ANTONY, THE DEAF AND DUMB BOY. ' Patience, patience, child of toil and suffering. Time brings relief or rest. Patience — believe and act ! Every man may rise above his calamity." IN TWO VOLUMES VOL. I. LONDON : RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 185L FEINTED BT HARRISOIT AND SON, LONDON GAZETTK OITICE, ST. MAKTIN'S LANK AND OECHARD STREET, WESTMINSTER. 9S-S- A N T O N Y. CHAPTER I. AN INTRODUCTION TO EVERYBODY, AND LITTLE PEOPLE IN PARTICULAR. Follow me, gentle reader, follow me with patience and kind forbearance, while, as in a moving panorama, I place before you scenes and interests which will be, I think, new to you. Let us now begin a pleasant companionship along a path which, 1 trust, you will not find too long or too gloomy. If you are a critic, I would request you to come un- armed for our ramble through a garden where truth and love are sown, or, if you must ever bear with you the knife which is the symbol of your profes- sion, be at least kind and compassionate in your use of it there. VOL. I. B ivi37460 ANTOXY If you are old, and contemplating with melan- choly gaze the short and uneasy track of life still stretching before you, give me, for awhile, your attention ; for my tale may perhaps bring back to your fading memory, in bright, refreshing colours, some dear passages of your own childhood and youth. If you are young, bounding gaily and thought- lessly forward to meet an unknown future, it may ■ Iiot bfi /uiiint^reSsting to -you to watch how others have, before 'you,^ -stepped over the threshold of youth :ihfa.i:h4 -.ngi^y-wprld beyond, and what they have there found. If you are a child of sorrow, lay by your own grief to sympathise in that of others, and find con- solation in the hallowing influence of suffering. If you are happy, the sorrows of my tale will give seriousness but not gloom to your gladness, and its joys will find an echo in your own spirit. Whosoever and whatsoever and wheresoever you are, follow me, kind readers, and on the wings of fancy be transported with me to a valley in South Wales, around which stand hills, grouped gracefully together, lifting their sloping outlines into the quiet air, some crowned with woods, some marked over with the husbandman's varied chequers, while here and there a precipitous mountain raises far above them its barren and rugged form, lifting a bold front to meet the clouds. Through the valley flows a ANTONY. 3 river, not wide, nor deep, but leaping and dashing with iron-grey waters through the village. To this little river we will give the name of the Erry, and that of Ponterry to the village, as the real titles of the places as well as of the persons introduced into our tale must be suppressed, for reasons which it is not now necessary to state. Our tale, did I say ? let me rather call it our Life-, poem. You ask, ^^ Why a poem ?" Do we not designate by that nkme an illustration of what is beautiful and true, developed with power, and, in all its parts, growing into a perfect whole ; and may not a human life be the same ? If then our narration will place before you the particulars of the existence here below of a fellow creature, unfolding, through the influence of time and events, into a noble monument of the good and the holy, then the name of a prose Life-poem may not be unsuitable. The afternoon sun of an April day glows over the valley, and glistens on the young springing fohage that is moist with recent showers. The tneadows and the mountains are bathed in its light. Nature is robing herself gaily. The blue ether of the sky, and the green grass carpetting the earth, are brilliant. The village lies there, like a child in the lap of its mother catching and reflecting back her smiles. As we gaze on the neat tiles and the yellow thatch of b2 4 ANTONY. the cottages, shining in the sunlight, how many a wondering thought springs up in our minds, specu- lating on what life-romance may be going on beneath each roof vonder ! what loves, what hates, what jealousies, what smiles, what tears, may be flowing from the hearts of the many dwellers there ! Let us enter the narrow streets. How much that we deemed beautiful from a distance loses its charm as we approach, like a hopeful future darkening as we near it I The pretty village reveals itself now to us as a very dirty village. A few pigs and old women appear here and there in the muddy streets — children come out pf small cbttages to caress the swine and lead them in to share their meals and their dwelling, while the roomy pigsties remain empty ; for it is a remarkable feature, characteristic of Welsh pigs and Welsh old women and children that, at home or abroad, they love to be in companion- ship. Here stands the church, with the peculiar grey square tower, which is found universally throughout Wales, and as we pass the churchyard, dotted with whitewashed grave-stones, and carefully-trimmed flower-beds, we observe close to us a three-storied house, painted as yellow as the daffbdils that nod in the garden plot before its front door, looking out with a considerate expression in its long eyes on the lowlier buildings which surround it. Surely that is the Parsonage. Now we cross the bridge, from the arches of ANTONY. which hang fringes of petrified water, and of green graceful wreaths of the ivy that mantles its parapet. Passing another cluster of cottages, and a farm and well-filled rick-yard, we come to a picturesque building in the Gothic style, apparently of recent date. A neat garden surrounds it. A honeysuckle climbs over the porch, scattering here and there some of its first sweet blossoms, and stretching out its long arms tipped with opening buds towards the lattice window, on which they gently tap, as the breeze stirs them, as if asking for admittance. A low murmur is heard within, which we recognise as the hum of cliildren's voices. We read the superscription in English over the porch — "Infant School — Established 18 — .^^ We will not refuse to enter the walls, where the freshness and beauty of childhood are to be found. Let us then rest within here awhile. At the top of the long school-room sits the young teacher, Gladis Evans, with pallid countenance, an a soft yet watchful expression in her eyes. The elder girls, none older than eight years, are seated on the upper steps at the further end of the apart- ment, working with downward bent heads. The elder boys, of the same age, are engaged opposite them, with slates ; the very little ones are murmur- ing over their spelling-books, and many are doing nothing, but trying to be still, which is, after all, 6 ANTONY. the most difl&cult task that can be given to a child. One lovely little girl, of five years old, stands with her book on the knee of the schoolmistress, repeating to her the sentence, — " We must all love God/' The child stops and looks thoughtfully up ; "Please, ma'am, does God wear a blue coat or a black one ?" " Neither the one nor the other, my dear,'' is the reply. " Go on, Rachel, spell the next sentence."! But the child looks up again with an expression of surprise and enquiry, saying, timidly, "Then does he not wear a coat ?" The teacher can with difficulty suppress a momen- tary smile ; then with a grave expression she bends forwards, softly draws the little one nearer to her, strokes back the hair from her brow, and with earnest voice begins to impart to the young mind an idea of the Invisibility of that One who is every- where present, and pervades all things, and yet who at one time walked upon the earth in the form of man, and wore the garb of poverty. ANTONY. CHAPTER II. IN WHICH A VISITOR INTRODUCES HIMSELF. Gladis Evans was here suddenly interrupted by the falling of a shower of primroses over her shoulders into her lap. Some fell on the head of the little Rachel, and more caught in her curling hair ; the child looked laughing up, fresh and glow- ing as the blossoms — she and they were all alike — early spring flowers. A loud peal of laughter burst from the other scholars at the same moment, together with shouts of, '' The deaf and dumb young gentleman ! Master Antony ! Master Antony ?' Gladis hastily looked round for the one whose hands had thus sweetly baptized her with April blossoms, and she saw that a visitor had entered the school. Indeed, the new comer had already stood there some minutes, while she had been too atten- 8 ANTONY. tively engaged with Rachel to hear the sound of the latch and opening door, or to notice the gestures of her other pupils, who had watched the entrance with suppressed smiles and whispers. Catching the flowers in her apron as she quickly rose, Gladis dropt a curtsy to Master Antony, and oflfered him her seat; but, waving his hand in token that she should remain undisturbed, he placed him- self on a low wooden stool at the further end of the apartment. Antony Nayton, the deaf and dumb pupil of the clergyman of Ponterry, or " Master Antony, ^^ as he was called by the servants of the parsonage, and by many of the people of the village, appeared about fifteen years of age ; black hair hung over the pro- jecting brow, from beneath which glanced dark and penetrating eyes. His whole countenance wore a wild expression, frequently clouded with melancholy. Sometimes, however, a beautiful smile curled his lips, lighting up the face with that brightness which springs from the inmost soul ; then it would soon die away, and despondency seem once more to over- shadow him. Alas ! poor youth ! for him no voice spoke words of love, — to his spirit no music breathed its consolations. He gazed with apparent delight at the group of cheerful faces before him, and presently taking a small drawing-book from his pocket, he began to form rude sketches of the children, as they continued ANTONY. their studies. The little Rachel more particularly attracted his gaze, and long employed his pencil. They were all evidently not surprised at his occu- pation, for Master Antony was wont frequently to visit the school, and thus spend an hour or two in this silent amusement, undisturbed, and undisturbing. The wild sketches he usually made, however, were so incomprehensible to Gladis, and all who saw them, that they did but strengthen the general opinion that Master Antoriy was deficient in mental power. At length the hour of freedom for the little scholars approached, and they rose spontaneously to join in the hymn appointed to be sung before they dispersed. Sweetly flowed upwards the chorus of these young voices, while the Mute gazed earnestly at the parted lips of the singers, till his own eyes overflowed with tears. He pressed his hand upon his brows, as if to restrain them, but they still gushed forth, — and before the hymn was ended. Master Antony had quitted the house. Now came the noise and bustle of the breaking up of the school ; boys rushed to seize their caps, tumbling over one another in their haste, laughing and calling each other's names loudly; girls grouped together less noisily, — elder sisters reaching down to the younger ones the hats and hoods, which they then carefully fastened on the little upturned heads, and soon all were ready. Then with the clamorous tread of so many thick and b3 10 ANTONY. nailed shoes, boys and girls all ran from the room, each stopping however as they passed the teacher, to receive her last word of injunction or advice, and give the quick bow or bob-curtsy, which was their mark of respect, and acknowledgment of her autho- rity over them. Then, when fairly outside the schoolhouse, how joyfully did the young feet bound along the pathway, towards the wicket-gate which led into the road. Close beyond it, a narrow plank was thrown across one of those fresh running streams which form a small but very general characteristic of Welsh scenery. This was a fresh source of amuse- ment to the children. With shouts and cries of enjoyment, the boys leaped over the brook, vying with one another in the height and vigour of the leap ; and their pleasure was increased two-fold, when on looking up they saw their triumphs were witnessed by Master Antony, who, leaning against the garden-railings, watched their gambols with smiling countenance. No trace of a tear was now in his eyes ; they sparkled in sympathy with the many glances that met them from the children, and frequently he clapped his hands loudly, to encourage their sport, which called forth a still louder shout from the happy troop. He was interested in observing the care with which some, even of the most boisterous, would come back to help their little brothers and sisters over the plank. Presently the little Rachel caught his ANTONY. 11 attention. They were all gone on, and she was the last. She approached the stream with hesitating step, looking frightened into the bubbling water, and almost trembling as she put her small foot upon the narrow bridge. In a moment she felt kind arms around her ; one bound, and she was transported to the other side, and carefully set down on the turf by Master Antony ; but he could not disengage her from him, her little hands, entwined round his arm, still clung to him, as if she would thus express to him the thanks which she knew he could not hear. Her simple face and large blue eyes were turned with a grateful look towards him. He .was touched — he caught her up and kissed the pretty round cheeks, he put her down, then again raised her in his arms, and looked lovingly into the young dimpled countenance, whilst she smilingly played with his dark hair. It seemed as if he longed to speak, to give utterance if it were only to a single word. A low murmur pro- ceeded from his parted lips — Rachel w^as frightened — she struggled from him, and then fled away, and was received into her mo therms open arms at the first cottage door. " Thus all fly from me, when they begin to know me,^^ thought the Mute ; but the bitterness of expres- sion with whicb he watched the little one's retreating steps, passed soon away, and pleasant thoughts seemed to follow. Surely the child must have awakened in his mind some sweet or holy feeling, or recalled some 12 ANTONY. fair recollection ; for now the lips relax into a smile ; his gaze is at vacancy, he is dwelling in the past. Master Antony sat down on the turf bank op- posite the gate, and, opening his sketch book, turned to the drawing of Rachel, beneath which he wrote, — " Sweet sister Kathleen V and sank again into an apparently agreeable reverie. While thus occupied, a little scene, which for us may possess some interest, was passing very near him. The doors of the infant school had been closed and locked, and Gladis Evans has retired to the back part of the dwelling, where two or three comfortable rooms were neatly arranged, and where she and her mother dwelt. From an open window the head of Gladis might now and then have been seen looking out towards the lane, as if in expectation of some arrival in that direction. Sometimes appeared the neat cap of Mrs. Evans, at the same window, as she stood arranging the primroses in a jar, which she placed where the soft air would breathe on them. Pre- sently both mother and daughter emerged from the porch, and sauntered along the garden path, talking of the setting sun and the freshness of the evening breeze, while their thoughts were in reality occupied with other subjects ; for Gladis^ attention was still directed towards the lane, and that of the mother was concentrated on the small flower garden lying AXTONY. 