THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 DEVEREUX. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF "PELHAM." 
 
 " He that knows most men's manners, must of necessity 
 Beet know his ovm, and mend those by example. 
 
 .^ — Pure and strong spirits 
 
 no, like the fire, still covet to fly upward." 
 
 The Queen of Corinth, Act 2, Scene 4. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. L 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 HENRY COLBURN, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 
 
 1829.
 
 / 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 SHACKELX AND BAYUS, JOHNSON's-COUBT, FLEET-STREET.
 
 ''"H80 
 
 5e 
 
 
 •4 
 
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 CO 
 
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 vi 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 THE AUTO-BIOGRAPHER'S 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 My life has been one of frequent adventure and 
 constant excitement — it has been past — to this 
 present day in a stirring age, and not without 
 acquaintance of the most eminent and active spirits 
 of the time. Men of all grades, and of every cha- 
 racter, have been familiar to me. War — love — 
 ambition — the scroll of sages — the festivals of wit 
 — the intrigues of states — all that agitates man- 
 kind, the hope and the fear, the labour and the 
 pleasure — the great drama of vanities, with the 
 little interludes of wisdom ; — these have been the 
 
 VOL. I. a 
 
 
 ^JSSERVE
 
 iv THE auto-biogiiapheb''s 
 
 occupations of my manhood ; — these will furnish 
 forth the materials of that history which is now 
 open to your survey. Whatever be the faults of 
 the historian, he has no motive to palliate what he 
 has committed, or to conceal what he has felt. 
 Children of an after century — the very time in 
 wliich these pages will greet you, destroys enough 
 of the connection between you and myself, to ren- 
 der me indifferent alike to your censure and your 
 applause. Exactly one hundred years from the 
 day this record is completed, will the seal I shall 
 place on it be broken, and the secrets it contains 
 be disclosed. I claim that congeniality Avith you 
 whicli I have found not among my own coevals. 
 Their thoughts, their feelings, their views, have 
 nothing kindred to my own. I speak their lan- 
 guage, but it is not as a native — tJiey know not a 
 syllable of mine ! With a future age my heart 
 may have more in common — to a future age my 
 thoughts may be less unfamiliar, and my senti- 
 ments less strange ; I trust these confessions to 
 the trial ! Children of an after century, between
 
 INTRODUCTION. V 
 
 you and the Being who has traced the pages ye 
 behold — that busy, versatile, restless being — there 
 is but one step — but that step is a century ! His 
 now is separated from your noii\ by an interval of 
 tliree generations ! While He writes, he is exult • 
 Ing in the vigour of health and manhood — while 
 ye read, the very worms are starving upon his 
 dust. This commune between the living and the 
 dead —this intercourse between that which breathes 
 and moves, and Is — and that which life animates 
 lot, nor mortality knows — annihilates falseliood, 
 and chills even self-delusion into awe. Come, then, 
 and look upon the picture of a past day, and of a 
 gone being, without apprehension of deceit — and 
 as the shadows and lights of a chequered and wild 
 existence flit before you — Avatch if, in your own 
 hearts, there be aught which mirrors the reflec- 
 tion. 
 
 MoETON Deveeeux.
 
 VI 
 
 NOTE BY THE EDITOR. 
 
 If the hero of the following volumes is not altogether de- 
 ceived in his hope of congeniality with those to whom he has be- 
 queathed his memoirs, the reader will find liimself led through 
 the scenes of the past century in company with one possessing many 
 of the peculiarities of thought and feeling characteristic of the present. 
 One opinion, however, entertained by Count Devereux, seems 
 almost exclusively to belong to a former day ; — viz. the opinion he 
 represses of his friend and cotemporary, Lord Bolingbroke. For 
 my own part, I do not think that the portrait he has drawn of that 
 remarkable man has been coloured by undue partiality : If, 
 on the one hand, Lord Bohngbroke's good qualities have not 
 been misconstrued into vices, neither, on the other, have his 
 affectations or his errors been extolled into virtues; and I in- 
 cline to believe that his character — a character wliich, in my inter- 
 pretation of history, was irregular, not abandoned — faulty, not 
 vicious — has been no less unexamined by his biographical commen- 
 tators, than slandered by his political enemies. If I am deceived in 
 this opinion, I know at least that I have been deceived not in conse- 
 quence of my prejudices, but in spite of them, for my party 
 tenets would not bias me in favour of Lord Bolingbroke as a Tory, 
 nor my sentiments on the subtleties of IMoral Philosophy incline 
 me to esteem him as a Metaphysician.* I must be pardoned for 
 these observations, which seemed to me rendered necessary by the 
 notes which I have (in the third volume, wherein any more favour- 
 able view of Lord Bolingbroke has chiefly been taken) added to 
 
 • As if in corroboration of the opinion vulgarly held, that Lord 
 Bolingbroke's philosophical sentiments, or rather philosophical 
 errors, were very partially, if at all, divulged during his life, the 
 reader will find no allusion whatsoever to them in these pages, 
 where indeed they would be obviously out of place.
 
 NOTE BY THE EDITOR. yii 
 
 the text. If any excuse is required for attacking in those notes « The 
 Literary Superstition," which renders men unwilling to have the 
 opinions they have formed, however erroneously, of celebrated cha- 
 racters, shaken and cUsturbed, I beg to refer the Reader to the words 
 of Horace \Falpole (one, by the by, of Lord Bolingbroke's bitterest 
 maligners), prefixed to the smaU but valuable work, entitled " An 
 Inquiry respecting Clarendon, &c. by Hon. G. Agar Ellis."
 
 ERRATA. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 Page 22, Une 2 from the top, for " academies," read " academuar 
 
 187, 26, for " we," read "us." 
 
 296, 11, for " sore," read " sure." 
 
 N.B. In the margmal notes to pages 174, 175, 180, and in one 
 or two other notes throughout the work, the letters Ed., (for Editor) 
 which should have been appended to them, have been accidentally 
 omitted. 
 
 ^ ^x, ^ii ^iLiiur uevereux, (peace 
 
 be with his ashes!) was a noble old knight and 
 cavalier, possessed of a property sufficiently large 
 to have maintained in full dignity half a dozen 
 peers— such as peers have been since the days of 
 the First James. Nevertheless, my grandfather 
 loved the equestrian order better than the patri- 
 cian, rejected all offers of advancement, and left 
 his posterity no titles but those to his estate. 
 
 VOL. I. B "^
 
 DEVEREUX. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Of the Hero's Birth and Parentage. Nothing can differ more 
 from the End of Things tlian their Beginning. 
 
 My grana^wther, Sir Artliur Devereux, (peace 
 be with his ashes !) was a noble old knight and 
 cavalier, possessed of a property sufficiently large 
 to have maintained in full dignity half a dozen 
 peers — such as peers have been since the days of 
 the First James. Nevertheless, my grandfather 
 loved the equestrian order better than the patri- 
 cian, rejected all offers of advancement, and left 
 his posterity no titles but those to his estate. 
 
 VOL. I. B **
 
 Z DEVEEEUX. 
 
 Sir Arthur had two children by wedlock — both 
 sons ; at his death, my father, the youngest, bade 
 adieu to the old hall and his only brother, prayed 
 to the grim portraits of his ancestors to inspire 
 him, and set out — to join as a volunteer the armies 
 of that Louis, afterwards surnamed le grand. 
 Of him I shall say but little ; the life of a soldier 
 has only two events worth recording, his first 
 campaign and his last. My uncle did as his 
 ancestors had done before him, and ch"eap as the 
 dignity had grown, went up to court to be 
 knighted by Charles II. He was so delighted 
 with what he saw of the metropolis, that he for- 
 swore all intention of leaving it, took to Sedley 
 and champagne, flirted with Nell Gwynne, lost 
 double the value of his brother's portion at one 
 sitting to the chivalrous Grammont, wrote a comedy 
 corrected by Etherege, and took a wife recom- 
 mended by Rochester. The wife brought him a 
 child six months after marriage, and the infant 
 was born on the same day the comedy was acted. 
 Luckily for the honour of the house, my uncle 
 shared the fate of Plimneus, king of Sicyon, and 
 all the offspring he ever had (that is to say, the 
 child and the play) " died as soon as they were 
 born." My uncle was now only at a loss what to 
 do with his wife — that remaining treasure, whose 
 readiness to oblige him had been so miraculously
 
 DEVEEEUX. ^ 3 
 
 evinced. She saved him the trouble of long 
 cogitation — an exercise of intellect to which he 
 was never too ardently inclined. There was a 
 gentleman of the court, celebrated for his sedate- 
 ness and solemnity ; my aunt was piqued into 
 emulating Orpheus, and six weeks after her con- 
 finement, she put this rock into motion — they 
 eloped. Poor gentleman ! — it must have been a 
 severe trial of patience to a man never known 
 before to transgress the very slowest of all possible 
 walks — to have had two events of the most rapid 
 nature happen to him in the same week. Scarcely 
 liad he recovered the shock of being ran away 
 with by mjT^ aunt, before terminating for ever his 
 vagrancies, he was ran through by my uncle. 
 The wits made an epigram ilpon the event, 
 and my uncle, Avho was as bold as a lion at 
 the point of a sword, was, to speak frankly, ter- 
 ribly disconcerted by the point of a jest. He 
 retired to the country in a fit of disgust and gout. 
 Here his own hon naturel rose from the layers 
 of art which had long oppressed it, and he solaced 
 himself by righteously governing domains worthy 
 of a prince, for the mortifications he had expe- 
 rienced in the dishonourable career of a courtier. 
 Hitherto I have spoken somewhat slightingly of 
 my uncle, and in his dissipation he deserved it, 
 for he was both too honest and too simple to shine 
 
 B 2
 
 * DEVEREUX. 
 
 in that galaxy of prostituted genius of which 
 Charles II. was the centre. But in retire- 
 ment he was no longer the same person, and I do 
 not think that the elements of human nature could 
 have furnished forth a more amiable character than 
 Sir William Devereux, presiding at Christmas over 
 the merriment of his great hall. 
 
 Good old man! his very defects were what we 
 loved best in him — vanity was so mingled with 
 good nature that it became graceful, and we re- 
 verenced one the most, while we most smiled at 
 the other. 
 
 One peculiarity had he, which the age he had 
 lived in and his domestic history, rendered natural 
 enough, viz. an exceeding distaste to the matrimo- 
 nial state : early marriages were misery ; impru- 
 dent marriages idiotism, and marriage at the best, 
 he was wont to say, with a kindling eye, and a 
 heightened colour, marriage at the best — was the 
 devil. Yet it must not be supposed that Sir 
 William Devereux was an uno;allant man. On 
 the contrary, never did the beau sexe have a 
 humbler or more devoted servant. As nothing in 
 his estimation was less becoming to a wise man 
 than matrimony, so nothing was more ornamental 
 than flirtation. 
 
 He had the old man's weakness, garrulity ; and 
 he told the wittiest stories in the world, without
 
 DEVEREUX. O 
 
 omitting any thing in them but the point. This 
 omission did not arise from the want either of 
 memory or of humour; but solely from a defi- 
 ciency in the malice natural to all jesters. He 
 could not persuade his lips to repeat a sarcasm 
 hurting even the dead or the ungrateful ; and when 
 he came to the drop of gall which should have 
 given zest to the story, the milk of human kindness 
 broke its barrier despite of himself, and washed it 
 away. He was a fine wreck, a little prematurely 
 broken by dissipation, but not perhaps the less 
 interesting on that account ; tall, and somewhat of 
 the jovial old English girth, with a face where 
 good nature and good living mingled their smiles 
 and glow. He wore the garb of twenty years 
 back, and was curiously particular in the choice 
 of his silk stockings. Between you and me, he was 
 not a little vain of his leg, and a compliment on 
 that score was always sure of a gracious reception. 
 The solitude of my uncle's household was 
 broken by an invasion of three boys — none of 
 the quietest ; and their mother, who, the gentlest 
 and saddest of womankind, seemed to follow them, 
 the emblem of that primeval silence from which 
 all noise was born. These three boys were my 
 two brothers and myself. My father, who had 
 conceived a strong personal attachment for Louis 
 Quatorze, never quitted his service, and the
 
 6 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 great king repaid him by orders and favours 
 without number ; he died of wounds received in 
 battle — a Count and a Marshal, full of renown, 
 and destitute of money. He had married twice : 
 his first wife, who died without issue, was a 
 daughter of the noble house of La Tremouille— his 
 second, our mother, was of a younger branch of 
 the English race of Howard. Brought up in her 
 native country, and influenced by a primitive and 
 retired education, she never loved that gay land 
 wliich her husband had adopted as his own. Upon 
 his death, she hastened her return to England, 
 and refusing, with somewhat of honourable pride, 
 the magnificent pension which Louis wished to 
 settle upon the widow of his favourite, came to 
 throw herself and her children upon those 
 affections which she knew they were entitled to 
 claim. 
 
 My uncle was unaffectedly rejoiced to receive us. 
 — To say nothing of his love for my father, and his 
 pride at the honours the latter had won to their 
 ancient house — the good gentleman was very well 
 pleased with the idea of obtaining four new listeners, 
 out of whom he might select an heir, and he soon 
 grew as fond of us as we were of him. At the time 
 of our new settlement, I had attained the age of 
 twelve ; my second brother (we were twins) was 
 bom an hour after me ; my third was about fifteen
 
 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 months younger. I had never been the favourite 
 of the tliree. In the first place, my brothers (my 
 youngest especially) were uncommonly handsome, 
 and, at most, I was but tolerably good-looking ; 
 in the second place, my mind was considered as 
 much inferior to theirs as my body — I was idle 
 and dull, sullen and haughty — the only wit I ever 
 displayed was in sneering at my friends, and the 
 only spirit, in quarrelling with my twin brother ; 
 so said or so thought all who saw us in our child- 
 hood ; and it follows, therefore, that I was either 
 veiy unamiable or very much misunderstood. 
 
 But to the astonishment of myself and my rela- 
 tions, my fate was now to be reversed, and I was no 
 sooner settled at Devereux Court, than I became 
 evidently the object of Sir Williams's pre-eminent 
 attachment. The fact was, that I really liked both 
 the knight and his stories better than my brothers 
 did ; and the very first time I had seen my uncle, 
 I had commented on the beauty of his stocking, 
 and envied the constitution of his leg ; from such 
 trifles spring affection ! In truth, our attachment 
 so progressed that we grew to be constantly 
 together ; and while my childish anticipations of 
 the world made me love to listen to stories of 
 courts and courtiers, ray uncle returned the com- 
 pliment, by declaring of my wit as the angler 
 declared of the River Lea, that one would find
 
 8 DEVEREUX. 
 
 enough in it, if one would but angle sufficiently 
 long. 
 
 Nor was this all; my uncle and myself were 
 exceedingly like the waters of Alpheus and Are- 
 thusa — ^nothing was thrown into the one without 
 being seen very shortly afterwards floating upon 
 the other. Every witticism or legend Sir William 
 imparted to me, (and some, to say truth, were a 
 little tinged with the licentiousness of the times he 
 had lived in,) I took the first opportunity of 
 retailing, whatever might be the audience; and 
 few boys, at the age of thirteen, can boast of 
 having so often as myself excited the laughter of 
 the men and the blushes of the women. This cir- 
 cumstance, while it aggravated my own vanity, 
 dehghted my uncle's ; and as I was always getting 
 into scrapes on his account, so he was perpetually 
 bound, by duty, to defend me from the charges of 
 which he was the cause. No man defends another 
 long without loving him the better for it ; and 
 perhaps Sir William Devereux and his eldest 
 nephew were the only allies in the world who had 
 no jealousy of each other.
 
 DEVEREUX. 9 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A Family Consultation — A Priest, and an ^ra in Life. 
 
 "You are ruining the children, my dear Sir 
 William," said my gentle mothei*, one day, when 
 I had been particularly witty, " and the Abbe 
 Montreuil declares it absolutely necessary that they 
 should go to school.'' 
 
 " To school !" said my uncle, who was caressing 
 his right leg, as it lay over his left knee — " to 
 school, Madam ! you are joking. What for, 
 pray .?" 
 
 " Instruction, my dear Sir William,'"' replied 
 my mother. 
 
 " Ah, ah ! I forgot that ; true, true V said my 
 uncle, despondingly, and there was a pause. My 
 mother counted her rosary ; my uncle sunk into a 
 reverie ; my second brother pinched my leg under 
 the table, to which I replied by a silent kick ; and 
 
 B 3 *
 
 10 DEVEREUX. 
 
 ray youngest fixed his large, dark, speaking eyes 
 upon a picture of the Holy Family, which liung 
 opposite to him. 
 
 JMy uncle broke silence ; he did it with a 
 start. 
 
 " Od's fish, Madam," — (my uncle dressed his 
 oaths, like himself, a little after the example of 
 Charles II.) — "od's fish. Madam, I have thought 
 of. a better plan than that ; they shall have instruc- 
 tion without going to school for it." 
 
 " And how, Sir William .?" 
 
 " I will instnict them myself. Madam," and 
 Sir William slapped the calf of the leg he was 
 caressing. 
 
 My mother smiled. 
 
 " Ay, Madam, you may smile ; but I and my 
 Lord Dorset were the best scholars of the age ; 
 you shall read my play." 
 
 " Do, mother," said I, " read the play. Shall 
 I tell her some of the jests in it, uncle ?'''' 
 
 My mother shook her head in anticipative 
 horror, and raised her finger reprovingly. My 
 uncle said nothing, but winked at me ; I under- 
 stood the signal, and was about to begin, when the 
 door opened, and the Abbe Montreuil entered. 
 My uncle released his right leg, and my jest was 
 cut off*. Nobody ever inspired a more dim, reli- 
 gious awe than the Abbe Montreuil. The priest
 
 DEVEEEUX. ^ 11 
 
 entered with a smile. My mother hailed the en- 
 trance of an ally. 
 
 " Father,'' said she, rising, " I have just repre- 
 sented to my good brother the necessity of sending 
 my sons to school ; he has proposed an altemative 
 ^v^nch I will leave you to discuss with him." 
 
 " And what is it ?'" said Montreuil, slidino' into 
 a ciiair, and patting Gerald's head with a benig. 
 naut air. 
 
 " To educate them himself," answered my 
 mother, with a sort of satirical gravity. My uncle 
 moved uneasily in his seat, as if, for the first time, 
 he saw something ridiculous in the proposal. 
 
 The smile, immediately fading from the thin lips 
 of the priest, gave way to an expression of respect- 
 ful approbation. "An admirable plan," said he 
 slowly, "but liable to some little exceptions, which 
 Sir William mil allow me to indicate." 
 
 My mother called to us, and we left the room 
 with her. The next time we saw my uncle, the 
 priest's reasonings had prevailed. The following 
 week we all three went to school. My father had 
 been a catholic, my mother was of the same creed, 
 and consequently we were brought up in that 
 un}X)pular faith. But my uncle, whose religion 
 had been sadly undermined at court, was a terrible 
 caviller at the holy mysteries of Catholicism ; and 
 while his friends termed him a protestant, his^ne-
 
 12 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 mies hinted, falsely enough, that he was a sceptic. 
 When Montreuil first followed us to Devereux 
 Court, many and bitter were the little jests my 
 worthy uncle had provided for his reception ; and 
 he would shake his head with a notable archness 
 whenever he heard our reverential description of 
 the expected guest. But, somehoAv or other, no 
 sooner had he seen the priest, than all his purposed 
 railleries deserted him. Not a single witticism 
 came to his assistance, and the calm, smooth face 
 of the ecclesiastic seemed to operate upon the fierce 
 resolves of the facetious knight in the same manner 
 as the human eye is supposed to awe into impo- 
 tence the malignant intentions of the ignobler 
 animals. Yet nothing could be blander than the 
 demeanour of the Abbe Montreuil — nothing more 
 worldly, in their urbanity, than his manner and 
 address. His garb was as little clerical as possible, 
 his conversation rather familiar than formal, and 
 he invariably listened to every syllable the good 
 knight uttered, with a countenance and mien of the 
 most attentive respect. 
 
 What then was the charm by which this sin- 
 gular man never failed to obtain an ascendancy, in 
 some measure allied with fear, over all in whose 
 company he was thrown ? That was a secret my 
 uncle never could solve, and which, only in later 
 life, I myself was able to discover. It was partly by
 
 DEVEREUX. . 13 
 
 the magic of an extraordinary and powerful mind, 
 partly by an expression of manner, if I may use 
 such a phrase, that seemed to sneer most, when 
 most it affected to respect ; and partly by an air 
 like that of a man never exactly at his ease ; not 
 that he was shy, or imgraceful, or even taciturn — 
 no ! it was an indescribable embarrassment, resem- 
 bling that of one playing a part, familiar to him, 
 indeed, but somewhat distasteful. This embarrass- 
 ment, however, was sufficient to be contagious, and 
 to confuse that dignity in others, which, strangely 
 enough, never forsook himself. 
 
 He was of low origin, but his address and 
 appearance did not betray his birth. Pride suited 
 better with his mien than familiarity — and his 
 countenance, rigid, thoughtful, and cold, even 
 through smiles, in expression, was strikingly com- 
 manding. In person, he was slightly above the 
 middle standard ; and had not the texture of his 
 frame been remarkably hard, wirey, and muscular, 
 the total absence of all superfluous flesh, would 
 have given the lean gauntness of his figure an 
 appearance of almost spectral emaciation. In re- 
 ality, his age did not exceed twenty-eight years ; 
 but his high, broad forehead was already so marked 
 with line and furrow, his air was so staid and quiet, 
 his figure so destitute of the roundness and elasti- 
 city of youth, that his appearance always impressed
 
 14 DEVEREUX. 
 
 the beholder with the involuntary idea of a man 
 considerably more advanced in life. Abstemious 
 to habitual penance, and regular to mechanical 
 exactness in his frequent and severe devotions, he 
 was as little inwardly addicted to the pleasures and 
 pursuits of youth, as he was externally possessed 
 of its freshness and its bloom. 
 
 Nor was gravity with him the unmeaning veil to 
 imbecility, which Rochefoucauld has so happily 
 called " the mystery of the body." The variety and 
 depth of his learning fully sustained the respect 
 which his demeanour insensibly created. To sav 
 noticing of his lore in the dead tongues, he pos- 
 sessed a knowledge of the principal European lan- 
 guages besides his own, viz. English, Italian, 
 German, and Spanish, not less accurate and little 
 less fluent than that of a native ; and he had not 
 only gained the key to these various coffers of in- 
 tellectual wealth, but he had also possessed himself 
 of their treasures. He had been educated at St. 
 Omers ; and, young as he was, he had already 
 acquired no inconsiderable reputation among his 
 brethren of that illustrious and celebrated Order 
 af Jesus which has produced both the worst and 
 the best men that the christian world has ever 
 known — which has, in its successful zeal for know- 
 ' ledge, and the circulation of mental light, bequeath- 
 ed a vast debt of gratitude to posterity ; but which
 
 DEVEEEUX. ' 15 
 
 uiiliappily encouraging certain scholastic doctrines, 
 that by a mind at once subtle and vicious can 
 be easily perverted into the sanction of the most 
 dangerous and systematized immorality, has al- 
 ready drawn upon its professors an almost uni- 
 versal odium, which, by far the greater part of 
 them, is singularly undeserved. 
 
 So liighly established was the good name of 
 Montreuil, that, when, three years prior to the time 
 of wliich I now speak, he had been elected to the 
 office he held in our family, it was scarcely 
 deemed a less fortunate occurrence for us, to gain 
 sb learned and so pious a preceptor, than it was 
 for him to acquire a situation of such trust and 
 confidence in the household of a marshal of France, 
 and the especial favourite of Louis XIV. 
 
 It was pleasant enough to mark the gradual 
 ascendancy he gained over my uncle; and the timor- 
 ous dislike which the good knight entertained for 
 him, yet struggled to conceal. Perhaps that was the 
 only time in his life, in which Sir William De- 
 vereux was an hypocrite. 
 
 Enough of the priest at present — I retun^ to 
 his charge. To school we went— our parting 
 \vith our uncle was quite pathetic — mine in espe- 
 cial. " Harkye, Sir Count," whispered he, (I 
 bcM-e my father''s title,) " harkye, don't mind what 
 the old priest tells you ; your real man of wit
 
 DEVEBEUX. 
 
 ,, the musty lessons of schools in order 
 .ever wants the mustj ^ ^^^^ ^^^,^ 
 
 to make a tigure ^^^ 
 
 honest George Etheie„es ^^^^ 
 
 rT:r:rHr\gtuo.u)Yea 
 
 those old pagei> >vi child— write to 
 
 "™'"^Te„ot"":o:L^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 „e_no one not e« y^ ^^^^^^^^ ^,^^^ y„„ 
 
 l,«er^and-andbesu e,, y ^^ .^ ^^^^ ^^^^^ 
 
 don't fag too hard. The g ass ^^^_^^ 
 
 book-and one's natural wrt, the y 
 that can write legibly on It .dmomtions; it 
 
 such were ™y un - pav™. ^^.^^ ^^^ ^^.^„,^. 
 „ust be confessed, t Iw , c 1 ^^ ^^ ^^ .^^_ 
 
 ae gifts ^^^^^^ll^Zt for acadLical honours. 
 
 n^-'^^irriire'trng, and that 
 and inspiration weie ^^^^^ ^^^ 
 
 unless you were thoroughly id e, y ^^^^ ^^^^^ ^^ 
 be thoroughly a genius I euly ,^^ ^^ 
 
 ''--n I'TLsno:: 'S^^et: philosophers 
 W-i=«nn* declares soun- 
 
 Hassan pearls— viz.— ^2/ 
 
 thought oysters got their p 
 
 gaping ! 
 
 f nf rhina by two Travellers. 
 * In his con^tnentary on the account of China by
 
 DEVEREtrx. ' j^ 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A Change m Conduct .„„ i„ Charac.er_„„, evil Passion, ,;,, 
 sou,e„„,es p,o.„„e ,o„d Effec, , and, on .he c„„.a^ !";. 
 anon f„, ,he Bce, in Manner, „,u, „„, .ne.,,JZkl 
 amongs. ■„ Canse, a l„.,e C„„np,i„„ „f Mi,„ ^ folCF'JZ 
 
 wo often snppres, those whieh are amiable in themselves. 
 
 Mv twin, brother, Gerald, was a tail, stronrr, 
 handsome boy, blessed with a great love for the 
 orthodox acadetmcal studies, and extraordinary 
 quickness of ability. Nevertheless, he was ind,; 
 lent by nature, in things which were contrary to 
 hts taste-fond of pleasure-and amongst all his 
 personal courage, ran a certain vein of irresolu- 
 tion, which rendered it easy for a cool and deter, 
 mined imnd to awe or to persuade him. I cannot 
 help thinking, too, that, clever as he was, there 
 was something common-place in the cleverness; 
 and that his talent was of that mechanical, yet 
 quick nature, which makes wonderful boys, but 
 meAocre men. I„ any other family he would
 
 - DEVEEEUX. 
 
 have been considered tl. beauty-incurs he was 
 
 thought the genius. ^ ^^^ 
 
 My yo-g-t .^-^^^^^^^^^^^ fran.e of body ; 
 different disposition of mmd ana ^ ^^ 
 
 1 i.tfnl o-entle, susceptible, acute, 
 
 T . fpll in dark profusion over a brow whitei 
 
 lover offe.eas>x — »a.s. 
 
 P-- fo ^""^ TUa^iveuphe. Henchman, 
 would have made T.tama give i 
 
 and the King of the Fames be any thu„ 
 
 oleased with the exchange. 
 
 •^^Tach were my two brothers; or, rah r( 
 
 far as the internal .uaUt.s -~^^ 
 
 ''^^^^^^■"trJf: a:r;dredwiththat 
 
 ::.rt;wlwh:L. — ..«o«.. enable.
 
 DEVEREUX. ^ 19 
 
 U5 to judge of Others ; and I appeal to any one, 
 whether of all people by whom he has been mis- 
 taken, he has not been most often mistaken by 
 those with whom he was brought up. 
 
 I had always loved Aubrey, but they had not 
 suffered liim to love me ; and we had been so 
 little together, that we had in common none of 
 those childish remembrances, which serve, more 
 powerfully ihan all else in later life, to cement 
 and soften affection. In fact, I was the scape- 
 goat of the family. What I must have been in 
 early childhood, I cannot tell — but before I was 
 ten years old — I was the object of all the des- 
 pondency and evil forebodings of my relations. 
 My father said I laughed at la gloire et le grand 
 inonarque, the very first time he attempted to 
 explain to me the value of the one, and the great- 
 ness of the other. The countess said, I had 
 neitlier my father's eye, nor her own smile — that 
 I vvas slow at my letters, and quick with my 
 tongue ; and throughout the whole house, nothing 
 was so favourite a topic, as the extent of ray 
 rudeness, and the venom of my repartee. Mon- 
 treuil, on his entrance into our family, not only 
 fell in with, but favoured and fostered the reign- 
 ing humour against me ; whether from that di- 
 mde et impera system, which was so grateful to 
 his temper, or from the mere love of meddUng
 
 20 DEVEREUX. 
 
 and intrigue, which in him, as in Alberoni, at- 
 tached itself equally to petty and to large cir- 
 cles, was not then clearly apparent ; it was only 
 certain that he fomented the dissensions, and 
 widened the breach between my brothers and 
 myself. — Alas ! after all I believe my sole crime 
 was my candour. I had a spirit of frankness, 
 which no fear could tame, and my vengeance for 
 any infantine punishment, was in speaking vera- 
 ciously of my punishers. Never tell me of the 
 pang of falsehood to the slandered : nothing is so 
 agonizing to the fine skin of vanity, as the appli- 
 cation of a rough truth ! 
 
 As I grew older I saw my power, and indulged 
 it ; and being scolded for sarcasm, I was flat- 
 tered into believing I had wit ; so I punned and 
 jested, lampooned and satirized, till I was as 
 much a torment to others, as I was tormented 
 myself. The secret of all this was, that I was 
 unhappy. Nobody loved me — I felt it to my 
 heart of hearts. I was conscious of iniustice, 
 and the sense of it made me bitter. Our feelings, 
 especially in youth, resemble that leaf, which in 
 some old traveller, is described as expanding itself 
 to warmth, but when chilled, not only shrinking 
 and closing, but presenting to the spectator, thorns 
 which had lain concealed upon the opposite side 
 of it before.
 
 DEVEREUX. ' 21 
 
 With my brother Gerald, I had a deadly and 
 irreconcileable feud. He was much stouter, taller, 
 and stronger than myself; and far from con- 
 ceding to me that respect which I imagined my 
 priority of birth entitled me to claim, he took 
 every opportunity to deride my pretensions, and 
 to vindicate the cause of the superior strength 
 and vigour which constituted his own. It would 
 have done your heart good to have seen us cuff 
 one another, we did it with such zeal. There is 
 nothing in human passion like a good brotherly 
 hatred ! jNJy mother said, with the most feeling 
 earnestness, that she used to feel us fighting in 
 the womb : we certainly lost no time directly we 
 were out of it. Both my parents were secretly 
 vexed that I had come into the world an hour 
 sooner than my brother ; and Gerald himself 
 looked vipon it as a sort of juggle — a kind of 
 jockeyship by which he had lost the prerogative of 
 birthright. This very early rankled in his heart, 
 and he was so much a greater favourite than 
 myself, that instead of rooting out so unfortunate 
 a feeling on his part, my good parents made no 
 scruple of openly lamenting my seniority. I 
 believe the real cause of our being taken from the 
 domestic instructions of the Abbe (who was an 
 admirable teacher) and sent to school, was solely 
 to prevent my uncle deciding every thing in my
 
 22 D E V E E E U X. 
 
 favour. Montreuil, however, accompanied us to 
 our academies, and remained with us during the 
 three years in which we were perfecting ourselves 
 in the blessings of education. 
 
