vere dies not like a reptile 
 driven into its hold and crushed in darkness ; the doom
 
 268 LACY DE VERB. 
 
 that is decreed shall be met. Rise, Blanche ! sister by 
 birth, companion in sorrow, daughter of heroes, arise, and 
 let us descend ! let not Lionel have to glory in our shame ! 
 haste ! haste ! I see his black plume waving to and fro 
 his spear glitters through the trees nearer brighter every 
 instant." " I am ready, ready to endure all," said Blanche, 
 firmly ; " but, oh ! let not Lionel see our parting anguish : 
 bless me for the last time here ! " and she laid her head 
 upon her brother's bosom. They stood regarding each 
 other, speechless and in tears : to part was harder than 
 to die. 
 
 Lacy's vision and forebodings were indeed on the point 
 of being realized. The implacable Lionel had learned 
 but too surely their place of retreat, and but too truly was 
 he, with his ruffians, winding along the foot of the rock ; 
 even now they were within view of the cavern, in the 
 opening of which stood that devoted pair, whose doom was 
 sealed before they knew it. A shout of brutal triumph 
 suddenly burst from Lionel and his band, as they halted 
 when sufficiently near the spot : at the same instant two 
 picked archers obeyed their leader's command with mur- 
 derous precision, and ere the defenceless victims could 
 look round or utter a cry, the arrows pierced them, clasped 
 as they were in each other's arms ! One of the shafts 
 had entered Lacy's heart, and in the twinkling of an eye, 
 without word or groan, he was numbered with the dead. 
 For an instant, a single instant, his dying eyes were turn- 
 ed upon his fellow-victim ; and that glance, though tran- 
 sient as the flash of lightning, revealed love stronger than 
 death, love that would exist beyond the grave. The 
 wound received by Blanche, though mortal, was not cal- 
 culated to occasion instant death ; and nobly did she em- 
 ploy the precious respite. 
 
 " My brother shall not become a prey to the birds of 
 the air," were her first words, on perceiving that he was 
 indeed dead ; and, with an energy scarcely human, she
 
 LACY DE VERB. 269 
 
 prepared for her labor of love. Habit had, it is true, ren- 
 dered the ascent and descent of that rock so easy, that, in 
 the darkest night, she would scarcely have missed her 
 footing ; but, wounded as she was at present, her intention 
 to descend, and convey with her Lacy's yet warm and 
 bleeding body, appeared impracticable. Love, however, 
 enabled her to execute what love had induced her to de- 
 termine. Carefully wrapping the corse in every garment 
 she could afford from herself, to defend it in some measure 
 from the sharp points of the rock, she partly drew and 
 partly bore the precious burden down a pathway, which, 
 to any but herself, would, under such circumstances, have 
 assuredly been fatal. She felt neither fatigue nor pain ; 
 she heeded not that every shrub and stone in the descent 
 was sprinkled with her own blood ; her sole care was to 
 shield the senseless body in her arms from wounds and 
 injury. Heaven, in pity, strengthened her for the task, 
 and she reached the ground in safety her labor accom- 
 plished, her reward obtained. Those who had come out 
 against the noble pair gathered around them in silence, 
 some, in truth, touched by this last exhibition of love,, pass- 
 ing even the love of women. She unfolded the coverings 
 from the body, which was now becoming cold and stiff; 
 then, looking upon the armed circle, she fixed her eye 
 on him, the evil spirit whose ministers they were, and 
 addressed him like one gifted with unearthly authority. 
 "Lionel, thy work is finished! thou wert the nursling of 
 our house, and hast become its destroyer ! thou hast 
 rendered bitter for sweet, and evil for good, and in- 
 juries for benefits ! thou hast brought low the old, the hon- 
 orable, the young, the brave, the virtuous, and hitherto 
 none hath stayed thy hand : but come near, Lionel We- 
 thamstede, and I will advise thee of things thatshall befall 
 thee yet. By day thou shall dread treachery, and by night 
 dream visions of horror ; thou shalt flee when none pur- 
 23*
 
 270 LACY DE VERE. 
 
 sue, and be afraid when no fear is : thou hast built thy 
 fortunes in thy master's blood ; some around thee shall 
 build theirs in thine ; as thou hast hated so shall others 
 "hate thee : scorn, and sorrow, and affliction, and want, 
 every evil thou hast wrought on us, shall cleave four- 
 fold and forever to thee and thine yea, cleave as the flesh 
 cleaveth to the bone. Ay, go thy way, man of blood ! brace 
 thy helmet and mount thy steed. Thou mayest escape me 
 now ; but I shall see thee again, where neither horse nor 
 armor will avail thee before God, who will condemn the 
 murderer in the face of heaven, in the day of judgment. 
 Lionel Wethamstede, thou shalt meet me there." 
 
 She ceased. The livid paleness and the damps of death 
 had gradually gathered on her countenance : every sen- 
 tence had been uttered in mortal anguish : nevertheless, 
 she had maintained, throughout, the cold, calm bearing of 
 one already separated from the body. The wretch to 
 whom her words had been addressed shivered under their 
 influence, as though exposed to an ice-blast; superstitious 
 horror mastered the ferocious spirit till then scarcely satis- 
 fied with its revenge ; and, setting spurs to his horse, he 
 departed from the spot like one pursued by an evil spirit. 
 " Let those who shot the arrows complete their work ! " 
 said the dying maiden to the men, who remained fixed to 
 the spot, subdued as by some supernatural agency, and 
 scarcely conscious of their leader's departure " let them 
 wrap us in one shroud, and bury us in the same grave ! " 
 One of the archers stepped forward : he was rude, even 
 savage in his exterior, but nature was not utterly extinct : 
 he kneeled down beside the dying and the dead, and 
 swore to observe the request. " Thy victim blesses thee," 
 replied Blanche ; " farewell ! " She spoke no more, for 
 death claimed his conquest. She stretched herself on the 
 ground beside him whom in life she had loved so well, 
 whom dying she could not forget : placing one arm be-
 
 CALUM DHU. 271 
 
 neath his head, and the other across his bosom, so that her 
 cheek rested against his, she meekly closed her eyes, like 
 a wearied child that sleeps on its mother's lap. 
 
 Thus died Lacy and Blanche de Vere, twins in birth, 
 and twins also in the manner of their death. They slept 
 not, as their fathers before them, in marble monuments 
 adorned with stately devices ; they were laid in the peas- 
 ant's grave, beneath the green and trodden turf, with no 
 record more lasting than its bright but perishable flowers. 
 There was none to mourn over them, none to have them 
 in remembrance, none to perpetuate their name : when 
 they died, they died altogether; and with them the mem- 
 ory of a noble race passed forever from the earth. 
 
 " So fails, so languishes, grows dim, and dies, 
 All that this world is proud of." 
 
 CALUM DHU; A HIGHLAND TALE. 
 
 CALUM DHU was the bravest warrior that followed the 
 banners of the chief of Colquhoun, with which clan the 
 powerful and warlike M'Gregors were at inveterate feud. 
 Calum lived in a sequestered glen in the vicinity of Ben 
 Lomond. His cottage stood at the base of a steep, ferny 
 hill : retired from the rest of the clan, he lived alone. 
 This solitary being was the deadliest foe of the M'Gregors, 
 when the clans were in the red, unyielding battle of their 
 mountain chiefs. His weapon was a bow, in the use of 
 which he was so skilful, that he could bring down the 
 smallest bird when on the wing. No man but himself 
 had ever bent his bow ; and his arrows were driven with
 
 272 CALUM DHU. 
 
 such resistless force, that their feathery wings were always 
 drenched with his foeman's best blood. In the use of the 
 sword, also, he had few equals; but the bow was the 
 weapon of his heart. 
 
 The son of the chief of the M'Gregors, with two of his 
 clansmen, having gone to hunt, and their game being wide, 
 they wandered far, and found themselves, a little after mid- 
 day, on the top of the hill at the foot of which stood Calum 
 Dhu's cottage. "Come," said the young chief, " let us go 
 down and try to bend Calum Dhu's bow. Evan, you and 
 I have got the name of being the best bowmen of our cl&.u: 
 it is said no man but Calum himself can bend his bow ; 
 but it will go hard with us if we cannot show him that the 
 M'Gregors are men of thews and sinews equal to the bend- 
 ing of his long bow, with which he has so often sent his 
 arrows through and through our best warriors, as if they 
 had been men of straw set up to practise on. Come, he 
 will not know us and if he should, we are three to one; 
 and I owe him something," added he, touching the hilt of 
 his dirk, " since the last conflict, when he sent an arrow 
 through my uncle's gallant bosom. Come, follow me 
 down ! " he continued, h^s eye gleaming with determined 
 vengeance, and his voice quivering with suppressed pas- 
 sion. The will of a Highland chieftain was law at the 
 time of which we speak. " We will go down, if a score 
 of his best clansmen were with him," said Evan. " Ay, 
 but be cautious." " We shall bend his bow, then break 
 it," replied the young M'Gregor ; " and then then for 
 my uncle's blood." " He is good at the sword," said the 
 third M'Gregor ; " but this (showing his dirk) will stretch 
 him on the sward." " Strike him not behind," said the 
 young chief: " hew him down in front : he deserves hon- 
 orable wounds, for he is brave, though an enemy." 
 
 They had been concealed by a rising knoll from being 
 seen from the cottage, which they now reached. Knock- 
 ing loudly at the door, after some delay, they were answer-
 
 CALUM DHTJ. 273 
 
 ed by the appearance of a little, thick-set, gray-eyea, old- 
 ish-looking man, with long arms and a hlack, bushy beard, 
 hung with gray threads and thrums, as if he had been em- 
 ployed in weaving the coarse linen of the country and the 
 time. But as he had none of the muscular symptoms of 
 prodigious strength which Calum Dhu was reported to 
 possess, and which had often proved so fatal to their clan, 
 they could not suppose this to be their redoubted foeman ; 
 and, to the querulous question of what they wanted, utter- 
 ed in the impatient tone of one who has been interrupted 
 in some necessary worldly employment, they replied by 
 inquiring if Calum Dhu was at home. " Na, he's gane to 
 the fishing ; but an ye hae ony message frae our chief 
 (Heaven guard him!) about the coming of the red 
 M'Gregors, and will trust me with it, Calum will get it 
 frae me. Ye may as well tell me as him ; he stays lang 
 when he gaes out, for he is a keen fisher." " We were 
 only wanting to try the bending of his bow," said the dis- 
 appointed young chief, "which we have heard no man 
 can do save himself." " Hoo ! gin that is a', ye might 
 hae tell'd it at first, an' no keepit me sae lang frae my 
 loom," said the old man; "but stop" and giving his 
 shoulders an impatient shrug, which, to a keen observer, 
 would have passed for one of satisfaction, triumph, and 
 determination, he went into the house, and quickly return- 
 ed, bringing out a strong bow, and a sheaf of arrows, and 
 flung them carelessly on the ground, saying, " Ye'll be for 
 trying your strength at a flight?" pointing to the arrows; 
 " I have seen Calum send an arrow over the highest point 
 o' that hill, like a glance o' lightning; and when the 
 M'Gregors were coming raging up the glen, like red 
 deevels as they are, mony o' their best warriors fell at the 
 farthest entry o' the pass, every man o' them wi' a hole in 
 his breast and its fellow at his back." 
 