13 around her. She was the personification of neat- ness, and one of those tidy gardeners who love not so much the presence of flowers as the absence of weeds. She was constantly stopping to train the young rose branches aright, or lift a stone oif the neatly dressed flower plot. And now the heart of Gladis beat quicker and quicker, as quicker and quicker came a footstep she well knew, along the lane. A young labourer laid down his working implements at the gate, entered the garden, and advanced towards them with a hearty " Good evening" on his lips for both. "What! Howel Philips, is it you?'' said the mother, in Welsh; "and how come you here so early, for the sun is not down yet ; and surely your work is not over ?" Just now a shoot of bindweed caught her eye, stealthily creeping round a gooseberry bush, and she started ofi^ hastily to pluck it away, while Howel Philips' eyes and thoughts were fixed on her daughter, and Gladis stood silent and motionless before him. " She was now no longer the pale teacher we saw in the school; fresh' crimson roses bloomed in her cheek, and a new fire gleamed from beneath the lids of the downward bent eyes. "It is a wicked little plant that," cried Mrs. Evans, as she tore up the root of the delicate white convolvulus; "how cunningly it winds itself round 14 ANTONY. and round the stem of the poor bush, looking too gentle and fragile to harm it, yet clinging so tightly I can scarce tear it away/^ Ah ! little did she think that at that moment a gentle and clinging thought was, like the plant, entwining itself with firm grasp around her daughter's heart, which it would be as cruel as difficult to tear away. Mrs. Evans now repeated her questioning, and roused Huwel Philips' attention to herself. '* I am not much earlier this evening than usual,'^ he said, in his own language, which, for the edifi- cation of our readers, shall be translated ; " but th6 sun is later, and I have run hither quickly from the works that I might have a chat with you, and — and with Gladis, before my companions come to the farm-house. They will be up with me directly, and then I must on with them without delay, for this is pay night, and I expect, perhaps, a row among the men." *^What is the matter, then?" asked both the women. "The labourers working at the Bog Canal have agreed to strike for higher wages. I know, however. Farmer San ford, like all the Englishmen, is a stingy fellow, and will not, I expect, add a penny to our payment, though wages are higher all the country round." "They will do wrong, however, to leave the ANTONY. 15 works/' leturned Mrs. Evans ; "for no farmers will employ at this season so many hands as Sanford wants at that large bog to make the canal. Have you tried to dissuade them, Philips? you are their overseer, and should have influence with the men ?^* • " I will take care there is no violence, which they once threatened, but at their request I have agreed to make the demand.^' ^^ You were not wise to do that. Philips,^' said the prudent Mrs. Evans. " Thirty men, once roused, are difficult to be quieted again. Why not try to keep them content with what they have ?'^ " That was impossible ; that fellow Morgan is one of them — his spirit is up, and he has excited them. I too must take my stand with them, or I shall lose all power of keeping order among them. So I will state their grievance to old Sanford with some bold- ness, for the demand is a just one, and I owe it to them as well as to myself to represent to our em- ployer our wants and our dues. He cannot expect us to stay in his service for lower pay than we get from other rich men in the county." " But remember. Philips, if you lose this employ- ment, you may not find another, and it will be hard for you, and for your poor parents who are now so infirm, if you are out of work,'' interposed Mrs. Evans. " I could get double the money at the coal mines, or the ironworks at Swansea, any day," said the IG ANTONY. young man ; " so I shall perhaps try my fortune there/' Now Swansea was at least thirty or forty miles off, which appeared to Gladis a fearful distance, and the idea of the coal mines filled her mind with terror. She looked up quickly at Philips with an expres- sion of alarm, saying, in a tone of regret, ^^ But that will be so far away ! will you indeed go ?" Her glance was all eloquent. Philips caught her hand with an unusual eagerness : *^ No, sure and I cannot leave Ponterry,'' he cried ; and though nothing more was said, Gladis soon knew well enough he would not wish to go far away from her. The information was silently and rapidly carried to her through the eye, that electric telegraph be- tween kindred minds, by which so much intelligence is conveyed. This was perhaps the first assurance Howel had received that his stay or departure was a matter of interest to her. Meanwhile the good mother was blind and deaf to anything that passed between the two young people, and busied herself putting her white collar smooth, and pinning her tippet straight. She was glad to see Howel and liked him, as being an honest steady young man, in whom she was interested, because she had known him from a boy, and cared for his parents; but that Howel had ventured to look on her daughter with any thought of affection, or that Gladis could stoop to return such a feeling, she ANTONY. 17 never imagined. She was conning over in her mind something he had said, and presently remarked, "So Morgan is among the discontented set, is he? You will have some trouble with him. He is so passionate and obstinate.'^ " Ay, and insolent, too," interrupted Howel, " if it be true_, as they say it is in the village, that he has thought to make the first flower in Ponterry his own;" and here he cast a searching glance at Gladis, who again blushed crimson. "Why, how heard you of that?" asked the mother, inquisitively. " All the village are talking of it. It is then true? He had boasted he would have your pretty rose for his wife, but we laid a bet he would not win her." " Well, say nothing of it,^^ continued the matron, mysteriously. "' It is true he gave my dear Gladis some trouble and me some anxiety, for he is a violent man, and too often in the ale-house. Now, I think, we are rid of him, for he knows Gladis^ mind." " I am glad of it, and he knows mine, too ; we are no friends — he is jealous of my being his overseer, and is always trying to quarrel. We shall all have a hearty laugh at him for this matter. But who is that leaning over the gate and overhearing our chat?" " One," said Gladis, " who is harmless and help- less, and will tell no tales, for he can neither hear nor speak." 18 ANTONY. "Ahl now he turns his face I know the poor young gentleman/^ returned Howel, " he has been up many times at the bog, watching our work. He and I are the best friends, and sometimes he loves to take the spade and work for an hour at a time. With him I have no need to try speaking my poor English, and, though lie cannot talk Welsh, we can understand one another. His ways are so gentlemanlike, and he has so comely a face, it is difficult for me to be- lieve he is but half-witted, as the clergyman says. he is.^^ " But Mr. Donought must surely know well enough,^^ said Mrs. Evans, " for he has the trouble of his education ; and I have heard say, it is a trying task to teach the poor lad.'' "He has such strange black eyes," observed Gladis, " they seem to look one through and through. They show he cannot be quite in his right mind. See, he has been looking at us for the last few minutes with that earnestness which sometimes brings tears and sometimes smiles to his face. Ah ! it is the smile now ; he is waving his hands to us to wish us a good evening, and now he is gone." " Poor soul ! poor soul 1" sighed Mrs. Evans, in a tone of compassion. " How sad it must be to have only half one's wits, and not understand what is going on 1" "Come, come, he is perhaps, after all, not so much to be pitied as ourselves," cried Howel ; " he is ANTONY. 19 at least free from many troubles we who have more feeling know too well/^ Gladis nodded approval to this observation, which she thought remarkably sensible, and here their chat was interrupted. " How noisily the men are coming along the lane/^ said Howel ; " they have been stopping at the ale- house^ I guess, upon the way.^^ " And there is Morgan/' added Mrs. Evans, " sure you can read in his face he's after even worse mis- chief than ever, to-day." A troop of about thirty labouring men now ap- proached a gate close by the garden, leading into a large farm-yard that adjoined the back of the school- house. The noise and shouting appeared to proceed from only a few of them. One of these, a short, dark- looking man, with a strikingly unpleasant coimtenance, was in the act, on perceiving the women, of springing over the fence into the garden, but on catching sight of Philips he passed on, with angry gestures, shaking his fist over the railing, and uttering a loud oath. Gladis withdrew, frightened, behind Philips. " I must follow them," said Philips ; " good bye to you." " Good bye, then. Philips ; I hope you will per- suade the men to be quiet ; good bye," said Mrs. Evans, leading her daughter into the porch. " Ay, take her into the house, for the sun is gone down, and the air is getting cold," said Howel; 20 ANTONY. and then whispered a farewell in the ear of Gladis. How wistfully he looked back at the two as he left them. " Come in this evening, Howel, and tell us all that happens before you go home/' said the mother; "come in and have supper with us, will you V' " Thank you — thank you, I w^ill be back with you before the moon is up," cried Howel, and disap- peared among the farm buildings. ANTONY. 21 CHAPTER III. WHERE AN AGREEABLE PROPOSAL IS MADE. " How beautiful it must be to love and to be loved !" thought Master Antony, as awakening from the dream of other days, into which the recollection of his young sister had plunged him, he gazed on Howel Philips and Gladis Evans, as they stood to- gether in the garden, and read in their looks and manner, even at that distance, by a quick power of discernment which was peculiar to him, that they were lovers. It is a holy enjoyment to the lonely and suffering heart to w^itness the happiness of others, and it was a balm to the wounded spirit of him who contem- plated them, to watch love floating between the two young peasants. •■'May fortune smile on your true, simple, and tender hearts V' he thought, as he turned away, and 22 ANTONY. sighs burst from him while he began to retrace his steps through the village. " Ah ! when will any heart bless mine with its love ? Mine, that has so rich a store for others !" Thus we learn already that Howel Philips was as much mistaken as the compassionate Mrs. Evans, in his judgment of the deaf mute, and we shall pro- bably find that there were others who were so like- wise. Master Antony, "the half-witted,^^ as she had styled him, had been quicker than Mrs. Evans her- self in discerning the secret of her daughter's heart ; and at the time the young labourer pronounc^ him happy in being devoid of feeling, the spirit of the lonely one had vibrated with emotions of such warmth and intensity as perhaps are experienced by but a small number among the vast swarms of men. Ah ! thus also few of us are correct in our judgment of one another. And, now, I would pause for a moment to ask of my readers if there be not, amongst them, some in whom, an almost personal interest and sympathy may be excited for the fate of the deaf and the dumb Antony ? since are there not, in the masses of man- kind, many who, figuratively speaking, are deaf^ because locked out from the world and the world^s joys, by seclusion, or poverty, or affliction; and many also that are dumh^ because the desolate and suffering spirit, surrounded by its unkind or un- ANTONY. 23 sympathising fellows can give no utterance to its longings, but remains ever closed and silent ? As Master ifcitony approached the bridge he encountered the troop of labourers already men- tioned on their way to Sanford^s farm, and as he passed among them, the impatient gestures of some of the men, but particularly the strange manner and angry looks of Morgan, caught his attention. They met each other on the path, and the man brushed by Antony so closely and so heedlessly, that his elbow struck the drawing-book from his hand. Antony lifted it from the ground, but did not lose sight of Morgan, on whom he had fixed one of those penetrating looks which were peculiar and of important use to the deaf youth. He was surprised to observe Morgan and a few others pick up stones of some weight, and carry them on with them, and curious to know their purpose, he followed them back till he saw them enter Sanford's farm- premises, depositing the stones quietly in a heap by the gate as they went in. This circumstance, together with the appearance and countenance of the man whom we know by the name of Morgan, made a strong impression on Master Antony. He had seen there an expression of wild passions which formed for him a striking contrast to those happy and gentle characters he had been contemplating only a few minutes previously. Pondering over these little events he wandered back to his home; 24 ANTONY. and this home was no other than that square, un- seemly house, of a bright yellow colour, which ap- peared so uninteresting to us whea first we noticed it; this was the Parsonage of Pon terry, and here dwelt the Reverend Bildad Donought, with his wife and a crowd of children, and also his poor pupil Antony Nay ton. Home ! Ah, how many sweet and holy thoughts associate themselves in our minds with that word ! What tenderness, what sympathies, what loves, never to be forgotten ! How is it hallowed by the recollection of our childhood's innocence., of the birth in our hearts of strange and unrecognisable longings, since grown up to noble aspirations for great and holy things ! of the first prayers an- swered, of the first temptations mastered ! How it recalls the blessed times when we knew a mother^s fondness, a father's caress, and the merry com- panionship of brothers and sisters, whose spirits, young and springing as our own, enjoyed with ours the sunshine of life's dawn, and were like flowers, fresh and newly painted from the hand of the great Universal Artist ! But to Antony Nayton home was not such. It was a stranger's home, and he was a stranger in it. He lived year after year with a tutor who cared for him only as he brought him an annual payment for his support, and who took little trouble and no interest in his education. He lived with children ANTONY. 25 who learned from their parents to despise him and to consider the deaf and dumb boy as of impaired intellect, and unfit for their companionship. He daily drank deep the bitter draught of depreciation, and who, that has not tasted this, can know its bit- terness ? Such a dwelling-place could not then claim, from him, the dear epithet of " Home.'^ The boy entered the house, and passed from room to room without meeting any one. The place seemed altogether deserted. No candles, no fires, no human beings to be seen, till he made his way to the nursery, where two little children were being put to bed, and he there received from the nurse, written on a slate, in reply to his inquiries, an intimation that the family were all out, gone to dine with some friends in the town of T , and not likely to return till late. He procured a light, and repaired upstairs to a garret, which was his own apartment, and where books and papers were scattered in confusion ; and sitting down, began again to occupy himself w^ith the sketch of Rachel, which was dear to his fancy, as recalling to it the features of his own sister. It was evident, however, that though the peculiar quickness and truthfulness of his eye gave him an undoubted capability of imitating forms by the art of drawing, yet a total want of instruction and prac- tice made this power of little service to him. He laboured for some time unsuccessfully at his picture; VOL. I. C 26 ANTONY. then^ as a remembrance of the dear reality he longed to pourtray flashed across his mind, he became impatient and angry with his feeble attempt, and tore the picture into a thousand pieces. Through the window of his chamber, the moon, already risen high, was visible ; and he rushed again out of the house, and into the cold night. The wind blew in gusts, clouds flew swiftly across the heavens, oftentimes obscuring the moon's rays. Then the darkness of the scene pleased him well, and the ele- ments seemed to have caught a gloominess from his own mind, where only now and then a light glim- mered ; and yet, as he at such times stood immov- able, a strange awe would creep over him. For it should be observed, that when the eye can no longer guide the deaf, they no longer feel safe in motion, — they have no sense to which they can trust, — and it is for this reason darkness is so peculiarly distressing to them. Still Antony now drank in this sympathy of nature, with a certain mysterious enjoyment, and the wind's breath, however boisterous, was welcome to him. When the moon again appeared, he wandered on, and presently found himself in a beautiful park, well known to him, where ancient trees were scat- tered in groups over the sloping lawns, and in the midst of which a large mansion elevated itself, and spread out its wide wings far on either side. He looked up longingly at the tall windows, but there were ANTONY. 