 At the end of the second year a prize was in- 
 stituted for the best proficient at a very ^vere 
 examination ; two months before it took place sve 
 went home for a few days. After diimer my 
 uncle asked me to walk with him in the park. I 
 did so ; we strolled along to the margin of a 
 rivulet, which ornamented the grounds. There 
 my uncle, for the first time, broke silence. 
 
 *' Morton," said he, looking down at his left 
 leg, " Morton — let me see — thou art now of a 
 reasonable age — fourteen at the least." 
 
 " Fifteen, if it please you. Sir," said I, elevat- 
 ing my stature as much as I was able. 
 
 " Humph ! my boy ; and a pretty time of life 
 it is, too. Your brother Gerald is taller than you 
 b}" two inches." 
 
 *' But I can beat him, for all that, uncle," said 
 I, colouring, and clenching my fist. 
 
 My uncle pulled down his right ruffle. " "Gad 
 so, INIorton, youVe a brave fellow," said he ; 
 " but I wish you were less of a hero and more 
 of a scholar. I wish vou could beat him in 
 Greek, as well as in boxing. I will tell you what 
 Old Rowley said," and my uncle occupied the
 
 DEVEEEUX. 23 
 
 next quarter of an hour with a story. The story 
 opened the good old gentleman"'s heart — my 
 laughter opened it still more. " Hark ye, sir- 
 rah !" said he, pausing abruptly, and grasping 
 my hand with a vigorous effort of love and muscle, 
 " hark ye, sirrah — I love you — ^'Sdeath, I do. 
 I love you better than both your brothers, and 
 that crab of a priest into the bargain ; but I am 
 grieved to the heart to hear what I do of you. 
 They tell me you are the idlest and most profligate 
 boy in the school — that you are always beating 
 your brother Gerald, and making a scurrilous 
 jest of your mother or myself." 
 
 "Who says so.' who dares say so.?" said I, 
 with an emphasis that would have startled a less 
 hearty man than Sir AVilliam Devereux. " They 
 lie, uncle, by my 30ul they do. Idle I am — ^pro- 
 fligate I may be — quarrelsome with my brother I 
 confess myself; but jesting at you or my mother 
 — never — ^never. No, no ; you, too, who have 
 been so kind to me — the only one who ever was ! 
 No, no ; do not think I could be such a wretch," 
 and as I said this the tears gushed from my eyes. 
 
 My good uncle was exceedingly affected. 
 *' Look ye, child," said he, "I do not believe 
 them. ""Sdeath, not a word — I would repeat to 
 you a good jest now of Sedley's, ""Gad, I would, 
 but I am really too much moved just at present.
 
 24 DEVEREUX. 
 
 I tell you what, my boy, I tell you what you 
 ^all do : there's a trial coming on at school 
 — eh ? — well, the Abbe tells me Gerald is certain 
 of being first, and you of being last. Now, Morton, 
 you shall beat your brother, and shame the Jesuit. 
 There — my mind's spoken — dry your tears, my 
 boy, and I'll tell you the jest Sedley made : it 
 
 was in the mulberry garden one day " And 
 
 the knight told his story. 
 
 I dried my tears — pressed my uncle's hand — 
 escaped from him as soon as I was able — hastened 
 to my room, and surrendered myself to reflection. 
 
 When my uncle so good-naturedly proposed that 
 I should conquer Gerald at the examination, nothing 
 appeared to him more easy ; — ^lie was pleased to 
 think I had more talent than my brother, and 
 talent, according to his creed, was the only master- 
 key to unlock every science. A problem in Kuclid, 
 or a phrase in Pindar, a secret in astronomy, or a 
 knotty passage in the fathers, were all riddles, 
 with the solution of which, application had nothing 
 to do. One's mother wit was a precious sort of 
 necromancy, Avhich could pierce every mystery at 
 first sight ; and all the gifts of knowledge, in his 
 opinion, like reading and writing in that of the 
 sage Dogberry, " came by nature." Alas ! I was 
 not under the same pleasurable delusion ; I rather 
 exaggerated than diminished the difficulty of my
 
 DEVEREUX. 25 
 
 task, and thought, at the first glance, that nothing 
 sliort of a miracle would enable me to excel my 
 brother. — Gerald, a boy of natural talent, and as 
 I said before, of great assiduity in the orthodox 
 studies — especially favoured too by the instruction 
 of Montreuil, — had long been esteemed the first 
 scholar of our microcosm ; and though I knew that 
 with some branches of learning, I was more con- 
 vei'sant than himself, yet, as my emulation had 
 been hitherto solely directed to bodily contention, 
 I had never thought of contesting with him a re- 
 putation for which I cared little, and on a point 
 in which I had been early taught that I could 
 never hope to enter into any advantageous compa- 
 rison with the '-genius'" of the Devereuxs. 
 
 A new spirit now passed into me — I examined 
 myself with a jealous and impartial scrutiny — I 
 weighed my acquisitions against those of my bro- 
 ther — I called forth from their secret recesses, 
 the unexercised and almost unknown stores, I had 
 from time to time laid up in my mental armoury 
 to moulder and to rust. I surveyed them with a 
 feeling that they might yet be polished into use, and 
 excited alike by the stimulus of affection on one 
 side, and hatred on the other — my mind worked 
 itself from despondency into doubt, and from 
 doubt into the sanguincness of hope. I told none 
 of my design — I exacted from my uncle a promise 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 26 DEVEREUX. 
 
 not to betray it — I shut myself in my room — I 
 gave out that I was ill — I saw no one, not even 
 the Abbe — I rejected his instructions, for I looked 
 upon him as an enemy ; and for the two months 
 before my trial, I spent niglit and day in an un- 
 relaxing application, of which, till then, I had 
 not imagined myself capable. 
 
 Though inattentive to the school exercises, I had 
 never been wholly idle. I was a lover of abstruser 
 researches than the hacknied subjects of the school, 
 and we had really received such extensive and judi- 
 cious instructions from the Abbe, during our early 
 years, that it would have been scarcely possible 
 for any of vis to have fallen into a thorough distaste 
 for intellectual pursuits. In the examination, I fore- 
 saw that much which I had previously acquired 
 might be profitably displayed — much secret and 
 recondite knowledge of the customs and manners 
 of the ancients, as well as their literature, which 
 curiosity had led me to obtain, and which I knew 
 had never entered into the heads of those who, 
 contented with their reputation in the customary 
 academical routine, had rarely dreamed of wander- 
 ing into less beaten paths of learning. Fortunately 
 too for me, Gerald was so certain of success, that 
 latterly he omitted all precaution to obtain it ; and 
 as- none of our schoolfellows had the vanity to 
 think of contesting with him, even the Abbe seemed 
 to imagine him justified in his supineness.
 
 DEVEREUX. 27 
 
 The day arrived. Sir William, my mother, the 
 whole aristocracy in the neighbourhood were present 
 at the trial. The Abbe came to my room a few 
 hours before it commenced, he found the door locked. 
 " Ungracious boy," said he, " admit me — I come 
 at the earnest request of your brother, Aubrey, to 
 give you some hints preparatory to the examination.'" 
 " He has indeed come at my wish,'"* said the 
 soft and silver voice of Aubrey, in a supplicating 
 tone ; " do admit him, dear Morton, for my sake ?'"'' 
 " Go," said I, bitterly, from within, " go— ye 
 are both my foes and slanderers— you come to in- 
 sult my disgrace before hand ; but perhaps you 
 will yet be disappointed." 
 " You will not open the door .?" said the priest. 
 " I will not — begone." 
 
 " He will indeed disgrace his family," said 
 Montreuil, moving away. 
 
 " He will disgrace himself;" said Aubrey, de- 
 jectedly. 
 
 I laughed scornfully. If ever the conscious- 
 ness of strength is pleasant, it is when we are 
 thought most weak. 
 
 The greater part of our examination consisted in 
 the answering of certain questions in writing, given 
 to us in the three days immediately previous to the 
 frrand and final one ; for this last day was reserved, 
 the paper of composition (as it was termed) in verse^ 
 
 c 2
 
 28 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 and prose, and the personal examination in a 
 few shewy but generally understood subjects. 
 When Gerald gave in his paper, and answered 
 the verbal questions, a buz of admiration and 
 anxiety went round the room. His person was 
 so handsome, his address so graceful, his voice 
 so assured, and clear, that a strong and universal 
 sympathy was excited in his favour. The head 
 master publicly complimented liim. He regretted 
 only the deficiency of his pupil in certain minor 
 but important matters. 
 
 I came next, for I stood next to Gerald in our 
 class. As I walked up the hall — I raised my eyes 
 to the gallery in which my imcle and his party 
 sat. I saw that my mother was listening to the 
 Abbe, whose eye, severe, cold, and contemptuous, 
 was bent upon me. But my uncle leant over 
 the railing of the gallery, with his plumed hat 
 in his hand, which, when he caught my look, 
 he waved gently — as if in token of encourage- 
 ment, and with an air so kind and cheering, that 
 I felt my step grew prouder, as I approached 
 the conclave of the masters. 
 
 " Morton Devereux," said the president of the 
 school, in a calm, loud, austere voice, that filled 
 the whole hall, " we have looked over your 
 papers on the three previous days, and they have 
 given us no less surprise than pleasure. Take 
 heed and time how you answer us now."
 
 DEVEREUX. 29 
 
 At this speech a loud murmur was heard in my 
 uncle''s party, which gradually spread round the 
 hall. I again looked up — my mother's face was 
 averted : that of the Abbe was impenetrable, but 
 I saw my uncle wiping his eyes, and felt a 
 strange emotion creeping into my own. I turned 
 hastily away, and presented my paper — the head 
 master received it, and putting it aside proceeded 
 to the verbal examination. 
 
 Conscious of the parts in which Gerald was 
 likely to fail, I had paid especial attention to the 
 minutise of scholarship, and my forethought stood 
 me in good stead at the present moment. My trial 
 ceased — my last paper was read. I bowed, and 
 retired to the other end of the hall. I was not 
 so popular as Gerald — a crowd was assembled 
 round him, but I stood alone. As I leant against 
 a column, with folded arms, and a countenance 
 wliich I felt betrayed little of my internal emo- 
 tions,'my eye caught Gerald's He was very pale, 
 and I could see that his hand trembled. Despite 
 of our enmity, I felt for him. The worst passions 
 are softened by triumph, and I foresaw that mine 
 was at hand. 
 
 The whole examination was over. Every boy 
 had passed it. The masters retired for a moment 
 — they re-appeared and re-seated themselves. 
 The first sound I heard was that of my own
 
 30 DEVEREUX. 
 
 name. I was the victor of the day — I was more— 
 I was one hundred marks before my brother. My 
 head swam round — my breath forsook me. Since 
 then I have been placed in many trials of life, 
 had many triumphs ; but never was I so overcome 
 as at that moment. I left the hall — I scarcely 
 listened to the applauses with which it rang. I 
 hurried to my own chamber, and threw myself on 
 the bed in a delirium of intoxicated feeling, which 
 had in it more of rapture, than any thing but the 
 gratification of first love, or first vanity, can bestow. 
 
 Ah ! it would be worth stimulating our pas- 
 sions if it were only for the pleasure of remem- 
 bering their eifect ; and all violent excitement 
 should be indulged less for present joy, than for 
 future retrospection. My uncle''s step was the 
 first thing which intruded on my solitude. 
 
 ^' Od's-fish, my boy,**' said he, crying like a 
 child ; " this is fine work — 'Gad so, it is. I almost 
 wish I were a boy myself to have a match with 
 you — ^faith I do — see what it is to learn a little of 
 life. If you had never read my play, do you 
 think you would have done half so well ? — no, my 
 boy, I sharpened your wits for you. Honest 
 George Etherege and I — we were the making of 
 you ; and when you come to be a great man, and 
 are asked what made you so, you shall say — ' My 
 uncle's play'— 'Gad, you shall. Faith, boy—
 
 DEVEUEUX. 31 
 
 never smile ! — Od's fish — I'll tell you a story as 
 a propos to the present occasion as if it had been 
 made on purpose. Rochester, and I, and Sedley, 
 were walking one day, — and enfre novs — awaiting 
 certain ajipointments — hem ! — for my part I was a 
 little melancholy or so, thinking of my catastrophe 
 — that is, of my play's catastrophe ; and so 
 said Sedley, winking at Rochester, ' our friend is 
 sorrowful." ' Truly,' said I, seeing they were 
 about to banter me — for you know they were arch 
 fellows — ' truly, little Sid,' (we called Sedley 
 Sid), ' you are greatly mistaken ;' — you see, Mor- 
 ton, I was thus sharp upon him, because, when 
 you go to Court, you will discover that it does 
 not do to take without giving. And then Ro- 
 chester said, looking roguishly towards me, the 
 wittiest thing against Sedley that ever I heard — 
 it was the most celebrated hon mot at Court for 
 three weeks — he said — No, boy, od's fish — it was 
 so stinging I can't tell it thee ; faith, I can't. 
 Poor Sid ; he was a good fellow though mali- 
 cious—and he's dead now.— I'm sorry I said a 
 word about it. Nay, never look so disappointed, 
 boy. You have all the cream of the story as it 
 is. And now put on your hat, and come with 
 me. I've got leave for you to take a walk with 
 your old uncle." 
 
 That night as I was undressing, I heard a
 
 32 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 gentle rap at the door, and Aubrey entered. He 
 approached me timidly, and then, throwing his 
 arms round my neck, kissed me in silence. I had 
 not for years experienced such tenderness from 
 him ; and I sat now mute and surprised. At 
 last I said, with the sneer which I must confess I 
 usually assumed towards those persons whom I 
 imagined I had a right to think ill of, 
 
 " Pardon me, my gentle brother, there is some- 
 thing portentous in this sudden change. Look 
 well round the room, and tell me at your earliest 
 leisure what treasure it is that you are desirous 
 should pass from my possession into your oavti." 
 
 "Your love, Morton," said Aubrey, di-awing 
 back, but apparently in pride, not anger ; " your 
 love — I ask nothing more." 
 
 " Of a surety, kind Aubrey," said I, " the 
 favour seems somewhat slight to have caused 
 your modesty such delay in requesting it. I 
 think you have been now some years nerving your 
 mind to the exertion." 
 
 " Listen to me, Morton," said Aubrey, sup- 
 pressing his emotion ; " you have always been my 
 favourite brother. From our first childhood my 
 heart yearned to you. Do you remember the 
 time when an enraged buU pursued me, and you, 
 then only ten years old, placed yourself before it 
 and defended me at the risk of your own life?
 
 DEVEREUX. 33 
 
 Do you think I could ever forget that— child as I 
 was ? — never, Morton, never !"" 
 
 Before I could answer, the door was thrown 
 open, and the Abbe entered. " Children," said 
 he, and the single light of the room shone full 
 upon his unmoved, rigid, commanding feature? — 
 " cliildren, be as Heaven intended you — friends 
 and brothers. Morton, I have wronged you, I 
 own it— here is my hand ; Aubrey, let all but 
 early love, and the present promise of excellence 
 which your brother displays, be forgotten." 
 
 With these words, the priest joined our hands. 
 I looked on my brother and my heai't melted. I 
 flung myself into his arms and wept. 
 
 "This is well," said Montreuil, surveying us 
 witli a kind of grim complacency, and taking my 
 brother's arm, he blest us both, and led Aubrey 
 away. 
 
 That day was a new era in my boyish life. I 
 grew henceforth both better and worse. Appli- 
 cation and I, having once shaken hands, became 
 very good acquaintance. I had hitherto valued 
 myself upon supplying the frailties of a delicate 
 frame, by an uncommon agility in all bodily ex- 
 ercises. I now strove rather to improve the 
 deficiencies of my mind, and became orderly, 
 industrious, and devoted to study. So far so well 
 — but as I grew wiser, I grew also more wary. 
 
 B 3
 
 34 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 Candour no longer seemed to me the finest of vir- 
 tues. I thought before I spake ; and second 
 thoughts sometimes quite changed the nature of 
 the intended speech ; in short, gentlemen of the 
 next century, to tell you the exact truth, the 
 little Count Devereux became somewhat of an 
 hypocrite.
 
 DEVEREUX. 35 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A Contest of Art, and a League of Friendship — Two Characters in 
 mutual Ignorance of each other, and the Reader no wiser than 
 either of them. 
 
 The Abbe was now particularly courteous to 
 me. He made Gerald and myself breakfast with 
 him, and told us nothing was so amiable as friend- 
 ship among brothers. We agreed to the senti- 
 ment, and like all philosophers, did not agree a bit 
 the better for acknowledging the same first princi- 
 ples. Perhaps, notwithstanding his fine speeches, 
 the Abbe was the real cause of our continued 
 want of cordiality. However, we did not fight 
 any more — we avoided each other, and at last 
 became as civil and as distant, as those mathe- 
 matical lines, which appear to be taking all pos- 
 sible pains to approach one another, and never 
 get a jot the nearer for it. Oh ! your civility is
 
 36 DEVEREUX. 
 
 the prettiest invention possible for dislike. Au- 
 brey and I were inseparable, and we both gained 
 by the intercourse. I grew more gentle, and he 
 more masculine ; and, for my part, the kindness 
 cxf his temper so softened the satire of mine, that 
 I learned at last to smile full as often as to sneer. 
 
 The Abbe had obtained a wonderful hold over 
 Aubrey ; he had made tlie poor boy think so 
 much of the next world, that he had lost all 
 relish for this. He lived in a perpetual fear of 
 offence — he was like a chymist of conscience, and 
 weighed minutiae by scruples. To play, to ride, 
 to run, to laugh at a jest, or to banquet on a 
 melon, were all shis to be atoned for : and I have 
 found (as a penance for eating twenty-three cherries 
 instead of eighteen) the penitent of fourteen, stand- 
 ing, barefooted, in tlie coldest nights of winter, 
 upon tlie hearth-stones, almost utterly naked, 
 and shivering like a leaf, beneath the mingled 
 effect of frost and devotion. At first I attempted 
 to wrestle with this exceeding holiness, but find- 
 ing my admonitions received with great distaste 
 and some horror, I suffered my brother to be 
 happy in his own way. I only looked with a very 
 evil and jealous eye upon the good Abbe, and 
 examined, while I encouraged them, the motives 
 of his advances to myself. A^Hiat doubled my 
 suspicions of the purity of the priest, was my per-
 
 DEVEREUX. 37 
 
 ceiving that he appeared to hold out different 
 inducements for trusting him, to each of us, ac- 
 cording to his notions of our respective characters. 
 My brother Gerald he alternately awed and per- 
 suaded, by the sole effect of superior intellect. 
 With Aubrey he used the mechanism of super- 
 stition. To me, he, on the one hand, never spoke 
 of religion, nor, on the other, ever used threats or 
 persuasion, to induce me to follow any plan sug- 
 gested to my adoption ; every thing seemed to be 
 left to my reason and my ambition. He Avould 
 converse with me for hours, upon the world and 
 its affairs ; speak of courts and kings, in an easy 
 and unpedantic strain ; point out the advantage 
 of intellect in acquiring power and controuling 
 one's species ; and whenever I was disposed to be 
 sarcastic upon the human nature I had read of, 
 he supported my sarcasm by illustrations of the 
 human nature he had seen. We were both, I 
 think (for myself I can answer), endeavouring to 
 pierce the real nature of the other ; and perhaps 
 the talent of diplomacy, for which, years after- 
 wards, I obtained some applause, was first learnt 
 in my skirmishing warfare with the Abbe Mon- 
 treuil. 
 
 At last the evening before we quitted school for 
 good arrived. Aubrey had just left me for solitary 
 prayers, and I was sitting alone by my fire when
 
 38 DEVEREUX. 
 
 Montreuil entered gently. He sat himself down 
 by me, and after giving me the salutation of the 
 evening, sunk into a silence which I was the first 
 to break. 
 
 " Pray, Abbe," said I, "have one's years any 
 thing to do with one''s age .?"" 
 
 The priest was accustomed to the peculiar tone 
 of my sagacious remarks, and answered drily — 
 
 " Mankind in general imagine that they have." 
 
 " Faith then," said I, " mankind knoAv very 
 little about the matter. To-day I am at school and 
 a boy, to-morrow I leave school — if I hasten to toym 
 I am presented at court — and lo ! I am a man ; 
 and this change within half a dozen changes of the 
 sun ! — therefore, most reverend father, I humbly 
 opine that age is measured by events — not years." 
 
 " And are you not happy at the idea of passing 
 the age of thraldom, and seeing arrayed before 
 you the numberless and dazzling pomps and 
 pleasures of the great world .P" said Montreuil, 
 abruptly, fixing his dark and keen eye upon 
 me. 
 
 " I have not yet fully made up my mind, whe- 
 ther to be happy or not," said I, carelessly. 
 
 " It is a strange answer," said the priest ; 
 " but," (after a pause) " you are a strange youth — 
 a character that resembles a riddle, is at your age 
 uncommon, and, pardon me, unamiable. Age, na-
 
 DEVEREUX. 39 
 
 turally repulsive, requires a mask ; 'and in every 
 wrinkle you may behold the ambush of a scheme ; 
 but the heart of youth should be open as its 
 countenance ! However, I will not weary you with 
 homilies — let us change the topic. Tell me, INIor- 
 ton, do you repent having turned your attention 
 of late to those graver and more systematic studies 
 which can alone hereafter obtain you distinction ?" 
 
 " No, father," said I, with a courtly bow, "for 
 the change has gained me your good opinion." 
 
 A smile, of peculiar and undefinable expression, 
 crossed the thin lips of the priest ; he rose, walked 
 to the door, and saw that it was carefully closed. 
 I expected some important communication, but in 
 vain ; pacing the small room to and fro, as if in 
 a musing mood, the Abbe remained silent, till, 
 pausing opposite to some fencing foils, which, 
 among various matters, (books, papers, quoits, 
 &c.,) were thrown idly in one corner of the room, 
 he said — 
 
 " They tell me that you are the best fencer in 
 the school — is it so .'''" 
 
 " I hope not, for fencing is an accomplishment 
 In which Gerald is very nearly my equal," I re. 
 plied. 
 
 " You run, ride, leap too, better than any one 
 else, according to the votes of your conu'ades ?''"' 
 
 " It is a noble reputation," said I, "in which
 
 40 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 I believe I am only excelled by our huntsman's 
 eldest son." 
 
 " You are a strange youth/"' repeated the priest ; 
 " no pursuit seems to give you pleasure, and no 
 success to gratify your vanity. Can you not think 
 of any triumph which would elate you ?" 
 
 I was silent. 
 
 " Yes," cried Montreuil, approaching me — 
 *' yes," cried he, " I read your heart, and I re- 
 spect it ; — these are petty competitions and worth- 
 less honours. You require a nobler goal, and a 
 more glorious reward. He who feels in his soul, 
 tliat Fate has reserved for him a great and exalted 
 part in this world''s drama, may reasonably look 
 with indifference on these paltry rehearsals of com- 
 mon characters." 
 
 I raised my eye, and as it met that of the priest, 
 I was irresistibly struck with the proud and lighted 
 expression which MontreuiFs look had assumed. 
 Perhaps, something kindred to its nature was per- 
 ceptible in my own ; for, after surveying me with 
 an air of more approbation than he had ever 
 honoured me with before, he grasped my arm 
 firmly, and said, "Morton, you know me not — 
 for many years I have not known you — That time 
 is past. No sooner did your talents develop them- 
 selves than I was the first to do homage to their 
 power — let us henceforth be more to each other
 
 DEVEREUX. 41 
 
 than we have been — let us not be pupil and teacher 
 — let us be friends. Do not think that I invite 
 you to an unequal exchange of good offices — you 
 may be the heir to wealth, and a distinguished 
 name — I may seem to you but an unknown and 
 undignified priest — but the authority of the Al- 
 mighty can raise up, from the sheepfold and the 
 cotter"'s shed, a power, which, as the organ of His 
 own, can trample upon sceptres, and dictate to the 
 supremacy of kings. And / — /," — the priest 
 abruptly paused, checked the warmth of his man- 
 nei', as if he thought it about to encroach on 
 indiscretion, and sinking into a calmer tone, con- 
 tinued, " Yes, I, Morton, insignificant as I appear 
 to you, can in every path through this intricate 
 labyrinth of life, be more useful to your desires, 
 than you can ever be to mine. I offer to you, in 
 my friendship, a fervour of zeal and energy of 
 }X)wer, which in none of your equals, in age, and 
 station, you can hope to find. Do you accept my 
 offer r 
 
 " Can you doubt,"*" said I, with eagerness, " that 
 I would not avail myself of the services of any 
 man, however displeasing to me, and worthless in 
 himself.'* How, then, can I avoid embracing the 
 friendship of one so extraordinary in knowledge 
 and intellect as yourself ? I do embrace it, and 
 with rapture."
 
 42 DEVEREUX. 
 
 The priest pressed my hand. " But," continued 
 he, jfixing his eyes upon mine, " all alliances 
 have their ccwiditions — I require implicit confi- 
 dence ; and, for some years, till time gives you 
 experience, regard for your interests induces me 
 also to require obedience. Name any wish you 
 may form for worldly advancement, opulence, 
 honour, the smile of kings, the gifts of states, and 
 •—I — I will pledge myself to carry that wish into 
 effect. Never had eastern prince so faithful a 
 servant among the Dives and Genii as Morton Deve- 
 reux shall find in me ; but question me not of the 
 sources of my power — ^be satisfied when their 
 channel wafts you the success you covet. And, 
 more, when I in my turn (and this shall be but 
 rarely) request a favour of you, ask me not for 
 what end, nor hesitate to adopt the means I shall 
 propose. You seem startled ; — are you content at 
 this understanding between us, or will you retract 
 the bond r 
 
 *' My father," said I, " there is enough to 
 startle me in your proposal ; it greatly resembles 
 that made by the old man of the mountains to his 
 vassals, and it would not exactly suit my inclina- 
 tions to be called upon some morning to act the 
 part of a private executioner." 
 
 The priest smiled. " My young friend," said
 
 DEVEREUX. 43 
 
 he, " those days have passed ; neither religion nor 
 friendsliip requires of her votaries sacrifices of 
 blood. But make yourself easy ; whenever I ask 
 of you Avhat offends your conscience, even in a 
 punctilio, refuse my request. With this exception, 
 what say you ?''' 
 
 " That I think I will agree to the bond ; but, 
 father, I am an irresolute person — I must have 
 time to consider." 
 
 " Be it so. To-morrow, having surrendered my 
 charge to your uncle, I depart for France." 
 
 *' For France !" said I; " and how ? — surely the 
 war will prevent your passage." 
 
 The priest smiled. Nothing ever displeased me 
 more than that priest''s smile. " The ecclesiastics," 
 said he, " are the embassadors of Heaven, and 
 have nothing to do with the wars of earth. 1 shall 
 find no difficulty in crossing the Channel. I shall 
 not return for several months, perhaps not till the 
 expiration of a year ; I leave you, till then, to 
 decide upon the terms I have proposed to you. 
 Meanwhile, gratify my vanity, by employing my 
 power ; name some commission in France which 
 you wish me to execute." 
 
 " I can think of none — yet, stay — " and I felt 
 some curiosity to try the power of which he 
 boasted — " I have read that kings are blest with
 
 44 DEVEREUX. 
 
 a most accommodating memory, and perfectly 
 forget their favourites, when they can be no longer 
 useful. You will see, perhaps, if my father''s 
 name has become a gothic and unknown sound at 
 the cxjurt of the great king. I confess myself 
 curious to learn this, though I can have no per- 
 sonal interest in it."" 
 
 " Enough, the commission shall be done. And 
 now, my child, Heaven bless you ! and send you 
 many such friends as the humble priest, who, 
 whatever be his failings, has, at least, the merit of 
 wishing to serve those whom he loves."*' 
 
 So saying, the priest closed the door. Sinking 
 into a reverie, as his footsteps died upon my ear, I 
 muttered to myself: — " Well, well, my sage 
 ecclesiastic, the game is not over yet ; let us see 
 if, at sixteen, we cannot shuffle cards, and play 
 tricks with the gamester of thirty. Yet, he may 
 be in earnest, and faith I believe he is ; but I 
 must look well before I leap, or consign my 
 actions into such spiiitual keeping. However, if 
 the worst come to the worst, if I do make this 
 compact, and am deceived — if, above all, I am 
 ever seduced, or led blindfold into one of those 
 snares which priestcraft sometimes lays to the cost 
 of honour — why I shall have a sword, which I 
 »hall never be at a loss to use, and it can find its
 
 DEVEREUX. 45 
 
 way through a priest's gown as well as a soldier''s 
 corslet." 
 
 Confess, that a youth, who could think, so 
 promptly of his sword, was well fitted to wear 
 one.
 
 46 DEVEREUX. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Rural Hospitality — an extraordinary Guest. A fine Gentleman is 
 not necessarily a Fool. 
 
 We were all three (my brothers and myself) pre- 
 cocious geniuses. Our early instructions, under a 
 man, like the Abbe, at once learned and worldly, 
 and the constant company into which we had 
 been admitted from our childhood, made \is 
 premature adepts in the manners of the world ; 
 and I, in especial, flattered myself that a quick 
 habit of observation rendered me no despicable 
 profiter by my experience. Our academy, too, 
 had been more like a college than a school ; 
 and we had enjoyed a license, that seemed, to the 
 superficial, more likely to benefit our manners than 
 to strengthen our morals. I do not think, how- 
 ever, that the latter suffered by our freedom from 
 restraint. Tout au contraire, we the earlier 
 learnt, that vice, stripped of the piquancy of un-
 
 DEVEREUX. 47 
 
 lawfulness, is no such captivating goddess ; and 
 our errors and crimes, in after life, had certainly 
 not their origin in our wanderings out of academical 
 bounds. 
 
 It is right that I should mention our prematurity 
 of intellect, because, otherwise, much of my lan- 
 guage and reflection, as detailed in the first book 
 of this history, might seem ill-suited to the tender 
 age at Avhich they occurred. However, they ap- 
 proach, as nearly as possible, to my state of mind 
 at that period ; and I have, indeed, often mortified 
 my vanity, in later life, by thinking how little the 
 march of time has ripened my abilities, and how 
 petty would have been the intellectual acquisitions 
 of manhood, if they had not brought me something 
 like content. 
 
 IMy uncle had always, during his retirement, 
 seen as many people as he could assemble out of 
 the " mob of Gentlemen who live with ease."" 
 But on our quitting school, and becoming men, 
 he resolved to set no bounds to his hospitality. . 
 His doors were literally thrown open ; and as he 
 was by far the greatest person in the district, to 
 say nothing of his wines, and his French cook — 
 many of the good people of London did not 
 think it too great an honour to confer upon the 
 wealthy representative of the Devereuxs the 
 distinction of their company and compliments.
 
 48 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 Heavens ! what notable samples of court breed- 
 ing and furbelows, did the crane-neck coaches, 
 which made our own family vehicle look like a 
 gilt tortoise, pour forth by couples and leashes 
 into the great hall — while my gallant uncle, in 
 a new perriwig, and a pair of silver-clocked 
 stockings (a present from a ci-devant fine lady) 
 stood at the far end of the picture gallery, to 
 receive his visitors, with all the graces of the last 
 age. 
 
 My mother, who had preserved her beauty 
 wonderfully, sat in a chair of green velvet, and 
 astonished the courtiers by the fashion of a dress 
 only just imported. The worthy Countess (she 
 had dropped in England the loftier distinction 
 of Madame la 3Iarechale) was however quite 
 innocent of any intentional affectation of the 
 mode ; for the new stomacher, so admired in Lon- 
 don, had been the last alteration in female garni- 
 ture at Paris, a month before my father died. 
 Is not this " Fashion" a noble divinity to possess 
 such zealous adherents ? — a pitiful, lackey-like 
 creature, which struts through one country with 
 the cast-off finery of another ! 
 