 He had taken a long arrow out of the sheaf, and stood 
 playing with it in his hand while speaking, seemingly
 
 274 CALUM DHU. 
 
 ready to give to the first man who should bend the bow. 
 The M'Gregors were tall, muscular men, in the prime of 
 youth and manhood. The young chief took up the bow, 
 and, after examining its unbending strength, laying all his 
 might to it, strained till the blood rushed to his face, and 
 his temples throbbed almost to bursting but in vain ; the 
 string remained slack as ever. Evan and the other 
 M'Gregor were alike unsuccessful ; they might as well 
 have tried to root up the gnarled oaks of their native 
 mountains. 
 
 " There is not a man," cried the young chief of 
 M'Gregor, greatly chagrined at the absence of Calum 
 Dhu, and his own and clansmen's vain attempts to 
 bend the bow, " there is not a man in your clan can 
 bend that bow ; and if Calum Dhu were here, he should 
 not long bend it ! " Here he bit his lip, and suppressed 
 the rest of the sentence ; for the third M'Gregor gave him 
 a glance of caution. " Ha! " said the old man, still play- 
 ing with the long arrow in his hand, and without seeming 
 to observe the latter part of the M'Gregor's speech. "If 
 Calum was here, he would bend it as easily as ye wad 
 bend that rush ; and gin ony o' the M'Gregors were in 
 sight, he wad drive this lang arrow through them as easily 
 as ye wad drive your dirk through my old plaid, and the 
 feather wad come out at the other side, wet wi' their 
 heart's bluid. Sometimes even the man behind is wound- 
 ed, if they -are ony way thick in their battle. I once saw 
 a pair o' them stretched on the heather, pinned together 
 with ane of Calum's lang arrows." 
 
 This was spoken with the cool composure and simpli- 
 city of one who is talking to friends, or is careless if they 
 are foes. A looker-on could have discerned a chequered 
 shade of pleasure and triumph cross his countenance, as 
 M'Gregor's lip quivered, and the scowl of anger fell along 
 his brow at the tale of his kinsmen's destruction by the 
 arm of his most hated enemy.
 
 CALUM DHU. 275 
 
 " He must be a brave warrior," said the young chief, 
 compressing his breath, and looking with anger and aston- 
 ishment at the tenacious and cool old man. " I should 
 like to see this Calum Dhu." 
 
 " Ye may, soon enough ; an', gin ye were a M'Gregor, 
 feel him too. But what is the man glunching and gloom- 
 ing at ! Gin ye were Black John himsel, ye could na 
 look mair deevilish-like. And what are you fidging at, 
 man?" addressing the third M'Gregor, who had both 
 marked and felt the anger of his young chief, and had 
 slowly moved nearer the old man, and stood with his right 
 hand below the left breast of his plaid, probably grasping 
 his dirk, ready to execute the vengeance of his master, as 
 it was displayed on his clouded countenance, which he 
 closely watched. The faith of the Gael is deeper than 
 "to hear is to obey" the slavish obedience of the East : 
 his is to anticipate and perform to know and accomplish, 
 or die. It is the sterner devotedness of the north. 
 
 But the old man kept his keen gray eye fixed upon him, 
 and continued, in the same unsuspecting tone : " But is 
 there ony word o' the M'Gregors soon coming over the 
 hills? Calum wad like to try a shot at Black John, their 
 chief; he wonders gin he could pass an arrow through his 
 great hardy bulk as readily as he sends them through his 
 clansmen's silly bodies. John has a son, too, he wad like 
 to try his craft on ; he has the name of a brave warrior I 
 forget his name. Calum likes to strive at noble game, 
 though he is sometimes forced to kill that which is little 
 worth. But I'm fearfu' that he o'errates his ain strength; 
 his arrow will only, I think, ^tick weel through Black 
 
 John, but " "Dotard, peace!" roared the young 
 
 chief, till the glen rang again, his brow darkening like 
 midnight ; " peace ! or I shall cut the sacrilegious tongue 
 out of your head, and nail it to that door, to show Calum 
 Dhu that you have had visitors since he went away, and 
 bless his stars that he was not here."
 
 276 CALUM DHU. 
 
 A dark flash of suspicion crossed his mind as he gazed 
 at the cool old tormentor who stood before him, unquailing 
 at his frowns ; but it vanished as the imperturbable old man 
 said, " Haoh ! ye're no a M'Gregor and though ye were, 
 ye surely wadna mind the like o' me ! But anent bending 
 this bow," striking it with the long arrow, which he still 
 held in his hand, " there is just a knack in it ; and your 
 untaught young strength is useless, as ye dinna ken the 
 gait o't. I learned it frae Calum, but I'm sworn never to 
 tell it to a stranger. There is mony a man in the clan I 
 ken naething about. But as ye seem anxious to see the 
 bow bent, I'll no disappoint ye ; rin up to yon gray stane 
 stand there, and it will no be the same as if ye were 
 standing near me when I'm doing it, but it will just be the 
 same to you, for ye can see weel enough, and when the 
 string is on the bow, ye may come down, an' ye like, an' 
 try a flight ; it's a capital bow, and that ye'll fin." 
 
 A promise is sacred with the Gael ; and, as he was un- 
 der one, they did not insist on his exhibiting his art while 
 they were in his presence ; but, curious to see the sturdy 
 bow bent, a feat of which the best warrior of their clan 
 would have been proud, and which they had in vain essay- 
 ed, and perhaps thinking Calum Dhu would arrive in the 
 interval, and as they feared nothing from the individual, 
 who seemed ignorant of their name, and who could not 
 be supposed to send an arrow so far with any effect, they 
 therefore walked away in the direction pointed out; nor 
 did they once turn their faces till they reached the gray 
 rock. They now turned, and saw the old man (who had 
 waited till they had gone the whole way) suddenly bend 
 the stubborn yew, and fix an arrow on the string. In an 
 instant it was strongly drawn to his very ear, and the 
 feathered shaft, of a cloth-breadth length, was fiercely 
 launched in air. 
 
 " M'Alp hooch!" cried the young chief, meaning to
 
 CALUM DHU. 277 
 
 raise the M'Gregor war-cry, clapping his hand on his 
 breast as he fell. " Ha ! " cried Calum Dhu, for it was he 
 himself; "clap your hand behin'; the arm shot that never 
 sent arrow that came out where it went in ;" a rhyme he 
 used in battle, when his foes fell as fast as he could fix 
 arrows to the bow-string. The two M'Gregors hesitated 
 a moment whether to rush down and cut to atoms the old 
 man who had so suddenly caused the death of their belov- 
 ed young chief; but seeing him fix another arrow to his 
 bow, of which they had just seen the terrible effects, and 
 fearing they might be prevented from carrying the news 
 of his son's death to their old chieftain, and thus cheat 
 him of his revenge, they started over the hill like roes. 
 But a speedy messenger was after them ; an arrow caught 
 Evan as he descended out of sight over the hill : sent with 
 powerful and unerring aim, it transfixed him in the shoul- 
 der. It must have grazed the bent that grew on the hill 
 top, to catch him, as only his shoulders could be seen from 
 where Calum Dhu stood. On flew the other M'Gregor 
 with little abatement of speed till he reached his chieftain 
 with the bloody tidings of his son's death. " Raise the 
 clan ! " were Black John's first words ; " dearly shall they 
 rue it." A party was soon gathered. Breathing all the 
 vengeance of mountain warriors, they were soon far on 
 their way of fierce retaliation, with Black John at their 
 head. Calum Dhu was in the meantime not idle ; know- 
 ing, from the escape of one of the three M'Gregors, that 
 a battle must quickly ensue, he collected as many of his 
 clansmen as he could, and, taking his terrible bow, which 
 he could so bravely use, calmly waited the approach of the 
 M'Gregors, who did not conceal their coming; for loud and 
 fiercely their pipes flung their notes of war and defiance 
 on the gale as they approached ; and mountain cliff and 
 glen echoed far and wide the martial strains. They ar- 
 rived, and a desperate struggle immediately commenced. 
 24
 
 278 CALUM DHU. 
 
 The M'Gregors carried all before them : no warriors of 
 this time could withstand the hurricane onset, sword in 
 hand, of the far-feared, warlike M'Gregors. Black John 
 raged through the field like a chafed lion, roaring in a 
 voice of thunder, heard far above the clash, groans, and 
 yells, of the unyielding combatants " where was the mur- 
 derer of his son ? " None could tell him none was af- 
 forded time, for he cut down, in his headlong rage, every 
 foe he met. At length, when but few of his foes remain- 
 ed, on whom he could wreak his wrath, or exercise his 
 great strength, he spied an old man sitting on a ferny 
 bank, holding the stump of his leg, which had been cut 
 off in the battle, and who beckoned the grim chief to 
 come nearer. Black John rushed forward, brandishing 
 his bloody sword, crying, in a voice which startled the yet 
 remaining birds from the neighboring mountain cliffs 
 "where was his son's murderer!" "Shake the leg out 
 o' that brogue," said the old man, speaking with difficulty, 
 and squeezing his bleeding stump with both hands, with 
 all the energy of pain, " and bring me some o' the water 
 frae yon burn to drink, and I will show you Calum Dhu, 
 for he is yet in the field, and lives : rin, for my heart burns 
 and faints." Black John, without speaking, shook the 
 leg out of the brogue, and hasted to bring water, to get 
 the wished-for intelligence. Stooping to dip the bloody 
 brogue in the little stream, " M' Alp hooch! "he cried, 
 and splashed lifeless in ihe water, which in a moment 
 ran thick with his blood. "Ha!" cried Calum Dhu, for 
 it was he again ; " clap your h&^d behin' ; that's the last 
 arrow shot by the arm that sent those which came not out 
 where they went in."
 
 HANNAH. 279 
 
 HANNAH. 
 
 THE prettiest cottage on our village-green is the little 
 dwelling of Dame Wilson. It stands in a corner of the 
 common, where the hedgerows go curving off into a sort 
 of bay, round a clear, bright pond, the earliest haunt of the 
 swallows. A deep, woody, green lane, such as Hobbima 
 or Ruysdael might have painted a lane that hints of 
 nightingales forms one boundary of the garden, and a 
 sloping meadow the other ; whilst the cottage itself, a low, 
 thatched, irregular building, backed by a blooming or- 
 chard, and covered with honeysuckle and jessamine, looks 
 like the chosen abode of snugness and comfort. And 
 so it is. 
 