27 no warm lights glowing within — the rooms seemed uninhabited, all was dreary and still. During some few dark minutes he sat down by a border of spring- roses, just bursting into bloom, spreading a delicious perfume around ; which was at that time the more sweet to him, as the sense thus gratified was the only sense that could then receive enjoyment and impart it to his mind. ^^ Ah ! rose, rose, thou dost not live in vain, even when the great gate of heaven is closed, and its grandest light cannot shine on thee, and reveal to mortals thine exquisite beauty; even then thou canst administer a pleasurable charm to us, — thou thro west out to the night-winds that invisible essence, which has power to soothe the spirit and lull it into delight. Thanks for thy perfume ! Ah, rose ! thou livest not in vain ; but I — oh ! wherefore do I live ? Thou actest on earth a holy part — but — mine — what is mine V Then, fearful of indulging in that morbid melan- choly which at times came over him, he started up, and by snatches of the moonlight continued his wanderings down the park across the river, through the meadows, till he reached the moor which spread out at the back of Sanford^s Farm and the Infant- School, and across which a public path led towards some distant cottages and a small ale-house, near to which he now found himself. As he came upon the heath he observed three men c 2 28 ANTONY. in close conversation, and the light was now so clear that he could see them distinctly, and thought he re- cognized them, though they were too much engaged in their own talk to perceive him as he passed along quietly behind the thick furze bushes. He sauntered on, watching the running moon as she sped through a labyrinth of little clouds, till he reached the back of the school-house. Here, an old oak, growing within the paling of the adjoining rick-yard, stretched itself slanting over the pathway. He climbed up into its branches, nestled himself among the young spring- ing foliage, and gazed out upon the calm and lovely scene. He could here have a view over the heath where the men, whom he had passed, were still dis- cernible ; and he was so near to the dw^elling of Gladis Evans, he could even look into the little parlour which lay below him, and where candle light was still glowing. Around, in the farm house, and the yards, and barns, all was quiet ; shutters were closed, and it appeared that the family had retired to rest. An angry scene had passed at the farm that even- ing. The demand of the working men for increase of wages, made in their name by Howel Philips, was met by a refusal; they became violent in their clamour and expressions of abuse of Mr. Sanford. Stones were thrown at the windows, and some broken; and they would have proceeded to tear down part of the outbuildings, had not Philips restrained them. Tliey would listen to no one but him, for though a ANTONY. 29 few among them, incited by Morgan, had conceived a hatred for Philips, being jealous of his authority over them, yet the most part of his fellow-labourers respected him highly, and were easily influenced by him. He now harangued them in Welsh, with an eloquence which, though simple, was persuasive, and he at length succeeded in quieting the rebellious spirits, and prevailing on the men not to throw up their employment, but continue in Sanford's service, and now to retire peaceably to their homes. Morgan and his party, however, would not be so satisfied. They were angry that their comrades could no longer be excited into violence, and angry at the triumph of Philips, and the failure of their designs ; while Sanford, enraged, but not alarmed by their threats, became more than ever obstinate. Morgan, having, with the rest, received his pay, at length declared he would remain in Sanford^s service no longer, and, on parting with the men, took the road to the town of T . By nine o'clock, quiet was restored, and the anxious inmates of the school, who had listened with alarm to the distant sounds of violence, were cheered by the promised visit of Howel. How welcome to the ear of Gladis was his low tap at the door, and then the sound of his clear voice! how sweet to her hand the warm pressure of his, as he entered! how eagerly boih mother and 30 ANTONY. daughter listened, as he told the adventures of the evening. But Mrs. Evans was one of those busy and industrious females, who must always be about something; whose thoughts cannot be busy unless the fingers are also; even while Philips spoke she was occupied in untying and re-tying her apron- strings ; and now that the tale was ended, to sit still any longer was out of the question. Up she started, to move the work things from the table; to open little cupboards full of shelves, china tea-things, and packets of tea and sugar; to go into the back kitchen and get out the bacon, that Howel might eat a good supper with them ; to take down four or five dishes, before she settled on the right sized one; to put it on, and to occupy herself in numberless little matters of business, the record of which it would weary our readers to peruse. In the meanwhile, Howel and Gladis were making the best use of their time. Yes, indeed ! The very best use in the world. And they, too, were doing business; but of a much more important nature. They were deep in conversation, in low voices; when Mrs. Evans bustled into the room, a pause gene- rally ensued; and the moment she had bustled out again, the conversation recommenced. At length, before supper was ready, Gladis' pretty face, which had been sinking lower and lower during ANTONY. 31 some minutes past, and becoming more and more flushed, was nearly out of sight, until the parting of her brown glossy hair became almost a perpendicular line. One hand, trembling with happiness, was clasped in those of the excited Howel. Suddenly, up started the maiden^s head — tears were fast flow- ing — those sweet and luxurious tears which are wrung forth by an intense joy, and her eyes flashed brilliantly upwards, as she said, in a voice stifled with emotion, "With God's blessing, dear Howel, we will, indeed, be happy!" and then, rising, hastily left the room. Yes; in those few minutes he had declared all she longed to hear; words had been spoken on which depended their whole future life. Joyous hearts! they had confessed to one another what was the spell that had long bound them together; and Gladis had promised to become the wife of Howel. Gladis was soon back again, and seated at the supper table, her face calmer, but expressive of a peculiar excitement. She found Howel deeply en- gaged in saying civil things to her mother, who could not understand why, after her long preparations for the repast, he could not touch the bacon or the pud- ding, but declared he had lost appetite and could eat nothing. Ten o'clock struck ere he quitted them to hasten home to his parents, who, he said, would be expect - 32 ANTONY. ing his return, for his mother was always fidgetty when he was late after work. And now the mother and daughter carefully barred the door and window-shutters, and retired to rest; but how could the young Gladis sleep, with a heart so full, and without revealing to her mother the rich joy that lay within it. Flinging her arms round Mrs. Evans^ neck, Gladis poured forth to the asto- nished listener her soon- told tale, and then followed all the long train of hopes and joyful expectancies that love ever brings with it. " Who would have thought it — who would have thought it ? but so it is in this world,^^ said Mrs. Evans with a sigh; *^we poor folks are always sinking lower and lower in it. I little dreamt when I mar- ried your father, a child of mine would have been content to wed a common labourer .^^ She wiped the tears from her eyes and continued, sobbing. " When the bank broke and we lost all, and when you were forced to take to teaching to gain us a living, 1 thought we had fallen low enough. It was hard for me to bear that — coming as it did, too, after your poor father was gone — but now — oh dear, dear — what shall we become at last }" A groan of regret interrupted her, and Gladis began cheerfully. " Fear nothing, mother. Howel cannot fail to do well in the world. I know we cannot marry yet — ANTONY. 33 perhaps not for years — but they will pass quickly to me, with the hope of being his at last." " Ha ! — so many a young girl has thought before you, Gladisj and each year has passed to her slower than the one before, till hope deferred and hope perhaps at last crushed, has robbed the cheek of its bloom, and the heart of its gladness. And must I watch you, my only and precious one, drooping thus away, under suspense and anxiety ? Think, Gladis, even when you are married to the man you love, think of the poverty, weariness, toil, and suffering in store for you, for him, and for your children !'^ Gladis was startled by the darkness of the pic- ture thus presented to her; but the light of love quickly dispelled all gloom from her heart, though the vexed mother continued, in disappointed tones — " Howel Philips may be a good-hearted fellow, but what is that if he have no means to keep his wife in a way suitable for your father^s daughter ? I always felt sure young Williams, the coal-merchant, at T , would have come forward sooner or later — and he has a good trade. Now Philips' daily earnings go to support his old sick parents. You have done foolishly, girl — very foolishly, to encou- rage the poor lad. There 's many a match might have offered itself to you far better than this : you are too well born to be the mate of one so low in the world,'' she exclaimed, in the bitterness of disap- pointed pride, and that jealousy of the dignity of c3 34 ANTONY. birth which is so characteristic of the Welsh pea- santry, who regard their pedigrees with a fondness and consideration hardly met with in the lower ranks of any other country. Here^ however^ she was interrupted by Gladis with increased animation. " Mother/' she said, " remember it is not for us to be haughty in this matter. Philips is as well born as ourselves ; and though, as you say, he has become, by misfortune, only a common labourer, yet I feel, I know, he will be one day something better. He has a vigorous and manly spirit, which will lift him above his adversities. I am proud of his love, and confide in him with my whole soul !" Thus they continued conversing till both were more calm, and the prudent mother had become more reconciled to relinquish the expected coal- merchant for her daughter. At length Gladis had the satisfaction of seeing Mrs. Evans wrapped in a sound sleep ; but the girl, excited by the fever of hope, could not compose herself to rest. She felt, indeed, a strange dread of, that night, resigning her- self to slumber, for which she could not account, and a nervous shudder frequently came over her as she sat wakefully dreaming over the present and the future. She heard not the noise of the elements without, she heard not the death-watch with its warning voice within — she heard nothing save the voice of her own heart. Suddenly a loud shriek ANTONY. 35 rent the air. It was close beneath her window. Her mother started from her slumber. " Was it an owl ?" she whispered. Gladis shook her head, and both silently listened ; then came another, and another cry, louder, longer, and more unearthly than the first. 36 ANTONY, CHAPTER IV. A CATASTROPHE. Shuddering with alarm Gladis rushed to the window, in her agitation throwing down the light and extinguishing it, for other sounds of a more strange and unaccountable nature proceeded from below. The darkness of the chamber, added to her own terror, made it difficult for her to unbolt the shutter. There was a rushing and crackling noise in the air, and under the window Mrs. Evans thought she could distinguish sounds as of men scuffling or fighting together, and now and then of angry groans or muttered curses, while frequently that strange cry was repeated. Meanwhile Gladis was fumbling for the bolt of the shutter, and when she had at length unfastened it, the chamber was no longer in darkness — a glare of crimson light poured into the room. The whole rick-yard close to the back of the house was in flames. ANTONY. 37 ^' Fire ! fire I'' screamed Gladis. •^Sure, and I hear men too fighting without there," cried the mother. " What can it be ? What —what is happening?^' She was now up and by Gladis' side, and throwing open the casement, joined her cries for help to those of the girl. They eagerly bent forward out of the window to see from whom the screams had proceeded, but no one was now visible below and they were not repeated. It would be difiicult to describe the terror of the women when they perceived that the ornamental woodwork of the roof of their own dwelling had caught fire from some flakes of burning thatch. " Mother ! mother ! dress yourself — we must go down; we must rush out or we shall be burnt — the house is on fire — we shall lose all — all — and our lives also. Hasten — hasten — or we shall die — die ! Oh, mother ! what will become of us ? Howel — save us — Howel ! Ah me, I shall never see him more V Such were the girl's ejaculations, as she helped the terrified mother to dress herself and then rushed back to the window, through which the increasing glare of the flames glowed upon them. " Robbers ! mother, robbers !" cried Gladis, in new alarm : " there is a man creeping round beneath the house ! What shall we do ? I see him in the fire- light — no — it is no robber — it Is — oh, joy !— yes — it is Master Antony." Again the cry was repeated, the cry of warning by which the deaf one had roused them to a sense pf 38 ANTONY. their peril, and as he stood below, he strove by the most vehement signs and ejaculations to summon them down and away from the burning house. " The Lord have mercy on us V cried the trem- bling mother. '^ He calls to us — he means us to go down with him — he will save us. Mother, mother, come down, let us go with him.^^ " Silly girl ! where are your senses — how can that helpless boy protect us from fire and ruffians }'' cried the mother. ^^ Listen ; he knocks at the door. I will go down, and open it,'^ cried Gladis ; but her mother seized her arm, forcibly. '^ Stop, are you mad ? Would you have us women go out among a fighting mob ? '' ^' There is no mob, — no one, mother, but the poor Master Antony, and he is now our good angel. Come down, let us fly with him ! '' " Nay, nay, Gladis ; I will not move from this house,^^ said the elder woman, determinately. " I tell you, child, you wiU be in more danger out of doors, than here.^' ^^ What ! here, among flames ? here, where the roof soon will fall upon us ? Must we be burnt ? Must we then die ? " Gladis in vain endeavoured to shake off the grasp of her mother, whose terror and trembling even exceeded her own. " Oh ! mother, mother, I am too young yet to ANTONY. 39 dieP' cried the frightened girl; and shivering and shuddering she leant back against the bed, and cried aloud in agony. The knocking at the door below was repeated, the roaring of the fire increased, the cracking of the woodwork on their own roof was audible ; the death- like pallor overspreading the face of the girl, and the chilling coldness of the hand she grasped, gave the mother a new courage and presence of mind. " Child, child/' she said, " thou wilt die of fright ; come down, then, we will go, and Heaven have mercy on us.'' Meanw^hile, Master Antony was becoming more and more impatient, he had armed himself with a club from the adjacent hedge, and having good reason to believe that to leave them to escape without pro- tection, or to suffer them to remain in the dwelling, would be alike dangerous, he continued by louder knockings to warn them of their peril. At length the door was opened, and the mother, leading out her girl, besought, by her gestures, that he would conduct them whithersoever he thought best. Away then he hurried them, along the lane, and over the bridge, into the midst of tlie village ; but, oh ! terrible reality, he perceived that the wind had suddenly changed ; it now blew violently from the west. The farm-yards on both sides of Sanford's house, were fiercely burning, the adjacent cottages had caught fire, and the wind, like a giant nurse to the young 40 ANTONY. flames, caught up each as they were first lit, in its great arms, fondled and played with them, then bore them along, and set them down only where there was food to nourish and increase them. Thus, from one thatched cottage roof to the other, flew the fearful element. Master Antony conducted the women through the crowd of frightened villagers, who already rushing out from all sides, stood stupefied with terror, staring at the raging fire. He led them to a house pointed out by Mrs. Evans, as one where she had friends, who would receive her, and where she was far removed from the place of danger, and having seen her and Gladis received in safety, he rushed back over the bridge, to give help to other sufi'erers. ^^Who would have thought it,^^ exclaimed Mrs. Evans, when she had recovered breath, after her hasty walk, and found herself unhurt, and escaped from the late threatening danger, ^^who would have thought it — our lives are saved by the half-witted deaf lad.