 As for Aubrey and Gerald, they produced 
 quite an effect — and I should most certainly have 
 been thrown irrevocably into the back ground, 
 had I not been bom to the good fortune of an
 
 DEVEREUX. 49 
 
 eldest son. This Avas far more than sufficient to 
 atone for the plainness of my person ; and when 
 it was discovered that I was also Sir William"'s 
 favourite, it is quite astonishing what a beauty 
 I became. , Aubrey was declared too effeminate ; 
 Gerald too tall. And the Duchess of Lackland 
 one day, when she had placed a lean, salloAV, 
 grim, ghost of a daughter on either side of me, 
 whispered my uncle in a voice, like the aside of 
 a player, intended for none but the v,-ho1e audi- 
 ence, that the young Count had the most impos- 
 ing air and the finest eyes, she had ever seen. All 
 this inspired me with courage, as well as con- 
 tempt ; and not liking to be beholden solely to 
 my priority of birth for my priority of distinc- 
 tion, I resolved to become as agreeable as pos- 
 sible. If I had not in the vanity of my heart 
 resolved also to be " myself alone," Fate would 
 have furnished me at the happiest age for suc- 
 cessfid imitation with an admirable model. 
 
 Time passed on — two years were flown since I 
 had left school, and Montreuil was not yet re- 
 turned. I had passed the age of eighteen, when 
 the whole house, which, as it was summer, when 
 none but cats and physicians were supposed 
 gifted by Providence with the power to exist in 
 town, was uncommonly full — the whole house 
 I say, was thrown into a positive fever of expec- 
 
 VOL. I. D 4^
 
 50 DEVEREUX. 
 
 tation. The visit of a guest, if not of greater con- 
 sequence, at least of greater interest than any who 
 had hitherto honoured my uncle, was announced. 
 Even the young Count, with the most imposing 
 air in the world, and the finest eyes, was forgot- 
 ten by every body but the Duchess of Lackland 
 and her daughters, who had just returned to 
 Devereux Court, to admire how amazingly the 
 Count had grown ! Oh ! what a prodigy wisdom 
 would be, if it were but blest with a memory as 
 keen and constant as that of interest. 
 
 Struck with the universal excitation, I went to 
 my uncle to inquire the name of the expected guest. 
 My uncle was occupied in fanning the Lady Has- 
 selton, a daughter of one of King Charles"'s Beau- 
 ties. He had only time to answer me literally, 
 and without comment ; the guest's name was Mr. 
 St. John. 
 
 I had never conned the " Flying Post,"" and I 
 knew nothing about politics. " Who is Mr. St. 
 John ?" said I ; my uncle had renewed the office of 
 a zephyr. The daughter of the Beauty heard and 
 answered, " The most charming person in En- 
 gland." I bowed and turned away. " How 
 vastly explanatory !" said I. I met a furious 
 politician. " Who is Mr. St. John .?" I asked. 
 
 " The cleverest man in England," answered the 
 politician, hurrying off with a pamphlet in his hand.
 
 DEVEREUX. 51 
 
 " Nothing can be more satisfactory,'' thought I. 
 Stopping a coxcomb of the first water, " Who is 
 Mr. St. John ?'' I asked. 
 
 " The finest gentleman in England," answered 
 the coxcomb, settling his cravat. 
 
 " Perfectly intelligible V was my reflection on 
 this reply ; and I forthwith arrested a Whig par- 
 son—" Who is Mr. St. John .?" said I. 
 
 " The greatest reprobate in England !" answered 
 tlie Whig parson, and I was too stunned to inquire 
 more. 
 
 Five minutes afterwards the sound of carriage 
 wheels was heard in the court-yard, then a slight 
 bustle in the hall, and the door of the anti-room 
 bemg thrown open, Mr. St. John entered. 
 
 He was in the very prime of life, about the 
 middle height, and of a mien and air so strikingly 
 noble, that it was some time before you recovered 
 the general effect of his person sufliciently to 
 examine its peculiar claims to admiration. He 
 lost, however, nothing by a farther survey : he 
 possessed not only an eminently handsome, but a 
 very extraordinary countenance. Through an air 
 of nonchalance, and even something of lassitude, 
 tlirough an ease of manners sometimes sinking into 
 effeminate softness, sometimes bordering upon 
 licentious effrontery, his eye thoughtful, yet wan- 
 dering, seemed to announce that the mind par- 
 
 D 2
 
 52 BEVEREtlX. 
 
 took but little of the whim of the moment, or 
 of those levities of ordinary life, over which the 
 grace of his manner threw so peculiar a charm. 
 His brow was, perhaps, rather too large and thick, 
 for the exactness of perfect symmetry ; but it had 
 an expression of great mental power and determi- 
 nation. His features were high, yet delicate, and 
 his mouth, which, when closed, assumed a firm 
 and rather severe expression, softened, when speak- 
 ing, into a smile of almost magical enchantment. 
 Richly, but not extravagantly dressed, he seemed 
 to cultivate, rather than disdain, the ornaments of 
 outward appearance ; and whatever can fascinate 
 or attract seemed so inherent in this singular man, 
 that all which in others would have been most 
 artificial, was in him most natural : so that it is 
 no exaggeration to add, that to be well dressed, 
 seemed to the elegance of his person, not so much 
 the result of art, as of a property innate and pe- 
 culiar to himself. 
 
 Such was the outward appearance of Henry St. 
 John ; one well suited to the qualities of a mind at 
 once more vigorous and more accomplished than 
 that of any other person with whom the vicissi- 
 tudes of my life have ever brought me into con- 
 tact. 
 
 I kept my eye on the new guest throughout the 
 whole day ; I observed the mingled liveliness and
 
 DEVEEEUX. 53 
 
 softness which pervaded his attentions to women, 
 the intellectual, yet unpedantic superiority, he 
 possessed in, his conversations with men ; his re- 
 spectful demeanour to age ; his careless, yet not 
 over familiar ease with the young ; and what in- 
 terested me more than all, the occasional cloud 
 wliich passed over his countenance at moments 
 when he seemed sunk into a reverie, that had for 
 its objects nothing in common with those around 
 him. 
 
 Just before dinner St. John was talking]!; to a 
 little group, among whom curiosity seemed to 
 have excited the Whig parson, whom I have be- 
 fore mentioned. He stood at a little distance, shy 
 and uneasy ; one of the company took advantage 
 of so favourable a butt for jests, and alluded to 
 the byestander in a witticism which drew laughter 
 from all but St. John, who turning suddenly 
 towards the parson, addressed an observation to 
 him in the most respectful tone. Nor did he cease 
 talking with him, (fatiguing as the conference 
 must have been, for never was there a duller ec- 
 clesiastic than the gentleman conversed with) until 
 we descended to dinner. Then, for the first time, 
 I learnt that nothing can constitute good breeding 
 that has not good nature for its foundation ; — and 
 then, too, as I was leading Lady Barbara Lack- 
 land to the great hall, by the tip of her fore-finger,
 
 54 DEVEREUX. 
 
 I made another observation. Passing the priest, 1 
 heard him say to a fellow-clerk, 
 
 " Certainly, he is the greatest man in England ;"" 
 and I mentally remarked, " there is no policy 
 like politeness ; and a good manner is the best 
 thing in the world, either to get one a good name, 
 or to supply the want of it."
 
 DEVEREUX. 55 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A Dialogue, which might be dull if it were longer. 
 
 Three days after the arrival of St. John, I 
 escaped from the crowd of impertinents, seized a 
 volume of Cowley, and, in a fit of mingled poetry 
 and melancholy, strolled idly into the park. I 
 came to the margin of the stream, and to the very 
 spot on which I had stood with my uncle on the 
 evening when he had first excited my emulation to 
 scholastic rather than manual contention with my 
 brother. — I seated myself by the water-side, and 
 feeling indisposed to read, leant my cheek upon 
 my hand, and surrendered my thoughts as pri- 
 soners to the reflections which I could not resist. 
 
 I continued, I know not how long, in my medi- 
 tation, till I was roused by a gentle touch upon 
 my shoulder ; I looked up, and saw St. John.
 
 56 DEVEREUX. 
 
 " Pardon me, Count," said he, smiling, " I 
 should not have disturbed your reflections, had 
 not your neglect of an old friend emboldened me 
 to address you upon his behalf." — And St. John 
 pointed to the volvune of Cowley wliich he had 
 taken up Avithout my perceiving it. 
 
 " Well," added he, seating himself on the turf 
 beside me, " in my younger days, poetry and I 
 were better friends than we are now. And if I 
 had had Cowley as a companion, I should not 
 have parted with him as you have done, even for 
 my own reflections." 
 
 " You admire him, then .^" said I. 
 
 " Why, that is too general a question. I ad- 
 mire what is fine in him, as in every one else, but I 
 do not love him the better for his points and his 
 conceits. He reminds me of what Cardinal Palla- 
 vicino said of Seneca, viz. that he ' perfumes his 
 conceits with civet and ambergris.' However, 
 Count, I have opened upon a beautiful motto for 
 you. 
 
 " ' Here let me, careless and unthoughtful lying, 
 Hear the soft winds above me flying, 
 /\l''ith all their wanton boughs dispute, 
 And the more tuneful birds to both replying ; 
 Nor be myself too mute.' 
 
 Whai say you to that wish ? If you have a grain
 
 DEVEREUX. 57 
 
 of poetry in you, such verse ought to bring it into 
 flower." 
 
 " Ay," answered I, though not exactly in ac- 
 cordance with the trutli ; " but I have not the 
 germ. I destroyed it four years ago. Reading 
 the dedication of poets cured me of the love for 
 }X)etry. What a pity that the divine inspiration 
 should have for its oracles such mean souls !" 
 
 " Yes, and how industrious the good gentlemen 
 are in debasing themselves. Their ingenuity is 
 never half so much shewn in a simile as in a com- 
 pliment ; and I know not which to admire the most 
 in Dryden, his translating the ^neid, or his or- 
 dering the engravers of his frontispiece (upon the 
 accession of King William) to give poor ^^neas 
 an enormous nose.'''' 
 
 I smiled at the anecdote ; and St. John conti- 
 nued in a graver tone. 
 
 " I know nothing in nature more melancholy 
 than the discovery of any meanness in a great man. 
 There is so little to redeem the dry mass of follies 
 and errors from which the materials of this life are 
 composed, that any thing to love or to reverence 
 becomes as it were the sabbath for the mind. It 
 is bitter to feel, as we grow older, how the respite 
 is abridged, and how the few objects left to our 
 admiration are abased. What a foe not only to life, 
 but to all that dignifies and ennobles it, is Time ! 
 
 D 3
 
 58 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 Our affections and our pleasures resemble those 
 fabulous trees described by St. Oderic — the fruits 
 which they bring forth are no sooner ripened into 
 maturity, than they are transformed into birds, 
 and fly away. But these reflections cannot yet be 
 familiar to you. Let us return to Cowley. Do 
 you feel any sympathy with his prose writings ? 
 For some minds they have a great attraction." 
 
 " They have for mine," answered I ; " but then 
 I am naturally a dreamer ; and a contemplative 
 egotist is always to me a mirror in which I behold 
 myself." 
 
 " The world," answered St. John, with a melan- 
 choly smile, " will soon dissolve, or for ever con- 
 firm your humour for dreaming ; in either case, 
 Cowley will not be less a favourite. But you 
 must, like me, have long toiled in the heat and 
 travail of business, or of pleasure, which is more 
 wearisome still, in order fully to sympathize with 
 those beautiful panegyrics upon solitude, which 
 make, perhaps, the finest passages in Cowley. I 
 have often thought that he whom God hath gifted 
 with a love of retirement, possesses as it were an 
 extra sense. And among what our poet so elo- 
 quently calls, ' the vast and noble scenes of na- 
 ture,"' Ave find the balm for the wounds we have 
 sustained among the ' pitiful shifts of policy ;' 
 for the attachment to solitude is the surest preser-
 
 D E V E R E U X. ^ 59 
 
 vative from the ills of life : and I know not if the 
 Romans ever instilled, under allegory, a sublimer 
 truth than when they inculcated the belief, that 
 those inspired by Feronia, the goddess of woods 
 and forests, could walk barefoot and uninjured over 
 buraing coals." 
 
 At this part of our conference, the bell swing- 
 ing hoarsely through the long avenues, and over 
 the silent water, summoned us to the grand oc- 
 cupation of civilized life ; we rose and walked 
 slowly towards the house. 
 
 " Do not," said I, " these regtdar routines of 
 petty occurrences — this periodical solemnity of 
 trifles, weary and disgust you ? For my part, I 
 almost long for the old days of knight errantry, 
 and would rather be knocked on the head by a 
 giant, or carried through the air by a flying griffin, 
 than live in this circle of dull regularities — the 
 brute at the mill." 
 
 " You may live even in these days," answered 
 St. John, " without too tame a regularity. Wo- 
 men and politics furnish ample food for adven- 
 ture, and you must not judge of all life by coun- 
 try life." 
 
 " Nor of all conversation," said I, with a look 
 which implied a compliment, " by the insipid idlers 
 who fill our saloons. Behold them now, gathered 
 by the oriel window, yonder; precious distillers
 
 60 
 
 DEVEREUX. 
 
 of talk — sentinels of society with certain set 
 phrases as watchwords, which they never exceed ; 
 sageSj who follow Face"'s advice to Dapper — 
 
 " ' Hum thrice, and buzz as often.' "
 
 DEVEREUX. 61 
 
 CHAPTER yil. 
 
 A change of prospects — a new insight into the character of the 
 Hero — a conference between two brothers. 
 
 A DAY or two after the conversation recorded 
 in my last chapter, St. John, to my inexpressible 
 regret, left us for London ; however, we had en- 
 joyed several conferences together, during his 
 stay, and when we parted, it was Avith a pressing 
 invitation on his side to visit him in London, and 
 a most faithful promise on mine, to avail myself 
 of the request. 
 
 No sooner was he fairly gone, than I went to 
 seek my uncle ; I found him reading one of Far- 
 quhar's comedies. Despite of my sorrow at in- 
 terrupting him in so venerable a study, I was too 
 full of my new plot to heed breaking off that in 
 the comedy. In very few words I made the 
 good knight understand that Ms descriptions had
 
 62 DEVEREUX. 
 
 4 
 
 infected me, and that I was dying to ascertain 
 their truth ; in a word, that his hopeful nephew 
 was fully bent on going to town. My uncle first 
 stared, then swore, then paused, then looked at his 
 leg, drew up his stocking, fro^vned, whistled, and 
 told me at last to talk to him abovit it another time. 
 Now for my part, I think there are only two 
 dasses of people in the world, authorised to put 
 one off to " another time," — prime ministers and 
 debtors ; — accordingly, I would not take my uncle's 
 dismissal. I had not read plays, studied philo- 
 sophy, and laid snares for the Abbe Montreuil, 
 without deriving some little wisdom from my ex- 
 perience ; so I took to teasing, and a notable plan 
 it is too ! Wlioever has pursued it may guess the 
 result ! My uncle yielded, and that day fortnight 
 was fixed for my departure. 
 
 Oh ! with what transport did I look forward 
 to the completion of my wishes, the goal of my 
 ambition. I hastened forth — I hurried into the 
 woods — I sang out in the gladness of my heart, 
 like a bird released — I drank in the air with a 
 rapturous sympathy in its freedom ; my step 
 scarcely touched the earth, and my Avhole frame 
 seemed ethereal — elated — exalted — ^by the vivify- 
 ing inspiration of my hopes. I paused by a little 
 streamlet, which, brawling over stones and through 
 unpenetrated thicknesses of wood, seemed, like
 
 DEVEREUX. 63 
 
 confined ambition, not the less restless for its 
 obscurity. 
 
 " Wild brooklet,"" I cried, as my thoughts 
 rushed into words, " fret on, our lot is no longer 
 the same ; your -wanderings and your murmurs 
 ai'e wasted in solitude and shade ; yoitr voice dies 
 and is renewed, but without an echo ; your waves 
 spread around their path neither fertility nor 
 terror ; their anger is idle, and their freshness is 
 lavished on a sterile soil ; the sun shines in vain 
 for you, through these unvarying wastes of silence 
 and gloom ; Fortune freights not your channel with 
 her hoarded stores, and Pleasure ventures not her 
 silken sails upon your tide ; not even the solitary 
 idler roves beside you, to consecrate witli human 
 fellowship your melancholy course ; no shape of 
 beauty bends over your turbid waters, or mirrors 
 in your breast the loveliness that hallows earth. 
 Lonely and sullen, through storm or sunshine, you 
 repine along your desolate way, and only catch, 
 tlirough the matted boughs that darken over you, 
 the beams of the wan stars, which, like human 
 hopes, tremble upon your breast, and are broken, 
 even before they fade, by the very turbulence of 
 the surface on which they fall. Rove— repine — 
 murmur on ! Such was my fate, but the resem- 
 blance is no more. I shall no longer be a lone- 
 ly and regretful being ; my affections will no
 
 64 DKVEREUX. 
 
 longer waste themselves upon barrenness and 
 stone. I go among the living and warm world of 
 mortal energies and desires ; my existence shall 
 glide alternately through crested cities, and bowers 
 in which Poetry worships Love ; and the clear 
 depths of my heart shall reflect whatever its young 
 dreams have shadowed forth — the visioned form — 
 the gentle and fairy spirit — the Eve of my soul's 
 imagined and foreboded paradise." 
 
 Venting, in this incoherent strain, the exulta- 
 tion which filled my thoughts, I wandered on, 
 throughovit the whole day, till my spirits had ex- 
 hausted themselves by indulgence ; and, wearied 
 alike by mental excitement and bodily exertion, I 
 turned, with slow steps, towards the house. As I 
 ascended the gentle acclivity on which it stood, I 
 saw a figure approaching towards me ; the increas- 
 ing shades of the evening did not allow me to 
 recognise the shape until it was almost by my side 
 — it Avas Aubrey. 
 
 Of late I had seen very little of him. His devo- 
 tional studies and habits seemed to draw him from 
 the idle pursuits of myself and my uncle's guests ; 
 and Aubrey was one peculiarly susceptible of 
 neglect, and sore to morbidity at the semblance of 
 unkindness ; so that he required to be sought, and 
 rarely troubled others with advances : that night, 
 however, his greeting was unusually warm.
 
 DEVEUEUX. 65 
 
 " I was uneasy about you, Morton," said he, 
 drawing my arm in his ; " you have not been 
 seen since morning ; and, oh ! Morton, my uncle 
 told me, with tears in his eyes, that you were going 
 to leave us. Is it so ?" 
 
 " Had he tears in his eyes ? Kind old man ! 
 And you, Aubrey, shall you, too, grieve for my 
 departure ?" 
 
 " Can you ask it, Morton ? But why will you 
 leave us ? Are we not all happy here, now ? 
 Noiv that there is no longer any barrier or differ- 
 ence between us — 7iow that I may look upon you, 
 and listen to you, and love you, and oivn that 1 
 love you ? Why will you leave us now ? And — 
 (continued Aubrey, as if fearful of giving me time 
 to answer) — and every one praises you so here ; and 
 my uncle and all of us are so proud of you. Why 
 should you desert our affections merely because they 
 are not new ? Why plunge into that hollow and 
 cold world, which all who have tried it, picture 
 in such fearful hues .'' Can you find anything 
 there to repay you for the love you leave be- 
 hind ?" 
 
 " My brother," said I, mournfully, and in a 
 tone which startled him, it was so different from 
 that which I usually assumed, — " my brother, hear 
 before you reproach me. Let us sit down upon 
 this bank, and I will suffer jou to see more of my
 
 66 DEVEREUX. 
 
 restless and secret heart than any hitherto have 
 beheld." 
 
 We sat down upon a little mound — how well I 
 remember the spot ! I can see the tree which 
 shadows it from my window at this moment. How 
 many seasons have the sweet herb and the emerald 
 grass been withered there and renewed ! Ah, 
 what is this revival of all things fresh and youth- 
 ful in external nature, but a mockery of the wintry 
 spot which lies perished and irrenewahle within ! 
 We drew near to each other, and as my arm wound 
 around him, I said, " Aubrey, your love has been 
 to me a more precious gift than any who have not, 
 like me, thirsted and longed even for the love of a 
 dog, can conceive. Never let me lose that affec- 
 tion ! And do not think of me hereafter as of one 
 whose heart echoed all that his lip uttered. Do 
 not believe that irony, and sarcasm, and bitterness 
 of tongue, flowed from a malignant or evil source. 
 That disposition which seems to you alternately so 
 light and gloomy, had, perhaps, its origin in a 
 mind too intense in its affections, and too exacting 
 in having them returned. Till you sought my 
 friendship, three short years ago, none but my 
 uncle, with whom I could have nothing in common 
 but attachment, seemed to care for my very exist- 
 ence. I blame them not, they were deceived in 
 my nature ; but blame me not too severely if my
 
 DEVEREUX. 67 
 
 temper suifered from their mistake. Your friend- 
 ship came to me, not too late to save me from a 
 premature misanthropy, but too late to eradicate 
 every morbidity of mind. Something of sternness 
 on the one hand, and of satire on the other, have 
 mingled so long with my better feelings, that the 
 taint and the stream have become inseparable. 
 Do not sigh, Aubrey. To be unamiable is not to 
 be ungrateful ; and I shall not love you the less if 
 I have but a few objects to love. You ask me my 
 inducement to leave you. ' The Workr will be 
 sufficient answer. I cannot share your contempt 
 of it, nor your fear. I am, and have been of late, 
 consumed with a thirst — eager, and burning, and 
 unquenchable — it is ambition !" 
 
 " Oh, Morton !" said Aubrey, with a second 
 sigh, longer and deeper than the first — " that 
 evil passion ! the passion which lost an angel 
 Heaven."' 
 
 " Let us not now dispute, my brother, whe- 
 ther it be sinful, in itself, or whether, if its 
 object be virtuous, it is not a virtue. In baring 
 my soul before you, I only speak of my motives ; 
 and seek not to excuse them. Perliaps on this 
 earth, there is no good without a little evil. 
 When my mind was once turned to the acquisition 
 of mental superiority, every petty acquisition I 
 made increased my desire to attain more, and
 
 68 
 
 D £ V E E E U X, 
 
 partial emulation soon widened into universal 
 ambition. We three, Gerald and ourselves, are 
 the keepers of a treasure more invaluable than 
 much gold — the treasure of a not ignoble or sul- 
 lied name. For my part, I confess that I am im- 
 patient to increase the store of honour Avhich our 
 father bequeathed to us. Nor is this all : des- 
 pite of our birth, we are poor in the gifts of 
 fortune. We are all dependents on my uncle's 
 favour ; and, however we may deserve it, there 
 would be something better in earning an inde- 
 pendence for ourselves." 
 
 " That," said Aubrey, " may be an argument 
 for mine and Gerald's exertions; but not for 
 yours. You are the eldest, and my uncle's favou- 
 rite. Nature and affection both point to you as 
 his heir." 
 
 " If so, Aubrey, may many years pass before 
 that inlieritance is mine. Why should those years, 
 that might produce so much, lie fallow ? But 
 tliough I would not affect an unreal delicacy, and 
 disown my chance of future fortune, yet you 
 must remember, that it is a matter possible, not 
 certain. My birthright gives me no claim over my 
 uncle, whose estates are in his own gift ; and 
 favour, even in the good, is a Avind which varies 
 without power on our side to calculate the season 
 or the cause, HoAvever this be, — and I love the
 
 DEVEREUX. 69 
 
 person on whom fortune depends so much, that 
 I cannot, without pain, speak of the mere chance 
 of its passing from his possession into mine, — you 
 vn\l own at least that I shall not hereafter deserve 
 wealth the less for the advantages of experience." 
 
 " Alas !" said Aubrey, raising his eyes, " the 
 worship of our Father in Heaven finds us ample 
 cause for occupation even in retirement ; and the 
 more we mix with his creatures, the more, I fear, 
 we may forget the Creator. But if it must be so, 
 I will pray for you, INIorton ; and you will remem- 
 ber that the powerless and poor Aubrey can 
 still lift up his voice in your behalf." 
 
 As Aubrey thus spoke, I looked with mingled 
 envy and admiration upon the countenance beside 
 me, which the beauty of a spirit seemed at once 
 to soften and to exalt. 
 
 Since our conference had began, the dusk of 
 twilight had melted away ; and the moon had 
 called into lustre — living, indeed, but unlike the 
 common and unhallowing life of day — the wood 
 and herbage, and silent variations of hill and 
 valley, which slept around us ; and, as the still 
 and shadowy light fell over the upward face of 
 my brother, it gave to his features an additional, 
 and not wholly earth-born, solemnity of expres- 
 sion. There was indeed in his face and air, that 
 from which the painter of a seraph might not
 
 70 DEVEREUX. 
 
 have disdained to copy ; something resembling 
 the vision of an angel in the dark eyes that 
 swam with tears, in which emotion had so little 
 of mortal dross — in the youthful' and soft cheeks, 
 which the earnestness of divine thouo-ht had 
 refined by a pale but transparent hue — in the 
 high and unclouded forehead, over which the 
 hair, parted in the centre, fell in long and wave- 
 like curls — and in the lips, silent, yet moving 
 with internal prayer, which seemed the more fer- 
 vent, because unheard. 
 
 I did not interrupt him in the prayer, which my 
 soul felt, though my ear caught it not, was for 
 me. But when he had ceased, and turned 
 towards me, I clasped him to my breast. " My 
 brother," I said, " we shall part, it is true, but 
 not till our hearts have annihilated the space that 
 was between them ; not till we have felt that the » 
 love of brotherhood can pass the love of woman. 
 Whatever await you, your devoted and holy 
 mind will be, if not your shield from affliction, 
 at least your balm for its wounds. Remain here. 
 The quiet which breathes around yovi, well be- 
 comes your tranquillity within ; and sometimes 
 bless me in your devotions, as you have done now. 
 For me, I shall not regret those harder and 
 harsher qualities which you blame in me; if 
 hereafter their very sternness can afford me an
 
 DEVEEEUX. 71 
 
 opportunity of protecting your gentleness from 
 evil, or redressing the wrongs from wliich your 
 nature may be too innocent to preserve you. And 
 now let us return home, in the conviction that 
 we have in our friendship one treasure beyond 
 the reach of fate." 
 
 Aubrey did not answer; but he kissed my 
 foi-ehead, and I felt his tears upon my cheek. We 
 rose, and with arms still embracing each other 
 as we walked, bent our steps to the house. 
 
 Ah, earth ! what hast thou more beautiful 
 than the love of those whose ties are knit by 
 nature, and whose union seems ordained to begin 
 from the very moment of their birth ?
 
 72 D E V K R E U X. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 First Love i 
 
 We are under very changeful influences in 
 this world ! The night on which occurred the in- 
 terview with Aubrey that I have just narrated, I 
 was bui'ning to leave Devereux Court. Within one 
 little week from that time my eagerness was wonder- 
 fully abated. The sagacious reader will readily 
 discover the cause of tliis alteration. About ei.o-ht 
 miles from my uncle's house was a seaport town; 
 there were many and varied rides leading to it, and 
 the town was a favourite place of visitation Avith all 
 the family. Within a few hundred yards of the 
 town was a small cottage, prettily situated in the 
 midst of a garden, kept with singular neatness, and 
 ornamented with several rare shrubs and exotics. 
 I had more than once observed in the garden of
 
 deveueut:. ^3 
 
 » 
 
 this house a female in the very first blush of youth, 
 and beautiful enough to excite within me a strong 
 curiosity to leani the owner of the cottage. I 
 inquired, and ascertained that its tenant was a 
 Spaniard of higli birth, and one who had acquired 
 a melancholy celebrity by his conduct and misfor- 
 tunes in the part he had taken in a certain feeble 
 but gallant insurrection in his native country. He 
 had only escaped with life and a very small sum of 
 money, and now lived in the obscure sea-port of 
 , a refugee and a recluse. He was a wi- 
 dower, and had only one child — a daughter ; and 
 I was therefore at no loss to discover who was 
 the beautiful female I had noted and admired. 
 
 On the day after my conversation with Aubrey, 
 detailed in the last chapter, in riding past this cot- 
 tage alone, 1 perceived a crowd assembled round 
 the entrance ; I paused to inqviire the cause. 
 
 " Why, your honour," quoth a senior of the 
 village, " I believe the tipstaves be come to take 
 the foreigner for not paving his rent ; and he does 
 not understand our English liberty like, and has 
 drawn his sword, and swears, in his outlandish 
 lingo, he will not be made prisoner alive." 
 
 I required no farther inducement to make me 
 enter the house. The crowd gave way when they 
 saw me dismount, and suffered me to penetrate 
 into the first apartment. There I found the gal- 
 
 VOL. I, E
 
 74 UEVEB.EUX. 
 
 lant old Spaniard with his sword drawn, keeping 
 at bay a couple of sturdy looking men, who ap- 
 peared to be only prevented from using violence 
 by respect for the person, or the safety, of a young 
 woman, who clung to her father''s knees, and im- 
 plored him not to resist, where resistance was so 
 unavailing. Let me cut short this scene — I dis- 
 missed the bailiffs, and paid the debt. I then en- 
 deavoured to explain to the Spaniard, in French, 
 for he scarcely understood three words of our 
 language, the cause of a rudeness towards him, 
 whicli he persisted in calling a great insult and in- 
 hospitality manifested to a stranger and an exile. 
 I succeeded at length in pacifying him. I re- 
 mained for more than an hour at the cottage, and 
 I left it with a beating heart at the certain per- 
 suasion that I had established therein the claim 
 of acquaintance and visitation. 
 
 Will the reader pardon me for having curtailed 
 this scene? It is connected with a subject on 
 which I shall better endure to dwell as my nar- 
 rative proceeds. From that time I paid frequent 
 visits to the cottage ; the Spaniard soon grew 
 intimate with me, and I thought the daughter 
 began to blush when I entered, and to sigh when I 
 departed. 
 
 One evening I was conversing with Don Diego 
 D' Alvarez (such was the Spaniard's name), as he 
 sat without his threshold, inhaling the gentle air,
 
 D E V E R E U X. 75 
 
 that stole freshness from the rippling sea that 
 spread before us, and fragrance from the earth, 
 over which the summer now reigned in its most 
 mellow glory. Isora (the daughter) sat at a little 
 distance. 
 
 " How comes it," said Don Diego, " that you 
 have never met our friend Sefior Bar — Bar — 
 these English names are always escaping my me- 
 mory. How is he called, Isora .^" 
 
 *' Mr. — Mr. Barnard," said Isora, (who, brought 
 early to England, spoke its language like a native,) 
 but with evident confusion, and looking down as 
 she spoke — " INIr. Barnard, I believe you mean." 
 
 " Right, my love," .rejoined the Spaniard, who 
 was smoking a long pipe with great gravity, and 
 did not notice his daughter"'s embarrassment — " a 
 fine youth, but somewhat shy and over-modest in 
 manner." 
 
 " Youth !" thought I, and I darted a piercing- 
 look towards Isora. " How comes it, indeed," 1 
 said aloud, " that I have not met him ? Is he a 
 friend of long standing !" 
 
 " Nay, not very — perhaps of some six weeks 
 earlier date than you, Seiior Don Devereux, I 
 pressed him, when he called this morning, to tarry 
 your coming; but, poor youth, he is diffident, and 
 not yet accustomed to mix freely with strangers, 
 especially those of rank ; our own presence a little 
 
 E 2
 
 76 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 overawes him" — and from Don Diego's grey mus 
 tachios issued a yet fuller cloud than was ordinarily 
 wont to emerge from thence. 
 