 Dame Wilson was a respected servant in a most respect- 
 able family, where she passed all the early part of her life, 
 and which she quitted only on her marriage with a man of 
 character and industry, and of that peculiar universality of 
 genius which forms what is called, in country phrase, a 
 handy fellow. He could do any sort of work, was thatch- 
 er, carpenter, bricklayer, painter, gardener, game-keeper, 
 " every thing by turns, and nothing long." No job came 
 amiss to him. He killed pigs, mended shoes, cleaned 
 clocks, doctored cows, dogs, and horses, and even went 
 a.s far as bleeding and drawing teeth in his experiments 
 on the human subject. In addition to these multifarious 
 talents, he was ready, obliging, and unfearing ; jovial 
 withal, and fond of good-fellowship; and endowed with a 
 promptness of resource which made him the general ad- 
 viser of the stupid, the puzzled, and the timid. He was 
 universally admitted to be the cleverest man in the parish ; 
 and his death, which happened, about ten years ago, in 
 consequence of standing in the water, drawing a pond for 
 one neighbor, at a time when he was overheated by load-
 
 280 HANNAH. 
 
 ing hay for another, made quite a gap in our village com- 
 monwealth. John Wilson had no rival, and has had no 
 successor ; for the Robert Ellis, whom certain youngsters 
 would fain exalt to a copartnery of fame, is simply nobody 
 a bell-ringer a ballad-singer a troller of profane catch- 
 es a fiddler a bruiser a loller on alehouse benches a 
 teller of good stories a mimic a poet ! What is all this 
 to compare with the solid parts of John Wilson ? Whose 
 clock hath Robert Ellis cleaned ? whose windows hath 
 he mended? whose dog hath he broken? whose pigs 
 hath he rung? whose pond hath he fished ? whose hay 
 hath he saved ? whose cow hath he cured ? whose calf 
 hath he killed? whose teeth hath he drawn? whom 
 hath he bled ? Tell me that, irreverent whipsters ! No ! 
 John Wilson is not to be replaced. He was missed by the 
 whole parish; and, most of all, he was missed at home. 
 His excellent wife was left the sole guardian and protector 
 of two fatherless girls ; one an infant at her knee, the 
 other a pretty, handy lass, about nine years old. Cast thus 
 upon the world, there must have been much to endure, 
 much to suffer; but it was borne with a smiling patience, 
 a hopeful cheeriness of spirit, and a decent pride, which 
 seemed to command success as well as respect in their 
 struggle for independence. Without assistance of any 
 sort, by needle-work, by washing and mending lace and 
 fine linen, and other skilful and profitable labors, and by 
 the produce of her orchard and poultry, Dame Wilson 
 contrived to maintain herself and her children in their old 
 comfortable home. There was no visible change : she 
 and the little girls were as neat as ever ; the house had still 
 within and without the same sunshiny cleanliness, and the 
 garden was still famous over all other gardens for its cloves, 
 and stocks, and double wall-flowers. But the sweetest 
 flower of the garden, the joy and pride of her mother's 
 heart, was her daughter Hannah. Well might she be 
 proud of her! At sixteen, Hannah Wilson was, beyond
 
 HANNAH. 281 
 
 a doubt, the prettiest girl in the village, and the best. Hei 
 beauty was quite in a different style from the common 
 country rosebud far more choice and rare. Its chief 
 characteristic was modesty. A light, youthful figure, ex- 
 quisitely graceful and rapid in all its movements ; springy, 
 elastic and buoyant as a bird, and almost as shy; a fair, 
 innocent face, with downcast blue eyes, and smiles and 
 blushes coming and going almost with her thoughts ; a 
 low, soft voice, sweet even in its monosyllables ; a dress 
 remarkable for neatness and propriety, and borrowing from 
 her delicate beauty an air of superiority not its own ; such 
 was the outward woman of Hannah. Her mind was very 
 like her person ; modest, graceful, gentle, affectionate, 
 grateful, and generous above all. The generosity of the 
 poor is always a very real and fine thing ; they give what 
 they want ; and Hannah was of all poor people the most 
 generous. She loved to give ; it was her pleasure, her 
 luxury. Rosy-cheeked apples, plums with the bloom on 
 them, nosegays of cloves and blossomed myrtle ; these 
 were offerings which Hannah delighted to bring to those 
 whom she loved, or those who had shown her kindness ; 
 whilst to others, who needed other attentions than fruit 
 and flowers, she would give her time, her assistance, her 
 skill; for Hannah inherited her mother's dexterity in 
 feminine employments, with something of her father's 
 versatile power. Besides being an excellent laundress, 
 she was accomplished in all the arts of the needle, milli- 
 nery, dress-making, and plain work; a capital cutter-out, 
 an incomparable mender, and endowed with a gift of 
 altering, which made old things better than new. She 
 had no rival at a rifacemento, as half the turned gowns on 
 the common can witness. As a dairy-woman, and a rearer 
 of pigs and poultry, she was equally successful : none of 
 her ducks and turkeys ever died of neglect or careless- 
 aess, or, to use the phrase of the poultry-yard on such oc- 
 casions, of " ill-luck." Hannah's fowls never dreamed 
 24*
 
 282 HANNAH. 
 
 of sliding out of the world in such an ignoble way : they 
 all lived to be killed, to make a noise at their deaths, as 
 chickens should do. She was also a famous " scholar," 
 kept accounts, wrote bills, read letters, and answered 
 them, was a trusty accountant, and a safe confidant. 
 There was no end to Hannah's usefulness or Hannah's 
 kindness ; and her prudence was equal to either. Except 
 to be kind or useful, she never left her home ; attended no 
 fairs, or revels, or Mayings; went no where but to church ; 
 and seldom made a nearer approach to rustic revelry than 
 by standing at her own garden-gate on a Sunday evening, 
 with her little sister in her hand, to look at the lads and 
 lasses on the green. In short, our village beauty had fairly 
 reached her twentieth year without a sweetheart, without 
 the slightest suspicion of her having ever written a love- 
 letter on her own account ; when, all on a sudden, appear- 
 ances changed. She was missing at the "accustomed 
 gate;" and one had seen a young man go into Dame Wil- 
 son's; and another had descried a trim, elastic figure, 
 walking, not unaccompanied, down the shady lane. Mat- 
 ters were quite clear. Hannah had gotten a lover : and, 
 when poor little Susan, who, deserted by her sister, ventur- 
 ed to peep rather nearer at the gay group, was laughingly 
 questioned on the subject, the hesitating No, and the half 
 Yes, of the smiling child, were equally conclusive. 
 
 Since the new marriage act, we, who belong to country 
 magistrates, have gained a priority over the rest of the 
 parish in matrimonial news. We (the privileged) see on 
 a work-day the names which the Sabbath announces to 
 the generality. Many a blushing, awkward pair hath our 
 little lame clerk (a sorry Cupid !) ushered in between dark 
 and light to stammer and hacker, to bow and courtesy, to 
 sign or make a mark, as it pleases Heaven. One Satur- 
 day, at the usual hour, the limping clerk made his appear- 
 ance ; and, walking through our little hall, I saw a fine, 
 athletic young man, the very image of health and vigor,
 
 HANNAH. 283 
 
 mental and bodily, holding the hand of a young woman, 
 who, with her head half buried in a geranium in the win- 
 dow, was turning bashfully away, listening, and yet not 
 seeming to listen, to his tender whispers. The shrinking 
 grace of that bending figure was not to be mistaken. 
 "Hannah!" and she went aside with me, and a rapid 
 series of questions and answers conveyed the story of the 
 courtship. " William was," said Hannah, " a journeyman 
 hatter, in B. He had walked over one Sunday evening to 
 see the cricketing ; and then he came again. Her mother 
 liked him. Every body liked her William and she had 
 promised, she was going, was it wrong?" "O no! 
 and where are you to live ? " " William has got a room 
 in B. He works for Mr. Smith, the rich hatter in the 
 market-place ; and Mr. Smith speaks of him O, so well ! 
 But William will not tell me where our room is. I sup- 
 pose in some narrow street, or lane, which he is afraid I 
 shall not like, as our common is so pleasant. He little 
 thinks any where " She stopped suddenly; but her 
 blush and her clasped hands finished the sentence " any 
 where with him!" "And when is the happy day?" 
 " On Monday fortnight, madam," said the bridegroom 
 elect, advancing with the little clerk to summon Hannah 
 to the parlor, " the earliest day possible." He drew her 
 arm through his, and we parted. 
 
 The Monday fortnight was a glorious morning; one of 
 those rare November days when the sky and the air are 
 soft and bright as in April. " What a beautiful day for 
 Hannah ! " was the first exclamation of the breakfast-table. 
 " Did she tell you where they should dine ? " " No, ma'am ; 
 I forgot to ask." " I can tell you," said the master of the 
 house, with somewhat of good-humored importance in his 
 air, somewhat of the look of a man who, having kept a 
 secret as long as it was necessary, is not sorry to get rid 
 of the burthen. "I can tell you; in London." "In 
 London ! " " Yes. Your little favorite has been in high
 
 234 HANNAH. 
 
 luck. She has married the only son of one of the best 
 and richest men in B., Mr. Smith, the great hatter. It is 
 quite a romance," continued he : " William Smith walk- 
 ed over one Sunday evening to see a match at cricket. 
 He saw our pretty Hannah, and forgot to look at the 
 cricketers. After having gazed his fill, he approached to 
 address her; and the little damsel was off like a bird. 
 William did not like her the less for that, and thought of 
 her the more. He came again and again, and at last 
 contrived to tame this wild dove, and even to get the entree 
 of the cottage. Hearing Hannah talk, is not the way to 
 fall out of love with her. So William, at last, finding his 
 case serious, laid the matter before his father, and request- 
 ed his consent to the marriage. Mr. Smith was at first a 
 little startled ; but William is an only son, and an excel- 
 lent son ; and, after talking with me, and looking at Han- 
 nah (I believe her sweet face was the more eloquent ad- 
 vocate of the two), he relented; and, having a spice of 
 his son's romance, finding that he had not mentioned his 
 situation in life, he made a point of its being kept secret 
 till the wedding-day. We have managed the business of 
 settlements; and William, having discovered that his fair 
 bride had some curiosity to see London (a curiosity, by 
 the bye, which I suspect she owes to you or poor Lucy), 
 intends taking her thither for a fortnight. He will then 
 bring her home to one of the best houses in B., a fine 
 garden, fine furniture, fine clothes, fine servants, and more 
 money than she will know what to do with. Really, the 
 surprise of Lord E.'s farmer's daughter, when, thinking 
 she had married his steward, he brought her to Burleigh, 
 and installed her as its mistress, could hardly have been 
 greater. I hope the shock will not kill Hannah though, 
 as is said to have been the case with that poor lady." 
 "O no! Hannah loves her husband too well. Any where 
 with him ! " 
 
 And I was right. Hannah has survived the shock.
 
 THE GOLDSMITH OF PADUA. 285 
 
 She is returned to B., and I have been to call on her. I 
 never saw any thing so delicate and bird-like as she look- 
 ed in her white gown, and her lace mob, in a room light 
 and simple, and tasteful and elegant, with nothing fine, 
 except some beautiful green-house plants. Her reception 
 was a charming mixture of sweetness and modesty, a lit- 
 tle more respectful than usual, and far more shamefaced ! 
 Poor thing! her cheeks must have pained her! But this 
 was the only difference. In every thing else she is still the 
 same Hannah, and has lost none of her old habits of kind- 
 ness and gratitude. She was making a handsome mat- 
 ronly cap, evidently for her mother, and spoke, even with 
 tears, of her new father's goodness to her and to Susan. 
 She would fetch the cake and wine herself, and would 
 gather, in spite of all remonstrance, some of her choice 
 flowers as a parting nosegay. She did, indeed, just hint 
 at her troubles with visitors and servants, how strange 
 and sad it was ! seemed distressed at ringing the bell, and 
 visibly shrank from the sound of a double knock. But, in 
 spite of these calamities, Hannah is a happy woman. The 
 double rap was her husband's ; and the glow on her cheek, 
 and the smile of her lips and eyes, when he appeared, 
 spoke more plainly than ever, " Any where with him !" 
 
 THE GOLDSMITH OF PADUA. 
 