^^ Oh ! the sight that awaited Antony Nay ton, — the burning of a village, the destruction of men^s hearths and homes, and of all that is material that they love and value, by the most magnificent and royal of the elements, is a sight sublime in its terror ! To his eyes it was splendour, to his heart it was agony ; to his ears, only that eternal silence, which, like that of the profoundest depths of the ocean, sound never breaks ANTOXY. 41 in upon. It was now an advantage to him that he could not hear the roaring of the flames, the sucking of the wind, the cracking of frameworks, the falling of buildings, the lowing of cattle, the stamping of frightened horses, the bleating of folded sheep, the voices of men calling and hallooing, the groans of the wounded, and the screams of frantic women and children ; for these sounds — this Babel of horrors — stunned the senses of the sufferers, and added to the universal confusion. While they were frenzied or panic-struck, the deaf boy was calm, active, and energetic. Already, before he had roused the women of the school-house to a sense of their danger, when the fire first broke out, and before it had attained to its height, it was he who had awoke the slumbering inmates of the farm. Sanford and the men of his household were now busy, removing the cattle from the burning sheds to a place of safety, and applying water to the fire, and in consequence of their exer- tions the flames were already abating in the farm- yards ; but the cottages of the poor were falling, one by one, victims to the devouring element, without resistance and without help. It was here that Antony was most active. The parents of the little Rachel beheld their home crumbling before them, beneath the flames ; their elder children, dragged from their beds, stood grouped together, holding each other's hands, and trembling 42 ANTONY. at their father^s words, that the judgment -day had come. The mother was rushing to and fro, and her screams became louder, as she again counted her children, and looked anxiously round for one of them, who was not there. In this moment of anguish. Master Antony stood by her side. He canght her arm, as she was about to rush once more into the burning cottage, pointed to her other chil- dren, signed to her to hasten to their protection, and then disappeared within the building. In a few minutes he was again seen emerging from it ; he bore a sleeping child in his arms, he gave it to those of the mother — he had saved her Rachel, An aged couple, with shaking limbs, stood before the door of the next cottage, unable to rescue from the fire any of their furniture or their effects. Their little all was perishing before their eyes, and there was no power to save it. Master Antony rushed into the dwelling, and hastily dragged out whatever furniture he had strength to remove. Then he hurried on to the other cottages, showing examples of courage and presence of mind to the frightened owners, and by his gestures summoning them to cast aside the panic which paralysed them, and join their exertions to his in saving their property. He saw there was more hope for the narrow street 'of huts running along by the side of the river, as the flames had not yet so furious a hold on them. Some of the inhabitants of these were not yet ANTONY. 43 aroused. He flew from door to door, forcing his way in, waking the inmates, and, tearing down what curtains or drapery he could find, showed them that by dipping them in the water and casting them over the thatched roof, the sparks might be extinguished before they had become flames, and flakes of fire might fall without spreading destruction. It was at this time the pastor's carriage arrived on the spot, driving home with his family from the neighbouring town. Alarming and unexpected in- deed was the scene that awaited him. The pale light of the moon by which he had journeyed was now exchanged for a crimson glow, which, as he had turned into the valley of the Erry, spread itself over the sky, and clothed every object in an awful splendour. It was with difficulty the frightened horse could be persuaded to make his way along the crowded highway. Mr. Don ought gazed with a dark frown on the scene. He was recognized by the villagers, but his presence gave to them no thrill of awakening hope or confidence ; for though he was their pastor, they had not been accustomed to find in him a sympa- thizer or a helper. " What is this business ?" he asked of a bystander, which proved to be Sanford himself. "A plot— a foul plot ! — the work of an incendiary, sirl" was the reply, in a voice trembling with passion. 44 ANTONY. " Good Heavens ! Sanford, what do you mean ? What devdls could have set the whole village on fire r " The villain meant only to burn down my farm, and lighted both the rick-yards at once ; so that half my property is lost/^ cried Sanford, with an angry oath. ^^And the fellow is off, I suppose — no trace of him, eh ? — beyond scent, and no one can guess who he is ; is not that it, Sanford V' asked the other. ^^ No, no — better luck than that, this time : they have found out the scoundrel — followed him from the farm, seized him, and he is as safe as a rat with the ferret at his throat. The constable is oflf with him to jail by this time.'' '^ And who is he ?" " The lying dog, Howel Philips." The curiosity of the inquirer by this time satis- fied, he whipped on the horse with many impatient ejaculations, anxious to cross the bridge, and learn if his own house was also in danger. He heeded not the sound of his pupil's name, of " Master Antony — Master Antony !" which burst from all sides, as the crowd watched the daring intrepidity of the youth. Antony's attention w^as now concentrated on another burning house. He knew not that it was the property of an aged miser who could be with difficulty per- suaded to save his own life, and leave the blazing ANTONY. 45 rooms, without returning to the rescue of his dear treasure. The deaf boy observed the man's gesticu- lations of despair as, while they dragged him out of the building, he gazed back at it with a grief which wrung tears from his eyes. " It is for some beloved one that he w^eeps," thought Antony. " Perhaps a young son is hing within there, weak and ill, or, perhaps, powerless from suffocation. Heaven strengthen my arm to save ! " And, little thinking that it was for a casket of gold only that the miser wept tears of affection, Antony rushed into the house, and up the stairs, breaking into each chamber, and seeking everywhere for the expected sufferer. By this time Mr. Donought had returned, having placed his wife and children in safety in his own house, which w-as separated by the river, as well as by a wide area, from the burning part of the village. He observed that the confusion among the crowd had even increased during his absence, and yet it appeared to him that the flames had far less power than when he had entered the valley, and that the fire was gradually diminishing. But, hark ! what a terrible crash ! the miser's house has fallen in, and Master Antony is buried beneath it ! 46 ANTONY CHAPTER V. WHICH IS IN ALL RESPECTS GLOOMY. Now came an universal rush to the spot — an universal shout of horror and despair. "He is killed ! '' " Oh, Master Antony, dear Master Antony ! ^' cried many. "But are you sure he is there ?^' asked some. " Perhaps he had escaped in time/' hoped another. " Yes, yes ; see he is upon the edge of the wall. No, it is only a black rafter; look, it has fallen in,'' " He must be crushed ! he must be destroyed ! Alas ! alas ! '' " No, he may yet be saved ! Come on, boys, come on, we will tear away the smoking walls, we may yet he in time. Come on, fellows, we will save the brave young gentleman.*' So shouted several voices, and numerous hands began immediately to tear away the bricks and rub- ANTONY. 47 bish of the hot ruins. Sanford and his men were foremost in the work, and as many of his own imple- ments as could be laid hands on were brought out, to be of use in the important labour. Water was fetched hastily by many who, moved by an impulse of gratitude and admiration for the unfortunate youth, were more ready to act now, for him, than they had been before, for themselves. Amply were the streams poured on, upon the hot stones and timber, till it was at length possible to move them away. But another difficulty now arose ; they could not discover in what direction their labour should be turned, in what spot beneath the mass of ruins the poor lad might be lying. Parties formed themselves to work in various places. They dug deep, and with untiring energ)^, at the points they had separately allotted to them- selves, each group of men straining their attention to listen, should any sound or cries be uttered by the sufferer from below. They felt it, however, as a great disadvantage, that he could not hear their voices from above, and thus take hope, and reply to them, should he be indeed in a state of consciousness. Time wore on, but their toil still seemed useless. Mr. Donought had sent for a surgeon to the town of T , and he was shortly expected to arrive ; but the sufferer was not yet found. At length one man cried aloud that he heard groans from beneath, in a direction where they had not yet worked deeply. All hands were now turned 48 ANTONY. to that spot, and it was hoped that if Master An- tony were indeed there, as it was the upper story of the house, his injuries might not prove so posi- tively fatal as they must have been were he in the lowest rooms at the time of the fall. In the mean time the night was passing on, and the fire fading out. The river had been a powerful barrier to stop its course towards the heart of the village; it could rage no further, and seemed at length satisfied with its work of destruction and con- tent to die. The twilight of morning stole onwards, and still the men laboured for the rescue of Antony ; but his groans were now no longer heard. What terrible hours must these have been of pain and suspense to the sufferer, if he still remained con- scious of his state — if still he panted in that living grave for air and freedom ! The labourers, however, felt it was more than probable that he must now be beyond suffering. But hark ! a shout of triumph 1 — they have found him ! — they lift him from his grave ! The sun's first rays glow upon the pallid countenance of Antony Nay ton. A rafter had fallen over him, but in such a manner as effectually to protect him from the weight of the hot stone and wood which tumbled from above. Around him, there had been no means of protection. One arm appeared crushed between the bricks, his clothes were scorched and burnt, and it was with difficulty they could extricate him from ANTONY. 49 his position. It would appear, however, that the application of water had been of important use in flowing downwards and forming pools around him, which lessened the fatal effects of the intense heat. Now, many a heart beat joyfully, and many an eye was moist among the stout labourers in this good work, as they beheld the uninjured countenance of the brave boy. All pressed forward to gaze upon him ; but hope died away in the breasts of his de- liverers as they beheld the powerless form stretched before them without a sign of life. A deep groan burst from some of the men. ^' Too late ! too late !'^ they cried, " noble fellow ! poor young gentleman — and he has died in our service.^' The attempts of the surgeon to restore any ani- mation were vain, and he was borne away to the parsonage-house accompanied by the mournful and disappointed crowd, forming a procession such as follows a bier to the grave. Ah ! mournful was the scene on which the sun gazed with his wonted smile of blessing and peaCe, as he arose over the village of Ponterry, on that morning. Many hearths had been laid bare to the winds, many happy faces had been clouded by sor- row, many hearts had nigh fainted with despair since he had gone down a few hours previously ; but owing to the exertions and self-devotion of the deaf and dumb youth, no lives had been lost, the beloved ones of each family had been preserved to one VOL. I. i> 50 ANTONY. another. He alone had endured those sufferings from which he had been the means of rescuing so many. The Parsonage was surrounded the next day by a crowd of people inquiring for the sufferer. The only answer given was, that he still remained in a state of unconsciousness, and he had but twice showed signs of returning animation. For several days following, there was little varia- tion in the reply; he still lay in a state of entire prostration of mind and body. The rumour that Howel Philips was charged with the crime of incendiarism, was at first generally dis- credited, for the young man bore far too high a character in his village to be suspected of such a crime. When, however, it was generally known that he was actually remov.ed to the gaol of the town of T , and that his aged parents were left alone, bemoaning this new adversity for their dear and only son ; and when it became universally reported that he had long borne a dislike for his employer, farmer Sanford, and that by ensuring the destruc- tion of his farm-yards, he had sought to satisfy a secret revenge, not intending or expecting his native village would also suflfer, the public mind became gradually less doubtful of his innocence, and ere long believed decidedly that he was the guilty man. So universal among the Welsh is their dislike of Englishmen, that although general horror was ex- pressed at the crime of Philips, there were many. ANTONY. 51 who, not having personally suffered from the fire, felt a certain sympathy with the accused in his hatred for Sanford, and a secret rejoicing that his vengeance on him whom they considered as an enemy, was so effectual. As to Sanford, he could not at the first moment be persuaded that Philips had so injured him. He had recognised the hand of an incendiary in the work, the moment that Master Antony had made known to him the break- ing out of the fire, but he could not then suspect Philips. It was not till the voices of the angry villagers marked out Philips as their destroyer, and two of Sanford's own labourers, Meredith and Jones, declared that they had seen the man in the yard after they had left it, and that no other man was near the spot — it was not till the excited mob had rushed to his cottage, and dragged him out, when matches and gunpowder had been found on his person, that Sanford would believe that young Philips could be guilty; for he had respected and trusted him; and though he had been to him a hard and severe master, he had not discovered in Philips symptoms of dissatisfaction or rebellion till the night before the fire. He had been astonished at Philips pre- ferring the demand for an increase of wages, but he had not imagined that, by his refusal, he had in- jured or excited a revengeful feeling in the young labourer. He was now, however, informed of many terms of disrespect and of abuse used in reference D 2 52 AXTOXY. to himself, by Howel Philips. He had at first suspected that another was the guilty party, but he now became incensed against Philips by all that he had heard ; he believed that he had been deceived in him^ that his confidence had been undeserved, and that the man had proved himself a hypocrite and a villain. He therefore resolved to follow and punish him for his crime with the extremest severity of the law; and determined to use every exertion, to collect every fact, and summon every witness, that could ensure the proof of his guilt. One fact appeared highly important, in pointing out Phihps as the criminal ; in the parlour of the Infant School-house, which had remained unhurt by the fire, the upper part of the dwelling only having been destroyed, there were discovered, the morning afterwards, matches and other combustible materials, corresponding with those found on the person of Howel Philips. It was certain that no other person had entered that room after Howel's departure, as the women positively affirmed. These then must have been accidentally dropped by Howel during his evening visit to them. Gladis was in a passionate state of mingled grief and anger when she heard of his accusation. It was in vain the prudent Mrs. Evans besought her to keep unki.own to any the secret of her engagement to the supposed culprit. Gladis' violent declarations that he was innocent could not be restrained, nor ANTONY. 