 My eyes were still fixed on Isora ; she looked 
 up, met them, blushed deeply, rose, and disap- 
 peared within the house. I was already suscep- 
 tible of jealousy. My lip trembled, as I resumed. 
 " And will Don Diego pardon me for inquiring 
 how commenced his knowledge of this ingenuous 
 youth ?" 
 
 The question was a little beyond the pale of 
 good breeding ; perhaps the Spaniard, who was 
 tolerably pvmctilious in such matters, thought so, 
 for he did not reply. I was sensible of my error, 
 and apologizing for it, insinuated, nevertheless, the 
 question in a more respectful and covert shape. 
 Still Don Diego, inhaling the fragrant weed with 
 renewed vehemence, only — like Pion's tomb, re- 
 corded by Pausanias — replied to the request of his 
 petitioner hy smoke. I did not venture to renew my 
 interrogatories, and there was a long silence. My 
 eyes fixed their gaze on the door, by which Isora 
 had disappeared. In vain ; she returned not — and 
 as the chill of the increasing evening began now to 
 make itself felt by the frame of one accustomed 
 to warmer skies, the Spaniard soon rose to re-enter 
 his house, and I took my farewell for the night. 
 
 There were many ways (as I before said) by
 
 DEVEREUX. 77 
 
 i 
 
 wliich I could return home, all nearly equal in 
 picturesque beauty ; for the country in which my 
 uncle's estates were placed, was one where stream 
 roved and woodland flourished even to the very 
 strand, or cliff of the sea. The shortest route, 
 though one the least frequented by any ex- 
 cept foot-passengers, was along the coast, and it 
 was by this path that I rode slowly homeward. 
 On winding a curve in the road about one mile 
 from Devereux Court, the old building broke 
 slowly, tower by tower, upon me. I have never 
 yet described the house, and perhaps it will not 
 be uninteresting to the reader if I do so now. 
 
 It had anciently belonged to Ralph de Bigod. 
 From his possession it had passed into that of the 
 then noblest branch of the stem of Devereux, from 
 whence, without break or flaw in the direct line of 
 heritage, it had ultimately descended to the pre- 
 sent owner. It was a pile of vast extent, built 
 around three quadrangular courts, the farthest of 
 which spread to the very verge of the grey, tall 
 cliff's that overhung the sea : in this court was a 
 rude tower, which, according to tradition, had 
 contained the apartments ordinarily inhabited by 
 orur ill-fated namesake and distant kinsman Robert 
 Devereux, the favourite and the victim of Eliza- 
 beth, whenever he had honoured the mansion with 
 a visit. There was nothing, it is true, in the old
 
 'JS DEVEREUX. 
 
 tower calculated to flatter the tradition, for it con- 
 tained only two habitable rooms, communicating 
 with each other, and by no means remarkable for 
 size or splendour ; and every one of our household, 
 save myself, was wont to discredit the idle rumour 
 which would assign to so distinguished a guest so 
 unseemly a lodgment. But, as I looked from the 
 narrow lattices of the chambers, over the wide 
 expanse of ocean and of land which they command- 
 ed — ^as I noted, too, that the tower was utterly 
 separated from the rest of the house, and that the 
 convenience of its site enabled one, on quitting it, 
 to escape at once, and privately, either to the soli- 
 tary beach, or to the glades and groves of the 
 wide park which stretched behind — I could not 
 help indulging the belief that the unceremonious, 
 and not unromantic noble, had himself selected 
 his place of retirement, and that, in so doing, the 
 gallant of a stately court was not, perhaps, unde- 
 sirous of securing at well chosen moments a brief 
 relaxation from the heavy honours of country 
 homage — or that the patron and poetic admirer of 
 the dreaming Spenser might have preferred to all 
 more gorgeous accommodation, the quiet and un- 
 seen egress to that sea and shore, which, if we may 
 believe the accomplished Roman,* are so fertile in 
 the powers of inspiration. 
 
 * " O mare, O litus, verum secretumque Muo-fiov, quatn multa 
 dictatis — quam multa invenids !" — Plinius.
 
 DEVITREUX. '79 
 
 i 
 
 However this be, I had cheated myself into the 
 belief that my conjecture was true, and I had pe- 
 titioned my uncle, when, on leaving school, he as- 
 signed to each of us our several apartments, to 
 grant me the exclusive right to this dilapidated 
 tower. I gained my boon easily enough ; and, — so 
 strangely is our future fate compounded from past 
 trifles, — I verily believe that the great desire which 
 thenceforth seized me to visit courts, and mix with 
 statesmen — which afterwards hurried me into in- 
 trigue, war, the plots of London, the dissipations 
 of Paris, the perilous schemes of Petersburg, nay, 
 the very hardships of a Cossack tent — was first 
 formed by the imaginary honour of inhabiting the 
 same chamber as the glittering but ill-fated courtier 
 of my own name. Thus youth imitates, where it 
 should avoid; and thus that which should have 
 been to me a warning, became an example. 
 
 In the oaken floor to the outer chamber of this 
 tower was situated a trap-door, the entrance into a 
 lower room or rather cell, fitted up as a bath ; and 
 here a wooden door opened into a long subterranean 
 passage that led out into a cavern by the sea-shore. 
 This cave, partly by nature, partly by art, was 
 hollowed into a beautiful Gothic finun ; and here, 
 on moonlight evenings, when the sea crept gently 
 over the yellow and smooth sands, and the summer
 
 80 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 tempered the air from too keen a freshness, my 
 uncle had often in his younger days, ere gout and 
 rheum dwelt so ceaselessly as at present on his imagi- 
 nation, assembled his guests. It was a place which 
 the echoes peculiarly adapted for music ; and the 
 scene was certainly r^t calculated to diminish the 
 effect of " sweet sounds." Even now, though my 
 uncle rarely joined us, we were often wont to hold 
 our evening revels in this spot ; and the high clijGPs, 
 circling either side in the form of a bay, tolerably 
 well concealed our meetino-s from the gaze of the 
 vulgar. It is true (for these cliffs were perforated 
 with numerous excavations), that some roving 
 peasant, mariner, or perchance smuggler, Avould 
 now and then, at low water, intrude upon us. But 
 our London Nereids and courtly Tritons were 
 always well pleased with the interest of what they 
 graciously termed " an adventure ;" and our as- 
 semblies were too numerous to think an unbroken 
 secrecy indispensable. Hence, therefore, the ca- 
 vern was almost considered a part of the house 
 itself; and though there was an iron door at the 
 entrance which it gave to the passage leading to 
 my apartments, yet so great was our confidence in 
 our neighbours or ourselves, that it was rarely 
 secured, save as a defence against the high tides 
 of winter.
 
 DEVEREUX. 81 
 
 i 
 
 The stars were shining quietly over the old grev 
 castle (for castle it really was), as I now came 
 within view of it. To the left, and in the rear of 
 the house, the trees of the park, grouped by dis^ 
 tance, seemed blent into one thick mass of Avood : 
 to the right, as I now (descending the cliff by a 
 gradual path,) entered on the level sands, and at 
 about the distance of a league from the main 
 shore, a small islet, notorious as the resort and 
 shelter of contraband adventurers, scarcely re- 
 lieved the wide and glassy azure of the waves. 
 The tide was out ; and passing through one of 
 the arches worn in the bay, I came somewhat 
 suddenly by the cavern. Seated there on a cfag 
 of stone I found Aubrey. 
 
 My acquaintance with Isora and her father had 
 so immediately succeeded tlie friendly meeting 
 with Aubrey which I last recorded, and had so 
 utterly engrossed my time and thoughts, that I had 
 not taken of tliat interview all the brotherly advan- 
 tage which I might have done. My heart now 
 smote me for my involuntary negligence. I dis- 
 mounted, and fastening my horse to one of a long 
 line of posts that ran into the sea, approached 
 Aubrey, and accosted him. 
 
 " Alone, Aubrey ? and at an hour when my 
 uncle always makes the old walls ring with revel ! 
 
 E 3
 
 82 DEVEREUX. 
 
 Hark, can you not hear the music even now ? it 
 comes from the ball-room, I think, does it not ?"" 
 
 " Yes !" said Aubrey, briefly, and looking 
 down upon a devotional book, which (as was his 
 wont) he had made his companion. 
 
 " And we are the only truants ! — Well, Gerald 
 will supply our places, with a lighter step, andj 
 perhaps, a merrier heart." 
 
 Aubrey sighed. I bent over him affectionately 
 (I loved that boy, with something of a father's 
 as well as a brother's love), and as I did bend 
 over him, I saw that his eyelids were red with 
 weeping. 
 
 " My brother — my own dear brother," said I, 
 " what grieves you i^ — are we not friends, and more 
 than friends ? — what can grieve you that grieves 
 not me .?" 
 
 Suddenly raising his head, Aubrey gazed at me 
 with a long, searching intentness of eye ; his lips 
 moved, but he did not answer. 
 
 " Speak to me, Aubrey," said I, passing my 
 arm over his shoulder ; " has any one, any tiling 
 hurt you ? See, now, if I cannot remedy the 
 evil." 
 
 Morton," said Aubrey, speaking very slowly, 
 
 do you believe that Heaven preorders as well 
 as foresees our destiny .?" 
 
 It is the schoolman's question," said I, smiling. 
 
 
 i(
 
 DEVEREUX. 83 
 
 *^ but I know how those idle subtleties vex the mind 
 — and you, my brother, are ever too occupied with 
 considerations of the future. If Heaven does pre- 
 order our destiny, we know that Heaven is merciful, 
 and we should be fearless, as we arm ourselves in 
 that knowledge." 
 
 '* Morton Devereux," said Aubrey, again re- 
 peating my name, and witli an evident inward 
 effort that left his lip colourless, and yet lit his 
 dai'k dilating eye with a strange and luiwonted 
 fire — " IMorton Devereux, I feel that I am pre- 
 destined to the power of the Evil One !" 
 
 I drew back, inexpressibly shocked. " Good 
 Heavens !" I exclaimed, " what can induce you 
 to cherish so terrible a phantasy ? what can induce 
 you to wrong so fearfully the goodness and mercy 
 of our Creator ?'"' 
 
 Aubrey shrunk from my arm, which had still 
 been round him, and covered his face with his 
 hands. I took up the book he had been reading : 
 it was a Latin treatise on predestination, and 
 seemed fraught with the most gloomy and bewild- 
 ering subtleties. I sat down beside him, and pointed 
 out the various incoherencies and contradictions 
 of the work, and the doctrine it espoused — so long 
 and so earnestly did I speak, that atlengtli Aubrey 
 looked up, seemingly cheered and relieved. 
 
 " I wish," said he timidly, " I wish that you
 
 84 DEVEREUX. 
 
 loved me, and that you loved me only ,• — but yoU 
 love pleasure, and power, and show, and wit, and 
 revelry ; and you know not what it is to feel for 
 me, as I feel at times for you — nay, perhaps you 
 really dislike or despise me !" 
 
 Aubrey's voice grew bitter in its tone as he con- 
 cluded these words, and I was instantly impressed 
 with the belief that some one had insinuated an 
 inuendo against my affection for him. 
 
 "Why should you think thus?"' I said: "has 
 any cause occurred of late to make you deem my 
 affection for you weaker than it was ? Has any one 
 hinted a surmise that I do not repay your brotherly 
 regard ?" 
 
 Aubrey did not answer. 
 
 " Has Gerald," I continued, " jealous of our 
 mutual attachment, uttered aught tending to di- 
 minish it.^ Yes, I see that he has !" 
 
 Aubrey remained motionless, sullenly gazing 
 downward, and still silent. 
 
 " Speak," said I, " in justice to both of us — 
 speak ! You know, Aubrey, how I have loved 
 and love you : put your arms round me, and say 
 that thing on earth which you wish me to do, and 
 it shall be done !"" 
 
 Aubrey looked up ; he met my eyes, and he 
 threw himself upon my neck, and burst into a 
 violent paroxysm of tears.
 
 DEVEREUX. 35 
 
 i 
 
 I was greatly affected. " I see my fault," said 
 I, soothing him ; " you are angry, and with jus- 
 tice, that I have neglected you of late ; and, per- 
 haps, while I ask your confidence, you suspect 
 that there is some subject on which I should have 
 gi'anted you mine. You are right, and, at a fitter 
 moment, I will. Now let us turn homeward : 
 our uncle is never merry when we are absent ; and 
 when my mother misses your dark locks and 
 fair cheek, I fancy tliat she sees little beauty in 
 the ball. And yet, Aubrey," I added, as he now 
 rose from my embrace, and dried his tears, " I 
 will own to you that I love this scene better than 
 any, however gay, within ;"''' and I turned to the 
 sea, starlit as it was, and murmuring with a silver 
 voice, and I became suddenly silent. 
 
 There was a long pause. I believe we both 
 felt the influence of the scene around us, softening 
 and tranquillizing our hearts ; for, at length, Au- 
 brey put his hand in mine, and said, " You were 
 always more generous and kind than I, Morton, 
 though there are times when you seem different 
 from what you are ; and I know you have already 
 forjjiven me." 
 
 1 drew him affectionately towards me, and we 
 went home. 
 
 But although I meant, from that night, to 
 devote myself more to Aubrey than I had done of
 
 86 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 late, my hourly increasing love for Isora interfered 
 greatly with my resolution. In order, however, to 
 excuse any future neglect, I, the very next morning, 
 bestowed upon him my confidence. Aubrey did 
 not much encourage my passion : he represented 
 to me Isora"'s situation — my own youth — my own 
 worldly ambition — and, more than all, (reminding 
 me of my uncle's aversion even to the most pros- 
 perous and well-suited marriage,) he insisted upon 
 the certainty that Sir William would never yield 
 consent to the lawful consummation of so unequal a 
 love. I was not too well pleased with this reception 
 of my tale, and I did not much trouble my adviser 
 with any farther communication and confidence on 
 the subject. Day after day I renewed my visits 
 to the Spaniard's cottage ; and yet time passed on, 
 and I had not told Isora a syllable of my love. I 
 was inexpressibly jealous of this Barnard, whom 
 her father often eulogized, and whom I never 
 met. There appeared to be some mystery in his 
 acquaintance Avith Don Diego, which that per- 
 sonage carefully concealed ; and once, when I was 
 expressing my surprise to have so often missed 
 seeing his friend, the Spaniard shook his head 
 gravely, and said that he had now learnt the real 
 reason for it : there were circumstances of state 
 which made men fearful of new acquaintances, 
 even in their ovn country. He drew back, as if
 
 DEVEREUX. 87 
 
 he had said too much, and left me the conjecture 
 that Barnard Avas connected with him in some 
 intrigue more delightful in itself than agreeable to 
 the government. This belief was strengthened by 
 my noting that Alvarez was frequently absent from 
 home, and this, too, in tlie evening, when he was 
 generally wont to shun the bleakness of the 
 English air — an atmosphere, by the by, which I 
 once heard a Frenchman wittily compare to Au- 
 gustus placed between Horace and Virgil ; viz., 
 in ths hon-niot of the emperor himself — between 
 sighs and tears. 
 
 But Isora herself never heard the name of this 
 Barnard mentioned without a visible confusion, 
 which galled me to the heart ; and at length, 
 unable to endure any longer my suspense upon 
 the subject, I resolved to seek from her own lips 
 its termination. 1 long tarried my opportunity : 
 It was one evening, that, coming rather unex- 
 pectedly to the cottage, I was informed by the 
 single servant that Don Diego had gone to the 
 neighbouring town, but that Isora was in the 
 gai-den. Small as it was, this garden had been 
 cultivated with some care, and was not devoid of 
 variety. A high and very thick fence of living 
 box-wood, closely interlaced with the honey-suckle 
 and the common rose, screened a few plots of 
 rarer flowers, a small circular fountain, and a
 
 88 DEVEREUX. 
 
 rustic arbour, both from the sea-breezes and the 
 eyes of any passer by, to which the open and un- 
 sheltered portion of the garden was exposed. 
 When I passed through the opening cut in the 
 fence, I was somewhat surprised at not imme- 
 diately seeing Isora. Perhaps she was in the 
 arbour. I approached the arbour tremblingly. 
 What was my astonishment and my terror when I 
 beheld her stretched lifeless on the ground. 
 
 I uttered a loud cry, and sprung forwards. I 
 raised her from the earth, and supported her in 
 my arms ; her complexion — through whose pure 
 and transparent v/hite, the wandering blood was 
 wont so gently, yet so glowingly to blush, undu- 
 lating while it blushed, as youngest rose-leaves which 
 the air just stirs into trembling — was blanched into 
 the hues of death. My kisses tinged it with a 
 momentary colour not its own ; and yet as I pressed 
 her to my heart, methought hers, which seemed 
 still before, began, as if by an involuntary sym- 
 pathy, palpably and suddenly to throb against my 
 own. My alarm melted away as I held her thus 
 — nay, I Avould not, if I could, have recalled her 
 yet to life ; — I was forgetful — I was unheeding — 1 
 was unconscious of all things else ; — a few broken 
 and passionate words escaped my lips, but even 
 they ceased when I felt her breath just stirring 
 and mingling with my oAvn. It seemed to me as
 
 DEVEREUX. 89 
 
 if all living kind but ourselves, had by a spell 
 departed from the earth, and we were left alone 
 with the breathless and inaudible Nature from 
 which spring the love and the life of all things. 
 
 Isora slowly recovered ; her eyes, in opening, 
 dwelt upon mine — her blood rushed at once to her 
 cheek, and as suddenly left it hueless as before. 
 She rose from my embrace, but I still extended my 
 arms towards her ; and words, over which I had 
 no controul, and of which now I have no remem- 
 brance, rushed from my lips. Still pale, and 
 leanins: ag-ainst the side of the arbour, Isora heard 
 me, as — confused, incoherent, impetuous, but still 
 intelligible to her — my released heart poured itself 
 forth. And when I had ceased, she turned her 
 face towards me, and my blood seemed at once 
 frozen in its channel. Anguish, deep, ineffable 
 anguish, was depicted upon every feature ; and 
 when she strove at last to speak, her lips quivered 
 so violently, that, after a vain effort, she ceased 
 abruptly. I again approached — I seized her hand, 
 which I covered with my kisses. 
 
 " Will you not answer me, Isora V said I, 
 tremblingly. " Be silent then ; but give me one 
 look, one glance of hope, of pardon from those 
 dear eyes, and I ask no more." 
 
 Isora's whole frame seemed sinking beneath 
 her emotions ; she raised her head, and looked
 
 90 D E V E 11 E U X. 
 
 hurriedly and fearfully round ; my eye followed 
 her's, and I then saw upon the damp ground, the 
 recent print of a man''s footstep, not my own ; and 
 close by the spot where I had found Isora, lay a 
 man's glove. A pang shot through me — I felt my 
 eyes flash fire, and my brow darken, as I turned 
 to Isora, and said, " I see it — I see all, — I have 
 a rival, who has but just left you — you love me 
 not — ^your affections are for him !"' 
 
 Isora sobbed violently, but made no reply. 
 " You love him," said I, but in a milder and more 
 mournful tone — " you love him — it is enough — I 
 will persecute you no more ; and yet — ^" I paused 
 a moment, for the remembrance of many a sign, 
 which my heart had interpreted flatteringly, flashed 
 upon me, and my voice faltered. " Well, I have 
 no right to murmur — only Isora — only tell me 
 with your lips that you love another, and I will 
 depart in peace." 
 
 Very slowly Isora turned her eyes to me, and 
 even through her tears they dwelt upon me 
 with a tender and a soft reproach. 
 
 " You love another ?" said I — and from her lips, 
 which scarcely parted, came a single word which 
 thrilled to my heart like fire, — ' No P 
 
 " No !" I repeated, " No ? — say that again, and 
 again ; — yet who then is this, that has dared so to 
 agitate and overpower you .? Who is he whom you
 
 DEVEREUX. 91 
 
 i 
 
 have met, and whom, even now while I speak, 
 you tremble to hear me recur to ? Answer me one 
 word — is it this mysterious stranger whom your 
 father honours ^\^th his friendship ? — is it Bar- 
 nard r 
 
 Alarm and fear again wholly engrossed the ex- 
 pression of Isora's countenance. 
 
 " Barnard !"" she said, " yes — yes — ^it is Bar- 
 nard !" 
 
 " Who is he ?" I cried vehemently — " who or 
 what is he ? — and of what nature is his influence 
 upon you ? Confide in me"" — and I poured forth a 
 long tide of inquiry and solicitation. 
 
 By the time I had ended, Isora seemed to have 
 recovered herself. With her softness, was min- 
 gled something of spirit and of self-controul, which 
 was rare alikein her country and her sex, but which, 
 when a woman and a daughter of Spain does 
 possess it, invests her Avith a dignity of which we 
 dream not till we bow before its exertion. 
 
 " Listen to me !" said she, and her voice, which 
 faltered a little at first, grew calm and firm as she 
 proceeded. " You profess to love me — I am not 
 worthy your love ; and if, Count Devereux, I do 
 not reject nor disclaim it — for I am a woman, and 
 a weak, and fond one— I will not at least wrong 
 you by encouraging hopes which I may not and I
 
 92 DEVEREUX. 
 
 dare not fulfil. I cannot — '''' here she spoke with 
 a fearful distinctness, — " I cannot; I can never, 
 be yours ; and when you ask me to be so, you 
 know not what you ask or what perils you incur. 
 — Enough — I am grateful to you. The poor 
 exiled girl is grateful for your esteem — and — and 
 your affection. She will never forget them, — 
 never ! But be this our last meeting — our very 
 last — God bless you, Morton !" and, as she read 
 my heart, pierced and agonized as it was, in my 
 countenance, Isora bent over me, for I knelt 
 beside her, and I felt her tears upon my cheek, — 
 *' God bless you — and farewell."" 
 
 " You insult, you wound me," said I bitterly, 
 " by this cold and taunting kindness ; tell me, 
 tell me only, who it is that you love better than 
 me." 
 
 Isora had turned to leave me, for I was too 
 proud to detain her ; but when I said this, she 
 came back, after a moment's pause, and laid her 
 hand upon my arm. 
 
 "If it make you happy to know my unhap- 
 piness," she said, and the tone of her voice 
 made me look full in her face, which was one 
 deep blush, " know that I am not insen- 
 sible—" 
 
 I heard no more — my lips pressed themselves
 
 DEVEREUX. 93 
 
 involuntarily to her's — a long, long kiss — burning — 
 intense — concentrating emotion, heart, soul, all 
 the rays of life's light into a single focus ; — and 
 she tore herself from me — and I was alone.
 
 94 DEVEREUX. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A Discovery, and a Departure. 
 
 I HASTENED home after my eventful interview 
 with Isora, and gave myself vip to tumultuous 
 and wild conjecture. Aubrey sought me the next 
 morning — I narrated to him all that had occurred — 
 he said little, but that little enraged me, for it 
 was contrary to the dictates of my oa\ti wishes. 
 The character of Morose in the " Silent Woman," 
 is by no means an uncommon one. Many men — 
 certainly many lovers — would say with equal truth, 
 always provided they had equal candour — " All 
 discourses but my own afflict me ; they seem 
 hai*sh, impertinent, and irksome." Certainly I 
 felt that amiable sentiment most sincerely, with 
 regard to Aubrey. I left him abruptly — a resolu- 
 tion possessed me — "I will see," said I, " this 
 Barnard ; I will lie in wait for him ; I will de-
 
 DEVEREUX. 95 
 
 mand and obtain, though it be by force, the secret 
 viiich evidently subsists between him and this 
 exiled family." 
 
 Full of this idea, I drew my cloak round me, 
 and repaired on foot to the neighbourhood of the 
 Spaniard''s cottage. There was no place near it 
 very commodious for accommodation both of vigil 
 and concealment. However, I made a little hill 
 in a field opposite the house my warder's station, 
 and lying at full length on the ground, wrapt in 
 my cloak, I trusted to escape notice. The day 
 passed — no visitor appeared. The next morning I 
 went from my own rooms, through the subter- 
 ranean passage, into the Castle Cave, as the exca- 
 vation I have before described was generally 
 termed. On the shore I saw Gerald, by one of 
 the small fishing-boats usually kept there. I 
 passed him with a sneer at his amusements, which 
 vv'ere always those of conflicts against fish or 
 fowl. He answered me in the same strain, as he 
 threw his nets into the boat, and pushed out 
 to sea. " How is it, that you go alone ?''"' said I ; 
 " is there so much glory in the capture of mac- 
 kerel and dogfish, that you will allow no one to 
 share it t'" 
 
 " There are other sports for men,*" answered Ge- 
 rald, colouring indignantly, " than those you ima- 
 gine — my taste is confined to amusements in which
 
 96 D E V E U E U X. 
 
 he is but a fool who seeks companionship ; and if 
 you covild read character better, my wise brother, 
 you would know that the bold rover is ever less 
 idle and more fortunate than the speculative 
 dreamer !"" 
 
 As Gerald said this, which he did with a sig- 
 nificant emphasis, he rowed vigorously across the 
 water, and the little boat was soon half way to 
 the opposite islet. My eyes followed it musingly 
 as it glided over the waves, and my thoughts 
 painfully revolved the words which Gerald harl 
 uttered. " What can he mean ?'''' said I, half 
 aloud, — " yet what matters it.'' — perhaps some low 
 amour, some village conquest, inspires him with 
 that becoming fulness of pride and vain glory — 
 joy be with so bold a rover !" and I strode away, 
 along tlie beach, towards my place of watch ; once 
 only I turned to look at Gerald — he had then just 
 touched the islet, which was celebrated as much 
 for the fishing it afforded, as the smuggling it 
 protected. 
 
 I arrived, at last, at the hillock, and resumed 
 my station. Time passed on, till, at the dusk of 
 evening, the Spaniard came out. He walked 
 slowly towards the town ; I followed him at a dis- 
 tance. Just before he reached the town, he turned 
 off by a path which led to the beach. As the 
 evening was unusually fresh and chill, I felt con-
 
 DEVEHEUX. 97 
 
 vinced that some cause, not wholly trivial, drew 
 the Spaniard forth to brave it. My pride a little 
 revolted at the idea of following him; but I per- 
 suaded myself that Isora's happiness, and perhaps 
 her father's safety, depended on my obtaining some 
 knoAvledge of the character and designs of this 
 Barnard, who appeared to possess so dangerous an 
 influence over both daughter and sire — nor did I 
 doubt but that the old man was now gone forth to 
 meet him. The times were those of mystery and 
 of intrigue — the emissaries of the House of Stuart 
 Avere restlessly at work, among all classes — many 
 of them, obscure and mean individuals, made their 
 way, the more dangerously from their very (seem- 
 ing) insignificance. ]My uncle, a moderate tory, 
 was opposed, though quietly, and without vehe- 
 mence, to the claims of the banished house. Like 
 Sedley, who became so staunch a revolutionist, he 
 had seen the court of Charles II. and the character 
 of his brother too closely to feel much respect for 
 either ; but he thovight it indecorous to express 
 opposition loudly, to a party among whom were 
 many of liis early friends ; and the good old knight 
 was too much attached to private ties to be very 
 much alive to public feeling. However, at his 
 well-filled board, conversation, generally, though 
 displeasingly to himself, turned upon politics, and 
 I had there often listened, of late, to dark hints of 
 VOL. r. F *
 
 98 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 the danger to whicli we were exposed, and of the 
 restless machinations of the Jacobites. I did not, 
 therefore, scruple to suspect tliis Barnard of some 
 plot against the existing state ; and I did it the 
 more from observing, that the Spaniard often spoke 
 bitterly of the English court, which had rejected 
 some claims he imagined himself entitled to make 
 upon it ; and that he was naturally of a temper 
 vehemently opposed to quiet, and alive to enter- 
 prise. With this impression, I deemed it fair to 
 seize any opportunity of seeing, at least, even if I 
 could not question, the man whom the Spaniard 
 himself confessed to have state reasons for conceal- 
 ment ; and my anxiety to behold one, whose very 
 name covild agitate Isora, and whose presence 
 could occasion the state in which I had found her, 
 sharpened this desire into the very keenness of a 
 passion. 
 
 While Alvarez descended to the beach, I kept 
 the upper path^ Avhich wound along the cliff. 
 There was a spot where the rocks were rude and 
 broken into crags, and aiforded me a place where, 
 unseen, I could behold what passed below. The 
 first thing I beheld was a boat, approaching rapidly 
 towards the shore ; one man Avas seated in it ; he 
 reached the shore, and I recognized Gerald. That 
 was a dreadful moment. Alvarez now slowly 
 joined him ; they remained together for nearly an
 
 DEVEREUX. 99 
 
 hour. I saw Gerald give the Spaniard a letter, 
 which appeared to make the chief subject of their 
 conversation. At lengtli tliey parted, Avith the 
 signs rather of respect than familiarity. Don Diego 
 returned homeward, and Gerald re-entered the 
 Ixjat. I watched its progress over the waves with 
 feelings of a dark and almost unutterable nature. 
 " My enemy ! my rival ! miner of my hopes ! — my 
 hroilierl — my ixv'vn brother T — I muttered bitterly 
 between my ground teeth. 
 
 The boat did not make to t\\^ open sea — it 
 skulked along the shore, till distance and shadow 
 scarcely allowed me to trace the outlines of Gerald's 
 figure. It then touched the beach, and I could 
 just descry the dim shape of another man enter ; 
 and Gerald, instead of returning homewards, 
 pushed out towards the islet. I spent the greater 
 part of the night in the open air. Wearied and 
 exhausted, by the furious indulgence of my pas- 
 sions, I gained my room at length. There, how- 
 ever, as elsewhere, thought succeeded to thouglit, 
 and scheme to scheme. Should I speak to Gerald ? 
 Should I confide in Alvarez ? Sliould I renew 
 my suit to Isora ? If the first, what could I hope 
 to learn from mine enemy .? If the second, what 
 could I gain from the father, while the daughter 
 remained averse to me.'' If the third — there my 
 
 F 2
 
 100 DEVEKEUX. 
 
 heart pointed, and the third scheme I resolved to 
 adopt. 
 
 But Avas I sure that Gerald was this Barnard ? 
 Might there not be some hope that he was not ? 
 No, I could perceive none. Alvarez had never 
 spoken to me of acquaintance with any other Eng- 
 glishman than Barnard ; I had no reason to be- 
 lieve that he ever held converse with any other. 
 Would it not have been natural too, unless some 
 powerful cause, such as love to Isora, induced 
 silence — wculd it not have been natural that 
 Gerald should have mentioned his acquaintance 
 with the Spaniard ? — Unless some dark scheme, 
 such as that which Barnard appeared to have in 
 common with Don Diego, commanded obscurity, 
 would it have been likely that Gerald should have 
 met Alvarez alone — at night — on an unfrequented 
 spot ? What that scheme was, I guessed not — I 
 cared not. All my interest in the identity of 
 Barnard with Gerald Devereux, was that derived 
 from the power he seemed to possess over Isora. 
 Here, too, at once, was explained the pretended 
 Barnard's desire of concealment, and the vigilance 
 with which it had been effected. It was so certain, 
 that Gerald, if my rival, wovild seek to avoid me 
 — it Avas so easy for him, who could watch all my 
 motions, to secure the power of doing so. Then I 
 remembered Gerald's character through the coun-
 
 DEVEEEUX. 101 
 
 tiy, as a gallant and a general lover — and I closed 
 my eyes as if to shut out the vision Avhen I recalled 
 the beauty of his form, contrasted Avith the com- 
 pai'ative plainness of my o\vn. 
 