 IN the end of the fifteenth century, when the citi.es 
 of Italy were rendered rich by their trade to the Indies, 
 Padua was one of the most flourishing of its towns, and 
 possessed a body of merchants, and particularly gold- 
 smiths, jewellers, and dealers in silk, with whom Venice 
 itself could scarcely bear a comparison. Amongst these
 
 236 THE GOLDSMITH OF PADUA. 
 
 goldsmiths and jewellers, there was one more eminent 
 than his brethren. His dwelling was upon the bridge ; 
 and Padua was scarcely more universally known in Italy, 
 than Jeronimo Vincente was known for one of its citizens. 
 " It never rains but it pours," says a northern proverb ; 
 " riches beget riches," says an Italian one. Jeronimo 
 found the truth of both these sayings. He was already 
 rich enough to satisfy a dozen merchants, and to make a 
 score of German princes. Fortune, however, did not yet 
 think that she had done enough for him ; every day some 
 traveller was arriving at Padua, in the exchange of whose 
 foreign money for the coin of Padua, he obtained some 
 good bargains, and added to his overflowing coffers. Few 
 died without relatives but he was appointed their ex- 
 ecutor. Many paid tribute to his wealth and reputation 
 by leaving him their heir. The city of Padua gave him 
 all their public contracts ; and he almost sunk under the 
 weight of trusts, offices, &.G., not merely offered, but ob- 
 truded and imposed on him. 
 
 Who could be more happy than Jeronimo Vincente ? 
 So he thought himself as he walked on the bridge of 
 Padua one beautiful summer's evening. A coach of one 
 of the nobles passed at the same moment ; no one noticed 
 it. On the other hand, every one who passed him saluted 
 him. " Such have been the effects of my industry, my 
 dexterity in business, and my assiduous application. Yes, 
 Jeronimo, others have to thank their ancestors ; you have 
 to thank only yourself. It is all your own merit." And 
 with these reflections his stature, as it were, increased 
 some inches higher, and, assuming a peculiar port, and a 
 self-satisfied step, he walked in vanity, and almost in de- 
 fiance of every thing and every one, to his own house. 
 He fell asleep in the same mood, and dreamed that the an- 
 cient fable of Jupiter was repeated in his house, and that 
 the heavens opened, and descended upon him in a shower 
 of ducats and pistoles. In all this soliloquy of Jeronimo,
 
 THE GOLDSMITH OF PADUA. 287 
 
 the reader will observe, there was not a word or thought 
 of any one but himself; he did not attribute his plenty to 
 the blessing of God : he felt no gratitude to him who had 
 showered down upon him his abundance ; his mind, his 
 spirit, and his vanity, were that of Nebuchadnezzar ; and 
 the fate of Nebuchadnezzar was nearer to him than he 
 imagined. It is a part of the wise economy of Providence 
 to vindicate the honor and duty which belong to him ; it 
 is a part of his mercy to humble those who, in forgetting 
 him, are about to lose themselves. He sends them pros- 
 perity as a blessing ; they abuse it, and convert it to a 
 curse. He recalls the abused gift, and sends them adver- 
 sity to bring them to their duty. Such was the course of 
 divine government in the early ages of the world; 
 such it is to the present day ; and such did Jeronimo find 
 it much sooner than he expected. 
 
 On a sudden, without any apparent cause, he saw, to 
 his astonishment, the universal respect to his wealth and 
 reputation on a manifest decrease. Some, who had before 
 nearly kissed the ground in his presence, now looked 
 erectly in his face, and kept their straight-forward course, 
 without giving him the honorable side of the path ; others 
 kept their bonnets as if they were nailed to their heads ; 
 two or three recalled their trusts ; others, happening to call 
 for accounts of such trusts, when he was not at home or 
 busy, spoke in a peremptory tone, dropped hints of the 
 laws of the country and the duty of guardians. In plain 
 words, he gradually discovered himself to be as much 
 avoided as he had heretofore been sought. No one was 
 punctual in his attendance but those to whom he paid 
 their weekly or monthly pensions. If there could be any 
 doubt that something extraordinary had happened, Jero- 
 nirno had, at length, sufficient proof; for, having put him- 
 self in nomination for one of the offices of parochial in- 
 tendant, and of the great church and treasury of Padua,
 
 288 THE GOLDSMITH OF PADUA. 
 
 a competitor was preferred less wealthy than himself by 
 some thousands. 
 
 Jeronimo returned home much confounded at this un- 
 expected defeat. In vain he examined himself and his sit- 
 uation for the cause. " Am I not as rich as ever ? " said 
 he. " Have I defrauded any one? No. Have I suffered 
 any one to demand their payment of me twice 1 No 
 What, then, can be the cause of all this ? " This was a 
 question he could not answer, but the fact became daily and 
 hourly so much more evident, that he shortly found him- 
 self as much avoided, and apparently condemned, in every 
 respectable company, as he had formerly been courted 
 and honored. 
 
 It is time, however, to give the reader some informa- 
 tion as to the actual cause. A whisper was suddenly 
 circulated, that Jeronimo had not acquired his wealth by 
 honest means. It was reported, and gradually believed, 
 that he was an utterer, if not a coiner, of base money. 
 He had the reputation, as has been before said, of being 
 the most able workman in Padua, in gold, silver, and 
 lace ; " And surely," said the gossips of Padua, " he 
 does not wear his talent in a napkin. He employs his 
 dexterity to some purpose." " Are you not speaking too 
 fast ? " said another neighbor ; " I have always held Jero- 
 nimo to be an honest man." " And so have I hitherto," 
 said the other. " But do you see this ducat ? " " Yes, 
 and a very good one it is." " So I thought," said the 
 other, " till I assayed it : this ducat I received from Jero- 
 nimo ; let us prove it at your assay, and you will allow that 
 I did not speak without some good foundation." The pro- 
 posal was accepted, the trial made, and the ducat found to 
 be base in the proportion of one third copper to two thirds 
 silver. 
 
 The name of this neighbor of Jeronimo, who had de- 
 fended him, was Guiseppe Cognigero, a very worthy and
 
 THE GOLDSMITH OF PADUA. 289 
 
 honest man ; not one of those who found a triumph in the 
 downfall of another, though above him in wealth and hon- 
 or. Guiseppe, as he had said, had always held Jeronimo to 
 be a respectable, worthy citizen. He had had many deal- 
 ings with him, and had always found him just and punctual 
 to the lowest coin. " Is it possible," said he to himself, 
 " that, after such a long course of honesty and reputation, 
 he has so far forgotten himself as to become a common 
 cheat? I will not believe it. But this fact of the base 
 ducat ! Well ; but my friend may be mistaken ; he might 
 not have received this ducat from Jeronimo. I am resolv- 
 ed I will make a trial of him myself, before I give in to 
 the belief of these reports in the teeth of so fair a char- 
 acter for so many years." Guiseppe was a shrewd man, 
 and never fixed on a purpose but when he had the inge- 
 nuity to find the means of executing it. He went imme- 
 diately to his home, and, taking a hundred ducats from 
 his private store, went with them to the house of Jeroni- 
 mo. " Signer Jeronimo," said he, " here are a hundred 
 ducats, which I wish to keep secret for a certain purpose. 
 I have just embarked in a speculation of great extent, the 
 result of which no one can foresee. I wish to keep this 
 sum as a deposit, in the event of the failure of my hopes, 
 if you will do me the favor to take the custody of it." Je- 
 ronimo, pleased at a confidence to which he was now not 
 much accustomed, very willingly accepted the charge, 
 and Guiseppe took his leave in the full persuasion that the 
 trial would correspond with his expectations, and that re- 
 port would be proved to be false and malicious. 
 
 In the course of a few days, Guiseppe, according to the 
 plan concerted in his own mind, called suddenly on Jero- 
 nimo. " My dear friend," said he, " I sincerely rejoice 
 that I have found you at home ; a sudden demand has fallen 
 upon me, and I have an expected occasion for the hundred 
 ducats which I deposited with you." " My good friend," 
 said Jeronimo, " do not preface such a trifle with such a 
 25
 
 290 THE GOLDSMITH OF PADUA. 
 
 serious apology. The money is yours ; " and, at the 
 same time opening a private drawer ' You see here it is, 
 just as I deposited it. Take your money, my friend ; and 
 you may always have the same or any other service from 
 me." Saying this, he gave Guiseppe the same bag in 
 which he had brought the ducats to him. 
 
 Guiseppe hastened home, counted and examined the 
 ducats. Their number was right ; their appearance seem- 
 ed good. He sounded them singly. One sounded suspi- 
 ciously; he assayed it; it was base. "Well," said he, 
 " this may be an accident ; I could almost swear, indeed, 
 that every ducat I gave him was good ; but this I might 
 perhaps have overlooked." He sounded another ; his sus- 
 picions increased ; another : he was now determined to 
 assay them all. He did so ; and to his confusion (for the 
 honest man was truly grieved and confounded at the detec- 
 tion of his neighbor's dishonesty), he found thirty bad duc- 
 ats out of the hundred. 
 
 He now hastened back to Jeronirno. " These are not 
 the ducats, sir, I deposited with you ; here are thirty bad 
 ducats out of the hundred." " Bad or good," replied 
 Jeronimo, indignantly, " they are the same which you de- 
 posited ; I took them from your hands, put them in the 
 drawer, and they were not moved from thence till you re- 
 demanded them." Guiseppe insisted, and at length se- 
 verely reproached Jeronimo. Jeronimo commanded him 
 to leave his house. " Can you suspect me of such a piti- 
 ful fraud 1 " said he. " Indeed I never should," replied 
 he, " unless upon this absolute evidence. But there must 
 be a fraud somewhere. Either I am attempting to defraud 
 you, or you to cheat me. It is incumbent upon both our 
 reputations that this matter should be cleared up. I shall 
 go to the magistrates." "Go where you please," said Je- 
 ronimo; " but go without delay." 
 
 Guiseppe immediately hastened to the president of jus- 
 tice. He demanded a summons for Jeronimo. It was
 
 THE GOLDSMITH OF PADUA. 291 
 
 granted. He complained, without reciting the particulars, 
 that Jeronimo had paid him back a deposit, and, in a hun- 
 dred ducats, had given him thirty bad. Jeronimo denied 
 it. " I gave him back the same which he deposited with 
 me." There was a law at Padua termed the " law of wa- 
 ger." The substance of this was, that the party accused 
 had it in his option to clear himself by an oath of his in- 
 nocence. " Will you take your wager ? " said Guiseppe. 
 " Yes," replied Jeronimo. The Holy Evangelists were 
 accordingly presented to him, and Jeronimo swore upon 
 them that he had not touched, still less changed, the duc- 
 ats, since they were deposited with him. The president, 
 accordingly, gave judgment in his favor, being compelled 
 thereto by the laws of Padua ; and Guiseppe, with horror 
 at the united fraud and perjury of the man whom he had 
 hitherto deemed honest and respectable, left the court, and 
 withdrew to his own house. 
 
 This trial excited a universal interest and rumor in Pad- 
 ua. The president of the law had acquitted Jeronimo ; 
 not so, however, public reputation. Guiseppe was a man 
 of established character : Jeronimo's fame had been long 
 blemished. The previous reports, therefore, were now 
 considered as fully confirmed into certainty. The magis- 
 trates, accordingly, deemed it necessary to point the atten- 
 tion of the police to him and to his future dealings ; and Je- 
 ronimo thereafter became a marked character. The police 
 of Padua was administered with that discreet cunning for 
 which the Italians are celebrated. Some of its officers 
 very shortly contrived, in the disguise of foreign merchants, 
 to make a deposit of good and marked money with Jeroni- 
 mo, and shortly after redeemed it back. The money was 
 restored as required. It was immediately carried, as be- 
 fore, in the case of Guiseppe, to the public assay ; and the 
 result was, that the greatest part of the number of the 
 coins was found to be base. 
 