53 would she attempt to conceal from any the deep interest she had in his fate. She went instantly to the home of his parents, and announced to the old Philips and his wife their son's engagement to h^r- self, and her desire to be to them as a daughter during his distressing absence. She renewed her vows of devotion to her betrothed, and mingled with those of the aged couple her tears and her assevera- tions of his innocence. She afterwards daily visited them, for their infirmi- ties made her services highly valual)le, the woman being partly deaf, and her husband feeble in sight, and daily did she tend and nurse them, devoting to them those hours which were not required for her duties in the school. " And this is the secret, the happy secret that the poor lad had in his mind when he came home to us on that last night," said the mother, ^^when his heart was so full, Gladis, of his love for thee ! I saw there was something more than common in his thoughts, though my poor ears could not catch all his words, when, in the midst of this, the wicked men tore him from us ; and oh ! Gladis, perhaps we shall never see him more, save. in the dark prison or the convict ship,'^ and here the poor woman, over- whelmed with her grief, burst into tears. '^ Nay, mother, take heart,'' cried the girl ; '' the God of justice will not permit it. Howel will return to us, as surely as spring will again visit the earth." 54 ANTONY. The old man shook his head. " Take care, girl, take care, that you are not too confident ; you are young and blinded by your love for the youth. You know not — even I know not —what temptation he may have had tq^ do this dark deed, nor how weak he may not have been to stand against it. Satan may may have led him to it, and he is perhaps terribly guilty. Who can tell? We can none of us answer for one another. ^^ "But in this I can and will answer for Howel/^ cried Gladis, with vehemence. " Not all the proof the whole world can bring against him, no, not even a confession from his own lips, would make me believe Howel guilty I'* Her own mother, poor, disappointed Mrs. Evans, thought herself scarcely less to be pitied than the parents of Howel himself, so deeply was she dis- tressed and spirit-broken concerning her daughter's engagement, a subject which had been quickly spread by the many gossips of Pon terry, and which she found the theme of conversation wherever she went. She never ceased to regret the untimely circumstance of Howel's having visited them on the eventful night, and she again thought, with many sighs, of the expected coal merchant. " You young girls are always in such haste to ensure a husband,^' she began, to the sorrowful Gladis, who was wearied with sleepless nights and anxious days, and sometimes felt her courageous hope faint within her. "Now, if you had only ANTONY. 55 waited till Williams was again in the village, or there was young Mr. James the grocer's ^' ^^ What, mother V cried the indignant Gladis, all her spirit again roused ; ^' do you think my heart could have ever listened to any in the world but to Hbwel ?'' " But, Gladis, you knew not then of this dreadful event?'' ^' Do you mean that you, mother, can join with the unkind world against him — him who is as inno- cent of this cruel charge as that daisy in the turf ? I will still wed him — I will not forsake him. I will be his wife, even if the wicked judges condemn him to transportation for his whole life ! I will go with him, if it be to the ends of the earth — for so have I promised V' Such declarations were unanswerable, but called forth fresh floods of tears from the regretful mother. When she and Gladis were examined by the police officers respecting the commencement of the fire, the girl declared she believed no other than Morgan to be the criminal — a statement which was set aside instantly as uncalled for, and unworthy of conside- ration, as she could give no proof and no positive reason for the suspicion. They had also evidence that the man she had named left the village early in the evening, and spent the night in T . The statement of both mother and daughter that Howel left their cottasre at about ten o'clock, cor- 56 ANTONY. responded precisely with the evidence against him ; as it was shortly after that time he was seen to leave the rick-yard previous to the breaking out of the fire. Gladis expressed her belief that the clergy- man's pupil could perhaps throw some light on the matter, as he had been the first to call the attention of Sanford's household, as well as their own, to the flames ; and her mother described the sounds of fighting, which she believed she had heard, without seeing the parties engaged in it, and one of whom, she suggested, might perhaps have been Master A.ntony Nayton. As however they had found no trace, and could form no conjecture regarding these sounds last-mentioned, they were considered as pro- bably the result of the frightened woman's excited imagination ; and with regard to the importance of Master Nayton's evidence, it would be taken, if he should sufficiently recover from the dangerous illness in which he now lay, although Sanford and many others declared they judged him, even when in health, incapacitated by his imperfect senses and confused understanding, from giving any evidence that could be relied upon. As to Gladis' assertions of Howel's innocence, her energetic appeals to the officers in his behalf were received coldly — as they only evinced the depth of the poor girl's personal interest in the prisoner, thus rendering her vehement arguments in his favor of no effect. ANTONY. 57 The examiners left her in a state of hopeless dejection, into which she had not before permitted herself to fall. She had now learnt, that after the lapse of one month, the assizes would come round, and that during that time the accused must remain in prison to take his trial. And now let us visit the chamber of the sufferer. For nine days Antony Nayton, showing symptoms of life only at times, remained in that state of stupor, into which he had been thrown by the shock which his whole nervous system sustained at the falling in of the burning house ; and when at length he awoke it was to an acute sense of pain in his injured arm and shoulder, of smarting and burning in the scorched limbs, and of fever and sickness in the whole body, which rendered him restless, weary, and miserable, and for a considerable time deprived him of all recollection, either of the events which had preceded or caused his long swoon. The arm, which had been found to be dislocated, had been already set, during his unconsciousness. The impossibility of his inquiring of those around his bed, or of their reminding him of the cause of the painful situation in which he found himself, prolonged the state of forgetfulness and confusion of his mind. It was not till several days ^fter his revival that he began to recall a faint idea of the terrific scene of the burning village, but so undefined and strange was the impres- sion, that he imagined all this to have been a d3 58 ANTONY. horrible dream, occasioned by some severe illness or fever, from the effects of which he was still suffering in all his aching limbs. Sometimes, however, the past scenes would flash before him with a vividness which he felt must belong only to reality ; and then, wondering and longing for some explanation, he would turn to make inquiries, by eager gestures, of his attendant, but received no satisfactory reply. The person hired by Mrs. Donought to act as his nurse, and selected by her as especially suited to the office, was a dull and almost infirm old woman, who could neither read nor write, and therefore had no means of understanding or of making herself understood by the deaf and dumb invaUd. Mr. and Mrs. Donought only entered his room about once a day ; and that was generally at the times that the surgeon attended to dress his wounds, and when quiet and stillness were enjoined, and he was not permitted to converse. His mind, Hke the eye of the blind, could there- fore discern neither the past nor the present — all was darkness and confusion within — and during the long restless nights of feverish weakness, frightful repetitions of what he had suffered passed before him in wild dreams, which made him start and tremble. Sometimes he fancied himself again in the living grave, where his whole frame was cramped together, without the power of motion, by the surrounding scorching matter, and where it had seemed to him he had groaned out his spirit. ANTONY. 59 Death would now have been sweet to him indeed, but instead of this comforter, his distracted mind was threatened by madness. His delirium had so far abated by the second week after his awaking from the swoon, that, by the sanction of the ignorant and inconsiderate surgeon, he was visited by the police officers, to whom it was important to gather immediately as much informa- tion as was possible relative to the incendiary. Various questions which were deemed necessary were accordingly written and presented one after another to the invalid, to receive his answers. But, owing to the confused state of his thoughts, these were given in so strange and incoherent a manner, that they could hardly be deciphered. They were pronounced useless and undeserving of considera- tion ; and that evening it was reported through the village that Master Antony Nayton was recovering from his bodily injuries, bat that his mind was entirely gone. " Indeed, indeed 1" said some few of those to whom he had been a deliverer w^hen danger threatened them, and who, now in safety, beheld new and more comfortable homes rising for them, ^^ndeed — so the poor young gentleman has lost his senses ! Well, they always said he was not over steady- minded ; and 1 did think, when I saw him on that night, flying in and out among the flames, like the 60 ANTONY. very spirit of the fire, that he acted more like one mad than a sensible man." " So, it is but the worst part of him he has lost now '/' added another. Alas ! how soon does gratitude faint in the heart ; how little influence has it to make us true in our judgment of others! How readily do we shake it from us, glad to rid ourselves of the humiliating feeling of being indebted to a fellow creature ! Gladis, who never omitted her daily inquiries at the Parsonage, now received the confirmation of her worst fears. She was informed by the servants. ^^ Master Nayton's groans and cries were heard nightly by them; that he had not slept since his revival from the fit; and that the medical man had been heard to say, that a melancholy madness would probably follow." The girl left the house in a state of despair, and on reaching her cottage sank down before her mother, overpowered with grief, crying: '^Mother, my last hope is gone from me; no one will save my Howel; our good angel can help us no ANTONY. 61 CHAPTER YI. IN AVHICH THE PAST BEGINS TO KEVEAL ITSELF TO US. In the meantime the village of Ponterry was rising from its ruins. The newly made wilderness was not long permitted to remain desolate. Even the second day after the fire, and while flames were still smoul- dering among the fallen masses, the vigorous spirit of man had begun the work of restitution. The remains of cottages, and other traces of the devasta- tion, were being removed, and the men worked with zeal and industry. It was evident, however, that months must elapse before the comfort and convenience could be restored by newly formed streets, which it had taken but a few hours to destroy so utterly; while there was little hope of due reparation being ever made to the poor villagers for their losses of furniture and, to them, valuable property. The greatest sympathy was bestowed on the sufferers from all sides. 62 ANTONY. Sir William Allingworth, the occupier of the large mansion and park close to the village, who heard of the work of destruction, during his visit vrith his family to London, was liberal in his assistance, which he sent orders should be given to all who most needed it. Whole families, now homeless and roofless, were received and housed by those friendly neighbours who had been so fortunate as to escape; and the land-owners were speedy in their exertions to raise new and better built dwellings on all sides. That period in our existence which we call youth, should be to us as dear, as precious, as the charger to the Arab; w^ith what vigour, what grace and buoyancy, with what bounding steps, does it bear us along the desert of life, swiftly flying from one green oasis to another, that we may taste of the freshest of waters, and enjoy the shadow of the noblest palms that grow along the weary way! When that steed is gone from us, our journey is more slow and tedious; and the next oasis that we rea^h, is perhaps the last. It is in our youth that every draught of joy is sweetest, every hope brightest, every experience richest. Let us then, oh! my friends, enjoy and feel in our inmost soul, the sacredness of the privileges of this stage of our existence: let us value and preserve them; knowing that the youth of the spirit may be ANTONY. 63 ours even in our old age here, for by fixing our earnest gaze upon eternity we may keep the soul ever young on earth, till it enters on that everlasting youth for which it is destined. It was a thought of Master Antbny Nayton, that led us thus away; for we would observe, in reference to him, that it is, during this spring time of man, that the fountain of renewing life is ever at hand, to revive the powers of mind and body, when wearied and sinking beneath the influence of an " outrageous fortune.^' It is only when youth is passed away that these waters fail us. They did not fail to bring their refreshment to the suffering Antony. His diseased mind, which, as we have seen, was becoming frenzied, and his worn frame, excited by fever, and exhausted by pain, at length found the remedy so greatly needed. That comfort, which the ignorance or neglect of his medical attendant had omitted to seek, and which it is the privilege of his art to be enabled at such times to administer to the suflferer, nature at last gave. He at length slept. A long sweet slumber embraced him in its soft and tender arms, and when he after several hours awoke from it, he found that, with it, a shadow had passed away from his mind. Now he could again think, now he could again pray. Oh, kind and holy sleep ! precious gift from Him who knoweth our infirmities, thou art to the children 64 ANTONY. of men an angel bearing healing on thy wings, not only for the body but for the very soul also ! It was now, to Antony, as if a long night had passed from his spirit, for the light of knowledge again began to dawn. As he lay calmly on his bed, he wandered through the gardens of memory, recognising each path, each flower, each thorn and rock. Gradually the whole recollection of that last fearful night pre- sented itself to him. He now understood that he had been mercifully preserved in a great danger, and that it was a marvel that he still lived, and had not been utterly crushed and destroyed. The aching m his limbs was no longer so constant or so violent, and he felt that his only great injury was the dislocation of his left arm. The fever had abated, but he was still stiff with the bruises and burns which were at times painful. His weakness was extreme, and he could move only with the greatest difficulty, but this mattered not, now that the mind had begun to resume its vigour. Each day he felt and rejoiced in this upspringing of life more and more, and yet those around him seemed not to observe it. The surgeon acknowledged the body was recovering, but he heeded not the change in the condition of the mind. He did not even seek to discover its state ; he had no interest in his patient, and his visits were too few and hasty to allow of his acquiring it. When asked about the invalid he^ would say that restoration of the health ANTONY. 