 " There is no hope," I repeated — and an insen- 
 sibility rather than sleep crept over me. Dreadful 
 and fierce dreams peopled my slumbers ; and when 
 I started from them at a late hour the next day, I 
 was unable to rise from my bed — my agitation and 
 my wanderings had terminated in a burning fever. 
 In four days, however, I recovered sufficiently to 
 mount my horse — I rode to the Spaniard's house— 
 I found there only the woman who had been Don 
 Diego's solitary domestic. The morning before, Al- 
 varez and his daughter had departed, none knew 
 for certain whither ; but it was supposed their des- 
 tination was London. The woman gave me a note — 
 it was from Isora — it contained only these lines : 
 
 '■' Forget me — we are now parted for ever. As 
 you value my peace of mind — of happiness I do 
 not speak — seek not to discover our next retreat. 
 I implore you to think no more of what has been ; 
 you are young, very young. Life has a thousand 
 paths for you; any one of them will lead you from 
 the remembrance of me. Farewell, again and 
 
 ajjam 
 
 (( 
 
 IsORA D'AlvaREZ.
 
 102 DEVEUEUX. 
 
 With this note was another, in French, from Don 
 Diearo ; it was colder and more formal than I could 
 have expected — it thanked me for my attentions 
 towards him — it regretted that he could not take 
 leave of me in person, and it enclosed the sum 
 which I had, in lending to him, made the opening 
 of our after acquaintance. 
 
 " It is well !" said I, calmly, to myself, " it is 
 well ; I will forget her :" and I rode instantly home. 
 " But," I resvnned in my soliloquy, " I will yet 
 strive to obtain confirmation to what perhaps needs 
 it not. I will yet strive to see if Gerald can deny 
 the depth of his injuries towards me — there will be 
 at least some comfort in witnessing either his defi- 
 ance or his confusion." 
 
 Agreeably to this thought, I hastened to seek 
 Gerald. I found him in his apartment — I shut the 
 door, and seating myself, with a smile, thus ad- 
 dressed him : 
 
 " Dear Gerald, I have a favour to ask of you." 
 
 " What is it .?" 
 
 " How long have you known a certain Mr. Bar- 
 nard .P" Gerald changed colour — his voice faltered 
 as he repeated the name " Barnard !"" 
 
 " Yes," said I, with affected composure, " Bar- 
 nard ! a great friend of Don Diego D' Alvarez." 
 
 " I perceive," said Gerald, collecting himself, 
 " that you are in some measure acquainted with
 
 JDEVEREIJX. 103 
 
 my secret — how far it is known to you I cannot 
 guess; but I tell you, very fairly, that from me you 
 will not increase the sum of your knowledge." 
 
 When one is in a good sound rage, it is asto- 
 nishing how calm one can be ! I was certainly some- 
 what amazed by Gerald's hardihood and assurance, 
 but I continued, with a smile — 
 
 " And Donna Isora, how long, if not very in- 
 trusive on your confidence, have you known her ?" 
 
 " I tell you," answered Gerald, doggedly, " that 
 I will answer no questions." 
 
 " You remember the old story," returned I, 
 " of the two brothers, Eteocles and Polynices, 
 whose very ashes refused to mingle — faith, Gerald, 
 our love seems much of the same tone. I know not 
 if our ashes will exhibit so laudable an antipathy ; 
 but I think our hearts and hands Avill do so while a 
 spark of life animates them ; yes, though our blood," 
 (I added, in a voice quivering with furious emo- 
 tion,) " prevents our contest by the sword, it pre- 
 vents not the hatred and the curses of the heart." 
 
 Gerald turned pale. " I do not understand you,' 
 he faltered out—" I know you abhor me ; bnt 
 why, why this excess of malice ?''"' 
 
 I cast on him a look of bitter scorn, and turned 
 from the room. 
 
 It is not pleasing to place before the reader these 
 dark passages of fraternal hatred ; but in the re-
 
 104 DEVKREUX. 
 
 cord of all passions there is a moral ; and it is 
 wise to see to how vast a sum the units of childish 
 animosity swell, when they are once brought into a 
 heap, by some violent event, and told over by the 
 nice accuracy of revenge. 
 
 But I long to pass from these scenes, and my 
 history is about to glide along otheis of more glit- 
 tering and smiling aspect. Thank Heaven, I write 
 a tale, not only of love, but of a life ; and that 
 which I cannot avoid I can at least condense.
 
 DKVEUEUX. 105 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A very short Chapter— containing a Valet. 
 
 My uncle for several weeks had flattered him- 
 self that I had quite forgotten or foregone the 
 desire of leaving Devereux Court for London. 
 Good easy man ! he was not a little distressed when 
 I renewed the subject with redoubled firmness, 
 and demanded an early period for that event. He 
 managed, however, still to protract the evil day. 
 At one time it was impossible to part with me, 
 because the house was so full ; at another time it 
 was cruel to leave him, when the house was so 
 empty. INIeanwhile, a change, not common to 
 disappointed lovers, but very natural to my 
 haughty and vain character, came over me. I 
 became a prodigious coxcomb, and the idlest 
 pretty fellow imaginable. The fact was, that when 
 
 the first shock of Isora's departure passed away, 
 
 F 3
 
 106 DEVEREUX. 
 
 I began to suspect the purity of her feelings 
 towards me. Might not Gerald, the beautiful, 
 the stately, the glittering Gerald, have been a 
 successful wooer under that disguised name of 
 Barnard, and hence Isora''s confusion when that 
 name was mentioned, and hence the power which 
 its possessor exercised over her ? 
 
 This idea once admitted soon gained ground. 
 It is true that Isora had testified something of 
 favourable feelings towards me; but this might 
 spring from coquetry or compassion. My love 
 had been a boy's love, founded upon beauty, and 
 coloured by romance. I had not investigated 
 the character of the object; and I had judged 
 of the mind solely by the face. I might easily 
 have been deceived — I persuaded myself that I 
 was ! Perhaps Gerald had provided their present 
 retreat for sire and daughter — perhaps they at this 
 moment laughed over my rivalry and my folly. 
 Methought Gerald's lip wore a contemptuous curve 
 when we met. " It shall have no cause," I said, 
 stung to the soul ; " I Avill indeed forget this 
 woman, and yet, though in other ways, eclipse this 
 rival. Pleasure — ambition — the brilliancy of a 
 court — the resources of wealth invite me to a 
 thousand joys. I will not be deaf to the call. 
 Meanwhile I will betray to Gerald —to no one — the 
 trace — the scar of the wound I have received ; and
 
 DEVEREUX. 10/ 
 
 I will mortify Gerald, by shewing hhii that, beauty 
 as he is, he shall be forgotten in my presence !" 
 
 Agreeably to this exquisite resolution,! paid in- 
 cessant court to the numerous dames by whom my 
 uncle's mansion was throno-ed ; and I resolved to 
 prepare, among them, the reputation for gallantry 
 and for wit which I proposed to establish in town. 
 
 " You are greatly altered since your love !'''' 
 said Aubrey, one day to me, " but not by your 
 love. Own that I did right in dissuading you 
 from its indulg-ence !" 
 
 " Tell me !" said I, sinking my voice to a 
 whisper, " do you think Gerald was my rival .P" 
 and I recounted the causes of my suspicion. 
 
 Aubrey's countenance testified astonishment as 
 he listened — " It is strange— very strange," said 
 he; " and the evidence of the boat is almost con- 
 clusive ; still I do not think it quite sufficient to 
 leave no loop-hole of doubt. But what matters 
 it .f*— you have conquered your love now." 
 
 " Ay," I said, with a laugh, " I have conquered 
 it, and I am now about to find some other em- 
 press of the heart. What think you of the Lady 
 Hasselton ? — a fair dame and a sprightly. I 
 want nothing but her love to be the most enviable 
 of men, and a Fi*ench valet-de-chambre to be the 
 most irresistible." 
 
 " The former is easier of acquirement than the
 
 108 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 latter, I fear," returned Aubrey ; "all places pro- 
 duce light dames, but the war makes a scarcity 
 of French valets." 
 
 " True," said I ; " but I never thought of 
 instituting a comparison between their relative 
 value. The Lady Hasselton, no disparagement 
 to her merits, is but one woman — ^but a French 
 valet who knows his metier , arms one for conquest 
 over a thousand" — and I turned to the saloon. 
 
 Fate, which had destined to me the valuable 
 affections of the Lady Hasselton, granted me also, 
 at a yet earlier period, the greater boon of a 
 French valet. About two or three weeks after 
 this sapient communication with Aubrey, the 
 most charming person in the world presented him- 
 self a candidate pour le bonkeur supreme de 
 soigner Monsieur le Comte. Intelligence beamed 
 in his eye ; a modest assurance reigned upon his 
 brow ; respect made his step vigilant as a 
 zephyr's ; and his ruffles were the envy of the 
 world ! 
 
 I took him at a glance ; and I presented to 
 the admiring inmates of the house, a greater cox- 
 comb than the Count Devereux in the ethereal 
 person of Jean Desmarais.
 
 DEVEREUX. 109 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 The Hero acquits himself honourably as a Coxcomb — a Fine Lady 
 of the Eighteenth Century, and a fashionable Dialogue — the 
 Substance of fashionable Dialogue being in all Centuries the same. 
 
 " I AM thinking, Morton," said my uncle, " that 
 if you are to go to town, you should go in a style 
 suitable to your rank. What say you to flying 
 along the road in my green and gold chariot ? 
 'Sdeath, I'll make you a present of it. Nay — no 
 thanks — and you may have four of my black 
 Flanders mares to draw you." 
 
 " Now, my dear Sir William," cried Lady 
 Hasselton, who, it may be remembered, was the 
 daughter of one of King Charles's beauties, and 
 who alone shared the breakfast room with my 
 uncle and myself — " now, my dear Sir William, 
 I think it would be a better plan to suffer the 
 Count to accompany us to to>vn. We go next
 
 110 SEVERE UX. 
 
 week. He shall have a seat in our coach — help 
 Lovell to pay our post-horses — protect us at 
 inns — scold at the Av^aiter in the pretty oaths of the 
 fashion, which are so innocent, that I will teach 
 them to his Countship myself, and unless I am 
 much more frightful than my honoured mother, 
 whose beauties you so gallantly laud, I think you 
 will own, Sir William, that this is better for your 
 nephew than doing solitary penance in your cha- 
 riot of green and gold, with a handkerchief tied 
 over his head to keep away cold, and with no more 
 fanciful occupation than composing sonnets to the 
 four Flanders mares." 
 
 " 'Sdeath, Madam, you inherit your mother's 
 wit as Avell as beauty," cried my imcle, with an 
 impassioned air. 
 
 " And his Countship," said I, " will accept 
 your invitation without asking his uncle leave." 
 
 " Come, that is bold for a gentleman of — let me 
 see, thirteen — are you not ?'''' 
 
 " Really," answered I, " one learns to forget 
 time so terribly in the presence of Lady Hasselton, 
 that I do not remember even how long it has ex- 
 isted for me." 
 
 " Bravo," cried the knight, with a moistening 
 eye : " you see, Madam, the boy has not lived 
 with his old uncle for nothing." 
 
 " I am lost in astonishment," said the ladv.
 
 & 
 
 DEVEREUX. Ill 
 
 glancing towards the glass ; " why, you will 
 eclipse all our beaux on your first appearance — 
 but — but — Sir WiUiam — how green those glasses 
 have become ! bless me, there is something so con- 
 tagious in the effects of the country, that the very 
 mirrors grow verdant. But — Count — Count — 
 where are you, Count ? (I was exactly opposite to 
 the fair speaker) Oh, there you are — pray — do 
 you carry a little pocket-glass of the true quality 
 about you ? But, of course you do — lend it 
 
 mer 
 
 " I have not the glass you want, but I carry 
 with me a mirror that reflects your features much 
 more faithfully." 
 
 " How ! I protest I do not understand you !" 
 
 " The mirror is here !" said I, laying my hand 
 to mv heart. 
 
 " 'Gad — I must kiss the boy !" cried my uncle, 
 starting up. 
 
 " I have sworn,"" said I, fixing my eyes upon the 
 lady — " I have sworn never to be kissed even by 
 women. You must pardon me, uncle." 
 
 " I declare," cried the Lady Hasselton, flirting 
 her fan, which was somewhat smaller than the 
 screen that one puts into a great hall, in order to 
 take off the discomfort of too large a room — " I 
 declare, Count, there is a vast deal of originality 
 about you. But tell me. Sir William, where did
 
 112 DEVEREUX. 
 
 your nephew acquire, at so early an age — (eleven 
 you say he is) — such a fund of agreeable assur- 
 ance ?" 
 
 " Nay, Madam, let the boy answer for him- 
 self.^ 
 
 " Imprimis, then,'' said I, playing with the 
 ribbon of my cane — " imprimis, early study of the 
 best authors — Congreve and Farquhar, Etherege 
 and Rochester. Secondly, the constant intercourse 
 of company, wliich gives one the spleen so over- 
 poweringly, that despair inspires one with boldness 
 — 'to get rid of them. Thirdly, the personal ex- 
 ample of Sir William Devereux ; and, fourthly, 
 the inspiration of hope." 
 
 " Hope, Sir !" said the Lady Hasselton, cover- 
 ing her face with her fan, so as only to leave me a 
 glimpse of the farthest patch upon her left cheek 
 — " hope. Sir !" 
 
 " Yes — the hope of being pleasing to you. Suf- 
 fer me to add, that the hope has now become cer- 
 tainty." 
 
 " Upon my word. Count — " 
 
 '' Nay, you caimot deny it — if one can once 
 succeed in impudence, one is irresistible." 
 
 " Sir William," cried Lady Hasselton, " you 
 may give the Count your chariot of green and 
 gold, and your four Flanders mares, and send his
 
 DEVEREUX. 113 
 
 mother's maid with him. He shall* not go with 
 
 me." 
 
 " Cruel ! and why ?" said I. 
 
 " You are too" — the lady paused, and looked 
 at me over her fan. She was really very hand- 
 some-^" you are too old, Count. You must be 
 more than nine." 
 
 " Pardon me," said I, "I am nine — a very 
 mystical number nine is too, and represents the 
 muses, who, you know, were always attendant 
 upon Veyius — or you, which is the same tiling ; so 
 ycoi can no more dispense %vith my company than 
 you can with that of the Graces." 
 
 " Good morning, Sir William !" cried the Lady 
 Hasselton, rising. 
 
 I oiFered to hand her to the door — with great 
 difficulty, for her hoop was of the very newest 
 encQ'mity of circumference, I effected this object. 
 " Well, Count !" said she, " I am glad to see you 
 have brought so much learning from school ; make 
 the best use of it, while it lasts, for your me- 
 mory will not furnish you wath a single simile 
 out of the mythology by the end of next 
 winter." 
 
 " That would be a pity !" said I, " for I in- 
 tend having as many goddesses as the Heathens 
 had, and I should like to worship them in a clas- 
 sical fasliion."
 
 114 DEVEREUX. 
 
 " Oh ! the young reprobate !" said the beauty, 
 tapping me with her fan. " And pray what other 
 deities besides Venus am I like ?" 
 
 " All !" said I — " at least all the celestial 
 ones !"" 
 
 Though half-way through the door, the beauty 
 extricated her hoop, and drew back ; " Bless me, 
 the gods as well as the goddesses ?" 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 •=' You jest — tell me how." 
 
 " Nothing can be easier ; you resemble Mer- 
 cury, because of your thefts." 
 
 " Thefts !" 
 
 " Ay ; stolen hearts and" (added I, in a whis- 
 per) " glances — Jupiter, partly because of your 
 lightning, which you lock up in the said glances — 
 principally because all things are subservient to 
 you — Neptune, because you are as changeable 
 as the seas — Vulcan because you live among the 
 flames you excite — and Mars because — " 
 
 " You are so destructive," cried my uncle. 
 
 " Exactly so ; and because," added I — as I 
 shut the door upon the beauty — "because, thanks 
 to your hoop, you cover nine acres of ground.'' 
 
 " Odsfish, Morton," said my uncle, " you sur- 
 prise me at times — one while you are so reserved, 
 at another so assured ; to-day so brisk, to-mor- 
 row so gloomy. Why now, Lady Hasselton (she
 
 D E V E R E U X. 115 
 
 is very comely, eh ! faith, but not co'niparable to 
 her motlier) told me a week ago, that she gave 
 you up in desjjair, that you were dull, past 
 hoping for ; and now, 'Gad, you had a life in 
 you, that Sid himself could not have surpassed. 
 How comes it, Sir, eh ?" 
 
 " Why, uncle, you have explained the reason ; 
 it was exactly because she said I was dull, that 
 I was resolved to convict her in an untruth." 
 
 " Well, now, there is some sense in that, boy ; 
 always contradict ill report, by personal merit. 
 But what think you of her ladyship ? 'Gad, you 
 know what old Bellair said of Emilia. ' Make 
 much of her — she's one of the best of your 
 acquaintance, I like her countenance and beha- 
 viour. Well, she has a modesty not f this age, 
 a-dad she has.' Applicable enovigh — eh, boy !" 
 
 " ' I know her value. Sir, and esteem her accord- 
 ingly,' " answered I, out of the same play, which, 
 by dint of long study, I had got by heart. " But, 
 to confess the truth," added I, " I think you 
 might have left out the passage about her mo- 
 desty." 
 
 " There, now — you young chaps are so censo- 
 rious — wliy, 'sdeath. Sir, you don't think the worse 
 of her virtue, because of her wit ?'''' 
 
 " Humph !" 
 
 " Ah, boy — when you are my age, you'll know
 
 116 - DEVEREUX. 
 
 tliat your demure cats are not the best ; and that 
 reminds me of a little story — shall I tell it you, 
 
 ciiiid r 
 
 " If it so please you, Sir." 
 
 " Zauns — where's my snufF-box ?— oh, here it is. 
 Well, Sir, you shall have the whole thing, from 
 beginning to end. Sedley and I were one day 
 conversing together about women. Sid was a 
 vei-y deep fellow in that game — no passion yovi 
 know — no love on his own side — nothing of the sort 
 — :'all done by rule, and compass — knew women as 
 well as dice, and calculated the exact moment 
 when his snares would catch them, according to 
 the principles of geometry. D — d clever fellow, 
 faith — but a confounded rascal : — but let it go no 
 farther — mum''s the word ! — must not slander the 
 dead — and it's only my suspicion, you know, after 
 all. Poor fellow — I don't think he was such a 
 rascal ; he gave a beggar an angel once, — well, 
 boy, have a pinch — Well, so I said to Sir Charles, 
 ' I think you will lose the widow, after all — 'Gad 
 I do.' * Upon what principle of science. Sir 
 William ?' said he. ' Why, faith, man, she is 80 
 modest, you see, and has such a pretty way of 
 blushing.' ' Harkye, friend Devereux,' said Sir 
 Charles, smoothing his collar, and mincing his 
 words musically, as he was wont to do — ' harkye, 
 friend Devereux, I will give you the whole ex-
 
 DEVEREUX. 117 
 
 perience of my life in one maxim ^ — I can answer 
 for it's being new, and I think it's profound — and 
 that maxim is — ' No faith, Morton — no, I can't 
 tell it thee — it is villainous, and then it's so des- 
 perately against all the sex." 
 
 " Mj dear uncle, don't tantalize me so — pray 
 tell it me — it shall be a secret." 
 
 " No, boy, no — it will corrupt thee — besides, 
 it will do poor Sid's memory no good. But 
 'sdeath, it was a most wonderfully shrewd saying 
 — 'i'faith, it was. But zounds — Morton — I forgot 
 to tell you that I have had a letter from the Abbe 
 to-day." 
 
 " Ha ! and Avhen does he return ?''"' 
 
 " To-morrow, God willing !" said the knight 
 with a sigh. 
 
 " So soon, or rather after so long an absence ! 
 AVell, I am glad of it. I wish much to see him 
 before I leave you." 
 
 " Indeed !" quoth my uncle — " you have an 
 advantage over me, then ? — But, od'sflsh, Morton, 
 how is it that you grew so friendly with the 
 priest, before his departure ? He used to speak 
 very suspiciously of thee formerly ; and when I 
 last saw him, he lauded thee to the skies." 
 
 " Why, the clergy of his faith have a habit of 
 defending the strong, and crushing the weak, I
 
 118 D E V E 11 E U X. 
 
 l^elieve — that's all. He once thought I was dull 
 enough to damn my fortune, and then he had 
 some strange doubts for my soul — now he thinks 
 me wise enough to become prosperovis, and it is 
 astonishing what a respect he has conceived for my 
 principles." 
 
 "Ha! ha ! ha ! — "-you have a spice of your 
 uncle's humour in you — and, 'Gad you have no 
 small knowledge of the world considering you have 
 seen so little of it." 
 
 A hit at the Popish clergy was, in my good 
 uncle's eyes, the exact acme of wit and wisdom. 
 We are always clever with those who imagine we 
 think as they do. To be shalloAv you must differ 
 with people — to be profound you must agree with 
 them . ' ' Why , Sir," answered the sage nephew, ' ' you 
 forget that I have seen more of the world than 
 many of twice my age. Your house has been full 
 of company ever since I have been in it, and you 
 set me to making observations on what I saw before 
 I was thirteen. And then, too, if one is reading 
 books about real life, at the very time one is mix- 
 ing in it, it is astonishing how naturally one re- 
 marks, and how well one remembers." 
 
 " Especially if one has a genius for it, — eh, 
 boy ! And then, too, you have read my play — turned 
 Horace's Satires into a lampoon upon the boys at
 
 DEVEREUX. 119 
 
 school — been regularly to assizes during the vaca- 
 tion — attended the county -balls, and been a most 
 premature male coquet with the ladies. Od'sfish, 
 boy ! — it is quite curious to see how the young 
 sparks of the present day get on with their love- 
 making." 
 
 " Especially if one has a genius for it — eh, 
 Sir.^" said I.' 
 
 " Besides too," said my uncle, ironically, " you 
 have had the Abbe's instructions." 
 
 " Ay, and if the priests would communicate to 
 their pupils their experience in frailty, as well as 
 in virtue, how wise they would make us !" 
 
 " Od'sfish ! Morton, you are quite oracular. 
 How got you that fancy of priests ? — by observa- 
 tion in life already ?''" 
 
 " No, uncle— by observation in plays, which 
 you tell me are the mirrors of life — you remember 
 what Lee says — 
 
 " ' 'Tis thought 
 
 That earth is more obliged to priests for bodies 
 Than Heaven for souls.' " 
 
 And mv uncle laujjhed, and called me a smart 
 fellow. Confess, Monsieur le Lecteur, that when 
 one can obtain the name of a wit iqion such easy 
 terms, it would be a pity not to contract for the
 
 120 DEVERfeuX. 
 
 title ! — Whenever you raise a laugh, and are 
 praised for your humour, humble yourself and do 
 penance — you may be sure that you have said 
 something egregiously silly, or, at best, superla- 
 tively ill-natured !
 
 DEVEREUX. 121 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 The Abbe's return — a Sword, and a Soliloquy. 
 
 The next evening when I was sitting alone in 
 my room, the Abbe Montreuil suddenly entered. 
 " Ah, is it you ? welcome r — cried I. The priest 
 held out his arms, and embraced me in the most 
 paternal manner. 
 
 " It is your friend," said he, " returned at last 
 to bless and congratulate you. Behold my success 
 in your service," and the Abbe produced a long 
 leather case, richly inlaid with gold. 
 
 " Faith, Abbe," said I, " am I to understand 
 that this is a present for your eldest pupil ?" 
 
 " You are," said Montreuil, opening the case, 
 and producing a sword ; the light fell upon the 
 liilt, and 1 drew back, dazzled with its lustre ; it 
 was covered with stones, apparently of the most 
 costly value. Attached to the hilt was a label 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 122 DEVEREUX. 
 
 of purple velvet, on which, in letters of gold, was 
 inscribed, " To the son of Marshal Devereiix, the 
 soldier of France, and the friend of Louis XIV." 
 
 Before I recovered my surprise at this sight, 
 the Abbe said — " It was from the king''s own hand 
 that I received this sword, and I have authority 
 to inform you, that if ever you wield it in the ser- 
 vice of France, it will be accompanied by a post 
 worthy of your name." 
 
 " The service of France !" I repeated ; " why, 
 at present, that is the service of an enemy."" 
 
 " An enemy only to a part of England !'''' said 
 the Abbe emphatically ; " perhaps I have overtures 
 to you from other monarchs, and the friendship of 
 the court of France may be synonimous with the 
 friendship of the true sovereign of England." 
 
 There was no mistaking the purport of this 
 speech, and even in the midst of my gratified 
 vanity, I drew back, alarmed. The Abbe 
 noted the changed expression of my countenance, 
 and artfully turned the subject to comments on 
 the sword, on which I still gazed with a lover's 
 ardour. From thence he veered to a description 
 of the grace and greatness of the royal donor — he 
 dwelt at length upon the flattering terms in which 
 Louis had spoken of my father, and had inquired 
 concerning myself; he enumerated all the hopes 
 that the illustrious house, into wliich my father
 
 DEVEREUX. 123 
 
 had first married, expressed for a speedy intro- 
 duction to his son ; he lingered with an eloquence 
 more savouring of the court than of the cloister, 
 on the dazzling circle which surrounded the French 
 throne ; and when my vanity, my curiosity, my 
 love of pleasure, my ambition, all that are most 
 susceptible in young minds, were fully aroused, 
 he suddenly ceased, and wished me a good night. 
 
 " Stay, mon pere f said I ; and looking at him 
 more attentively than I had hitherto done, I 
 perceived a change in his external appearance, 
 which somewhat startled and surprised me. Mon- 
 treuil had always hitherto been remarkably plain 
 in his dress ; but he was now richly attired, and 
 by his side hung a rapier, Avhich had never adorned 
 it before. Something in his aspect seemed to suit 
 the alteration in his garb : and whether it was 
 that long absence had effaced enough of the fami- 
 liarity of his features, to allow me to be more 
 alive than formerly to the real impression they 
 were calculated to produce, or whether a commune 
 with kings and nobles had of late dignified their 
 old expression, as power was said to have clothed 
 the soldier-mien of Cromwell with a monarch's 
 bearing— 1 do not affect to decide ; but I thought 
 that, in his high brow and Roman features, the 
 compression of his lip, and his calm but haughty 
 
 G 2
 
 124 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 air, there was a nobleness, which I for the first 
 time acknowledged. " Stay, my father," said I, 
 surveying him, " and tell me, if there is no 
 irreverence in the question, whether brocade and 
 a sword are compatible with the laws of the order 
 of Jesus ?" 
 
 " Policy, Morton," answered Montreuil, " often 
 dispenses with custom ; and the declarations of the 
 Institute provide, with their usual wisdom, for 
 worldly and temporary occasions. Even while the 
 constitution ordains us to discard habits repugnant 
 to our professions of poverty, the following excep- 
 tion is made : ' Si in occurrenti aliqua occasione, 
 vel necessitate, quis vestibus melioribus, honestis 
 tamen, indueretur.' " 
 
 " There is now, then, some occasion for a more 
 glittering display than ordinary ?'''' said I. 
 
 " There is, my pupil," answered Montreuil ; 
 ••' and whenever you embrace the offer of my friend- 
 ship, made to you more than two years ago, — 
 whenever, too, your ambition points to a lofty and 
 sublime career, — whenever, to make and unmake 
 kings, — and, in the noblest sphere to execute the 
 will of God, — indemnifies you for a sacrifice of 
 petty wishes and momentary passions, I will con- 
 fide to you schemes wortny of your ancestors and 
 yourself."
 
 DEVEEEUX,. 125 
 
 With this the priest departed. Ldft to myself, 
 I revolved his hints, and marvelled at the power he 
 seemed to possess. " Closeted with kings,"* said I, 
 soliloquizing, — " bearing their presents through 
 armed men and military espionage, — speaking of 
 empires and their overthrow, as of ordinary objects 
 of ambition — and he himself alow-born and undig- 
 nified priest, of a poor though a wise ordei- — well, 
 there is more in tliis than I can fathom ; but I will 
 hesitate before I embark in his dangerous and con- 
 cealed intrigues — above all, I will look well ere I 
 hazard my safe heritage of these broad lands in 
 the service of that house, which is reported to Ije 
 ungrateful, and which is certainly exiled.'" 
 
 After this prudent and notable resolution, I took 
 up the sword — re-examined it — kissed the hilt 
 once and the blade twice — put it under m.y pillow 
 — sent for my valet — undrest — went to bed — fell 
 asleep — and dreamt that I was teaching the Mare- 
 chal de Villars the thrust en seconde. 
 
 But Fate, that arch-gossip, which, like her pro- 
 totypes on earth, settles all our affairs for us with- 
 out our knowledge of the matter, had decreed that 
 my friendship with the Abbe Montreuil should be 
 of very short continuance, and that my adventures 
 on earth should flow through a different channel 
 than, in all probability, they would have done 
 under his spiritual direction.
 
 126 DEVEREUX. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A mysterious Letter — a Duel — the Departure of one of the Family. 
 
 The next morning I communicated to the Abbe 
 my intention of proceeding to London. He received 
 it with favour. " I myself," said he, " shall soon 
 meet you there; — my office in your family has ex- 
 pired, and your mother, after so long an absence, 
 will perhaps readily dispense with my spiritual ad- 
 vice to her. But time presses — since you depart so 
 soon,giveme anaudience to-night in your apartment. 
 Perhaps our conversation may be of moment." 
 
 I agreed — the hour was fixed, and I left the 
 Abbe to join my uncle and his guests. While I 
 was employing, among them, my time and genius 
 with equal dignity and profit, one of the servants 
 informed me, that a man at the gate wished to see 
 me — and alone.
 
 DEVEREUX. 127 
 
 Somewhat sui*prised, I followed the* servant out 
 of the room into the great hall, and desired him to 
 bid the stranger attend me there. In a few minutes, 
 a small, dark man, dressed between gentility and 
 meanness, made his appearance. He greeted me 
 w ith great respect, and presented a letter, which, he 
 said, he was charged to deliver into my own hands, 
 " with,"" he added in a low tone, " a special desire, 
 that none should, till I had carefully read it, be 
 made acquainted with its contents." I was not a 
 little startled by this request ; and, withdrawing to 
 one of the windows, broke the seal. A letter, in- 
 closed in the envelope, in the Abbe's own hand- 
 writing, was the first thing that met my eyes. At 
 tliat instant the Abbe himself rushed into the hall. 
 He cast one hasty look at the messenger, whose 
 countenance evinced something of surprise and con- 
 sternation at beholding him ; and, hastening up to 
 me, grasped my hand vehemently, and, while his 
 eye dwelt upon the letter I held, cried, " Do not 
 read it — not a word — not a word — there is poison 
 in it !" And, so saying, he snatched desperately at 
 the letter. I detained it from him with one hand, 
 and, pushing him aside with the other, said, 
 
 " Pardon me. Father — directly I have read it 
 you shall have that pleasure — not till then ;" and, 
 as I said this, my eye falling upon the letter, dis- 
 covered my own name written in two places — my
 
 128 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 suspicions were arovised. I raised my eyes to the 
 spot where the messenger had stood, with the view 
 of addressing some question to him respecting his 
 employer, when, to ray surprise, I perceived he 
 was already gone. I had no time, however, to fol- 
 low him. 
 
 " Boy," said the Abb^, gasping for breath, and 
 still seizing me with his lean bony hand, — ' ' boy, 
 give me that letter instantly. I charge you not to 
 disobey me." 
 
 " You forget yourself, Sir," said I, endeavour- 
 ing to shake him off, " you forget yourself: there 
 is no longer between us the distinction of pupil 
 and teacher ; and if you have not yet learnt the 
 respect due to my station, suffer me to tell you 
 that it is time you should." 
 
 " Give me the letter, I beseech you," said Mon- 
 treuil, changing his voice from anger to suppli- 
 cation ; " I ask your parden for my violence ; the 
 letter does not concern you but me ; there is a 
 secret in those lines which you see are in my hand- 
 writing, that implicates my personal safety. Give 
 it me, my dear, dear, son — your own honour, if 
 not your affection for me, demands that you 
 should." 
 