 Jeronimo was next day arrested and thrown into prison.
 
 292 THE GOLDSMITH OF PADUA. 
 
 His house was searched in the same instant. The search 
 most fully confirmed what, indeed, now required but little 
 confirmation. In the secret drawers were found all the 
 instruments of coining, as well as all the materials of 
 adulteration. An immense quantity of base coin was 
 likewise found in different parts of the house. All Padua 
 was now in arms. They clamorously demanded justice on 
 a man who had not the temptation of poverty to commit 
 crimes. " Here is a man," said they, "who has raised his 
 head above all of us, and lived in luxury and splendor, year 
 after year, upon the fruit of his crimes. He has even sat 
 on the public bench of magistrates, and administered the 
 laws of Padua. If justice be not made for the rich, if its 
 object be the defence of all, let him now be brought to 
 trial, and meet with the punishment which he so well mer- 
 its." The magistrates, in obedience to this popular clam- 
 or, and at the same time acknowledging its justice, some- 
 what hastened the trial of Jeronimo. He was brought 
 forward, accused, and the witnesses examined ; he had 
 nothing to allege which could weigh a single grain against 
 the mass of evidence produced against him. He was, ac- 
 cordingly, unanimously condemned. The trial was holden 
 on the Monday : he was found guilty the same day, and 
 ordered for execution in the public square on Friday fol- 
 lowing ; the interval being granted for religious prepara- 
 tions. 
 
 Who was now so unhappy as Jeronimo de Vincente ! 
 and what a vicissitude in his fortune and reputation had 
 a very short time produced ! Within those few months he 
 had been the wealthiest and most respected man in Padua. 
 The noblest families sought his only daughter in marriage ; 
 his wife was the pattern and exemplar of all the ladies of 
 the city and neighborhood ; his house was full of the 
 richest furniture and paintings hi Italy. Now, the officers 
 of justice were in possession of it, and performed the vilest 
 offices in the most magnificent chambers ; whilst, with the
 
 THE GOLDSMITH OF PADUA. 293 
 
 ordinary insolence of such ruffians, they scarcely allowed 
 a corner of the house to his unhappy wife and daughter. 
 And where was Jeronimo himself? In the public prison 
 of the city, in a cell not four feet square, and under or- 
 ders for execution on the next following day. Was not 
 this enough to reduce Jeronimo to his senses ? It was : 
 he humbled himself before God, and implored his pity ; 
 and it pleased the infinite Goodness to hear his prayers, 
 and to send him relief where he least expected it. 
 
 Jeronimo had a confidential clerk, or managing man, 
 of the name of Jacobo. On the day preceding that order- 
 ed for his master's execution, he was going up stairs to 
 attend some message from his unhappy mistress, when his 
 foot slipped, and he fell from the top to the bottom. His 
 neck was dislocated by the fall, and he died without ut- 
 tering a word. The wife of this miserable man, then in 
 feeble health, was so overwhelmed by the intelligence of 
 this disaster, that she was immediately pronounced to be 
 in the most imminent danger. She repeatedly requested, 
 during the night, that Jeronimo's wife might be sent for to 
 her, as she had something very heavy at her heart to com- 
 municate to her. Jeronimo's wife accordingly came very 
 early on the following morning. The unhappy woman, 
 after having summoned up the small remnant of her 
 strength, and requested Jeronimo's wife to hear what she 
 had to say, but not to interrupt her till she had concluded, 
 thus addressed her : " Your husband is innocent ; mine 
 was guilty. Fly to the magistrates, inform them of this, 
 and save my husband's soul from adding to his other 
 
 crimes the guilt of innocent blood. Thy husband " 
 
 She was about to proceed, but death arrested her words. 
 Jeronimo's wife, thinking that her husband was now effec- 
 tually saved, flew to the president of the magistracy, and 
 demanded immediate admission, and related the confession 
 she had just received. The president shook his head. 
 " Where is the woman that made the confession ? " " She 
 25*
 
 294 THE GOLDSMITH OF PADUA. 
 
 is dead." " Then where is the party accused instead of 
 Jeronimo ? " " He is dead likewise." " Have you any 
 witnesses of the conversation of the dying woman ? " 
 " None ; she requested every one to leave the chamber, 
 that she might communicate to me alone." " Then the 
 confession, good woman, can avail you nothing : the law 
 must have its course." Jeronimo's wife could make no 
 reply : she was carried senseless out of the court ; and the 
 president, from a due sense of humanity, ordered her to 
 be taken to the house of one of his officers, and kept 
 there till after the execution of her husband. 
 
 The finishing of this catastrophe was now at hand. 
 Already the great bell of the city was tolling. The hour 
 at length arrived, and Jeronimo was led forth. He was 
 desired to add any thing which he had to say, without loss 
 of time. He satisfied himself with the declaration of his 
 innocence, and with recommending his soul to his Ma- 
 ker, then knelt down to receive the destined blow ; but 
 scarcely was he on his knees, before the whole crowd was 
 thrown into motion by some of the marshals of justice 
 rushing forward and exclaiming to stop the execution. 
 The marshal at length made his way to the scaffold, and 
 delivered a paper, with which he was charged, to the pre- 
 siding officer. The officer, upon reading it, immediately 
 stayed the further progress of the execution, and Jeroni- 
 mo was led back to his prison. " What is all this ? " ex- 
 claimed the crowd. " Have the friends of Jeronimo at 
 length raised a sum of money which our just judges have 
 required of them ? and is his punishment thus bought off? 
 Happy inhabitants of Padua, where to be rich is to be able 
 to commit any crime with impunity ! " 
 
 It is time, however, to inform the reader of the true 
 cause. Jeronimo was scarcely led to execution, when 
 the confessor of the prison demanded access to the presi- 
 dent, and immediately laid before him the confession of a 
 prisoner who had died under a fever the preceding night.
 
 THE GOLDSMITH OF PADUA. 295 
 
 The wretched malefactor had acknowledged that he was 
 one of a party of coiners, who had carried on the trade 
 of making false money to a very great extent ; that Je- 
 ronimo's clerk was at the head of the gang ; that all the 
 false money was delivered to this clerk, who immedi- 
 ately exchanged it for good money from his master's cof- 
 fers, to all of which he had private keys, and in which 
 coffers, on the apprehension of Jeronimo, he had deposited 
 the instruments of coining, lest they should be found in 
 his own possession. The confession terminated with enu- 
 merating such of the gang as were yet living, and point- 
 ing out their places of asylum and concealment. 
 
 The execution of Jeronimo, as has been related, was 
 in its actual operation. The first step of the president, 
 therefore, was to hurry one of the officers to stop its prog- 
 ress, and in the same moment to send off two or three 
 detachments of the city guard to seize the accused parties 
 before they should learn from public report the death of 
 their comrade. The guards executed their purpose suc- 
 cessfully ; the malefactors were all taken and brought to 
 the tribunal the same evening. The result was, that one 
 of them became evidence against his comrades, and thus 
 confirmed the truth of the confession, and the innocence 
 of Jeronimo. 
 
 The president, in order to make all possible atonement, 
 ordered a public meeting of all the citizens of Padua to be 
 summoned on the following day. Jeronimo was then pro- 
 duced, upon which the president, descending from his tri- 
 bunal, took him by the hand, and led him up to a seat by 
 the side of him, on the bench of justice : the crier then 
 proclaimed silence ; upon which the president rose, and 
 read the confession of the malefactor who died in the 
 prison, and the transactions of the others, concluding the 
 whole by declaring the innocence of Jeronimo, and re- 
 storing him to his credit, his fortune, and the good opinion 
 of his fellow-citizens.
 
 296 MASTER AND MAN. 
 
 Thus ended the misfortunes of a man who had provok- 
 ed the chastisement of Heaven by his vanity and self-glory. 
 The course of Providence is uniform in all ages of the 
 world : when blessings are contemned, they are with- 
 drawn when the man unduly elevates himself, the mo- 
 ment of his humiliation is at hand. 
 
 MASTER AND MAN. 
 
 BILLY MAC DANIEL was once as likely a young man as 
 ever shook his brogue at a patron, emptied a quart, or 
 handled a shillelagh : fearing for nothing but the want of 
 drink ; caring for nothing but who should pay for it ; and 
 thinking of nothing but how to make fun over it ; drunk 
 or sober, a word and a blow was ever the way with Billy 
 Mac Daniel ; and a mighty easy way it is of either getting 
 into or ending a dispute. More is the pity, that, through 
 the means of his thinking, and fearing, and caring for 
 nothing, this same Billy Mac Daniel fell into bad com- 
 pany; for surely the good people (the fairies) are the worst 
 of all company any one could come across. 
 
 It so happened, that Billy was going home one very 
 clear frosty night, not long after Christmas: the moon was 
 round and bright ; but, although it was as fine a night as 
 heart could wish for, he felt pinched with the cold. " By 
 my word," chattered Billy, " a drop of good liquor would 
 be no bad thing to keep a man's soul from freezing in 
 him ; and I wish I had a full measure of the best." 
 
 " Never wish it twice, Billy," said a little man in a 
 three-cornered hat, bound all about with gold lace, and 
 with great silver buckles in his shoes, so big that it was a 
 wonder how he could carry them ; and he held out a glass 
 as big as himself, filled with as good liquor as ever eye look- 
 ed on or I' 1 "* tasted.
 
 MASTER AND MAN. 297 
 
 " Success, my little fellow," said Billy Mac Daniel, 
 nothing daunted, though well he knew the little man to 
 belong to the good people; " here's your health, any way, 
 and thank you kindly ; no matter who pays for the drink ; " 
 and he took the glass, and drained it to the very bottom, 
 without ever taking a second to it. 
 
 " Success," said the little man ; " and you're heartily 
 welcome, Billy; but don't think to cheat me as you have 
 done others out with your purse, and pay me, like a gen- 
 tleman." 
 
 "Is it I pay you ? " said Billy ; " could I not just take 
 you up and put you in my pocket as easily as a black- 
 berry ? " 
 
 " Billy Mac Daniel," said the little man, getting very 
 angry, " you shall be my servant for seven years and a 
 day, and that is the way I will be paid ; so make ready to 
 follow me." 
 
 When Billy heard this, he began to be very sorry for 
 having used such bold words towards the little man ; and 
 he felt himself, yet could not tell how, obliged to follow 
 the little man the livelong night about the country, up and 
 down, and over hedge and ditch, and through bog and 
 brake, without any rest. 
 
 When morning began to dawn, the little man turned 
 round to him, and said, " You may now go home, Billy, 
 but on your peril don't fail to meet me in the Fort-field 
 to-night ; or, if you do, it may be the worse for you in the 
 long run. If I find you a good servant, you will find me 
 an indulgent master." 
 
 Home went Billy Mac Daniel ; and though he was tired 
 and wearied enough, never a wink of sleep could he get 
 for thinking of the little man ; and he was afraid not to 
 do his bidding; so up he got in the evening, and away he 
 went to the Fort-field. He was not long there before the 
 little man came towards him, and said, " Billy, I want to 
 go a long journey to-night ; so saddle one of my horses,
 
 298 MASTER AND MAN. 
 
 and you may saddle another for yourself, as you are to 
 go along with me, and may be tired after your walk 
 last night." 
 