65 might now be confidently expected in the course of time, but it was beyond his power to state how long a period must elapse before the nerves, and through them the brain itself, could recover from the shock they had sustained. As soon as Antony was able to rise in his bed he amused himself, when unwatched by others, with the occupation of writing in a book, w^hich was already half filled with manuscript, and for which he appeared to have a peculiar feeling amounting to affection. And this book, reader, had been to him a companion and a friend for many months past when he had no other on earth. In it he had made a record of his past life ; there he had unbosomed his thoughts, which had otherwise remained ever locked within himself. There he had found relief by the outpour- ing of his overburdened spirit, which afforded him a kind of consolation, though it could not give that sympathy for which he panted, and which is only found in a loving and a kindred heart. Reader, let us open this manuscript volume and acquaint ourselves therefrom with the past outer and inner life of the deaf mute, Antony Nay ton. Begun on Monday morning, March 29, at Ponterry Parsonage. Yes, to feel alone, utterly alone, on this great earth, is a melancholy thing for one so young as I am ; I have no friend among men ; no mother, no brother. 66 ANTONY. no sister^ or father that care for me. I live in a stranger's home. No one loves me on the earth ; only in Heaven is there one v^^ho cherishes me, only when to Heaven my thoughts are uplifted in prayer, are they peaceful and joyous, only from Heaven cart I expect love and help. All is very calm on this spring morning, and the rising sun casts a red glow into my small chamber. Its soft kiss upon my eyelids, stiff with the tears that had flowed from beneath them during my dream, first aroused me, and I obey its summons with a lightness of heart which I only feel when I rise thus early, or after I have said my prayers. All without and within the house is very still — still to the eye, and also I believe to the ear. Alas ! all is ever still to my ears. I see the world in motion around me, and my heart would beat in unison with that action ; but there is no other heart to respond to mine, and thus it remains ever dumb — as my poor lips. But at this moment it is not like fair nature, still ; sighs are the breezes that ruffle its surface ; tears and groanings of grief are the storms that lash the waters of this sea, that desires to reflect the brightness and gladness of Heaven. Aye, and sometimes they do reflect it. There are intervals of holy calm, such, as when the winds that pass over the earth and visit my heart, glide unconsciously acros sit; for the sun of God's love glows on me, my soul receives its image, and ANTONY. 67 sparkling in its warmth and glory, sinks into repose. — So constantly am T forced to commune with my own thoughts, having no friend to play and talk with, and so many hours of my life are thus spent in soli- tude, that I fancy it would give me a new interest and amusement at such times, if I were to write an account of my life as it passes, and of my thoughts and feelings as they grow into form. I will then begin with my infancy. Ah, infancy ! thou wert more blest than ever my later childhood or youth or manhood can be to me. Then, I enjoyed a mother's love ; a care and tender- ness that none but a child has received from none but a mother, were bestowed on me. At seven years old I lost this. She died, and from thence dates all the sorrow of my life. In the first seven years of my existence, I enjoyed those gifts of hearing and speech which have since been denied me. Oh ! let me think over that sweet time — let me dwell upon its irrevocably past joys. I remem- ber her distinctly. She was tall, and fair, with long black ringlets, and a smile of soft kindness, which I loved to gaze on ; and then, her voice ! — that be- loved, never-to-be-forgotten voice! — the only one I ever hear now : it rings yet in my ears. Still in my heart the echoes have not died away of those en- chanting tones when she sang me to sleep, or 68 ANTONY. aroused me from it, or prayed for me and sung hymns, to teach my yoang ^oul to know its Maker. Aye, the world may despise me, men may turn in contempt from the senseless , child, who hears not and speaks not, but none can contemn the treasure that lies within my breast — the recollection of the voice and the music that once enchanted it — the feeling that I even yet possess them there, that years, and pain, and sickness, and misery — that nothing can stifle the resounding melodies within, until memory itself be destroyed. My angel mother! perhaps it is that thy spirit ofttimes bends downwards from thy bright home to thy child, and hovering round his head, breathes those beloved strains into his soul, thus constantly renewing and increasing their enchantment. *' Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss — Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss ! " Her death, and the impression it made upon me, has never been effaced from my mind. She sank under a fever, during the progress of which her children were not permitted to see her. T heard my nurses observe to one another, in their conversation, that my mother was '^ in great danger/^ Startled and alarmed, I was seized with an inexpres- sible longing to go to her. I could not bear that she should be alone in her danger, that. I should not be by her side to share it with her ; or, as my fondness ANTONY. 69 made me imagine I had power to do, to guard her from it. To Augustus, my elder brother, or to the little Kathleen, I said nothing of what I had heard, but took the first opportunity to creep unnoticed into my mother's room, and wait there concealed, till a paroxysm of high fever had somewhat passed off, and the attendants left her to sleep. I then stole to the bedside, and gazed, as I trembled fear- fully, on the pale emaciated face I so loved. Her eyes were raised to heaven, and her thin hands joined ; and I felt that she was praying. I have observed there is a sympathy in children, by which they are moved to imitate, and this was now roused in me. I knelt down, joined my hands like hers, like her I uplifted my eyes, and began to repeat the Lord's Prayer. I had concluded before I remem- bered that I had uttered the words audibly, and I looked up at the dear sufferer, frightened lest she should thus have become aware of my presence ; I found her eyes fixed on me. " God bless you, my boy!*' said a hollow, faint voice, which I could hardly recognise. "My Antony, how came you here ? Go away, go away, you must not touch me, you must not approach me !" " What have they done, mama, to make you look so unhappy — Oh ! what have they done }'' I began, as tears sprang to my eyes. " Go, my child, I am very ill ; it will hurt you to stay with me." 70 ANTONY. '^ Oh ! mama^ do not send me from you ; they say you are in danger. Oh ! let me be with you till it it is passed. I will not touch or speak to you, only let me look at your dear face ; do not send me away, or 1 shall die of sorrow/' I cried, passionately. ^*My Antony, Heaven grant you may not yet know what it is to die.'' *^Do you, mama?" I asked. " I shall know it soon." She could speak no more. I turned suddenly cold, and my whole frame shivered, as I gazed in silence ; presently the door opened, I would have hidden myself, but I could not move. The attending nurse entered, and approached the bed. ^' Take him away !" began the faint voice ; and with a gesture of alarm, the nurse advanced and caught me in her arms. I wept bitterly, and im- plored she would let me stay. '^ If I go from you, mama, I do not think I shall ever see your face again." The woman was evidently touched, she must have felt the truth of my words ; she tarried an instant, but would not suffer me to approach the bed, as she told me my mother must not be disturbed. I looked at her dear face earnestly, and met her penetrating gaze. " Farewell, my child, your mother's blessing is on you — she prays for you. Never forget your heavenly Father ; love and obey Him always, and we shall meet again." I was now carried hastily away. " When shall I see mama ANTONY. 71 again r^' I asked^ eagerly. '^ When you are gone also to heaven/^ was the reply ; ^^ and for that reason you must always be a wonderfully good boy.^^ That scene and these words are as vivid in ray recollection as if they had passed but yesterday. Thus it was I unconsciously brought upon myself the deep afflic- tion of my life. On being carried to my nursery, I crept to my little bed, and hiding myself in it, thought over what had passed. My imagination was soon in a state of burning excitement — my head throbbed, my whole frame trembled violently. I had caught the fever, which lasted so long, life was almost despaired of, and when that was at length reassured to me, one of my senses was gone. My ears refused to receive and impart to my understanding the sounds of life. Ah ! sad bereavement. Often have I desired that life had rather been taken, and that I had thus soon been with my mother, in her holy and everlasting rest. At first I did not feel my loss of hearing so deeply as I now do. Children, so little as I was, cannot foresee consequences, and whilst I received the atten- tions and kindnesses of those around me, I was not fully aware of the necessities which called them forth : then, too, I could speak — I could express my wants and feelings, and was understood. Now, how- ever, that guide to the voice, that teacher of the great art of language, the ear, has been so long deaf- ened, that I have no means of directing my organs of 72 ANTONY. speech, and though I do constantly strive to express myself — as the power of articulation is not gone, I excite only the ridicule of others, which, to a sensitive nature, such as mine, is indescribably painful. My nurse, who was much attached to me, greatly blamed herself for having spoken of my mother's danger in my presence, and thus attributed my illness and affliction to her own imprudence. She was unceasing in her aifectionate care of me, and when my deafness was pronounced by the medical man to l)e incurable, she applied herself with the most earnest and anxious pains to lessen to me its incon- veniences and its miseries. She made me converse to her as much as possible, to preserve to me my articulation ; which, therefore, though my contemp- tuous associates believe me dumb, is still — still mine, and, which, did I not find myself only among those who scorn my infirmity, and could I attain the command of my voice, might even yet' be serviceable to me. My good nurse also taught me, by watching the lips of others, to read on them the words they uttered. This has been of infinite service to me ; my intellect has, I believe become sharpened by this constant eager attention, and T can now, by watching the expression of the speaker's countenance, as well as the motion of the mouth, catch, with comparative ease, at their meaning. To utter words, however. ANTONY. 73 myself, I do not attempt ; for I have been many years among strangers, and am careful, by retreating within myself, by silence, and a cold, calm exterior, to avoid the notice of others, and exposure of my defect. In this manner, the vehemence and acute sensibilities of my passionate nature have been so locked within myself, that none are aware of them ; and I have frequently read on the lips of those around me — " The poor fellow is dull of understanding/' My inward nature would not, however, have been thus concealed and suppressed had there been one sympathising heart near me to whom it could have developed itself. My early home was in Ireland, where my father, who is, however, of an English family, inherited an estate so deeply mortgaged, that from the time of his coming into it, it had been only a burden upon his resources, which were small, and had been greatly reduced early in his life by the many losses he had suffered. He has been at length reduced from a wealthy to a poor gentleman, with means scarcely sufficient to educate his family. About a year and a half after our mother's death, we were informed that our father, who had been long absent from home, was about to bring back to us a new mama. This news gave me a sensation of delight I cannot describe. My father's cold nature, and his evident disappointment in me, since my calamity, deadened in me that deep aflfection VOL. I. E 74 ANTONY. with which maternal fondness had inspired my heart; and thus, while 1 dreaded his return and his glances of dislike at me, his afflicted child, I looked forward with a sweet pleasure to the moment when I should again own a mother. The long- desired day at length arrived ; we were all carefully dressed by the nurse, w^ho was anxious that we should please the new lady, but I observed that the good woman appeared vexed and angry while making preparations for the bride, and when I asked, *^Are you not glad, nurse, we shall soon have a mama to love?^^ she shook her head, and made me understand that she would care for none but our first mama. I saw tears in her eyes; I remembered all the love and joy that had passed away with my own mother, and I, too, cried bit- terly. But children's grief-showers are soon past, and sunshine ere long gleamed in my heart, for my dispoi>ition was naturally cheerful. The carriage was seen descending a distant hill, and Augustus, a fine manly boy, four years older than myself, posted himself before the gate of the old castle-like building in which we dwelt, and with his toy-gun upon his shoulder, paced to and fro, as warder of the castle, prepared, on the arrival of the expected ones, to give the military salute in due form. Presently the carriage drove to the gate, and nurse bade little Kate and myself go hand in hand down stairs, while she followed. ANTONY. 75 How my heart beat ! How was I excited ! How my knees shook, as I approached the drawing-room, dreading my father's look — longing for a mother's embrace ! On entering I noticed Augustus standing by our father. He was fixing a bold, scrutinizing gaze on the bride, who sat, gaily dressed, in an easy chair, and seemed examining the room and furniture with her small, quick, grey eyes. I saw her then speak to my father, and glancing in our direction, without appearing to notice us, continued to address him. She had a fine, large figure, commanding in appear- ance and manner, with severity marked on her somewhat low forehead, and a scornful expression on her lips when they were in repose, but whilst addressing my father they wore an agreeable smile. I learned afterwards to understand that she did love him, but could love no other, excepting herself, in the world. Nurse encouraged us to approach, and the pretty little Kathleen stepped forward shyly. I crept be- hind Augustus, and stood gazing at her and trembling. At length my father, lifting Kathleen in his arms, kissed and presented her to his wife : she caressed her with that same smile which I knew afterwards she always wore when she wished to please our father. Nurse then led me towards him, else I should have remained still probably unnoticed. I took his hand and kissed it, not daring to look up ; E 2 76 ANTONY. and when the lady kissed my forehead and spoke to me, my embarrassment was painful, for she seemed not aware of my deafness. She spoke again to me ; I looked anxiously at my fatlier's face, but it was turned away ; then at nurse, but I saw it was dis- tressing to the good creature to explain the truth, and therefore turning my eyes to the stern counte- nance which it would now be my duty to love, and summoning all my courage, I uttered in a voice I believe hardly audible, and with an imperfect articu- lation, the word " deaf, deaf,^^ as I pointed to my ears and lips. Her look of surprise as she dropped my hand pained me greatly, and I was glad that an observation from my father called off her attention from myself. Nurse was ordered to take us back to the nursery, and so anxious was I that she should not be distressed by knowing how deeply this scene had wounded me, that I danced away and laughed and played with Kate, then seeking the first oppor- tunity of rushing out of doors, I hid myself in the thicket of bushes, far from where eye or ear could reach me, and sobbed as if my heart would break. I was bitterly disappointed. To be uncared for by both my parents was melancholy for a heart so full of love as mine. '' Ah ! my own mama, thou who art an angel above, a brighter one even than when on earth, thou only hast ever loved me. Thou art the only mother I can ever love.^' Thus my thoughts fled to her ; I ANTONY. 