 I was staggered. His violence had confirmed 
 my suspicions, but his gentleness weakened them. 
 " Besides," thought I, " the handwriting is his,
 
 DEVEREUX. 129 
 
 and even if my life depended upon reading the 
 letter of another, I do not think my honour would 
 suffer me to do so against his consent." A thought 
 struck me — 
 
 " Will you swear," said I, " that this letter does 
 not concern me ?" 
 
 " Solemnly," answered the Abbe, raising his 
 eyes. 
 
 " Will you swear, that I am not even men- 
 tioned in it ?" 
 
 " Upon peril of my soul, I will." 
 
 " Liar — traitor — perjured blasphemer !" cried I, 
 in an inexpressible rage, " look here, and here i" 
 and I pointed out to the priest various lines in 
 which my name legibly and frequently occurred. A 
 change came ovei' MontreuiFs face ; he released my 
 arm and staggered back against the wainscoat ; but 
 recovering his composure instantaneously, he said, 
 " I forgot, my son, I forgot — your name is men- 
 tioned, it is true, but with honourable eulogy, that 
 is all." 
 
 " Bravo, honest father !" cried I, losing my 
 fury in admiring surprise at his address — " bravo ! 
 However, if that be all, you can have no objection 
 to allow me to read the lines in which my name 
 occurs ; your benevolence cannot refuse me such 
 a gratification as the sight of your written pane- 
 gyric." 
 
 G 3
 
 J30 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 " Count Devereux," said the Abbe, sternly, 
 while his dark face worked with suppressed pas- 
 sion, " this is trifling with me, and I warn you 
 not to push my patience too far. I will have that 
 letter, or — " he ceased abruptly, and touched 
 the hilt of his sword. 
 
 " Dare you threaten me T'' I said, and the 
 natural fierceness of my own disposition, deepened 
 by vague but strong suspicions of some treachery 
 designed against me, spoke in the tones of my 
 voice. 
 
 *' Dare I !" repeated Montreuil, sinking and 
 sharpening his voice into a sort of inward screech. 
 " Dare I ! — ay, were your whole tribe arrayed 
 against me. Give me the letter, or you will find 
 me now and for ever your most deadly foe ; deadly 
 — ay — deadly, deadly !" and he shook his clenched 
 hand at me, with an expression of countenance so 
 malignant and menacing, that I drew back invo- 
 luntarily, and laid my hand on my sword. 
 
 The action seemed to give Montreviil a signal for 
 which he had hitherto waited. " Draw, then," he 
 said through his teeth, and unsheathed his rapier. 
 
 Though surprised at his determination, I was 
 not backward in meeting it. Thrusting the letter 
 in my bosom, I drew my sword in time to parry 
 a rapid and fierce thrust. I had expected easily 
 to master Montreuil, for I had some skill at my
 
 DEVEREUX. 131 
 
 weapon ; — I was deceived — I found him far more 
 adroit than myself in the art of offence ; and per- 
 haps it would liave fared ill for the hero of this 
 narrative, had Montreuil deemed it wise to direct 
 against my life all the science he possessed. But 
 the moment our swords crossed, the constitutional 
 coolness of the man, which rage or fear had for a 
 brief time banished, returned at once, and he pro- 
 bably saw, that it would be as dangerous to him to 
 take away the life of his pupil, as to forfeit the pa- 
 per for which he fought. He, therefore, appeared 
 to bend all his efforts towards disarming me. Whe- 
 ther or not he would have effected this it is hard to 
 say, for my blood was up, and any neglect of my 
 antagonist, in attaining an object very dangerous, 
 when engaged Math a skilful and quick swords- 
 man, might have sent him to the yjlace from Avhich 
 the prayers of his brethren have (we are bound 
 to believe) released so many thousands of souls. 
 But, meanwhile, the servants, who at first thought 
 the clashing of swords was the wanton sport of 
 some young gallants as yet new to the honour 
 of wearing them, grew alarmed by the continu- 
 ance of the sound, and flocked hurriedly to the 
 place of contest. At their intrusion, we mutually 
 drew back. Recovering my presence of mind, (it 
 was a possession I very easily lost at that time.)
 
 132 DEVEREUX. 
 
 I saw the unseemliness of fighting with my pre- 
 ceptor, and a priest. I therefore burst, though 
 awkwardly enough, into a laugh, and affecting to 
 treat the affair as a friendly trial of skill between 
 the Abbe and myself, re-sheathed my sword and 
 dismissed the intruders, who, evidently disbeliev- 
 ing my version of the story, retreated slowly, and 
 exchanging looks. Montreuil, who had scarcely 
 seconded my attempt to gloss over our rencontre, 
 now approached me. 
 
 " Count," he said with a collected and cool 
 voice, " suffer me to request you to exchange 
 three words with me, in a spot less liable than 
 this to interruption." 
 
 " Follow me, then !'' said I — and I led the way 
 to a part of the grounds which lay remote and 
 sequestered from intrusion. I then turned round, 
 and perceived that the Abb^ had left his sword 
 behind. " How is this .?" I said, pointing to his 
 unarmed side — " have you not come hither to 
 renew our engagement .''''' 
 
 " No !" answered Montreuil, " I repent me of 
 my sudden haste, and I have resolved to deny 
 myself all possibility of indulging it again. That 
 letter, young man, I still demand from you ; I 
 demand it from your own sense of honour and of 
 right — it was written by me — it was not intended 
 for your eye — it contains secrets implicating the
 
 DEVERErX. 133 
 
 lives of others beside myself — now — read it if you 
 will." 
 
 , " You are right, Sir !"" said I, after a short 
 pause ; " there is the letter ; never shall it be said 
 of jNIorton Devereux that he hazarded his honour 
 to secure his safety. — But the tie between us is 
 broken now and for ever !" 
 
 So saying, I flung down the debated epistle, 
 and strode away. I re-entered the great hall. 
 I saw by one of the windows a sheet of paper — I 
 picked it up, and perceived that it was the enve- 
 lope in which the letter had been enclosed. It 
 contained only these lines, addressed to rae, in 
 French : 
 
 " A friend of the late Marshal Devereux en- 
 closes to his son a letter, the contents of which it 
 is essential for his safety that he should know. 
 
 " C. D. B." 
 
 " Umph !"'' said I — " a very satisfactory intima- 
 tion, considering that the son of the late Marshal 
 Devereux is so very well assured that he shall not 
 know one line of the contents of the said letter. 
 But let me see after this messenger !" and I imme- 
 diately hastened to institute inquiry respecting 
 him. I found that he was already gone ; imme- 
 diately on leaving the hall he had remounted his
 
 134 DEVEBEUX. 
 
 horse, and taken his departure. One servant, 
 however, had seen him, as he passed the front 
 court, address a few words to my valet, Desmarais, 
 who happened to be loitering there. I summoned 
 Desmarais and questioned him. 
 
 " The dirty fellow," said the Frenchman, point- 
 ing to his spattered stockings with a lacrymose 
 air, " splashed me, by a prance of his horse, from 
 head to foot, and while I was screaming for very 
 anguish, he stopped and said, ' Tell the Count 
 Devereux that I was unable to tarry, but that the 
 letter requires no answer.' " 
 
 I consoled Desmarais for his misfortune, and 
 hastened to my uncle with a determination to 
 reveal to him all that had occurred. Sir William 
 was in his dressing room, and his gentleman was 
 very busy in adorning his wig. I entreated his 
 goodness to dismiss the coiffeur, and then, without 
 much preliminary detail, acquainted him with all 
 that had passed between the Abbe and myself. 
 
 The kniffht seemed startled when I came to the 
 story of the sword. " 'Gad, Sir Count, what have 
 you been doing F' said he ; " know you not that this 
 may be a very ticklish matter ? The King of France 
 is a very great man to be sure — a very great man 
 — and a very fine gentleman ; but you will please 
 to remember that we are at war with his majesty,
 
 DEVEEEUX. 135 
 
 and I cannot guess how far the acceptation of 
 such presents may be treasonable,"" 
 
 And Sir William shook his head with a mournful 
 significance. " Ah,"cried he, at last, (when I had con- 
 cluded my whole story), with a complacent look, 
 " I have not lived at court, and studied human 
 nature, for nothing; and I will wager my best full- 
 bottom to a night-cap, that the crafty old fox is 
 as much a jacobite as he is a rogue ! The letter 
 would have proved it. Sir — it would have proved 
 it!" 
 
 " But what shall be done now P" said I ; " will 
 you suffer him to remain any longer in the house ?" 
 
 " Why,"" replied the knight, suddenly recol- 
 lecting his reverence to the fair sex, " he is your 
 mother's guest, not mine ; we must refer the matter 
 to her. But zauns, Sir, with all deference to her 
 ladyship, we cannot suffer our house to be a con- 
 spiracy-hatch, as well as a popish chapel ; — and 
 to attempt your life too — the devil I Od'sfish, 
 boy, I will go to the countess myself, if you will 
 jvist let Nicholls finish my wig — never attend 
 the ladies en deshabille — always, with them, take 
 care of your person most, when 3^ou most want to 
 display your mind ;" and my uncle, ringing a 
 little silver bell On his dressing table, the sound 
 immediately brought Nicholls to his toilet. 
 
 Trusting the cause to the zeal of my uncle,
 
 136 DEVEREUX. 
 
 whose hatred to the ecclesiastic would, I knew, be 
 an efficacious adjunct to his diplomatic address, 
 and not unwilling to avoid being myself the person 
 to acquaint my mother with the suspected de- 
 linquency of her favourite, I hastened from the 
 knight's apartment in search of Aubrey. He was 
 not in the house. His attendants (for my uncle, 
 with old-fashioned grandeur of respect, suitable to 
 his great wealth and aristocratic temper, allotted 
 to each of us a separate suite of servants as well as 
 of apartments) believed he was in the park. Thi- 
 ther I repaired, and found him, at length, seated 
 by an old tree, with a large book of a religious cast 
 before him, on which his eyes were intently bent. 
 
 " I rejoice to have found thee, my gentle bro- 
 ther," said I, throwing myself on the green turf by 
 his side ; "in truth you have chosen a fitting and 
 fair place for study." 
 
 " I have chosen," said Aubrey, " a place meet 
 for the peculiar study I am engrossed in ; for where 
 can we better read of the power and benevolence 
 of God, than among the living testimonies of both. 
 Beautiful! — how very beautiful — is this happy 
 world ; but I fear," added Aubrey, and the glow 
 of his countenance died away,^ — " I fear that we 
 enjoy it too much." 
 
 " We hold different interpretations of our creed, 
 then," said I, " for I esteem enjoyment the best 
 proof of gratitude ; nor do I think we can pay a
 
 DEVEREUX. 137 
 
 more acceptable duty to the Father of all Goodness, 
 than by shewing ourselves sensible of the favours 
 he bestows upon us." 
 
 Aubrey shook his head gently, but replied not. 
 
 " Yes," resumed I, after a pause — " yes, it is in- 
 deed a glorious and fair world Avhich we have for 
 our inheritance. Look, how the sunlight sleeps yon- 
 der upon fields covered with golden corn, and seems, 
 like the divine benevolence of which you spoke, 
 to smile upon the luxuriance which its power 
 created. This carpet at our feet, covered with 
 flowers that breathe, sweet as good deeds, to Hea- 
 ven — the stream that breaks through that distant 
 copse, laughing in the light of noon, and sending 
 its voice through the hill and woodland, like a mes- 
 senger of glad tidings, — the green boughs over our 
 head, vocal with a thousand songs, all inspkations 
 of a joy too exquisite for silence, — the very leaves, 
 which seem to dance and quiver with delight, —think 
 you, Aubrey, that these are so sullen as not to re- 
 turn thanks for the happiness they imbibe with 
 being; — what are those thanks but the incense 
 of their joy ? The flowers send it up to Heaven in 
 fragrance — the air and the wave in music. Shall 
 the heart of man be the only part of His creation 
 that shall dishonour His worship with lamentation 
 and gloom ? When the inspired writers call upon 
 us to praise our Creator, do they not say to us, — 
 ' Be joyful in your God .?' " ^
 
 138 DEVEREUX. 
 
 " How can we be joyful with the judgment-day 
 ever before us?" said Aubrey — " how can we be 
 joyful,''"' (and here a dark shade crossed his counte- 
 nance, and his lip trembled with emotion,) " while 
 the deadly passions of this world plead and rankle 
 at the heart. Oh, none but they who have known 
 the full blessedness of a commune with Heaven, can 
 dream of the whole anguish and agony of the con- 
 science, when it feels itself sullied by the mire and 
 crushed by the load of earth !" Aubrey paused, and 
 liis words — his tone — his look — made upon me a 
 powerful impression. I was about to answer, when, 
 interrupting me, he said, " Let us talk not of these 
 matters, — speak to me on more worldly topics." 
 
 " I sought you," said I," that I might do so ?" 
 and I proceeded to detail to Aubrey as much of 
 my private intercourse with the Abbe as I deemed 
 necessary to warn him from too close a confidence 
 in the wiley ecclesiastic. Aubrey listened to me 
 with earnest attention : — the affair of the letter 
 — the gross falsehood of the priest in denying the 
 mention of my name in his epistle, evidently dis- 
 mayed him. " But," said he, after a long silence — 
 " but it is not for us, Morton — weak, ignorant, in- 
 experienced as we are — to judge prematurely of 
 our spiritual pastors. To them also is given a far 
 greater licence of conduct than to us — and ways 
 enveloped in what to our eyes are mystery and
 
 DEVEREUX. 139 
 
 shade ; nay, I know not whether it be much less 
 impious to question the paths of God's chosen, than 
 to scrutinize those of the Deity himself/'' 
 
 "Aubrey, Aubrey, this is childish!" said I, 
 somewhat moved to anger. " Mystery is always the 
 trick of imposture : God's chosen should be dis- 
 tinguished from their flock only by superior virtue, 
 and not by a superior privilege in deceit."" 
 
 " But," said Aubrey, pointing to a passage in 
 the book before him, " see what a preacher of the 
 word has said !"" — and Aubrey recited one of the 
 most dangerous maxims in priestcraft, as reverently 
 as if he were quoting from the Scripture itself. 
 " ' The nakedness of truth should never be too 
 openly exposed to the eyes of the vulgar. It was 
 wisely feigned by the ancients, that Truth did lie 
 concealed in a well !' " 
 
 " Yes,'"* said I, with enthusiasm, "but that well 
 is like the holy stream at Dodona, which has the 
 gift of enlightening those who seek it, and the 
 jx)wer of illumining every torch Avhich touches the 
 surface of its water !" 
 
 Whatever answer Aubrey might have made, was 
 interrupted by my uncle, who appeared approach- 
 ing towards us with unusual satisfaction depicted 
 on his comely countenance. 
 
 " Well, boys, well," said he, when he came 
 within hearing — " a holyday for you ! Od\sfish, —
 
 140 DEVEREUX. 
 
 and a holier day than my old house has known 
 since its former proprietor, Sir Hugo, of valorous 
 memory, demolished the nunnery, of wliich some 
 remains yet stand on yonder eminence. Morton, 
 my man of might — the thing is done — the court is 
 purified — the wicked one is departed. Look here, 
 and be as happy as I am at our release ;" and he 
 threw me a note in MontreuiFs writing — 
 
 To Sir William Devereuw, Kt. 
 
 " My Honoured Friend, 
 
 " In consequence of a dispute between your 
 eldest nephew, Count Morton Devereux, and my- 
 self, in which he desired me to remember, not 
 only that our former relationship of tutor and pu- 
 pil was at an end, but that friendship for his per- 
 son was incompatible with the respect due to his 
 superior station, I can neither so far degrade the 
 dignity of letters, nor, above all, so meanly debase 
 the sanctity of my divine profession, as any longer 
 to remain beneath your hospitable roof, — a guest 
 not only unwelcome to, but insulted by, your rela- 
 tion and apparent heir. Suffer me to offer you my 
 gratitude for the favours you have hitherto bestow- 
 ed on me, and to bid you farewell for ever. 
 
 " I have the honour to be, 
 
 " With the most profound respect, &c. 
 
 " Julian Montreuil."
 
 DEVEEEUX. 141 
 
 " Well, Sir, what say you ?" cried my uncle, 
 stamping his cane firmly on the ground, when I 
 had finished reading the letter, and had transmitted 
 it to Aubrey. 
 
 *' That the good Abbe has displayed his usual 
 skill in composition. And my mother ? Is she 
 imbued with our opinion of his priestship .?"" 
 
 " Not exactly, I fear. However, Heaven 
 bless her, she is too soft to say ' nay.' But those 
 Jesuits are so smooth-tongued to women. 'Gad, 
 they tin-eaten damnation with such an irresistible 
 air, that they are as much William the Conqueror 
 as Edward the Confessor. Ha ! master Aubrey, 
 have you become amorous of the old jacobite, 
 that you sigh over liis crabbed writing, as if it 
 were a billet-doux f 
 
 " There seems a great deal of feeling in what he 
 says. Sir," said Aubrey, returning the letter to my 
 uncle. 
 
 " Feeling !" cried the knight ; " ay, the re- 
 verend gentry always have a marvellously tender 
 feeling for their own interest — eh, Morton.'^" 
 
 " Right, dear Sir," said I, wishing to change a 
 subject which I knew might hurt Aubrey ; " but 
 should we not join yon party of dames and 
 damsels ? I see they are about to make a water 
 excursion," 
 
 " 'Sdeath, Sir, with all my heart," cried the
 
 142 DEVEREDX. 
 
 good-natured knight : "I love to see the dear 
 creatures amuse themselves ; for, to tell you the 
 truth, Morton,"" said he, sinking his voice into a 
 knowing whisper, " the best thing to keep them 
 from playing the devil is to encourage them in 
 playing the fool !" and, laughing heartily at the 
 jest he had purloined from one of his favourite 
 writers, Sir William led the way to the water- 
 party.
 
 DEVEEEUX. 143 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Being a Chapter of Trifles. 
 
 The Abbe disappeared ! It is astonishing how 
 well every body bore his departure. INIy mother 
 scarcely spoke on the subject ; but, along the irre- 
 fragable smoothness of her temperament, all things 
 glided without resistance to their course, or trace 
 where thev had been. Gerald, who, occupied 
 solely in rural sports or rustic loves, seldom 
 mingled in the festivities of the house, was equally 
 silent on the subject. Aubrey looked grieved for 
 a day or two ; but his countenance soon settled 
 into its customary and grave softness ; and, in 
 less than a week, so little was the Abbe spoken of 
 or missed, that you would scarcely have imagined 
 Julian Montreuil had ever passed the threshold of 
 our gate. The forgctfulness of one buried is 
 nothing to the forgctfulness of one disgraced.
 
 144 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 Meamvliile, I pressed for my departure ; and, 
 at length, the day was finally fixed. Ever since 
 that conversation with the Lady Hasselton, which 
 has been set before the reader, that lady had lin- 
 gered and lingered — though the house was grow- 
 ing empty, and London, in all seasons, was, accor- 
 aing to her, better than the country in any — until 
 the Count Devereux, with that amiable modesty 
 "vnicn. so especially characterized him, began to 
 suspect that the Lady Hasselton lingered upon his 
 account. This emboldened that bashful personage 
 to press in earnest for the fourth seat in the 
 beauty's carriage, which, we have seen in the con- 
 versation before-mentioned, had been previously 
 offered to him in jest. After a great affectation of 
 horror at the proposal, the Lady Hasselton yielded. 
 She had always, she said, been doatingly fond of 
 children, and it was certainly very shocking to 
 send such a chit as the little count to London by 
 himself. 
 
 My uncle was charmed with the arrangement. 
 The beauty was a peculiar favourite of his, and, 
 in fact, he was sometimes Dleased to hint that he 
 had private reasons ior ^ove towards her mother's 
 daughter. Of the truth of this insinuation I am, 
 however, more than somewhat suspicious, and 
 believe it was only a little mse of the good knight, 
 in order to excuse the vent of those kindly affec-
 
 DEVEREUX. 145 
 
 tions with which (while the heartless tone of the 
 company his youth had frequented, made him 
 ashamed to omi it) his breast overflowed. There 
 was in Lady Hasselton's familiarity — her ease of 
 mamier — a certain good nature mingled with her 
 affectation, and a gaiety of spirit, which never 
 flagged — something greatly calculated to win 
 favour with a man of my uncle's temper. 
 
 An old gentleman who filled in her family the 
 office of " the c/«ei'a/ier" in a French one; viz., 
 who told stories, not too long, and did not challenge 
 you for interrupting them — who had a good air, 
 and an unexceptionable pedigree — a turn for wit, 
 literature, note-writing, and the management of 
 lap-dogs — who could attend the dame de la mai- 
 son to auctions, plays, court, and the puppet- 
 show — who had a right to the best company, but 
 would, on a signal, give up his seat to any one 
 the pretty capricieuse whom he served might 
 select from the worst — in short, a very useful, 
 charming personage, " vastly"" liked by all, and 
 " prodigiously" respected by none ; — tliis gentle- 
 man, I say, by name Mr. Lovell, had attended 
 her ladyship in her excursion to Devereux Court. 
 Besides him there came also a widow lady, a dis- 
 tant relation, with one eye and a sliarp tongue — 
 the Lady Needleham, whom tlic beauty carried 
 about with her as a sort of goiivernante or duenna. 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 146 DEVEREUX. 
 
 These excellent persons made my compagnons de 
 voyage^ and filled the remaining complements of 
 the coach. To say truth, and to say nothing of my 
 tendresse for the Lady Hasselton, I was very 
 anxious to escape the ridicule of crawling up to 
 to^vn, like a green beetle, in my uncle"'s verdant 
 chariot, with the four Flanders'* mares trained not 
 to exceed two miles an hour. And my Lady Has- 
 selton^s private railleries — for she was really well 
 bred, and made no jest of my uncle''s antiquities 
 of taste, in his presence, at least— had considerably 
 heightened my intuitive dislike to that mode of 
 transporting myself to the metropolis. The day 
 before my departure, Gerald, for the first time, 
 spoke of it. 
 
 Glancing towards the mirror, which gave in full 
 contrast the magnificent beauty of his person, and 
 the smaller propoitions and plainer features of my 
 own, he said, with a sneer, " Your appearance 
 must create a wonderful sensation in town." 
 
 " No doubt of it," said I, taking his words 
 literally, and arraying my laced cravat with the 
 air of a j^et'it tnaitre. 
 
 " What a wit the count has !" whispered the 
 Duchess of Lackland — Avho had not yet given up 
 all hope of the elder brother. 
 
 . " Wit," said the Lady Hasselton ; " poor child, 
 he is a perfect simpleton !"
 
 DEVEREUX. 147 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Tilt ^lother and Son — Virtue should be the sovereign of the 
 Feelings, not their Destroyer. 
 
 I TOOK the first opportunity to escape from the 
 good company, who were so divided in opinion as to 
 my mental accomplishments, and repaired to my 
 mother ; for whom, despite of her evenness of dis- 
 }X)sition, verging towards insensibility, I felt a 
 jx)werful and ineffaceable affection. Indeed, if 
 purity of life, rectitude of intentions, and fervour 
 of piety, can win love, none ever deserved it more 
 than she. It was a pity that, with such admira- 
 ble qualities, she had not more diligently culti- 
 vated her affections. The seed was not wanting ; 
 but it had been neglected. Originally intended 
 for the veil, she had been taught, early in life, 
 that much feeling was synonymous with much sin ; 
 
 H 2
 
 148 DEVEREUX. 
 
 and she had so long and so carefully repressed in 
 her heart every attempt of the forbidden fruit to, 
 put forth a single blossom, that the soil seemed 
 at last to have become incapable of bearing it. 
 If, in one corner of this barren, but sacred spot, 
 some green and tender verdure of affection did 
 exist, it was, with a partial and petty reserve for 
 my twin-brother, kept exclusive and consecrated 
 to Aubrey. His congenial habits of pious silence 
 and rigid devotion — his softness of temper — his 
 utter freedom from all boyish excesses, joined to 
 his almost angelic beauty — a quality which, in no 
 female heart, is ever v/ithout its value —were exactly 
 calculated to attract her sympathy, and work 
 themselves into her love. Gerald was also regular 
 in his habits, attentive to devotion, and had, from 
 an early period, been high in the favour of her 
 spiritvial director. Gerald too, if he had not the 
 delicate and dreamlike beauty of Aubery, pos- 
 sessed attractions of more masculine and decided 
 order ; and for Gerald, therefore, the countess gave 
 the little of love that she could spare from Aubrey. 
 To me she manifested the most utter indifference. 
 My difficult and fastidious temper — my sarcastic 
 turn of mind — my violent and headstrong passions — 
 my daring, reckless, and, when roused, almost feroci- 
 ous nature (there is a vanity in telling as well as in
 
 DEVEREUX. l-i9 
 
 concealing faults) — all, especially revolted the 
 even, and polished, and quiescent character of my 
 maternal parent. The little extravagances of my 
 childhood seemed, to her pure and inexperienced 
 mind, the crimes of a heart naturally distorted 
 and evil ; my jetting vein, which, though it never, 
 even in the wantonness of youth, attacked the 
 substances of good, seldom respected its semblances 
 and its forms, she considered as the effusions of 
 malignancy ; and even the bursts of affection, 
 kindness, and benevolence, which were by no 
 means unfrequent in my wild and motley charac- 
 ter, were so foreign to her stillness of temperament, 
 that they only revolted her by their viole.ice, in- 
 stead of conciliating her by their nature. 
 
 Nor did she like me the better for the mutual 
 understanding between my uncle and myself. On 
 the contrary, shocked by the idle and gay turn 
 of the knight's conversation, the frivolities of his 
 mind, and his heretical disregard for the forms of 
 the religious sect which she so zealously espoused, 
 she was utterly insensible to the points which 
 redeemed and ennobled his sterling and generous 
 character — utterly obtuse to his warmth of heart — 
 his overflowing kindness of disposition — his cha- 
 rity — his high honour — his justice of principle, 
 that nothing save benevolence could warp- and 
 the slu'cwd penetrating sense, which, though often
 
 150 DEVEREUX. 
 
 clouded by foibles and humorous eccentricity, still 
 made the stratum of his intellectual composition. 
 Nevertheless, despite of her prepossessions against 
 us both, there was in her temper something so 
 gentle, meek, and unupbraiding, that even the 
 sense of injustice lost its sting, and one could not 
 help loving the softness of her character, while one 
 was most chilled by its frigidity. Anger, hope, 
 fear, the faintest breath or sign of passion, never 
 seemed to stir the breezeless languor of her feelings; 
 and quiet was so inseparable from her image, that 
 I have almost thought, like that people described 
 by Herodotus, her very sleep could never be 
 disturbed by dreams. 
 
 Yes ! how fondly, how tenderly I loved her ! 
 What tears — secret, but deep — ^bitter, but imre- 
 proaching— have I retired to shed, when I caught 
 her cold and un affectionate glance. How (unnoticed 
 and uncared for) have I watched, and prayed, and 
 wept, without her door, when a transitory sickness 
 or suffering detained her within ; and how, when 
 stretched myself upon the feverish bed, to which 
 my early weakness of frame often condemned me, 
 how eagerly have I counted the moments to her 
 punctilious and brief visit, and started as I caught 
 her footstep, and felt my heart leap v>athin me as 
 she approached ; and then, as I heard her cold 
 tone, and looked upon her unmoved face, how
 
 DEVEREUX. 151 
 
 bitterly have I turned away with all thnt repressed 
 and crushed affection which was construed into 
 sullenness or disrespect. O mighty and enduring 
 force of early associations, Avhich almost seems, in its 
 unconquerable strength, to partake of an innate pre- 
 possession, that binds the son to the mother, who 
 concealed liim in her womb, and purchased life for 
 him with the travail of death ! — fountain of filial 
 love, which coldness cannot freeze, nor injustice 
 embitter, nor pride divert into fresh channels, 
 nor time, and the hot suns of our toiling manhood, 
 exhaust — even at this moment, how livingly do 
 you gush upon my heart, and water with your 
 divine waves the memories that yet flourish 
 amidst the sterility of years ! 
 
 I approached the apartments appropriated to 
 my mother — I knocked at her door ; one of her 
 women admitted me. The Countess was sitting 
 on a high-backed chair, curiously adorned Avith 
 tapestry. Her feet, which were remarkable for 
 their beauty, were upon a velvet cushion ; three 
 handmaids stood round her, and she herself was bu- 
 sily employed in a piece of delicate embroideVy, 
 an art in which she eminently excelled. 
 
 " The Count — Madam !" said the woman, who 
 had admitted me, placing a chair beside my mo- 
 ther, and then retiring to join her sister maidens. 
 Good day to you, mv son," said the Countess, 
 
 a
 
 152 DEVEREUX. 
 
 lifting her eyes for a moment, and then dropping 
 them again upon her work. 
 
 " I have come to seek you, dearest mother, as 
 I know not if, among the crowd of guests and 
 amusements which surround us, I shall enjoy 
 another opportunity of having a private conver- 
 sation >vith you— will it please you to dismiss 
 your women ?" 
 
 My mother again lifted up her eyes — " And 
 why, my son ? — surely there can he nothing be- 
 tween us which requires their absence; what is 
 your reason ?*" 
 
 " I leave you to-morrow, madam ; is it strange 
 that a son should wish to see his mother alone 
 before his departure ?" 
 
 " By no means, Morton ; but your absence will 
 not be very long, will it ? - dear, how unfortunate 
 — I have dropt a stitch." 
 
 " Forgive my importunity, dear mother— but 
 will you dismiss your attendants ?" 
 
 " If you wish it, certainly ; but I dislike feeling- 
 alone, especially in these large rooms ; nor do I 
 think our being unattended quite consistent with 
 our rank ; however, I never contradict you, my 
 son," and the countess directed her women to 
 Avait in the anti-room. 
 
 " Well, Morton, what is your wish .'"' 
 Only to bid you farewell, and to ask if Lon- 
 
 ii
 
 DEVEEEUX. 153 
 
 don contains nothing which you will commission 
 me to obtain for you !*" 
 
 The countess again raised her eyes from her 
 work. — " I am greatly obliged to you, my dear 
 son, this is a very delicate attention on your 
 part. I am informed that stomachers are worn 
 a thought less pointed than they were. I care 
 not, you well know, for such vanities ; but respect 
 to the memory of your illustrious father, renders 
 me desirous to wear a seemly appearance to the 
 world, and my women shall give you written 
 instructions thereon to Madame Tourville — she 
 lives in St. Jaraes's-street, and is the only person 
 to be employed in these matters. She is a woman 
 who has known misfortune, and appreciates the 
 sorrowful and subdued tastes of those whom an 
 exalted station has not preserved from like afflic- 
 tions. — So, you go to-morrow — will you get me 
 the scissors, they are on the ivory table, yonder. — 
 When do you return ? 
 
 Perhaps never !" said I, abruptly. 
 " Never, INIorton ; how singular — why .'*" 
 I may join the army — and be killed." 
 I hope not. — Dear, how cold it is — will you 
 shut the window ? — pray forgive my troubling you, 
 but you would send away the women. — Join the 
 army, you say ? — it is a very dangerous profession ! 
 — your poor father miglit be alive now but for 
 
 II 3 
 
 (( 

 
 154 DEVEREUX. 
 
 having embraced it ; nevertheless, in a righteous 
 cause, under the Lord of Hosts, there is great 
 o-lory to be obtained beneath its banners. Alas, 
 liowever, for its private evils ! — alas, for the or- 
 phan and the widow ! — You will be sure, my dear 
 son, to give the note to Madame Tourville herself; 
 her assistants have not her knowledge of my mis- 
 fortunes, nor indeed of my exact proportions ; 
 and at my age, and in my desolate state, I Avould 
 fain be decorous in these things — and that reminds 
 me of dinner. Have you aught else to say, 
 Morton?" 
 