 Billy thought this very considerate of his master, and 
 thanked him accordingly. " But," said he, " if I may be 
 so bold, sir, I would ask, which is the way to your stable? 
 for never a thing do I see but the Fort here, and the old 
 tree in the corner of the field, and the stream running at 
 the bottom of the hill, with the bit of bog over against us." 
 
 " Ask no questions, Billy," said the little man, " but go 
 over to that bit of bog, and bring me two of the strongest 
 rushes you can find." 
 
 Billy did accordingly, wondering what the little man 
 would be at ; and he picked out two of the stoutest rushes 
 he could find, with a little bunch of brown blossom stuck 
 at the side of each, and brought them back to his master. 
 
 " Get up, Billy," said the little man, taking one of the 
 rushes from him, and striding across it. 
 
 " Where shall I get up, please your honor ? " said Billy. 
 
 " Why, upon horseback, like me, to be sure," said the 
 little man. 
 
 " Is it after making a fool of me you'd be," said Billy, 
 " bidding me get a-horseback upon that bit of a rush ? 
 May be you want to persuade me that the rush I pulled 
 but awhile ago out of the bog there, is a horse ? " 
 
 " Up ! up ! and no words," said the little man, looking 
 very angry ; " the best horse you ever rode was but a fool 
 to it." So Billy, thinking all this was in joke, and fear- 
 ing to vex his master, straddled across the rush. " Bor- 
 ram ! Borram ! Borram ! " cried the little man three times 
 (which in English means, to become great) ; and Billy did 
 the same after him : presently the rushes swelled up into 
 fine horses, and away they went full speed; but Billy, who 
 had put the rush between his legs without much minding 
 how he did it, found himself sitting on horseback the 
 wrong way, which was rather awkward, with his face to
 
 MASTER AND MAN. 299 
 
 the horse's tail ; and so quickly had his steed started off 
 with him, that he had no power to turn round ; and there 
 was therefore nothing for it but to hold on by the tail. 
 
 At last they came to their journey's end, and stopped 
 at the gate of a fine house. " Now, Billy," said the little 
 man, " do as you see me do, and follow me close ; but as 
 you did not know your horse's head from his tail, mind that 
 your own head does not spin round until you can't tell 
 whether you are standing on it or on your heels." 
 
 The little man then said some queer kind of words, out 
 of which Billy could make no meaning ; but he contrived 
 to say them after him for all that ; and in they both went 
 through the keyhole of the door, and through one key- 
 hole after another, until they got into the wine-cellar, 
 which was well stored with all kinds of wine. 
 
 The little man fell to drinking as hard as he could, and 
 Billy, nowise disliking the example, did the same. " The 
 best of masters are you, surely," said Billy to him; " no 
 matter who is the next ; and well pleased will I be with 
 your service if you continue to give me plenty to drink." 
 
 " I have made no bargain with you," said the little man, 
 " and will make none ; but up and follow me." Away 
 they went, through keyhole after keyhole; and each, 
 mounting upon the rush which he left at the hall door, 
 scampered off, kicking the clouds before them like snow- 
 balls, as soon as the words " Borram, Borram, Borram," 
 had passed their lips. 
 
 When they came back to the Fort-field, the little man 
 dismissed Billy, bidding him to be there the next night at 
 the same hour. Thus did they* go on, night after night, 
 shaping their course one night here, and another night 
 there sometimes north, and sometimes east, and some- 
 times south, until there was not a gentleman's wine-cellar 
 in all Ireland they had not visited, and could tell the flavor 
 of every wine in it as well ay, better than the butler 
 himself.
 
 300 MASTER AND MAN. 
 
 One night, when Billy Mac Daniel met the little man as 
 usual in the Fort-field, and was going to the bog to fetch 
 the horses for their journey, his master said to him, " Billy, 
 I shall want another horse to-night, for may be we may 
 bring back more company with us than we take." So 
 Billy, who now knew better than to question any order 
 given to him by his master, brought a third rush, much 
 wondering who it might be that would travel back in their 
 company, and whether he was about to have a fellow-ser- 
 vant. " If I have," thought Billy, " he shall go and fetch 
 the horses from the bog every night ; for I don't see why 
 I am not, every inch of me, as good a gentleman as my 
 master." 
 
 Well, away they went, Billy leading the third horse, 
 and never stopped until they came to a snug farmer's 
 house in the county of Limerick, close under the old cas- 
 tle of Carrigogunniel, that was built, they say, by the 
 great Brian Boru. Within the house there was great ca- 
 rousing going forward ; and the little man stopped outside 
 for some time to listen ; then, turning round all of a 
 sudden, he said, " Billy, I will be a thousand years old 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " God bless us ! sir," said Billy, " will you ? " 
 
 " Don't say these words again," said the little man, "or 
 you will be my ruin forever. Now, Billy, as I will be a 
 thousand years in the world to-morrow, I think it is full 
 time for me to get married." 
 
 " I think so too, without any kind of doubt at all," said 
 Billy, " if ever you mean to marry." 
 
 " And to that purpose," said the little man, " have I 
 come all the way to Carrigogunniel ; for in this house, 
 this very night, is young Darby Riley going to be married 
 to Bridget Rooney ; and as she is a tall and comely girl, 
 and has come of decent people, I think of marrying her 
 myself, and taking her off with me." 
 
 " And what will Darby Riley say to that ? " said Billy.
 
 MASTER AND MAN. 301 
 
 " Silence ! " said the little man, putting on a mighty se- 
 vere look ; " I did not bring you here with me to ask ques- 
 tions;" and, without holding further argument, he began 
 saying the queer words which had the power of passing 
 him through the keyhole as free as air, and which Billy 
 thought himself mighty clever to be able to say after him. 
 
 In they both went ; and, for the better viewing the 
 company, the little man perched himself up, as nimbly as 
 a cock-sparrow, upon one of the big beams which went 
 across the house over all their heads, and Billy did the 
 same upon another facing him ; but not being much ac- 
 customed to roosting in such a place, his legs hung down 
 as untidy as may be ; and it was quite clear he had not 
 taken pattern after the way in which the little man had 
 bundled himself up together. If the little man had been 
 a tailor all his life, he could not have sat more content- 
 edly upon his haunches. 
 
 There they were, both master and man, looking down 
 upon the fun that was going forward ; and under them 
 were the priest and piper, and the father of Darby Riley, 
 with Darby's two brothers and his uncle's son ; and there 
 were both the father and the mother of Bridget Rooney, - 
 and proud enough the old couple were that night of their 
 daughter, as good right they had, and her four sisters, 
 with bran new ribands in their caps, and her three broth- 
 ers, all looking as clean and as clever as any three boys in 
 Munster ; and there were uncles and aunts, and gossips 
 and cousins, enough, besides, to make a full house of it ; 
 and plenty was there to eat and drink on the table for 
 every one of them, if they had been double the number. 
 
 Now it happened, just as Mrs. Rooney had helped his 
 reverence to the first cut of the pig's head which was 
 placed before her, beautifully bolstered up with white 
 savoys, that the bride gave a sneeze which made every 
 one at table start; but not a soul said " God bless us." All 
 thinking that the priest would have done so, as he ought, 
 26
 
 
 302 MASTER AND MAN. 
 
 if he had done his duty, no one wished to take tne word 
 out of his mouth, which, unfortunately, was preoccupied 
 with pig's head and greens. And, after a moment's pause, 
 the fun and merriment of the bridal feast went on without 
 the pious benediction. 
 
 Of this circumstance both Billy and his master were 
 no inattentive spectators from their exalted stations. 
 " Ha! " exclaimed the little man, throwing one leg from 
 under him with a joyous flourish ; and his eye twinkled 
 with a strange light, whilst his eyebrows became elevated 
 into the curvature of Gothic arches " Ha ! " said he, leer- 
 ing down at the bride, and then up at Billy, " I have half 
 of her now, surely. Let her sneeze but twice more, 
 and she is mine, in spite of priest, mass-book, and Darby 
 Riley." 
 
 Again the fair Bridget sneezed ; but it was so gently, 
 and she blushed so much, that few, except the little man, 
 took, or seemed to take, any notice ; and no one thought 
 of saying " God bless us." 
 
 Billy all this time regarded the poor girl with a most 
 rueful expression of countenance ; for he could not help 
 thinking what a terrible thing it was for a nice young girl 
 of nineteen, with large blue eyes, transparent skin, dim- 
 pled cheeks, suffused with health and joy, to be obliged to 
 marry an ugly little bit of a man, who was a thousand 
 years old, barring a day. 
 
 At this critical moment, the bride gave a third sneeze, 
 and Billy roared out with all his might, " God bless us ! " 
 Whether this exclamation resulted from his soliloquy, or 
 from the mere force of habit, he never could tell exactly 
 himself; but no sooner was it uttered, than the little man, 
 his face glowing with rage and disappointment, sprung 
 from the beam on which he had perched himself, and, 
 shrieking out in the shrill voice of a cracked bagpipe, " I 
 discharge you my service, Billy Mac Daniel take that for 
 your wages " gave poor Billy- a most furious kick in the 

 
 THE VENETIAN GIRL. 303 
 
 back, which sent his unfortunate servant sprawling upon 
 his face and hands right in the middle of the supper table. 
 If Billy was astonished, how much more so was every 
 one of the company into which he was thrown with so lit- 
 tle ceremony ! but when they heard his story, father 
 Cooney laid down his knife and fork, and married the 
 young couple out of hand with all speed ; and Billy Mac 
 Daniel danced the Rinka at their wedding ; and plenty did 
 he drink at it too, which was what he thought more of 
 than dancing. 
 
 THE VENETIAN GIRL. 
 