77 thought of her songs, her words, her care and fond- ness. I thought of the last scene, and the last injunctions she gave me. Oh ! how deeply are they engraven on my heart; how constantly do my thoughts whisper them to me when no other voice is near to comfort. "Never forget your heavenly Father V I withdrew still further among the thick branches of my retreat, and kneeling down and repeating the prayers she had taught me, I com- mended myself, the friendless child, to my Heavenly Father's care, and besought that my mother's prayers might indeed bring down a blessing upon me. I rose witti a strength within my soul, a calm over my heart, which I had never before known. I felt no longer friendless; no longer without love, or without an object for my love. I felt as if I were upheld by the Divine hand, as if spiritual wingg overshadowed me, as if I could give all my thoughts, all my affections to Heaven, and be for ever safe ; as if one day would be realised my mother's last words, " We shall meet again." Then I came forth from my hiding-place, and feeling endowed with a strange courage, I picked two nosegays of the sweetest flowers, and finding my parents seated in a summer-house in the garden, I ventured to approach them, lay a nosegay in each lap, and then run swiftly away. When I afterwards returned, they had left the spot, and the flowers lay there untouched. Before I was ten years old my father succeeded in 78 ANTONY. obtaining a government appointment in the West Indies, which his reduced fortune rendered very de- sirable, and it was arranged that he and his wife should proceed thither directly, and leave us in Eng- land. The thought of this separation caused no feeling of regret either to Augustus or myself. He did not like his step-mother, yet his behaviour to- wards her was respectful at all times, though now and then somewhat too frank and candid to please her, for he was open-hearted, never daunted, and spoke freely what he thought and felt. She, on the contrary, appeared never to speak from the heart, and when words of kindness did fall from her, they were evidently forced and unfelt. Thus, Augustus found no sympathy in her, yet maintained his position in the affections of his father, who was proud of his fine, brave boy, and had always treated him with a tenderness which I, alas ! had longed in vain to excite. I had little opportunity of seeking her love or his. I was confined to the nursery with little Kate, and was seldom permitted to descend into the drawing-room ; even in our walks, we did not meet our parents ; it seemed to me, I was avoided by them as a thing too displeasing and contemptible to be borne with, and why should I wonder at this? Who could have pleasure, I thought, in the society of a dull child, with whom interchange of ideas is so difficult, and whose attempts at uttering verbal sounds, usually can only excite laughter or grate painfully on the ear ? ANTONY. 79 Neither my character or person can excite interest in any ; I am of no use in the world ; a tasteless drop in the immense ocean of souls, and I cannot blame my poor father for his lack of love for me, who am only a burden on him. Augustus was sent to school ; and two aunts on my father'*s side, who lived together at Cheltenham, undertook the charge of the pretty little Kathleen, The difficulty now was how to dispose of me. My only relation on my mother's side was an uncle, who lived always at Naples, and to whom, therefore, it was useless to apply ; and it was soon evident to me that no one could like to have the charge of a child such as myself. I wept bitter tears at the thought of being thus so unfit for love. I wept to part with Augustus, who, I saw, gladly looked forward to his entering on life, as it may be called, and enjoying it with other young spirits like his own. I wept at parting with my sister, but she too seemed to rejoice that she was going '' to a gay town and to such kind ladies'' as her aunts were represented to be, while she could feel no alarm, for nurse was to accompany and always remain attendant on her. At length I was told, Mr. Donought, the clergy- man of our parish, " had been so kitid as to say he would take care of me ;" and I afterwards understood the meaning of this was, he had undertaken to act as tutor towards me, and that my father had made 80 ANTONY. arrangements that I should always live with him. In his family have I remained ever since. It is sweet to me to remember the affectionate grief of good nurse at bidding me farewell, and leav- ing me in the hands of strangers, for I was her darling, and her compassion and love were more like those of my own mother than any I had known. She consigned to my care, before parting, many precious remembrances of the beloved one. She gave me several books of poetry which had belonged to her. She entrusted also to me a pretty tortoise- shell case, containing ivory tablets, and fastened by silver hinges and clasp, that had been my mother's, and which is of constant use to me, as by writing and receiving the written replies upon it I am able to have communication with others. The Bible and Prayer-book, so well worn with signs and markers at favourite passages; the little book of "Sacred Songs/^ from which she had sung to me; the manuscript pamphlet of daily prayers, traced by her own hand ; ah ! how inexpressibly dear are these to me ! My parents parted with me without one sign of regret or anxiety, yet my heart sank within me as I felt I was quitting for years, and perhaps for ever, those to whom I was bound by some natural ties, while I must now live with strangers who had no claim on my affection, and probably could bear no love for me. ANTONY. 81 Not long after my instalment in the family of the Donoughts, another change took place. My tutor was oflfered a living in the county of , in South Wales, as he had early in life studied the Welsh language, and practised it in a curacy in that country ; and as this appointment would prove more remunerative than the last, it was immediately accepted, and we forsook the dreary and bleak desert of my native parish, and settled in a damp house, but a lovely county, in the village of Pon terry. Here, from the window of my chamber, which looks towards the east, I see, rolling and dashing along, the wild waters of the Erry ; and on the other side of our dwelling, and beyond the village, rises a high bare hill, and around us, in the horizon, lie beautiful blue distances of mountain ranges. Here am I domesticated with the family of my teacher, which consists of a numerous flock of young children. Five boys are always doing some mischief, either to themselves, or to each other, and exciting the alarm or anger of their poor mother. Four girls are always quarrelling, and frequently fighting, while the fifth, the eldest, is rigidly and untiringly performing the duty she appears to consider pecu- liarly her own, of scolding and keeping all in order. I am so fortunate as to be on good terms with the brothers, as I am glad to join them in the games and exercises they learn at school, and disregarding the blows my shins constantly receive from the vigorous E 3 82 ANTONY. legs of the younger, I contrive to be a good friend, and make myself of use to them, in many ways. It is the young ladies I find it most difficult to con- ciliate, as they are somewhat exacting and resolute, as well as combative. My taste for reading and poetry, and my love of study, which are the result of my calamity, do, in the meantime, cast a barrier of distinction between our minds, which years of intercourse and familiarity cannot remove; and, indeed, our thoughts and feelings become each day farther and farther apart. Theirs are all wild, buoyant, and youthful, while mine are maturing by each day's experience, and though but fifteen years old, I seem actually to have lived a long and weary life, — for ah ! how slowly, for me, have the months and years crept by ! My tutor is a quiet, sullen man, with only transient gleams of good temper, and usually a settled frown upon his brow. He goes through the daily tasks with me regularly, but with no zeal or interest, and I frequently return from my lesson, vexed and disappointed, my inquiries unanswered, my longings not responded to, and my heart more and more regretting that my calamity should make me so wearisome a pupil, and the task of instruction so difficult to my teacher, My chief passion is for reading, and I eagerly devour the contents of every book that falls in my way. I am thus acquainted with every volume this house affords, — from the ANTONY. 83 children's '' Nursery Rhymes, '^ to their mother's shelves full of romances, and my tutor's '' Hints for Writing Sermons/' and dry theological dissertations. It is only by the means of reading, the mind of the deaf can acquaint itself with the thoughts and actions of men ; and also learn the depth and force of that wonderful river, language, which by its powerful currents, and by its constant ebbs and flows, bears from man to man, on its reflecting and sparkling surface, the important freight of soul communi- cation, of the trading of mind with mind, and of the conveying to and fro of intelligence concerning the momentous developments of our outer and inner life. 84 ANTONY. CHAPTER VII. CONTINUATION OF THE DEAF MUTe's LIFE, IN WHICH WE ARE INTRODUCED TO OLD FRIENDS WHEN THEY WERE NEW ONES. To the second summer of our residence at Pon- terry, I look back with a peculiar interest. I feel that it will in some measure influence my whole future life. I remember that during the previous spring I had been suffering from a tedious illness, — a cold, caught one dewy morning, when I had arisen and gone forth with the sun, proved severe, and my mind became more than usually dejected, during the lingering illness. How easily the spirits are depressed by sickness ! My heart sank into a strain of such indifference, it almost rejoiced- in bodily suffering, and felt a strange longing that this malady might prove the last. Ah ! there is in the immortal soul an instinctive desire for its final rest, which, if the mind be ANTOXY. 85 unshackled by earthly interests^ buoys it up, above the troubled waves of life, and gives it a distant view, through storm or calm, of the longed-for haven. And what joy, what gratitude, must it experience, when that haven is attained. How often does my heart breathe, ^^ Would that I had reached it!'^ On my recovery, to enjoy the beautiful month of May, I sought for renewal of strength by constant wanderings in the fresh air and over the green earth, that, during my seclusion, had decked herself so gaily. And now, for the first time, my mind was awakened to a sense of nature's loveliness. Out in the exqui- sitely verdant fields, in mossy lanes, beneath young- leaved beech boughs — out, under the intensely blue heaven, I now found an endless book to study, which afforded me an endless delight. It was also an agreeable moment for me when I first discovered that in one little sentiment I could attract the sympathy of my wild companions, with the sage Miss Donought at their head. This was, when cowslips first covered the fields, and we all went forth together, happy, merry children, to fill our baskets with them. Then, seated in the shade of a newly budding .hedge, where the blackthorn covered its dark stems with wreaths of snow, as if in mimicry of departed winter, there we sat, smiles playing on the children's rosy cheeks, all mischief and contention forgotten, their eyes turned upon 86 ANTONY. their deaf and mute playmate as he taught them by the motion of his thin fingers and the silent speak- ing of his eyes, how to form cowslip-balls. (I had learnt the art from my nurse, in days of yore.) Then, as the children smiled upon him, his heart felt for the time no longer lonely, but glowed with the new pleasure of sympathy, and thanked Heaven fervently for that hour. I believe that flowers must possess a greater charm for me than they do for others. By them are the two most intellectual senses that I enjoy, intensely gratified. To me, the hues and the fragrance of the carnation are intellectual pleasures^ and the scent that fills the air, when, roaming through the forest, I approach a bed of dark blue-bells, ascends to my mind with an almost intoxicating enjoyment. I have somewhere read that a poet in his fanciful ingenuity ascribes to this flower another exquisite quality — he makes it musical ! *' And the hyacinth, purple and white and blue, Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew, Of music so delicate, soft, and intense, It was felt as an odour within the sense." Oh, music ! thou soul enchanter — what have I not lost in being denied enjoying thee ! When I was even an infant, musical sounds had a peculiar charm for me, and at five years of age I could whistle and sing tunes, so that it was said I had a musical genius and should one day be a performer on various instru- ANTONY. 87 ments. The remembrance of my mother's voice has given me an idea of the nature of music which other- wise I could not have retained. It seems to me, a doubly poetical means of expression. An imitation of feelings with something heavenly in it which makes those feelings more holy and more elevated than any other means of expression could make them. It is like perfume, without matter, and aerial. Is it not also divine ? Oh, there are melodies, rich, deep melodies within my own soul, roving hither and thither, and longing to resound forth ! But there is one period in that ensuing beautiful summer which can never be forgotten by me, and must here be fully recorded. Llanawr Park, the domain adjoining Ponterry, had been hitherto my favourite resort in my solitary rambles. It is charmingly situated on rising grounds and over sloping dells, with groups of fine trees scattered over it, and around it extends a little forest of magnificent beech mingled with oak, and with firs of various kinds. The house is large and ancient, with avenue approaches and terraced walks and gardens. I had understood that the estate was the property of a gentleman living abroad, who seldom visited it. It was now, however, reported, that the mansion and park had been let to Sir William AUingworth, and the new tenant with his family were shortly expected to arrive. Such a prospect was hailed joyfully by Ponterry 88 ANTONY. and the whole neighbourhood; for so banished had we been from society hitherto, that an English family, residing at the manor-house, would be felt a great acquisition by all — but myself. It is strange what pain the announcement occasioned me. Though more than four years have since passed, I can recall, as if it had been but yesterday, the bitterness of heart which I then experienced. Tt appeared to me the doom that would entirely deprive me of one of the few luxuries I could enjoy — for it would banish me from Llanawr ; while the society of the new comers could be in no way advantageous to me, w^ho shun all society, and only with the greatest repugnance can submit to the notice of strangers. Indeed, the expression of curiosity with which my fellow men gaze on me and then turn carelessly away, has frequently so wounded me, that I avoid the repetition, and rush away sometimes, across field and forest, to escape such scenes. In the beautiful domains of Llanawr, I had con- stantly enjoyed the only happiness I then knew. There had I wandered alone, but not lonely — for closely in the mind^s ear the busy thoughts mur- mured — making themselves companions to me. How often, when restless and excited by dark visions of the future, or distressed by the petty tyrannies of my tutor, or j)ining for some love or sympathy among my fellows, had I turned my steps towards those lovely haunts, and throwing myself ANTONY. 89 upon yonder grass knoll, where the eye can scan a wide expanse and revel in its freedom, where the refreshing air seems to the hot cheek and vexed brow, sent on purpose from above to cool and glad- den them, — there had I reclined till the soul, follow- ing the eye into the purity and liberty of space, forgot the small cell that retains her — forgot the narrow compass of her interest there, shook off the world's dews, that moisten her wings so heavily, and bee-like, that " Winds her small but mellow horn, Blythe to salute the sunny smile of mom," flew forth uttering her murmur of rejoicing, far as her earth-formed wings could bear her into the expanse, to bask in the sun of liberty. Sometimes she sought only recreation and could bring home no substantial good. Sometimes she sang hymns such as this, in that still small voice which is heard only in Heaven. Would that the lips could sing it ! '^ Sing, sing, my soul, of praise and gladness sing, Let thy young voice with nature's thousands ring! With birds of air, with winds and gushing streams. Join, to adore the Power that round thee beams. The flowers, their sacrifice of fragrance tend. As towards fair Heaven their golden eyes they wend ; And joyous butterflies, those winged flowers. Flit hke enfranchised souls through Eden's bowers. 