 " Yes !" said I, suppressing my emotions — 
 " yes, mother ! do bestow on me one warm wish, 
 one kind word, before we part — see — I kneel for 
 your blessing — will you not give it me ?" 
 
 " Bless you my cliild — bless you ! — look you 
 now — I have dropt my needle."" 
 
 I rose hastily — bowed profoundly — (my mother 
 returned 'the courtesy with the grace peculiar to 
 herself) — and withdrew. I hurried into the great 
 drawing room — found Lady Needleham alone — 
 rushed out in despair — encountered the Lady 
 Hasselton, and coquetted with her the rest of the 
 evening. Vain hope ! to forget one''s real feelings 
 by pretending those one never felt. 
 
 The next morning, then, after suitable adieux to 
 all (Gerald excepted) whom I left behind— after
 
 DEVEREUX. 
 
 155 
 
 some tears too from my uncle, which, had it not 
 been for the presence of the Lady Hasselton, I 
 could have returned with interest — and after a 
 long caress to his dog Ponto, which now, in part- 
 ing with that dear old man, seemed to me as dog 
 never seemed before, I hurried into the Beauty's 
 carriage, bade farewell for ever to the Rubicon 
 of life, and commenced my career of manhood 
 and citizenship by learning, under the tuition of 
 the prettiest coquette of her time, the dignified 
 duties of a Court Gallant, and a Town Beau.
 
 BOOK 11. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The Hero in London — Pleasure is oftei-i the shortest, as it is the 
 earliest road to Wisdom, and we may say of the World what 
 Zeal-of-the-Land-Busy says of the Pig Booth, " We scape so 
 much of the otlier vanities by our early entermg." 
 
 It had, when I first went to town, just become 
 the fashion for young men of fortune to keep house, 
 and to give their bachelor establishments the im- 
 portance hitherto reserved for the household of a 
 Benedict. 
 
 Let the reader figure to himself a suite of apart- 
 ments, magnificently furnished, in the vicinity of 
 the court. An anti-room is crowded with divers 
 persons, all messengers in the various negociations 
 of pleasure There a French valet — that inesti-
 
 138 DEVEREUX. 
 
 mable valet Jean Desmarais — sitting over a small 
 fire, was watching the operations of a cofFee-pot, 
 and conversing, in a mutilated attempt at the 
 language of our nation, though with the enviable 
 fluency of his own, with the various loiterers who 
 were beguiling the hours they were obliged to 
 wait for an audience with the master himself, by 
 laughing with true English courtesy at the mas- 
 ter's Gallic representative. There stood a tailor 
 with his books of patterns just imported from Paris 
 — that modern Prometheus, who makes man what 
 he is ! Next to him a tall gaunt fellow, in a coat 
 covered with tarnished lace, a nightcap wig, and a 
 large whip in his hand, came to vouch for the 
 pedigree and excellence of the three horses he in- 
 tends to dispose of, out of pure love and amity for 
 the buyer. By the window stood a thin starveling 
 poet, who, like the grammarian of Cos, might 
 have put lead in his pockets to prevent being 
 blown away, had he not, with a more paternal 
 precaution, put so much in his Avorks that lie had 
 left none to spare. Excellent trick of the times, 
 when ten guineas can purchase every virtue under 
 the sun, and when an author thinks to vindicate 
 the sins of liis book, by proving the admirable 
 qualities of the paragon to whom it is dedicated. * 
 
 * Thank Heaven, for the honour of literature, tout cela est 
 chang^, — Ed.
 
 DEVEREUX. 159 
 
 There, with an au' of supercilious contempt upon 
 his smooth cheeks, a page, in purple and silver, sat 
 upon the table swinging his legs to and fro, and 
 big with all the reflected importance of a billet 
 doux. There stood the pert haberdasher, with his 
 box of silver-fringed gloves, and lace which Diana 
 might have worn. At that time there was indeed 
 no enemy to female chastity like the former article 
 of man-millinery — the delicate whiteness of the 
 glove, the starry splendour of the fringe, were 
 irresistible, and the fair Adorna in poor Lee'*s tra- 
 gedy of Caesar Borgia, is far from the only lady 
 who has been killed by a pair of gloves. 
 
 Next to the haberdasher, dingy and dull of 
 aspect, a book-hunter bent beneath the load of old 
 works, gathered from stall and shed, and about 
 to be resold according to the price exacted from 
 all literary gallants, who affect to unite the fine 
 gentleman with the profound scholar. A little 
 girl, whose brazen face and voluble tongue be- 
 trayed the growth of her intellectual faculties, 
 leant against the wainscoat, and repeated, in the 
 anti-room, the tart repartees which her mistress 
 (the most celebrated actress of the day) uttered on 
 the stage ; while a stout, sturdy, bull-headed 
 gentleman, in a gray surtout and a black wig, 
 mingled with the vai'ious voices of the motley 
 group, the gentle phrases of Hockley in the
 
 160 DEVEREUX. 
 
 Hole, from which place of polite merriment he 
 came charged with a message of invitation. While 
 such were the inmates of the anti-room, what pic- 
 ture shall we draw of the salon and its occupant ? 
 
 A table was covered with books, a couple of 
 fencing foils, a woman's mask, and a profusion of 
 letters ; a scarlet cloak, richly laced, hung over, 
 trailing on the ground. Upon a slab of marble 
 lay a hat, looped with the costliest diamonds, a 
 sword, and a lady's lute. Extended upon a sofa, 
 loosely robed in a dressing go\vn of black velvet, 
 his shirt collar unbuttoned, his stockings ungar- 
 tered, his own hair (undressed and released for a 
 brief interval from the false locks universally 
 worn) waving from his forehead in short yet 
 dishevelled curls, his whole appearance stamped 
 with the morning negligence which usually follows 
 midnight dissipation, lay a young man of about 
 nineteen years. His features were neither hand- 
 some nor unfavourable ; and his stature was small, 
 slight, and somewhat insignificant, but not, per- 
 haps, ill formed either for active enterprise or for 
 muscular effort. Such, reader, is the picture of 
 the young prodigal who occupied the apartments 
 I have described, and such (though somewhat 
 flattered by partiality) is a portrait of INIorton 
 Devereux, six months after his arrival in town. 
 
 The door was suddenly throAvn open with that
 
 DEVEKEUX. 161 
 
 unhesitating rudeness by which our friends think 
 it necessary to signify the extent of their fami- 
 h'arity ; and a young man of about eight and 
 twenty, richly dressed, and of a countenance in 
 which a dissipated nonchalance and an aristocratic 
 hauteur seemed to struggle for mastery, abruptly 
 entered. 
 
 " What ! ho, my noble royster," cried he, fling- 
 ing himself upon a chair — " still suffering from St. 
 John's Burgundy ? Fie, fie, upon your appren- 
 ticeship ! — wliy, before I had served half your 
 time, I could take my three bottles as easily as the 
 sea took the good ship ' Revolution,' — swallow 
 til em down with a gulp, and never shew the least 
 sign of them the next morning." 
 
 " I readily believe you, most magnanimous 
 Tarleton. Providence gives to each of its crea- 
 tures different favours — to one wit — to the other 
 a capacity for drinking. A thousand pities that 
 they are never united !" 
 
 " So bitter, count ! — ah, what will ever cure you 
 of sarcasm .''" 
 
 " A wise man by conversion, or fools by satiety." 
 
 " Well, I dare say that is witty enough, but 
 I never admire fine things of a morning. I like 
 letting my faculties live till night in a de- 
 shal)ille— let us talk easily and sillily of the 
 affairs of the day. Imprimis , will you stroll to
 
 162 DEVEREUX. 
 
 tlie New Exchange ? — there is a black eye there, 
 that measures out ribbons, and my green ones loog 
 to flirt with it." 
 
 " With all my heart — and in return you shall 
 accompany me to Master Powell's puppet-show."" 
 
 " You speak as wisely as Solomon himself in 
 the puppet-show. I own that I love that sight ; 
 'tis a pleasure to the littleness of human nature 
 to see great things abased by mimicry — kings 
 moved by bobbins, and the pomps of the earth per- 
 sonated by Punch." 
 
 " But how do you like sharing the mirth of the 
 groundlings, the filthy plebeians, and letting them 
 see how petty are those distinctions which you 
 value so highly, by shewing them how heartily you 
 can laugh at such distinctions yourself. Allow, 
 my superb Coriolanus, that one purchases pride 
 by the loss of consistency." 
 
 " Ah, Devereux, you poison my enjoyment by 
 the mere word plebeian ! Oh, what a beastly thing 
 is a common person ! — a shape of the trodden clay 
 without any alloy — a compound of dirt}^ clothes — 
 bacon breaths, villainous smells, beggarly coward- 
 ice, and cattish ferocity. — Pah, Devereux ! rvib 
 civet on the very thought !" 
 
 " Yet they will laugh to-day at the same 
 things you Avill, and consequently there will be a 
 most flattering congeniality between you. Emotion,
 
 DEVEREUX. 163 
 
 whether of ridicule, anger, or sorrbw — whether 
 raised at a puppet-show, a funeral, or a battle — is 
 your grandest of levellers. The man wlio would 
 be always superior, should be always apathetic."" 
 
 " Oracular, as usual, Count, — but, hark ! — the 
 clock gives tongvie. One, by the Lord ! — will you 
 not dress ?''"' 
 
 And I rose and dressed. We passed through 
 the anti-room, my attendant adjutores in the art 
 of wasting money, drew u]3 in a roAV. 
 
 *' Pardon me, gentlemen," said I, (' Gentlemen, 
 indeed !"* cried Tarleton,) " for keeping you so 
 long. Mr. Snivelsnip, your waistcoats are exqui- 
 site — favour me by conversing with my valet on 
 the width of the lace for my liveries — he has my 
 instructions. Mr. Jockelton, your horses shall be 
 tried to-morrow at one. Ah, Mr. Rymer, I beg 
 you a thousand pardons — I beseech you to forgive 
 the ignorance of my rascals in suffering a gentle- 
 man of your merit to remain for a moment un- 
 attended to. 1 have read your ode — it is splendid 
 — the ease of Horace, with the fire of Pindar — 
 your Pegasus never touches the earth, and yet in 
 his wildest excesses you curb him with equal grace 
 and facility ^ — I object, Sir, only to your dedication 
 — it is too flattering." 
 
 " By no means, my Lord Count, it fits you to 
 a hair."
 
 164> DEVEREUX. 
 
 " Pardon me," interrupted I, " and allow me to. 
 transfer the honour to Lord Halifax — he loves men 
 of merit — he loves also their dedications. I will 
 mention it to him to-morrow — everything you say 
 of me will suit him exactly. You will oblige me 
 with a copy of your poem directly it is printed, and 
 suffer me to pay your bookseller for it now, and 
 through your friendly mediation, adieu !*" 
 
 " Oh, count, this is too generous." 
 
 " A letter for me, my pretty page. All ! tell 
 her ladyship I shall wait upon her commands at 
 PowelFs — time will move with a tortoise speed till 
 I kiss her hands. Mr. Fribbleden, your gloves 
 would fit the giants at Guildhall —my valet will 
 fui'uish you with my exact size — you will see to 
 the legitimate breadth of the fringe. My little 
 beauty, you are from INIrs. Bracegirdle — the play 
 shall succeed — I have taken seven boxes — Mr. St. 
 John promises his influence. Say, therefore, my 
 Hebe, that the thing is certain, and let me kiss 
 thee, ma mignonne — thou hast dew on thy lip 
 already. Mr. Thvunpem, you are a fine fellow, 
 and deserve to be encouraged ; I will see that the 
 next time your head is broken it shall be broken 
 fairly ; — but I will not patronize the bear — con- 
 sider that peremptory. What, Mr. Bookworm, 
 again ! I hope you have succeeded better this 
 time — the old songs had an autumn fit upon them,
 
 DEVEREUX. 165 
 
 and had lost the best part of their' leaves — and 
 Plato had mortgaged one half his republic, to 
 pay, I suppose, the exorbitant sum you thouglit 
 })roper to set upon the other. As for Diogenes 
 Laertius, and his philosophers — "" 
 
 " Pish !" interrupted Tarleton ; — " are you 
 going, by your theoretical treatises on philosophy, 
 to make me learn the practical part of it, and 
 j)rate upon learning while I am supporting myself 
 with patience ?" 
 
 " Pardon me ! Mr. Bookworm — you will deposit 
 your load, and visit me to-morrow at an earlier 
 hour. — And now, Tarleton, I am at vour service.'"'
 
 166 DEVEREUX. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Gay Scenes and Conversations : — the New Exchange and the 
 Puppet Show : — The Actor, the Sexton, and the Beauty. 
 
 " Well, Tarleton," said I, looking rovmd that 
 mart of millinery and love-making, which, so cele- 
 brated in the reign of Charles II., still preserved 
 the shadow of its old renown in that of Anne — 
 " well, here we are upon the classical ground so 
 often commemorated in the comedies Avhich our 
 chaste grandmothers thronged to see. Here we 
 can make appointments, while we profess to buy 
 gloves, and should our mistress tarry too long, 
 beguile our impatience by a flirtation with her 
 milliner. Is there not a breathing air of gaiety 
 about the place .'' — does it not still smack of the 
 Ethereges and Sedleys .^" 
 
 " Right,"" said Tarleton, leaning over a counter, 
 and amorously eyeing the pretty coquet to whom
 
 DEVEREUX. 167 
 
 it belonged — while, with the coxcombry then in 
 fashion, he sprinkled the long curls that touched 
 his shoulders with a fragrant shower from a bottle 
 of jessamine water upon the counter — " right ; 
 saw you ever such an eye ? Have you snuff of 
 the true scent, my beauty — foh ! — this is for the 
 nostril of a Welch parson — choleric and hot, my 
 beauty — pulverized horse-radish — why, it would 
 make a nose of the coldest constitution imaginable 
 sneeze like a washed schoolboy on a Saturday 
 night. — Ah, this is better, my princess — there is 
 some courtesy in this snuff — ^it flatters the brain, 
 like a poet's dedication. Right, Devereux, right, 
 there is something infectious in the atmosphere ; 
 one catches good liumour, as easily as if it were 
 cold. Shall we stroll on ? — my Clelia is on the other 
 side of the Exchange. — You were speaking of the 
 playwriters — what a pity that our Ethereges and 
 Wycherleys should be so frank in their gal- 
 lantry, that the prudish public already begins to 
 look shy on them. — They have a world of wit !" 
 
 " Ay," said I ; " and, as my good uncle would 
 say, a world of knowledge of human nature, viz. 
 of the worst part of it. But they are worse than 
 merely licentious — they are positively villainous — 
 pregnant with the most redemptionless scoitndrel- 
 ism, — cheating, lying, thieving, and fraud ; their 
 humour debauches the whole moral system— they
 
 168 
 
 DEVEREUX. 
 
 are like the Sardinian herb — they make you 
 laugh, it is true — but they poison you in the act. 
 But who comes here V 
 
 " Oh, honest Coll !— Ah, Gibber, how goes it 
 with you ?"" 
 
 The person thus addressed was a man of about 
 tlie middle age — very grotesquely attired — and 
 with a perriwig preposterously long. His counte- 
 nance (which, in its features, was rather comely) 
 was stamped with an odd mixture of liveliness, 
 impudence, and a coarse, yet not unjoyous spirit 
 of reckless debauchery. He approached us with 
 a saunter, and saluted Tarleton with an air servile 
 enough, in spite of an affected familiarity. 
 
 " What think you," resumed my comjDanion, 
 " we were conversing upon ?'''' 
 
 " Why, indeed, Mr. Tarleton,'' answered Gib- 
 ber, bowing very low, " unless it were the exqui- 
 site fashion of your waistcoat, or your success with 
 my Lady Duchess, I know not what to guess." 
 
 '' Pooh, man/' said Tarleton, haughtily, " none 
 of your compliments ;" and then added, in a milder 
 tone, " No, Golley, we were abusing the immorali- 
 ties that existed on the stage, until thou, by the 
 light of thy virtuous example, didst undertake to 
 reform it." 
 
 " Why," rejoined Gibber, with an air of mock 
 sanctity, " Heaven be praised, I have pulled
 
 DEVEUEUX. 1G9 
 
 out some of the weeds from our theatrical par- 
 terre "" 
 
 " Hear you tliat, count ? Does he not look a 
 pretty fellow for a censor ?" 
 
 " Surely," said Cibber, " ever since Dickey 
 Steele has set up for a saint, and assumed the 
 methodistical twang, some hopes of conversion 
 may be left even for such reprobates as myself. 
 Where, may I ask, will Mr. Tarleton drink to- 
 night ?" 
 
 " Not with thee, Coll. The Saturnalia don't 
 happen every day. Rid us now of thy company ; 
 but stop, I will do thee a pleasure — know you 
 this gentleman ?" 
 
 " I have not that extreme honour.'"' 
 
 " Know a count then. Count Devereux, de- 
 mean yourself by sometimes acknowledging Colley 
 Cibber, a rare fellow at a song, a bottle, and a 
 message to an actress ; a lively rascal enough, but 
 without the goodness to be loved, or the indepen- 
 dence to be respected." 
 
 " Mr. Cibber," said I, rather hurt at Tarle- 
 ton's speech, though the object of it seemed to 
 hear this description with the most unruffled com- 
 jKJsure — " Mr. Cibber, I am happy, and proud 
 of an introduction to the author of the ' Careless 
 
 VOL. I. 1
 
 170 DEVEREUX. 
 
 Husband/ Here is my address; oblige me with a 
 visit at your leisure." 
 
 " How could you be so galling to the poor 
 devil ?" said I, when Cibber, with a profusion of 
 bows and compliments, had left us to ourselves. 
 
 " Ah, hang him — a low fellow, who pins all 
 his happiness to the skirts of the quality, is proud 
 of being despised, and that which would excru- 
 ciate the vanity of others, only flatters his. And 
 now for my Clelia ^" 
 
 After my companion had amused himself with 
 a brief flirtation, with a young lady who aff"ected 
 a most edifying demureness, we left the Exchange, 
 and repaired to the Puppet-show. 
 
 As we entered the piazza, in which, as I am 
 Avriting for the next century, it may be necessary 
 to say that Punch held his court, we saw a tall, 
 thin fellow, loitering under the columns, and ex- 
 hibiting a countenance of the most ludicrous dis- 
 content. There was an insolent arrogance about 
 Tarleton's good nature, which always led him to 
 consult the whim of the moment at the expense of 
 every other consideration, especiall}'^ if the whim 
 referred to a member of the canaille^ whom my 
 aristocratic friend esteemed as a base part of the 
 exclusive and despotic property of gentlemen. 
 
 " Egad, Devereux," said he, " do you see that
 
 DEVEKEUX. 171 
 
 fellow ? he has the audacity to affect spleen. Faith, 
 I thought melancholy was the distinguishing pa- 
 tent of nobility — we will smoke him." And 
 advancing towards the man of gloom, Tarleton 
 touched him with the end of his cane. The man 
 started and turned round. " Pray, sirrali," said 
 Tarleton coldly, " pray who the devil are you, 
 that you presume to look discontented .?" 
 
 *< Why, Sir," said the man, good humoredly 
 enough, " I have some right to be angry." 
 
 " I doubt it, my friend," said Tarleton. " What 
 is your complaint ? a rise in the price of tripe, or 
 a drinking wife ? those, I take it, are the sole 
 misfortunes incidental to your condition." 
 
 " If that be the case," said I, observing a cloud 
 on our new friend's brow, " shall we heal thy 
 sufferings ? Tell us thy complaints, and we will 
 prescribe thee a silver specific ; there is a sample 
 of our skill." 
 
 "Thank you, humbly, gentlemen," said the man, 
 pocketing the money and clearing his counte- 
 nance ; " and, seriously, mine is an uncommonly 
 hard case. I was, till within the last few weeks, 
 the under sexton of St. PauPs, Covent Garden, 
 and my duty was that of ringing the bells for 
 daily prayers : but a man of Belial came hither- 
 wards, set up a puppet-show, and timing the 
 
 I 2
 
 172 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 hours of his exhibition with a wicked sagacity, 
 made the bell I rang for church serve as a 
 summons to Punch, — so, gentlemen, that whenever 
 your humble servant began to pull for the Lord, his 
 per\'erted congregation began to flock to the devil ; 
 and instead of being an instrument for saving 
 souls, I was made the innocent means of detroy- 
 ing them. Oh, gentlemen, it was a shocking 
 thing, to tug away at the rope till the sweat ran 
 down one, for four shillings a week ; and to feel 
 all the time that one was thinning one''s own con- 
 gregation, and emptying one''s own pockets." 
 
 " It was indeed a lamentable dilemma ; and 
 what did you, Mr. Sexton ?"" 
 
 " Do, Sir, why, I could not stifle my con- 
 science, and I left my place. Ever since then. Sir, 
 I have stationed myself in the piazza, to warn my 
 poor, deluded fellow-creatures of their error, and to 
 assure them that when the bell of St. PauFs rings, 
 it rings for prayers, and not for puppet-shows— 
 and. Lord help us, there it goes at this very 
 moment ; and look, look, gentlemen, how the 
 wigs and hoods are crowding to the motion* in- 
 stead of the minister."" 
 
 Ha ! ha ! ha !" cried Tarleton, " Mr. 
 
 * An antiquated word in use for puppet-shows. 
 
 ((
 
 DEVEREUX. 173 
 
 Powell is not the first man who has Wrested thiners 
 holy to serve a carnal purpose, and made use of 
 church bells in order to ring in money to the wide 
 pouch of the church's enemies. Harkye, my friend, 
 cdlow my advice, and turn preacher yourself ; 
 mount a cart opposite to the motion, and Fll 
 wager a trifle that the crowd forsake the theatrical 
 mountebank in favour of the religious one ; for the 
 more sacred the thing played upon, the more cer- 
 tain is the game."" 
 
 " Body of me, gentlemen," cried the ex-sexton, 
 " ril follow your advice." 
 
 " Do so, man, and never presume to look dole- 
 ful again ; leave dulness to your superiors.'"'* 
 
 And with this advice, and an additional com- 
 pensation for his confidence, we left the innocent 
 assistant of Mr. Powell, and marched into the 
 puppet-show, by the sound of the very bells the 
 perversion of which the good sexton had so pathe- 
 tically lamented. 
 
 The first person I saw at the show, and indeetl 
 the express person I came to see, Avas the Lady 
 Hasselton. Tarleton and myself separated for the 
 present, and I repaired to the coquette : " Angels 
 of grace !"" said I, approaching; " and by-the-by, 
 
 • See Spectator, No. 14, for a letter from this unfortunate undcr- 
 sexton .
 
 174 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 before I proceed another word, observe, Lady 
 Hasselton, how appropriate the exclamation is to 
 you I Angels of grace ! why you have moved all 
 your patches !-^-one — two — three — six — eight — as 
 I am a gentleman, from the left side of your cheek 
 to the right ! What is the reason of so sudden an 
 emigration ?" 
 
 " I have changed my politics,* Count, that is all, 
 and have resolved to lose no time in proclaiming 
 the change. But is it true that you are going to be 
 married ?" 
 
 " Married ! Heaven forbid ! which of my ene- 
 mies spread so cruel a report ?" 
 
 " Oh, the report is universal !" and the Lady 
 Hasselton flirted her fan with a most flattering 
 violence. 
 
 " It is false, nevertheless ! I cannot aiFord to 
 buy a wife at present, for, thanks to jointures, and 
 pin-money , these things are all matter of commerce; 
 and (see how closely civilized life resembles the 
 savage !) the English, like the Tartar gen- 
 tleman, obtains his wife only by purchase ! But 
 who is the bride .P*" 
 
 " The Duke of Newcastle's rich daughter, 
 Lady Henrietta Pelham." 
 
 * Whig ladies patched on one side of the cheek, tories on the 
 other.
 
 DEVEREUX. 175 
 
 " What, Harley's object of ambition !* Faith, 
 Madam, the report is not so cruel as I thought 
 for !" 
 
 " Oh, you fop ! — but it is not true ?"'* 
 
 " By my honour, I fear not ; my rivals are too 
 numerous and too powei'ful. Look now, yonder ! 
 how they already flock around the illustrious 
 heiress, — note those smiles and simpers. Is it not 
 pretty to see those very fine gentlemen imitating 
 bumpkins at a fair, and grinning their best /or a 
 gold ring! But you need not fear me, Lady 
 Hasselton, my love cannot wander if it would. In 
 the quaint thought of Sidney,-|- love having once 
 flo^vTl to my heart, burnt its wings there, and can- 
 not fly away." 
 
 " La, you now !" said the beauty ; " I do not 
 comprehend you exactly — your master of the 
 graces does not teach you your compliments 
 properly."" 
 
 " Yes he does, but in your presence I forget 
 them ; and now," I added, lowering my voice into 
 the lowest of whispers, " now that you are assured 
 
 * Lord BoUngbroke tells us, that it was the main end of Harley's 
 administration to marry his son to this lady. Thus is the fate of 
 nations a bundle made up of a thousand little private schemes. 
 
 -|- In the Arcadia, that museum of oddities and beauties.
 
 176 DEVEKEUX. 
 
 of my fidelity, will you not learn at last to dis- 
 credit rumours and trust to me ?" 
 
 " I love you too well !"" answered the Lady 
 Hasselton in the same tone, and that answer gives 
 an admirable idea of the affection of every coquette ! 
 — love and confidence with them are qualities 
 that have a natural antipathy, and can never be 
 united. Our tcte-a-Ute was at an end, the 
 people round us became social, and conversation 
 general. 
 
 " Betterton acts to-morrow night," cried the 
 Lady Pratterly, " we must go !"" 
 
 " We must go !" cried the Lady Hasselton. 
 
 " We must go !" cried all. 
 
 And so passed the time till the puppet show 
 was over, and my attendance dispensed Avith. 
 
 It is a charming thing to be the lover of a lady 
 of the mode ! One so honoured does with his 
 hours as a miser with his guineas, viz. nothing but 
 count them.
 
 DEVKKEUS. 177 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Blore Lions ! 
 
 The next night, after the theatre, Tarleton and 
 I strolled into Wills's. Half a dozen wits were 
 assembled. Heavens ! how they talked ! actors, 
 actresses, poets, statesmen, philosophers, critics, 
 divines, were all pulled to pieces with the most 
 gratifying malice imaginable. We sat ourselves 
 do^vn, and while Tarleton amused himself with 
 a dish of coffee and the " Flying Post," I listened 
 very attentively to the conversation. Certainly if we 
 would take every opportunity of getting a grain 
 or two of knowledge, we should soon have a 
 chest-full ; — a man earned an excellent subsist- 
 ence by asking every one who came out of a 
 tobacconist's shop for a pinch of snuff, and re- 
 tailing the mixture as soon as he had filled his 
 box.* 
 
 * Tatler. 
 
 3 I
 
 178 DEVEREUX. 
 
 While I was listening to a tall lusty gentleman, 
 who was abusing Dogget the actor, a well-dressed 
 man entered, and immediately attracted the general 
 observation. He was of a very flat, ill-favoured 
 countenance, but of a quick eye, and a genteel 
 air ; there was, however, something constrained 
 and artificial in his address, and he appeared to 
 be endeavouring to clothe a natural good humour 
 with a certain primness which could never be 
 made to fit it. 
 
 " Ha, Steele !" cried a gentleman in an orange 
 coloured coat, who seemed, by a fashionable 
 swagger of importance, desirous of giving the 
 tone to the company — " Ha, Steele ! whence come 
 you ? from the chapel or the tavern ?'''' and the 
 speaker winked round the room as if he wished 
 us to participate in the pleasure of a good thing. 
 
 Mr. Steele drew up, seemingly a little affronted ; 
 but his good nature conquering the affectation of 
 personal sanctity, which, at the time I refer to, 
 that excellent writer was pleased to assume, he 
 contented himself with nodding to the speaker, and 
 saying : — 
 
 " All the world knows, Colonel Cleland, that 
 you are a wit, and therefore we take your fine 
 sayings, as we take change from an honest trades- 
 man, — rest perfectly satisfied with the coin we get, 
 without paying any attention to itP
 
 DEVEEEUX. 179 
 
 " Zounds, Cleland, you got the \<^orst of it 
 there,'' cried a gentleman in a flaxen wig. And 
 Steele slid into a seat near my own. 
 
 Tarleton, who was sufficiently well educated to 
 pretend to the character of a man of letters, here- 
 upon thought it necessary to lay aside the " Fly- 
 ing Post," and to introduce me to my literary 
 neighbour. 
 
 " Pray,"' said Colonel Cleland, taking snufF and 
 swinging himself to and fro with an air of fashion- 
 able grace, " has any one seen the new paper ?" 
 
 " What !" cried the gentleman in the flaxen 
 wig, " what ! the Tatler's successor — the ' Spec- 
 tator?"' 
 
 " The same," quoth the colonel. 
 
 " To be sure — who has not .''" returned he of 
 the flaxen ornament. " People say Congreve 
 writes it." 
 
 " They are very much mistaken, then," cried a 
 little square man with spectacles ; " to my certain 
 knowledge Swift is the author." 
 
 " Pooh I" said Cleland, imperiously — " pooh ! 
 it is neither one nor the other ; I, gentlemen, am 
 in the secret — but — you take me, eh .'' One must 
 not speak well of one's self — mum is the word." 
 
 " Then," asked Steele, quietly, " we are to 
 suppose that you. Colonel, are the writer ?"
 
 180 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 " I never said so, Dicky ; but the women will 
 have it that I am," and the colonel smoothed 
 down his cravat. 
 
 " Pray, Mr. Addison, what say you P" cried 
 the gentleman in the flaxen wig, " are you for 
 Congreve, Swift, or Colonel Cleland ?" This was 
 addressed to a gentleman of a grave, but rather 
 prepossessing mien ; who, with eyes fixed upon the 
 ground, was very quietly, and to all appearance, 
 very inattentively solacing himself with a pipe ; 
 mthout lifting his eyes, this personage, then emi- 
 nent, afterwards rendered immortal, replied, 
 
 " Colonel Cleland must produce other witnesses 
 to prove his claim to the authorship of the ' Spec- 
 tator ;' the women, we well know,j are prejudiced 
 in his favour,"" 
 
 " That's true enough, old friend," cried the 
 colonel, looking askant at his orange coloured 
 coat, " but faith, Addison, I wish you would set 
 up a paper of the same sort, d'ye see ; you're a 
 nice judge of merit, and your sketches of character 
 would do justice to j'^our friends." 
 
 " If ever I do. Colonel, I, or my coadjutors will 
 study at least to do justice to you."* 
 
 " Prithee, Steele," cried the stranger in sj5€c- 
 
 * This seems to corroborate the suspicion entertained of the iden- 
 tity of Colonel Cleland with the Will Honeycomb of the Spectator.
 
 DEVEREUX. 181 
 
 tacles, "prithee tell us thy thoughts' on the sub- 
 ject : dost thou know the author of this droll 
 periodical ?" 
 
 " I saw him this morning," replied Steele, care- 
 lessly. 
 
 " Aha ! and what said you to him ?" 
 
 " I asked him his name ?" 
 
 " And what did he answer ?" cried he of the 
 flaxen wig, Avhile all of us crowded round the 
 speaker, with the curiosity every one felt in the 
 authorship of a work then exciting the most uni- 
 versal and eager interest." 
 
 " He answered me solemnly," said Steele, " in 
 the following words, 
 
 " ' GrsGci carent ablativo — Itali dativo— Ego nominativo.' " 
 
 " Famous — capital !" cried the gentleman in 
 sj^ectacles ; and then, touching Colonel Cleland, 
 added, " what does it exactly mean ?" 
 