 THE sun was shining beautifully one summer evening, 
 as if he bade a sparkling farewell to a world which he had 
 made happy. It seemed also by his looks as if he promised 
 to make his appearance again to-morrow ; but there was, 
 at times, a deep-breathing western wind ; and dark purple 
 clouds came up here and there, like gorgeous waiters on a 
 funeral. The children in a village not far from the me- 
 tropolis were playing, however, on the green, content with 
 the brightness of the moment, when they saw a female ap- 
 proaching, who instantly gathered them about her by the 
 singularity of her dress. It was not very extraordinary ; 
 but any difference from the usual apparel of their country- 
 women appeared so to them ; and crying out, " A French 
 girl, a French girl ! " they ran up to her, and stood look- 
 ing and talking. She seated herself upon a bench that 
 was fixed between two elms, and for a moment leaned her 
 head against one of them, as if faint with walking. But 
 she raised it speedily, and smiled with great complacence 
 on the rude urchins. She had a bodice and petticoat on
 
 304 THE VENETIAN GIRL. 
 
 of different colors, and a handkerchief tied neatly about 
 her head with the point behind. On her hands were 
 gloves without fingers ; and she wore about her neck a 
 guitar, upon the strings of which one of her hands rested. 
 The children thought her very handsome. Any one else 
 would also have thought her very ill ; but they saw nothing 
 in her but a good-natured looking foreigner and a guitar, 
 and they asked her to play. " Oh che bei ragazzi ! " said 
 she, in a soft and almost inaudible voice ; " Che visi li- 
 eti ! " and she began to play. She tried to sing, too ; but 
 her voice failed her, and she shook her head smilingly, 
 saying, " Stanca ! Stanca! " " Sing, do sing," said the 
 children ; and, nodding her head, she was trying to do so, 
 when a set of schoolboys came up and joined in the request. 
 "No, no," said one of the elder boys, "she is not well. 
 You are ill, a'n't you, miss 1 " added he, laying his hand 
 upon hers, as if to hinder it. He drew out the last word 
 somewhat doubtfully, for her appearance perplexed him ; 
 he scarcely knew whether to take her for a common stroll- 
 er, or a lady straying from a sick bed. "Grazie!" said 
 she, understanding his look ; " troppo stanca ; troppo." 
 By this time the usher came up, and addressed her in 
 French ; but she only understood a word here and there. 
 He then spoke Latin, and she repeated one or two of his 
 words, as if they were familiar to her. " She is an Ital- 
 ian, " said he, looking round with good-natured impor- 
 tance. " Non dubito," continued the usher, " quin tu 
 lectitas poe'tam ilium celeberrimum, Tassonem ; Taxum 
 I should say, properly, but the departure from the Italian 
 name is considerable." The stranger did not understand 
 a word. " I speak of Tasso," said the usher " of Tas- 
 so." " Tasso ! Tasso ! " repeated the fair minstrel ; " oh
 
 THE VENETIAN GIRL. 305 
 
 conhosco Tas-so ; " and she hung with a beautiful 
 languor upon the first syllable. " Yes," returned the wor- 
 thy scholar, " doubtless your accent may be better. Then, 
 of course, you know those classical lines 
 
 ' Intanto Erminia infra 1'ombrose piante 
 D'antica selva dal cavallo ' 
 
 what is it?" 
 
 The stranger repeated the words in a tone of fondness, 
 like those of an old friend : 
 
 " Intanto Erminia infra 1'ombrose piante 
 D'antica selva dal cavallo e scorta; 
 Ne piu governo il fren la man tremante, 
 E mezza quasi par tra viva e morta." 
 
 Our usher's common-place book had supplied him with 
 a fortunate passage, for it was the favorite song of her 
 countrymen. It also singularly applied to her situation. 
 There was a sort of exquisite mixture of silver clearness 
 and soft mealiness in her utterance of these verses, which 
 gave some of the children a better idea of French than 
 they had had ; for they could not get it out of their heads 
 that she must be a French girl ; " Italian-French, per- 
 haps/' said one of them. But her voice trembled, as she 
 went on, like the hand she spoke of. "I have heard my 
 poor cousin Montague sing those very lines," said the boy 
 who prevented her from playing. " Montague," repeated 
 the stranger very plainly, but turning paler and fainter. 
 She put one of her hands, in turn, upon the boy's, affec- 
 tionately, and pointed towards the spot where the church 
 was. " Yes, yes," cried the boy ; " why, she knew my 
 
 26
 
 306 THE VENETIAN GIRL. 
 
 cousin; she must have known him in Venice." " I told 
 you," said the usher, " she was an Italian." " Help her 
 to my aunt's," continued the youth ; " she'll understand 
 her : lean upon me, miss ; " and he repeated the last word 
 without his former hesitation. 
 
 Only a few boys followed her to the door, the rest hav- 
 ing been awed away by the usher. As soon as the stran- 
 ger entered the house, and saw an elderly lady, who receiv- 
 ed her kindly, she exclaimed, " La Signora Madre," and 
 fell in a swoon at her feet. 
 
 She was taken to bed, and attended with the utmost 
 care by her hostess, who would not suffer her to talk till 
 she had had a sleep. She merely heard enough to find 
 out that the stranger had known her son in Italy ; and 
 she was thrown into a painful state of guessing by the 
 poor girl's eyes, which followed her about the room till 
 the lady fairly came up and closed them. "Obedient! 
 Obedient ! " said the patient ; " obedient in every thing ; 
 only the signora will let me kiss her hand ; " and, taking 
 it with her own trembling one, she laid her cheek upon it ; 
 and it staid there till she dropped asleep for weariness. 
 
 " Silken rest 
 
 Tie all thy cares up," 
 
 thought her kind watcher, who was doubly thrown upon a 
 recollection of that beautiful passage in Beaumont and 
 Fletcher, by the suspicion she had of the cause of the 
 girl's visit. " And yet," thought she, turning her eyes, 
 with a thin tear in them, towards the church spire, " he 
 was an excellent boy the boy of my heart." 
 
 When the stranger woke, the secret was explained ; 
 and if the mind of her hostess was relieved, it was only 
 the more touched with pity, and, indeed, moved with re- 
 spect and admiration. The dying girl (for she was evi- 
 dently dying, and happy at the thought of it) was the
 
 THE VENETIAN GIRL. 307 
 
 niece of an humble tradesman in Venice, at whose house 
 young Montague, who was a gentleman of small fortune, 
 had lodged, and fallen sick in his travels. She was a live- 
 ly, good-natured girl, whom he used to hear coquetting 
 and playing the guitar with her neighbors; and it was 
 greatly on this account, that her considerate and hushing 
 gravity struck him whenever she entered his room. One 
 day he heard no more coquetting, nor even the guitar. 
 He asked the reason, when she came to give him some 
 drink ; and she said that she had heard him mention some 
 noise that disturbed him. "But you do not call your 
 voice and your music a noise," said he, " do you, Rosaura? 
 I hope not, for I had expected it would give me double 
 strength to get rid of this fever and reach home." Ro- 
 saura turned pale, and let the patient into a secret ; but 
 what surprised and delighted him was, that she played 
 her guitar nearly as often as before, and sung too, only 
 less sprightly airs. " You get better and better, signor," 
 said she, " every day ; and your mother will see you and 
 be happy. I hope you will tell her what a good doctor 
 you had." " The best in the world," cried he, as he sat 
 up in bed : he put his arm round her waist, and kissed 
 her. " He begged my pardon," said the poor girl, 
 " as I was hastening out of the room, and hoped I 
 should not construe his warmth into impertinence; and 
 to hear him talk so to me, who used to fear what he 
 might think of myself it made me stand in the passage, 
 and lean my head against the wall, and weep such bitter 
 and yet such sweet tears ! But he did not hear me : 
 no, madam, he did not know, indeed, how much I how 
 much I " " Loved him, child," interrupted Mrs. 
 Montague ; " you have a right to say so ; and I wish he 
 had been alive to say as much to you himself." " Oh," 
 said the dying girl, her tears flowing away, " this is too 
 great a happiness for me, to hear his own mother talk-
 
 308 THE VENETIAN GIRL. 
 
 ing so." And again she lays her weak head upon the lady's 
 hand. The latter would have persuaded her to sleep 
 again, but she said she could not for joy ; " for I'll tell 
 you, madam," continued she ; " I do not believe you'll 
 think it foolish, for something very grave at my heart tells 
 me it is not so ; but I have had a long thought" (and her 
 voice and look grew somewhat more exalted as she spoke), 
 " which has supported me, through much toil and many 
 disagreeable things, to this country and this place ; and I 
 will tell you what it is, and how it came into my mind. I 
 received this letter from your son." Here she drew out a 
 paper, which, though carefully wrapped up in several oth- 
 ers, was much worn at the sides. It was dated from the 
 village, and ran thus : " This comes from the English- 
 man whom Rosaura nursed so kindly at Venice. She will 
 be sorry to hear that her kindness was in vain, for he is 
 dying; and he sometimes fears, that her sorrow will be 
 still greater than he could wish it to be. But marry one 
 of your kind countrymen, my good girl ; for all must love 
 Rosaura who know her. If it shall be my lot ever to meet 
 her in heaven, I will thank her as a blessed tongue only 
 can." " As soon as I read this letter, madam, and what 
 he said about heaven, it flashed into my head, that, though 
 I did not deserve him on earth, I might, perhaps, by try- 
 ing and patience, deserve to be joined with him in heaven, 
 where there is no distinction of persons. My uncle was 
 pleased to see me become a religious pilgrim ; but he knew 
 as little of the contract as I ; and I found that I could 
 earn my way to England better, and quite as religiously, by 
 playing my guitar, which was also more independent ; and 
 I had often heard your son talk of independence and free- 
 dom, and commend me for doing what he was pleased to 
 call so much kindness to others. So I played my guitar 
 from Venice all the way to England ; and all that I earned 
 by it I gave away to the poor, keeping enough to procure
 
 
 one prayer for me, dear lady."
 
 THE VENETIAN GIRL. 309 
 
 me lodging. I lived on bread and water, and used to 
 weep happy tears over it, because I looked up to heaven, 
 and thought he might see me. So, playing and giving 
 alms in this manner, I arrived in the neighborhood of your 
 beloved village, where I fell sick for a while, and was very 
 kindly treated in an outhouse ; though the people, I 
 thought, seemed to look strange arid afraid on this cruci- 
 fix, though your son never did, but he taught me to 
 think kindly of every body, and hope the best, and leave 
 every thing, except our own endeavors, to Heaven. I fell 
 sick, madam, because I found for certain that the Signer 
 Montague was dead, albeit I had no hope that he was 
 alive." She stopped awhile for breath, for she was grow- 
 ing weaker and weaker ; and her hostess would fain have 
 had her keep silence ; but she pressed her hand as well 
 as she might, and prayed with such a patient panting of 
 voice to be allowed to go on, that she was. She smiled 
 beautifully, and resumed : " So, when so, when I got my 
 strength a little again, I walked on, and came to the belov- 
 ed village ; and I saw the beautiful white church spire in 
 the trees ; and then I knew where his body slept ; and I 
 thought some kind person would help me to die with my 
 face looking towards the church, as it now does ; and 
 death is upon me, even now; but lift me a little higher on 
 the pillows, dear lady, that I may see the green ground of 
 the hill." 
 
 She was raised up as she wished, and, after looking 
 a while with a placid feebleness at the hill, said, in a very 
 low voice, " Say one prayer for me, dear lady, and if it be 
 not too proud in me, call me in it your daughter." The 
 mother of her beloved summoned up a grave and earnest 
 voice, as well as she might, and knelt, and said, " O heav- 
 enly Father of us all, who, in the midst of thy manifold 
 and merciful bounties, bringest us into strong passes of an- 
 guish, which, nevertheless, thou enablest us to go through, 
 look down, we beseech thee, upon this thy young and in-
 
 310 COUSIN MARY. 
 
 nocent servant, the daughter, that might have been, of my 
 heart, and enable her spirit to pass through the struggling 
 bonds of mortality and be gathered into thy rest with those 
 we love : do, dear and great God, of thy infinite mercy ; 
 for we are poor, weak creatures, both young and old." Here 
 her voice melted away into a breathing tearfulness ; and 
 after remaining on her knees a moment, she rose, and look- 
 ed upon the bed, and saw that the weary, smiling one 
 was no more. 
 
 COUSIN MARY. 
 