90 ANTONY. " Lift, lift thine eyes where glows the sua of love, Leave nature's form for nature's mind above ; Earth's beauties fade, morn turns to weeping night, The glowworm's star is but a cold, false light. How fair soe'r the world, th' etherial skies Are fairer far, and thither must thou rise ; Then sing, my grateful soul, and lend thy voice. To shout, with all a universe, ' rejoice' 1" If such are the associations which Llanawr Park had tor me, no wonder that the fact that I must now be an exile from it, was to me a source of deep regret. Never again, I thought, could I seek there the sweet solitude I had loved : never again could I visit it as a hallowed temple. When man takes his station there, with all his sins and his passions, the angel of holiness must depart. Sympathies in nature I might find — in human hearts I had sought them in vain — I sighed then a farewell to beautiful Llanawr, Farewell! — yes — but hastily did I retract the bitter word, when in a few days a letter reached me from my dear old nurse, who still lived with Kath- leen and her aunts. It was in reply to a long epistle from myself sent her some weeks previously, and after dwelling on various particulars concerning my own health, and her tender anxiety for me, she alluded, as she seldom omits to do in her letters, to a subject I loved to dwell on — my mother ! It was then that this passage startled me : — " Your godmama tells me you probably live in ANTONY. 91 the neighbourhood of Llanawr Park^ which is your uncle's seat in shire. You know he always lives abroad now ; but, when he was a little boy^ he and your own mother lived with their parents at Lla- nawr, and w^ere brought up there. Your aunts tell me he has lately let the estate to a friend of his— a rich baronet^ who resides in London.'^ The news was indeed unexpected. I knew that my uncle had some property in South Wales, but I little thought that here had been my mother's home. I had never chanced to have the name of the owner mentioned to me, or I should not have remained so long ignorant. Alas ! the deaf lose much pleasure even in apparently the most trifling consequences of their calamity. This communication chanoed the whole current of o my thoughts. Not all the baronets in England should now hinder my entering those domains ; not all my wonted shyness, doubts, and fears, at encoun- tering my fellow-men, should now keep me back from visiting the beloved Llanawr ! My mother's home ! Oh ! why had I not learnt this earlier, what hours and days of inward joy would I not have known ! And I had trod the same paths, followed the course of the same stream, gazed on the same landscape, as my mother knew and loved — all unconscious of this charm. I had picked flowers, where her young hands bent down to gather, and roses, perhaps, from the same trees she planted. 92 ANTONY. Sweet thought I I resolved that there again I would roam — while men might say of the usually shy deaf and dumb boy that he was animated by a strangely bold and wilful spirit ; but say what they would, it mattered not, so they forbade me not this — to wander now and then in my Eden ! The Sabbath day came round — that Sabbath which of all others 1 remember, perhaps, the most vividly. It was a restless day among the children here, as indeed Sundays appeared to me most generally to be. The boys evidently know not what to do with themselves ; the girls are more quarrelsome if pos- sible than usual, requiring all the authority and stern looks of the eldest to prevent a general outbreak of kicking and fighting, while Mrs. Donought^s fits of yawning seem more irresistible and more prolonged than ever, and her husband having more to do, is more than usually sullen. The family of the AUingworths had arrived, and were on that day, for the first time, to take their places in the large family pew belonging to the Llanawr property. What an elephant of a pew it is ! It is almost like an apartment — like a second vestry fixed in the most conspicuous part of the church — the wooden walls all round it are high, with short crimson curtains. I had often formerly gazed on this mysterious chamber, and wondered where- fore it was biiilt — for no one made use of it then. I one day ventured to make my way into it, and was ANTONY. 93 still more surprised to find a fire-place^ a table in the centre^ and the cushions of the seats and the hassocks also covered with crimson cloth. These were then old and moth-eaten, but have been since renewed for the new tenants. It seemed to me that my excellent grandparents had thought themselves too good even to enter at the same door as the other parishioners, for this pew had an entrance from the outside of the church, exclu- sively its own. This, then, is an island of comfort in the midst of the sea of the congregation, who all complain of damp air and cold feet, and bear these inconveniences with patience as if they regarded them as penance for their sins, while the rich family alone is worthy to be exempt from them. I may, perhaps, be excused for often wondering what the people did who hid themselves in there, for if they said prayers like the rest, surely they need not be ashamed of being seen. I looked eagerly at the forms of the Allingworth family as they wandered along the churchyard path after the service, but had only the backs of a tall gentleman and a lady, with a group of boys, short middle-aged ladies, and young ladies, to gaze on; that was not very satisfactory, but far better than nothing, as I had an extreme curiosity to know something of the new tenants of Llanawr. I recollect the picture as if it were now before me. That tall gentleman is, I thought, evidently Sir William, and contemplating 94 ANTONY. those shoulders one reads directly, in their very shape, that the owner is a severe, cold-hearted manj also, perhaps, stiff, and, one may add, provokingly proud. Then the lady, who leans on his left arm, must surely be his wife. She turns her head from side to side towards the children with a peculiar air, which says, evidently, that they are her property. What a graceful figure, how elegantly the ample silk folds of her dress fall around her ! Indeed, she was the most beauti- fully dressed lady I had ever seen. I did not fancy her proud, she appeared too graceful. And this was my first acquaintance with the strangers. In the evening I went forth to enjoy the scene, for mildly and invitingly the sun shed forth his beams, and cast a golden vest over the garment of many colours wuth which the landscape is clothed at this season of the year. It was one of those hot summer evenings when nature hardly seems to breathe, but to be lying in a trance, only conscious of the luxury of existing — lulled into stillness by a spell, such as the soul feels when the ^^ peace of God'^ resteth on it. The sun was about to set, and as I wandered by the park, and gazed within on my old haunts, I could not resist my longing to enter. I bounded over the fence and flew towards that favourite spot, the high knoll, on which a solitary and ancient thorn stands, and from whence the eye commands the far west. I stood there for I know not how long. I watched ANTONY. 95 the orb of fire dropping, dropping, lower, lower, like a fathoming lead, sounding the depth of Heaven's ocean, till it touched the earth. The whole sky over the west was clothed in crimson, a magnificent apparel, while dark purple clouds, and golden barks, as some appeared, with golden sails, flitted to and fro before it, like attendant spirits on the splendid majesty that was about to depart. From the fiery eye shot the brightest beams that minecould bear upon my head. Ah ! merciful sun, to gaze so kindly, so gloriously on the sinful child ! It is like the eye of the Omnipresent, though it gazes on a whole earth at once, each minute object on the surface feels that it casts on itself a ray of peculiar warmth and love. Each little Christian child feels itself the peculiar mark of the love and interest of the Heavenly Father, while He gazes alike on all, save where clouds of earth's atmosphere intervene. As the brilliant beams came forth, they formed a path from me to heaven. It seemed that if my feet could tread that golden but aerial way, I should soon be in the celestial regions. Those glowing distances of bright clouds seemed to my excited imagination the Paradisaical fields — the land of angels. Heaven never before appeared so near earth, so accessible to me, except that I remember, before we left Ireland, the beauty of the setting sun once so took possession of my fancy that I believed that if I could only reach the distant mountain behind which the mighty orb 96 ANTONY. was about to sink^ I could with ease follow up that golden way^ and be an angel of Heaven, no longer deaf and dumb, no longer lonely, no longer sad. I actually rushed away over the valley, striving to attain that summit^ till my feet could no longer move, the sun vanished, and I fell asleep amid the dewy flowers. Alarmed at my disappearance, my tutor sent servants to seek the lost child. 1 was found in a meadow, and carried homewards, and then severely beaten. I could not, and dared not, disclose the object of my strange wanderings, but it continued to. dwell in my mind, and on this beautiful Sabbath the idea was re-awakened with unusual force, so that when night came I could not sleep for the new pleasure of imagining and inventing the adventures of a child thus led to undertake a journey with so brilliant a goal before him. I thought of Italy, of the increased beauty of such a scene in its pure atmosphere, and its effect upon the susceptible mind of a little child. I thought of the poetic loveliness of that land, which, if we con- template it through the medium of books only, of paintings, or of description, seems to reflect to our minds its own inspiring glow. When at length I fell asleep, it was to dream of fairy tales, of Heaven, of Italy, and also of that great, ugly pew ; and I rose the following morning with the determination of beginning to write a tale, — yes, a little novel, to be ANTONY. 97 called the " Minstrel of Italy," and in which my little hero should be taught only by nature and his own instincts, and tread in a glorious, though an humble path, I would not, however, permit the unpoetic pew of the Allingworth family to make its appearance here. Thus began my first attempt at composition, which has since proved a source of true enjoyment to me. The sketch I then made of th^ " Minstrel of Italy,^' I have since carried out, together with some other fan- ciful pictures of various ideas that I longed to reduce to form. It is indeed a pleasant task thus to create by one's own hand. But let me continue my reminiscence of the sum- mer evening at Llanawr. I was wTapped not only in the sun's rays, but around my soul glowed the warm light of the Creator^s love. I sank upon my knees, and lifting my eyes from the material sun, higher, higher, my spirit sprang above the immeasurable fields of air into which I gazed, and stretching out my clasped hands, I yielded my soul to the impulse of devotion, as it cried fervently, *^ Lead me, lead me to Thyself?^ The sun now dropped; his beams no longer glorified my head. I felt disturbed that its disappearance had happened at such a moment. But again my soul uplifted itself : — " The sun of the Divine love never sets. May its VOL. 1. F 98 ANTONY. betms shine on for ever upon my spirit. Oh ! that 1 may become worthy of that love !'^ Then I sank down upon the grass beneath the green thornbranches that fanned and played about me, and I buried my face in the flowery lap of the earth. A pure and calm happiness rested on my whole being. I felt at that moment as if I might be the only being on the earth, as if the universe were not too vast for me alone ; and yet I remembered that, at that same instant thousands of souls might be up- lifted from the earth by pure and lofty aspirations, and that among them I was ])ut as a single leaf in a whole forest. I knew this; I understood my little- ness, and yet I did not feel myself the less great, for I perceived that the Creator can impart a grandeur to his smallest work, and that my own spirit, being sprung from such a source, could not be insig- nificant. With a true peace and happiness in my heart, I raised my head at length and was startled and alarmed at seeing human figures not far off from where I was. I was relieved to observe, from their relative position to myself, I must have been unnoticed by them. The party of ladies and children were gazing at the view, some with eye-glasses, some without, some carelessly, and some with apparently real satisfac- ANTONY. 99 tion. They seemed to me also to be listening to agreeable sounds, but I was frightened at their pre- sence ; I turned, ran down the steep bank, and flew homewards. There, in the wood, however, I met Mr. and Mrs. Donoaght with their children. They all, too, ap- peared listening in silence and with pleased attention. Turning to my tutor I asked, " What ? what ?" that being a word I can pronounce comprehensibly. Mrs. Donought shook my shoulder reprovingly, and put her finger to my lips to enjoin silence. Miss Donought frowned at me, and looked so ugly as she did so, I turned away and left them. Darkness was approaching, and " Tw-ilight grey. Had in her sober livery all things clad." My tutor, when I afterwards questioned him again, wrote the word " Nightingales." Ah ! here is an enchantment I cannot know, nor even imagine ! I have not the smallest recollection of the singing of. birds ; I cannot recall the kind of sound, nor can I account for this dulness of my memory. They tell me the bird's voice resembles whistling, but though I could once whistle, the effect is gone from my mind. I fancy it is tone, something round and solid, as it were, which alone has im- pressed itself on my mortal ear. F 2 100 ANTONY. Would that the nightingale could pierce my ears ; I should find sympathy in her, one that is ^ *' So musical, so melancholy," would attune well with my heart. The proper visits of introduction having been paid by the Donought family to the Allingworths and duly returned, acquaintanceship was established be- tween them, and an invitation accepted by Mrs. Donought, for herself and her children, to spend the day at Llanawr Park. I recollect, with amusement, this was the signal for the greatest bustle and appa- rent alarm throughout the house for the entire week previous to the important day. It was evident that nobody thought of anything else but the invitation to Llanawr, Miss Donought was more stately and more excitable than ever; she appeared to think herself, if possible, a person of more importance than usual, and was occupied during the whole of each day in putting new, gay ribbons on rather old bonnets, and cutting out the muslin mantillas, which, I was told, must be the most fashionable things for her and her sisters to wear, since the Miss Allingworths were seen in just such things when they drove out in the carriage. Then she hurried the maids and the assistant work- ing-women in finishing the frocks and the little boys' purple coats ; and, whatever room I entered, I found women working solemnly at the same patterned ANTONY. ,^ i(^t frocks^ in which there were so many colours vividly contrasted, it would seem all the sisters wished to have Joseph's coat, to show that no preference was to be given to either over the rest. Mr. Donought showed me the note of invitation, which contained a polite request that ^'his young pupil might be of the party/^ and as I read, he added in pencil, ^' Of course you would like me to decline it for you/' I was amused to observe his look of surprise when I replied, that if he pleased I would willingly go. This was the first time I had not shrunk from every opportunity of meeting society, and he the less expected it from me now, as he knew the Ailing- worths were entire strangers to me. He was not aware of the longing I had frequently felt to enter that mansion, which I had so often contemplated from without with a peculiar interest, which had so often gazed on me with its many eyes so temptingly, so invitingly. Ah, how beautiful to visit thy home, oh ! my mother! — to enter the halls that thy young feet trod, and through which thy gay laugh rung; — to live, if only for a