 ABOUT four years ago, passing a few days with the 
 highly-educated daughters of some friends in this neigh- 
 borhood, I found domesticated in the family a young lady, 
 whom I shall call, as they called her, cousin Mary. She 
 was about eighteen, not beautiful, perhaps, but lovely 
 certainly to the fullest extent of that loveliest word ; as 
 fresh as a rose : as fair as a lily ; with lips like winter ber- 
 ries, dimpled, smiling lips; and eyes of which nobody 
 could tell the color, they danced so incessantly in their 
 own gay light. Her figure was tall, round, and slender : 
 exquisitely well proportioned it must have been, for, in all 
 attitudes (and, in her innocent gayety, she was scarcely 
 ever two minutes in the same), she was grace itself. She 
 was, in short, the very picture of youth, health, and hap- 
 piness. No one could see her without being prepossessed 
 in her favor. I took a fancy to her the moment she entered 
 the room ; and it increased every hour, in spite of, or 
 rather, perhaps, for, certain deficiencies, which caused poor 
 cousin Mary to be held exceedingly cheap by her accom- 
 plished relatives.
 
 COUSIN MART. 311 
 
 She was the youngest daughter of an officer of rank, 
 dead long ago; and his sickly widow, having lost by death, 
 or that other death, marriage, all her children but this, 
 could not, from very fondness, resolve to part with her 
 darling for the purpose of acquiring the commonest instruc- 
 tion. She talked of it, indeed, now and then, but she only 
 talked ; so that, in this age of universal education, Mary C., 
 at eighteen, exhibited the extraordinary phenomenon of a 
 young woman of high family, whose acquirements were 
 limited to reading, writing, needle-work, and the first rules 
 of arithmetic. The effect of this let-alone system, combin- 
 ed with a careful seclusion from all improper society, and 
 a perfect liberty in her country rambles, acting upon a mind 
 of great power and activity, was the very reverse of what 
 might have been predicted. It had produced not merely 
 a delightful freshness and originality of manner and char- 
 acter, a piquant ignorance of those things of which one is 
 tired to death, but knowledge positive, accurate, and va- 
 rious knowledge. 
 
 She was, to be sure, wholly unaccomplished ; knew 
 nothing of quadrilles, though her every motion was dan- 
 cing : nor a note of music, though she used to warble, like 
 a bird, sweet snatches of old songs, as she skipped up and 
 down the house ; nor of painting, except as her taste had 
 been formed, by a minute acquaintance with nature, into 
 an intense feeling of art. She had that real extra sense, an 
 eye for color, too, as well as an ear for music. Not one in 
 twenty not one in a hundred of our sketching and copy- 
 ing ladies could love and appreciate a picture where there 
 was color and mind, a picture by Claude, or by our Eng- 
 lish Claudes, Wilson and HofHand, as she could ; for she 
 loved landscape best, because she understood it best ; it 
 was a portrait of which she knew the original. Then 
 her needle was in her hands almost a pencil. I never 
 knew such an embroidress : she would sit " printing her 
 thoughts on lawn," till the delicate creation vied with the
 
 312 COUSIN MARY. 
 
 snowy tracery, the fantastic carving, of hoar frost, the 
 richness of Gothic architecture, or of that which so much 
 resembles it, the luxuriant fancy of old point lace. That 
 was her only accomplishment, and a rare artist she was 
 muslin and net were her canvass. 
 
 She had no French either, not a word ; no Italian ; but 
 then her English was racy, unhackneyed, proper to the 
 thought, to a degree that only original thinking could give. 
 She had not much reading, except of the Bible, and Shak- 
 speare, and Richardson's novels, in which she was learn- 
 ed ; but then her powers of observation were sharpened 
 and quickened, in a very unusual degree, by the leisure 
 and opportunity afforded for their .developement, at a time 
 of life when they are most acute. She had nothing to dis- 
 tract her mind. Her attention was always awake and 
 alive. She was an excellent and curious naturalist, mere- 
 ly because she had gone into the fields with her eyes open, 
 and knew all the details of rural management, domestic or 
 agricultural, as well as the peculiar habits and modes of 
 thinking of the peasantry, simply because she had lived in 
 the country, and made use of her ears. 
 
 Then she was fanciful, recollective, new ; drew her 
 images from the real objects, not from their shadows in 
 books. In short, to listen to her, and the young ladies 
 her companions, who, accomplished to the height, had 
 trodden the .education-mill till they all moved in one step, 
 had lost sense in sound, and ideas in words, was enough 
 to make us turn masters and governesses out of doors, 
 and leave our daughters and grand-daughters to Mrs. 
 C.'s system of non-instruction. I should have liked to 
 meet with another specimen, just to ascertain whether 
 the peculiar charm and advantage arose from the quick 
 and active mind of this fair Ignorant, or was really the 
 natural and inevitable result of the training ; but, alas ! to 
 find more than one unaccomplished young lady in this 
 accomplished age, is not to be hoped for. So I admired
 
 COUSIN MARY. 313 
 
 and envied ; and her fair kinswomen pitied and scorned, 
 and tried to teach; and Mary, never made for a learner, 
 and as full of animal spirits as a school-boy in the holi- 
 days, sang, and laughed, and skipped about, from morning 
 to night. 
 
 It must be confessed, as a counterbalance to her other 
 perfections, that the dear cousin Mary was, as far as great 
 natural modesty and an occasional touch of shyness would 
 let her, the least in the world of a romp ! She loved to 
 toss about children, to jump over stiles, to scramble through 
 hedges, to climb trees; and some of her knowledge of 
 plants and birds may certainly have arisen from her de- 
 light in these boyish amusements. And which of us has 
 not found that the strongest, the healthiest, and most 
 flourishing acquirement has arisen from pleasure or acci- 
 dent ; has been in a manner self-sown, like an oak of the 
 forest ? O, she was a sad romp ; as skittish as a wild 
 colt, as uncertain as a butterfly, as uncatchable as a swal- 
 low ; but her great personal beauty, the charm, grace, and 
 lightness of her movements, and, above all, her evident in- 
 nocence of heart, were bribes to indulgence which no one 
 could withstand. I never heard her blamed by any human 
 being. 
 
 The perfect unrestraint of her attitudes, and the exqui- 
 site symmetry of her form, would have rendered her an 
 invaluable study for a painter. Her daily doings would 
 have formed a series of pictures. I have seen her scudding 
 through a shallow rivulet, with her dress caught up just a 
 little above the ankle, like a young Diana, and a bounding, 
 skimming, enjoying motion, as if native to the element, 
 which might have become a Naiad. I have seen her on 
 the topmost round of a ladder, with one foot on the roof 
 of a house, flinging down the grapes that no one else had 
 nerve enough to reach, laughing, and garlanded, and 
 crowned with vine-leaves, like a Bacchante. 
 
 But the prettiest combination of circumstances under 
 27
 
 314 COUSIN MARY. 
 
 which 1 ever saw her, was driving a donkey cart up a hill 
 one sunny, windy day in September. It was a gay party 
 of young women, some walking, some in open carriages of 
 different descriptions, bent to see a celebrated prospect 
 from a hill called the Ridges. The ascent was by a steep, 
 narrow lane, cut deeply between sand-banks, crowned with 
 high, feathery hedges. The road and its picturesque banks 
 lay bathed in the golden sunshine, whilst the autumnal 
 sky, intensely blue, appeared at the top as through an arch. 
 The hill was so steep that we had all dismounted, and left 
 our different vehicles in charge of the servants below ; but 
 Mary, to whom, as incomparably the best charioteer, the 
 conduct of a certain non-descript machine, a sort of 
 donkey curricle, had fallen, determined to drive a delicate 
 little girl, who was afraid of the walk, to the top of the 
 eminence. She jumped out for the purpose, and we fol- 
 lowed, watching and admiring her, as she won her way 
 up the hill ; now tugging at the donkeys in front with 
 her bright face towards them and us, and springing along 
 backwards now pushing the chaise from behind now 
 running by the side of her steeds, patting and caressing 
 them now soothing the half-frightened child now laugh- 
 ing, nodding, and shaking her little whip at us darting 
 about like some winged creature till, at last, she stopped 
 at the top of the ascent, and stood for a moment on the 
 summit, her straw bonnet blown back, and held on only 
 by the strings ; her brown hair playing on the wind in long 
 natural ringlets ; her complexion becoming every moment 
 more splendid from exertion, redder and whiter ; her eyes 
 and her smile brightening and dimpling ; her figure, in its 
 simple white gown, strongly relieved by the deep blue sky, 
 and her whole form seeming to dilate before our eyes. 
 There she stood, under the arch formed by two meeting 
 elms, a Hebe, a Psyche, a perfect goddess of youth and 
 joy. The Ridges are very fine things altogether, espe- 
 cially the part to which we were bound a turfy, breezy
 
 COUSIN MARY. 315 
 
 spot, sinking down abruptly like a rock into a wild fore- 
 ground of heath and forest, with a magnificent command 
 of distant objects; but we saw nothing, that day, like the 
 figure on the top of the hill. 
 
 After this, I lost sight of her for a long time. She was 
 called suddenly home by the dangerous illness of her 
 mother, who, after languishing for some months, died ; and 
 Mary went to live with a sister much older than herself, 
 and richly married, in a manufacturing town, where she 
 languished in smoke, confinement, dependence, and dis- 
 play (for her sister was a match-making lady, a manoeu- 
 vrer), for about a twelvemonth. She then left her house 
 and went into Wales as a governess ! Imagine the as- 
 tonishment caused by this intelligence amongst us all ; for 
 I myself, though admiring the untaught damsel almost as 
 much as I loved her, should certainly never have dreamed 
 of her as a teacher. However, she remained in the rich 
 baronet's family where she had commenced her vocation. 
 They liked her, apparently ; there she was ; and again 
 nothing was heard of her for many months, until, happen- 
 ing to call on the friends, at whose house I had originally 
 met her, I espied her fair, blooming face, a rose amongst 
 roses, at the drawing-room window, and instantly, with 
 the speed of light, was met and embraced by her at the 
 hall door. 
 
 There was not the slightest perceptible difference in her 
 deportment. She still bounded like a fawn, and laughed 
 and clapped her hands like an infant. She was not a day 
 older, or graver, or wiser, since we parted. Her post of 
 tutoress had, at least, done her no harm, whatever might 
 have been the case with her pupils. The more I looked 
 at her, the more I wondered; and after our mutual ex- 
 pressions of pleasure had a little subsided, I could not re- 
 sist the temptation of saying, " So you are really a gov- 
 erness?" "Yes." "And you continue in the same 
 family 1 " " Yes." " And you like your post ? " " O yes !
 
 316 GORDON THE GYPSY. 
 
 yes ! " " But, ray dear Mary, what could induce you to go ?" 
 " Why, they wanted a governess ; so I went." " But what 
 could induce them to keep you ? " The perfect gravity 
 and earnestness with which this question was put, set her 
 laughing ; and the laugh was echoed back from a group at 
 the end of the room, which I had not before noticed an 
 elegant man, in the prime of life, showing a port-folio of 
 rare prints to a fine girl of twelve, and a rosy boy of seven, 
 evidently his children. " Why did they keep me ? Ask 
 them," replied Mary, turning towards them with an arch 
 smile. " We kept her to teach her ourselves," said the 
 young lady. " We kept her to play cricket with us," said 
 her brother. " We kept her to marry," said the gentle- 
 man, advancing gayly to shake hands with me. " She was 
 a bad governess perhaps ; but she is an excellent wife 
 that is her true vocation." And so it is. She is, indeed, 
 an excellent wife, and assuredly a most fortunate one. I 
 never saw happiness so sparkling or so glowing ; never 
 saw such devotion to a bride, or such fondness for a step- 
 mother, as Sir. W. S. and his lovely children show to the 
 sweet cousin Mary.
 
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