 "Ignoramus?" said Cleland, disdainfully, "every 
 school-hoy knows Virgil.'''' 
 
 " Devereux," said Tarleton, yawning, " what 
 a d — d delightful thing it is to hear so much wit 
 — pity that the atmosphere is so fine that no Ivmgs 
 unaccustomed to it can endure it long. Let us 
 recover ourselves by a walk."
 
 182 DEVEREUX. 
 
 " Willingly," said I ; and we sauntered forth 
 into the streets. 
 
 " Wills's is not what it was," said Tarleton ; 
 " 'Tis a pitifvil ghost of its former self, and if 
 they had not introduced cards, one would die of 
 the vapours there." 
 
 " I know nothing so fade,'''' said I, "as that 
 mock literary air which it is so much the fashion 
 to assume. 'Tis but a wearisome relief to con- 
 versation to have interludes of songs about Stre- 
 phon and Sylvia, recited with a lisp by a gentle- 
 man with fringed gloves and a langviishing look." 
 
 " Fie on it," cried Tarleton, " let us seek for 
 a fresher topic. Are you asked to Abigail Ma- 
 sham's to-night, or will you come to Dame de la 
 Riviere Manley's .?" 
 
 " Dame de la what ! — in the name of long words 
 who is she .^" 
 
 " O ! Learning made libidinous : one who reads 
 Catullus and profits by it." 
 
 " Bah, no, we will not leave the gentle Abi- 
 gail for her. I have promised to meet St. John, 
 too, at the Mashams." 
 
 " As you like. We shall get some wine at 
 Abigail's, which we should never do at the house 
 of her cousin of Marlborough." 
 
 And comforting himself with this belief, Tarle-
 
 DEVEREUX. 183 
 
 ton peaceably accompanied me to that celebrated 
 woman, who did the tories such notable service, at 
 the expence of being termed by the whigs, one 
 great want divided into two parts, viz. — a great 
 want of every shilling belonging to other people, 
 and a great want of every virtue that should have 
 belonged to herself. As we movmted the staircase, 
 a door to the left (a private apartment) was 
 opened, and I saw the favourite dismiss with the 
 most flattering air of respect, my old preceptor, the 
 Abbe Montreuil. He received her attentions as 
 his due, and descending the stairs came full upon 
 me. He drew back — changed neither hue nor 
 muscle — ^bowed civilly enough, and disajipeared. 
 I had not much opportunity to muse over this cir- 
 cumstance, for St. John and INIr. Domville— ex- 
 cellent companions both — joined us, and the party 
 being small, we had the unwonted felicity of talk- 
 ing, as well as bowing, to each other. It was im- 
 possible to think of any one else when St. John 
 chose to exert himself; and so even the Abbe 
 Montreuil glided out of my brain as St. John's 
 wit glided into it. We were all of the same way 
 of thinking on politics, and therefore were witty 
 without being quarrelsome — a rare thing. The 
 trusty Abigail told us stories of the good queen, 
 and we added hons mots by way of corollary.
 
 184 DEVEREUX. 
 
 Wine too — wine that even Tarleton approved, lit 
 up our intellects, and we spent altogether an even- 
 ing such as gentlemen and tories very seldom have 
 the sense to enjoy. 
 
 Dieu de Vesprit ! I wonder whether tories of 
 the next century will be such clever, charming, 
 well-informed fellows as we were.
 
 DEVEREUX. 185 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 An Intellectual Adventure. 
 
 A LITTLE affected by the vinous potations which 
 had been so much an object of anticipation with 
 my companion, Tarleton and I were strolling 
 homeward when we perceived a remarkably tall 
 man engaged in a contest with a couple of watch- 
 men. Watchmen were in all cases the especial 
 and natural enemies of the gallants in my young 
 days ; and no sooner did we see the unequal con- 
 test, than dramng our swords with that true Eng- 
 lish valour which makes all the quarrels of other 
 jXK)ple its own, we hastened to the relief of the 
 weaker party. 
 
 "Gentlemen," said the elder watchman, draw- 
 ing back, " this is no common brawl ; we have
 
 186 DEVEREUX. 
 
 been shamefully beaten by this here madman, and 
 for no earthly cause." 
 
 " Who ever did beat a watchman for any earthly 
 cause, you rascal ?" cried the accused party, swing- 
 ing his walking-cane over the complainant's head 
 with a menacing air. 
 
 " Very true," cried Tarleton, coolly. " Seig- 
 nors of the watch, you are both made and paid to 
 be beaten ; ergo — you have no right to complain. 
 Release this worthy cavalier, and depart elsewhere 
 to make night hideous with your voices." 
 
 " Come, come," quoth the younger Dogberry, 
 who perceived a reinforcement approaching, "move 
 on, good people, and let us do our duty." 
 
 " Which," interrupted the elder watchman, 
 " consists in taking tliis hulking swaggerer to the 
 watchhouse." 
 
 " Thou speakest wisely, man of peace," said 
 Tarleton ; " defend thyself ;" and without adding 
 another word, he ran the watchman through — not 
 the body, but the coat — avoiding with great dex- 
 terity the corporeal substance of the attacked 
 party, and yet approaching it so closely as to give 
 the guardian of the streets very reasonable ground 
 for apprehension. No sooner did the watchman 
 find the hilt strike against his breast, than he
 
 DEVEREUX. 187 
 
 uttered a dismal cry, and fell upon the pavement 
 as if he had been shot. 
 
 " Now for thee, varlet,"" cried Tarleton, bran- 
 dishing his rapier before the eyes of the other 
 ^vatchman, " tremble at the sword of Gideon." 
 
 " O Lord, O Lord !"" ejaculated the terrified 
 comrade of the fallen man, dropping on his knees, 
 " for Heaven's sake. Sir, have a care." 
 
 " What argument canst thou allege, thou 
 screech owl of the metropolis, that thou shouldst 
 not share the same fate as thy brother owl .p" 
 
 " Oh, Sir !" cried the craven night-bird, (a bit 
 of a humourist in its way,) "because I have a 
 nest and seven little owlits at home, and t'other 
 owl is only a bachelor." 
 
 " Thou art an impudent thing to jest at us," 
 said Tarleton ; " but thy wit has saved thee : 
 rise." 
 
 At this moment two other watchmen came up. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said the tall stranger whom we 
 had rescued, " we had better fly." 
 
 Tarleton cast at him a contemptuous look, and 
 placed himself in a posture of offence. 
 
 " Hark ye," said I, " let us effect an honour- 
 able peace. Messieurs the watch, be it lawful for 
 you to carry off the slain, and we to claim the 
 prisoners."
 
 J 88 DEVEllEUX. 
 
 But our new foes understood not a jest, and 
 advanced upon us with a ferocity which might 
 really have terminated in a serious engagement, 
 had not the tall stranger thrust his bulky form in 
 front of the approaching battalion, and cried out, 
 with a loud voice — " Zounds, my good fellows, 
 what''s all this for ? If you take us up, you will get 
 broken heads to-night, and a few shillings perhaps 
 to-morrow. If you leave us alone you will have 
 whole heads, and a guinea between you. Now, 
 what say you ?'"' 
 
 Well spoke Phaedra against the dangers 
 of eloquence (jtaXot Xiav Xoyoi,).^ The watch- 
 men looked at each other. " Why really. 
 Sir," said one, " what you say alters the case 
 very much ; and if Dick here is not much 
 hurt, I don't know what we may say to the 
 offer." 
 
 So saying, they raised the fallen watchman, 
 who, after three or four grunts, began slowly to 
 recover himself. 
 
 " Are you dead, Dick .''" said the owl Avith 
 seven owlits. 
 
 " I think I am," answered the other, groan- 
 ing. 
 
 " Are you able to drink a pot of ale, Dick .''" 
 cried the tall stranger. 
 
 * See the Hippolytus of Euripides.
 
 D E V E R E U X. 189 
 
 '• I think I am/' reiterated the dead man, very 
 lack-a-daisically. And this answer satisfying his 
 comrades, the articles of peace were subscribed to. 
 
 Now, then, the tall stranger began searching 
 his pockets with a most consequential air. 
 
 " "Gad, so !" said he at last ; " not in my 
 breeches pocket ! — well, it must be in my waist- 
 coat. No ! Well, 'tis astrange thing — demme 
 it is ! Gentlemen, I have had the misfortune to 
 leave my purse behind me — add to your other 
 favours by lending me wherewithal to satisfy these 
 honest men." 
 
 And Tarleton lent him the guinea. The watch- 
 men now retired, and we were left alone with our 
 portly ally. 
 
 Placing his hand to his heart, he made us half 
 a dozen profound bows, returned us thanks for 
 our assistance in some very courtly phrases, and 
 raquested us to allow him to make our acquaint- 
 ance. We exchanged cards, and departed on our 
 several ways. 
 
 " I have met that gentleman before,"" said 
 Tarleton. " Let us see what name he pretends 
 to. — ' Fielding — Fielding' — ah, by the Lord, it is 
 no less a person ! — it is tlie great Fielding him- 
 self!"
 
 190 DEVEREUX. 
 
 " Is Mr. Fielding, then, as elevated in fame 
 as in stature ?"' 
 
 " What, is it possible that you have not yet 
 heard of Beau Fielding, who bared his bosom at 
 the theatre in order to attract the admiring compas- 
 sion of the female part of the audience ?'"' 
 
 " What !" I cried, " the Duchess of Cleveland's 
 Fielding P"" 
 
 " The same — the best looking fellow of his 
 day ! A sketch of his history is in the ' Tatler," 
 under the name of ' Orlando the Fair.' He is 
 terribly fallen as to fortune since the day when he 
 drove about in a car like a sea-shell, with a dozen 
 tall fellows, in the Austrian livery, black and 
 yellow, running before and behind him. You 
 know he claims relationship to the house of Haps- 
 burg. As for the present, he writes poems — 
 makes love — is still good-natured, humorous, and 
 odd — is rather unhappily addicted to wine and 
 borroAving, and rigidly keeps that oath of the 
 Carthusians, which never suffers them to carry any 
 money about them." 
 
 " An acquaintance more likely to yield amuse- 
 ment than profit." 
 
 " Exactly so. He will favour you with a visit 
 — to-morrow, perhaps, and you will remember his 
 propensities.""
 
 UEVEREUX. 191 
 
 " Ah ! who ever forgets a warning that relates 
 to his purse !" 
 
 "True!'' said Tarleton, sighing. "Alas! my 
 guinea : thou and I have parted company for ever ! 
 vale, vale, inquit lolas .'"
 
 192 DEVEREUX. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The Beau in his Den, and a Philosopher discovered. 
 
 Mr. Fielding having twice favoured me with 
 visits, which found me from home, I thought it 
 right to pay my respects to him ; accordingly one 
 morning I repaired to his abode. It was situated 
 in a street which had been excessively the mode 
 some thirty years back ; and the house still exhi- 
 bited a stately and somewhat ostentatious exterior. 
 I observed a considerable cluster of infantine 
 raggamuffins collected round the door, and no 
 sooner did the portal open to my summons, than 
 they pressed forw^ard in a manner infinitely more 
 zealous than respectful. A servant in the Austrian 
 livery, with a broad belt round his middle, offi- 
 ciated as porter. " Look, look!" cried one of the 
 youthful gazers, " look at the beau's keeper C
 
 DEVEREUX. 
 
 193 
 
 This imputation on his owni respectability, and that 
 of his master, the domestic seemed by no means to 
 relish, for muttering some maledictory menace, 
 which I at first took to be German, but which I 
 afterwards found to be Irish, he banged the door 
 on the faces of the intrusive impertinents, and said, 
 in an accent which suited very ill with his con- 
 tinental attire, 
 
 " And is it my master you're wanting. Sir ?" 
 
 " It is." 
 
 " And you Avould be after seeing him irama- 
 
 diately?" 
 
 " Rightly conjectured, my sagacious friend." 
 
 " Fait then, your honour, my master's in bed 
 with a terrible fit of the influensha, and can't see 
 any one at all — at all !"" 
 
 " Then, you will favour me by giving this card 
 to your master, and expressing my sorrow at his 
 indisposition.*" 
 
 Upon this the orange-coloured lacquey, very 
 quietly reading the address on the card, and spelling 
 letter by letter in an audible mutter, rejoined— 
 
 a C— o— u (cou) n— t (unt) Count, D— e— v. 
 Och, by my shoul, and it's Count Devereux after 
 all ? I'm thinking ?" 
 
 " You think, Sir, with equal profundity and 
 
 truth." 
 
 VOL. I. ^
 
 194 DEVEREUX. 
 
 (( 
 
 You may well say that, your honour. Stip in 
 a bit— I'll till my master— it is himself that will 
 see you in a twinkling !" 
 
 " But you forget, Mr. Carroll, that your master 
 is ill r said I. 
 
 " Sorrow a bit for the matter o' that — my master 
 is never ill to a jaunttemanP 
 
 And with this assurance " the Beau's keeper," 
 ushered me up a splendid staircase into a large, 
 dreary, faded apartment, and left me to amuse 
 myself with the curiosities within, while he 
 went to perform a cure upon his master's "in- 
 fluensha." The chamber suiting witli the house 
 and the owner, looked like a place in the other 
 world, set apart for the reception of the ghosts of 
 departed furniture. The hangings were wan and 
 colourless, the chairs and sofas were most spiritually 
 unsubstantial,— the mirrors reflected all things in 
 a sepulchral sea-green; even a huge picture of 
 Mr. Fielding himself, placed over the chimney- 
 piece, seemed like the apparition of a portrait, so 
 dim, watery and indistinct had it been rendered by 
 neglect and damp. On a huge tomb-like table, in the 
 middle of the room, lay two pencilled profiles of Mr. 
 Fielding, a pawnbroker's ticket, a pair of ruffles, a 
 very little muff, an immense broadsword, a Wych- 
 ei'ly comb, a jackboot, and an- old plumed hat ; — to 
 these were added a cracked pomatum-pot, containing
 
 DEVEREUX. 195 
 
 ink, and a scrap of paper, ornamented with sundry- 
 paintings of hearts and torches, on which were 
 scrawled several lines in a hand so large and round, 
 
 '&" 
 
 that I could not avoid seeino; the first verse 
 
 o 
 
 '? 
 
 though I turned away my eyes as quickly as pos- 
 sible — that verse, to the best of my memory, ran 
 thus : " Say, lovely Lesbia, when thy swain." 
 Upon the ground lay a box of patches, a perri- 
 wig, and two or three well thumbed books of 
 songs. Such was the reception-room of Beau 
 Fieldins:, one indifferently well calculated to ex- 
 hibit the propensities of a man, half bully, half 
 fribble ; a poet, a fop, a fighter, a beauty, a walk- 
 ino- museum of all odd humours, and a living; 
 shadow of a past renoA\-n. " There are changes in 
 wit as in fashion," said Sir William Temple, and 
 he proceeds to instance a nobleman, who was the 
 greatest wit of the court of Charles I., and the 
 greatest dullard in that of Charles II.* But cAel, 
 how awful are the revolutions of coxcombry ! what 
 a change from Beau Fielding the Beauty, to Beau 
 Fielding the Oddity ! 
 
 After I had remained in this apartment about 
 ten minutes, the great man made his appearance. 
 He was attired in a dressing-gown of the most 
 
 • The Earl of Norwich. 
 K 2
 
 196 DEVEREUX. 
 
 cortreous material and colour, but so old that it 
 is difficult to conceive any period of past time 
 which it might not have been supposed to have wit- 
 nessed ; a little velvet cap, with a tarnished gold 
 tassel, surmounted his head, and his nether limbs 
 were slieathed in a pair of military boots. In per- 
 son, he still retained the trace of that extraordinary 
 symmetry he had once possessed, and his features 
 were yet handsome, though the complexion had 
 grown coarse and florid, and the expression had 
 settled into a broad, hardy, farcical mixture of 
 effrontery, humour and conceit. 
 
 But how different his costume from that of old ! 
 Where was the long wig with its myriad curls .'' 
 the coat stiff with golden lace ? the diamond but- 
 tons — " the pomp, pride, and circumstance of 
 glorious war ?" the glorious war Beau Fielding 
 had carried on throughout the female world — find- 
 ing in every saloon a Blenheim — in every play- 
 house a Ramilies ? Alas ! to what abyss of fate 
 will not the love of notoriety bring men ! To what 
 but the lust of shew do we owe the misanthropy 
 of Timon, or the ruin of Beau Fielding ! 
 
 *' By the Lord !"" cried Mr. Fielding, approach- 
 ng, and shaking me familiarly by the hand, " by 
 the Lord, I am delighted to see thee ! As I am a 
 soldier, I thought thou wert a spirit, invisible 
 and incorporeal — and as long as I was in that be-
 
 DEVEEEUX.- 197 
 
 lief I trembled for thy salvation, for I knew at 
 least that thou wert not a spirit of Heaven ; since 
 tliy door is the very reverse of the doors above, 
 which we are assured shall be opened unto our 
 knocking. But thou art early. Count : like the 
 ghost, in Hamlet, thou snuffest the morning air. — 
 Wilt thou not keep out the rank atmosphere by a 
 pint of wine and a toast .''"'"' 
 
 " Many thanks to you, Mr. Fielding ; but I 
 have at least one property of a ghost, and don't 
 drink after day-break." 
 
 " Nay, now, 'tis a bad rule ! a villainous bad 
 rule, fit only for ghosts and grey beards. "We 
 youngsters, Count, should have a more generous 
 policy. Come now, where did'st thou drink last 
 night ? has the bottle bequeathed thee a qualm 
 or a head-ache, which preaches repentance and 
 abstinence this morning .^"" 
 
 " No, but I visit my mistress this morning ; 
 would you have me smell of strong potations, and 
 seem a worshipper of the ' Glass of Fashion,' 
 rather than of ' the Mould of Form }'' Con- 
 fess, Mr. Fielding, that the women love not an 
 early tippler, and that they expect sober and 
 sweet kisses from a pair of ' yoimgsters,' like us." 
 
 " By the Lord," cried Mr. Fielding, stroking 
 down his comely stomach, " there is a great
 
 198 DEVEREUX. 
 
 show of reason in thy excuses, but only the show, 
 not substance, my noble Count. You know me, 
 » you know my experience with the women — I would 
 not boast, as I'm a soldier — but 'tis something ! 
 nine hundred and fifty locks of hair have I got 
 in my strong box, under padlock and key ; fifty 
 within the last week — true — on my soul — so that I 
 may pretend to know a little of the dear creatures ; 
 well, I give thee my honour. Count, that they like 
 a royster ; they love a fellow who can carry his 
 six bottles under a silken doublet ; there's vigour 
 and manhood in it — and then, too, what a power 
 of toasts can a six-bottle man drink to his mis- 
 tress! Oh, "'tis your only chivalry now — your 
 modern substitute for tilt and tournament ; true, 
 Count, as I'm a soldier V 
 
 " I fear my Dulcinea differs from the herd, 
 then ; for she quarrelled with me for supping Avith 
 St. John three nights ago, and — " 
 
 " St. John," interrupted Fielding, cutting me 
 off in the beginning of a witticism, " St. John, 
 famous fellow, is he not ? By the Lord, we will 
 drink to his administration, you in chocolate, I in 
 Madeira. O'Carroll, you dog — CCarroll — rogue 
 — rascal — ass — dolt !" 
 
 " The same, your honour," said the orange-co- 
 loured lackey, thrusting in his lean visage.
 
 DEVEREUX. 199 
 
 " Av, the same indeed — thou anatomized son 
 of St. Patrick ; why dost thou not get fat ? thou 
 shamest my good living, and thy belly is a ras- 
 cally minister to tliee, devouring all things for 
 itself, without fattening a single member of the 
 body corporate. Look at me, you dog, am / thin ? 
 Go and get fat, or I will discharge thee — by the 
 Lord, I will ! the sun sliines through thee like an 
 empty wine glass." 
 
 " And is it upon your honour's lavings you 
 would have me get fat .'*" rejoined Mr. O'Carroll, 
 with an air of deferential inquiry. 
 
 " Now, as I live, thou art the impudentest var- 
 let !" cried INIr. Fielding, stamping his foot on the 
 floor, ^\ith an angry frown. 
 
 " And is it for talking of your honour's lavings ? 
 an' sure that's nothing at all, at all," said the 
 valet, twirling his thumbs with expostulating 
 innocence. 
 
 " Begone, rascal !" said Mr. Fielding, " be- 
 gone ; go to the Salop, and bring us a pint of 
 Madeira, a toast, and a dish of chocolate." 
 
 " Yes, your honour, in a twinkling," said the 
 valet, disappearing. 
 
 " A sorry fellow," said Mr. Fielding, " but 
 honest and faithful, and loves me as well as a
 
 200 DEVEREUX. 
 
 saint loves gold; 'tis his love makes him fami- 
 liar." 
 
 Here the door was again opened, and the sharp 
 face of Mr. O'Carroll again intruded. 
 
 " How now, sirrah !" exclaimed his master. 
 
 Mr. CCarroll, without answering by voice, 
 gave a grotesque sort of signal between a wink 
 and a beckon. Mr. Fielding rose, muttering an 
 oath, and underwent a whisper. " By the Lord,'^ 
 cried he, seemingly in a furious passion, "and 
 thou hast not got the bill cashed yet, though I 
 told thee twice to have it done last evening ! Have 
 I not my debts of honour to discharge, and did 
 I not give the last guinea I had about me for 
 a walking cane yesterday ? Go down to the city 
 immediately, sirrah, and bring me the change." 
 
 The valet again whispered. 
 " Ah," resumed Fielding, " ah — so far you say, 
 'tis true ; 'tis a great way, and perhaps the Count 
 can't wait till you return. Prithee, (turning to 
 me) prithee now, is it not vexatious — no change 
 about me, and my fool not cashed a trifling bill 
 I have for a thousand or so, on Messrs. Child ? 
 and the cursed Salop puts not its trust even in 
 princes— 'tis their way— 'Gad now— you have not 
 a guinea about you .?"
 
 DEVEREUX. 201 
 
 What could I say ? my guinea joined Tarle- 
 ton's, in a visit to that bourne whence no such 
 traveller ever returned. 
 
 INlr. O'Carroll now vanished in earnest, the wine 
 and the chocolate soon appeared. Mr. Fielding 
 brightened up, recited his poetry, blest his good 
 fortune, promised to call on me in a day or 
 two ; and assured me with a round oath, that the 
 next time he had the honoiu* of seeing me, he 
 would treat me with another pint of Madeira, 
 exactly of the same sort. 
 
 I remember well, that it was the evening of 
 the same day in which I had paid this visit to the 
 redoubted Mr. Fielding, that, on returning from 
 a drum at Lady Hasselton''s, where I had been 
 enacting the part of a papillon, to the great dis- 
 pleasure of the old gentlemen, and the great edifi- 
 cation of the young ladies, I entered my anti- 
 room with so silent a step, that I did not arouse 
 even the keen senses of Monsieur Desmarais. He 
 was seated by the fire, with his head supported by 
 his hands, and intently pouring over a hvige folio- 
 I had often observed that he possessed a literary 
 turn, and all the hours in which he was unemploy- 
 ed by me, he was wont to occupy with books. I 
 felt now, as I stood still and contemplated his 
 absorbed attention in the contents of the book 
 
 K 3
 
 202 DEVEREUX. 
 
 before him, a strong curiosity to know the nature 
 of his studies ; and so little did my taste second 
 the routine of trifles in which I had been lately 
 engaged, that in looking upon the earnest features 
 of the man, on which the solitary light streamed 
 calm and full, and impressed with the deep quiet 
 and solitude of the chamber, together with the 
 undisturbed sanctity of comfort presiding over 
 the small, bright hearth, and contrasting what I 
 saw with the brilliant scene — ^brilliant with gaudy, 
 wearing, wearisome frivolities — which I had just 
 quitted, a sensation of envy, at the enjoyments of 
 my dependant, entered my breast, accompanied 
 with a sentiment resembling humiliation, at the 
 nature of my own pursuits. I am generally 
 thought a proud man, but I am never proud to 
 my inferiors ; nor can I imagine pride where there 
 is not competition. I approached Desmarais, and 
 said, in French, 
 
 " How is this ? why did you not, like your 
 fellows, take advantage of my absence, to pursue 
 your own amusements ? They must be dull, 
 indeed, if they do not hold out to you more tempt- 
 ing inducements than that colossal offspring of the 
 press." 
 
 " Pardon me. Sir," said Desmarais, very re- 
 spectfully, and closing the book, " pardon me, I
 
 BEVEREUX. 203 
 
 was not aAvare of your return. Will Monsieur 
 dofF his cloak ?" 
 
 " No; shut the door — wheel round that chair, 
 and favour me with a sight of your book." 
 
 " jNIonsieur will be angry, I fear," said the 
 valet, (obeying my two first orders, but hesitating 
 about the third), " with my course of reading: 
 I confess it is not very compatible with my 
 station." 
 
 "Ah, some long romance, the Clelia — I sup- 
 pose — nay, bring it hither — that is to say, if it be 
 moveable by single strength." 
 
 Thus urged, Desmarais modestly brought me 
 the book. Judge of my surprise, when I found it 
 was a volume of Leibnitz — a philosopher, then very 
 much the rage — ^because one might talk of him 
 very safely, without having read him.* Despite 
 of my surprise, I could not help smiling when my 
 eye turned from the book to the student. It is 
 impossible to conceive an appearance less like a 
 philosopher''s than that of Jean Desmarais. His 
 wig was of a nicety, that would not have brooked 
 the irregularity of a single hair ; his dress was not 
 preposterous, for I do not remember, among 
 gentles or valets, a more really exquisite taste than 
 
 * Which is possibly the reason why there are so many disciples of 
 Kant at tlie present moment. — Ed.
 
 204 DEVEREUX. 
 
 that of Desmarais ; but it evinced, in every par- 
 ticular, the arts of the toilet. A perpetual smile 
 sat upon his lips — sometimes it deepened into a 
 sneer — but that was the only change it ever expe- 
 rienced ; an irresistible air of self-conceit gave 
 piquancy to his long, marked features, small glit- 
 tering eye, and withered cheeks, on which a deli- 
 cate and soft bloom excited suspicion of artificial 
 embellishment. A very fit frame of body this for 
 a valet ; but, I humbly opine, a very unseemly 
 one for a student of Leibnitz. 
 
 " And what," said I, after a short pause, "is 
 your opinion of this philosopher ? I understand 
 that he has just written a work,* above all praise 
 and all comprehension." 
 
 " It is true. Monsieur, that it is above his own 
 understanding. He knows not what sly conclu- 
 sions may be drawn from his premises ; but I beg 
 Monsieur's pardon, I shall be tedious and in- 
 trusive." 
 
 " Not a whit; speak out, and at length. So 
 you conceive that Leibnitz makes ropes, which 
 others will make into ladders .?" 
 
 " Exactly so," said Desmarais; " all his argu- 
 ments go to swell the sails of the great philoso- 
 
 • The Theodicoea.
 
 DEVEREUX. 205 
 
 phical truth — ' Necessity V We are tlie things and 
 toys of Fate ; and its everlasting chain compels 
 even the power that creates, as Avell as the things 
 created." 
 
 " Ha !" said I, who, though little versed at that 
 time in these metaphysical subtleties, had heard 
 St. John often speak of the strange doctrine to 
 which Desmarais referred, " you are, then, a be- 
 liever in the fatalism of Spinosa ?^' 
 
 " No, Monsieur,"" said Desmarais, with a com- 
 placent smile, " my system is my own — it is com- 
 posed of the thoughts of others — but my thoughts 
 are the cords which bind the various sticks into a 
 faoi:o;()t." 
 
 " Well,"" said I, smiling at the man's conceited 
 air, "and what is your main dogma .''"" 
 
 " Our utter impotence."" 
 
 " Pleasing ! Mean you that we have no free 
 will .?" 
 
 " None." 
 
 "Why, then, you take away the very existence 
 of vice and virtue ; and, according to you, we 
 sin or act well, not from our own accord, but 
 because we are compelled and preordered to it." 
 
 Desmarais"'s smile Avithered into the grim sneer 
 with which, as I have said, it was sometimes 
 varied.
 
 20() DEVEREUX. 
 
 " Monsieur's penetration is extreme — but shall 
 I not prepare his nightly draught ?"" 
 
 " No ; answer me at length ; and tell me the 
 difference between good and ill, if we are com- 
 pelled by necessity to either." 
 
 Desmarais hemmed, and began. Despite of his 
 caution, the coxcomb loved to hear himself talk, 
 and he talked, therefore, to the following pur- 
 pose : — 
 
 " Liberty is a thing im2:)ossible ! Can you will 
 a single action, however simple, independent of 
 your organization — independent of the organiza- 
 tion of others — independent of the order of things 
 past — independent of the order of things to come ? 
 You cannot. But if not independent, you are 
 dependent ; if dependent, where is your liberty ? 
 where your freedom of will .'* Education disposes 
 our characters — can you controul your own educa- 
 tion, begun at the hour of birth 'if — You cannot. 
 Our character, joined to the conduct of others, 
 disposes of our happiness, our sorrow, our crime, 
 our virtue. Can you controul your character ? — 
 We have already seen that you cannot. Can you 
 controul the conduct of others — others perhaps 
 whom you have never seen, but who may ruin you 
 at a word — a despot, for instance, or a warrior ? — > 
 You cannot. What remains ? — that if we cannot
 
 DEVEREUX. 207 
 
 choose our characters, nor our fates, we cannot be 
 accountable for either. If you are a good man, 
 you are a lucky man ; but you are not to be praised 
 for what you could not help. If you are a bad 
 man, you are an unfortunate one; but you are 
 not to be execrated for what you could not 
 prevent."* 
 
 " Then, most wise Desmarais, if you steal this 
 diamond loop from my hat, you are only an un- 
 lucky man, not a guilty one, and worthy of my 
 sympathy, not anger ?''' 
 
 " Exactly so — but you must hang me for it. 
 You cannot controul events, but you can modify 
 man. Education, law, adversity, prosperity, cor- 
 rection, praise, modify him — without his choice, 
 and sometimes without his perception. But once 
 acknowledge necessity, and evil passions cease ; 
 you may punish, you may destroy others, if for 
 the safety and good of the commonwealth ; but 
 motives for doing so cease to be private : you can 
 have no personal hatred to men for committing 
 actions which they were irresistibly compelled 
 to do." 
 
 I felt, that however 1 might listen to and dislike 
 these sentiments, it would not do for the master to 
 
 * Whatever pretensions Monsieur Desm;irais may iiave made to 
 originality, this tissue of opinions is as old as philosophy itself. — Ed.
 
 208 DEVEREUX. 
 
 argue with the domestic, especially when there was 
 a chance that he might have the worst of it. And 
 so I was suddenly seized with a fit of sleepiness, 
 which broke off our conversation. Meanwhile I 
 inly resolved, in my own mind, to take the first 
 opportunity of discharging a valet, who saw no 
 difference between good and evil, but that of luck ; 
 and who, by the irresistible compulsion of neces- 
 sity, might some day or other have the involuntary 
 misfortune to cut the throat of his master. 
 
 I did not, however, carry this unphilosophical 
 resolution into effect. Indeed, the rogue doubting, 
 perhaps, the nature of the impression he had made 
 on me, redoubled so zealously his efforts to please 
 me in the science of his profession, that I could 
 not determine upon relinquishing such a treasure 
 for a speculative opinion, and I was too much ac- 
 custemed to laugh at my Sosia, to believe there 
 could be any reason to fear him.
 
 DEVEREUX. 209 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 An Universal Genius — Pericles turned Barber — Names of Beauties 
 in 171 — the Toasts of the Kit-Cat Club. 
 
 As I was riding; with Tarleton towards Chelsea 
 one day, he asked me if I had ever seen the cele- 
 brated Mr. Salter. " No," said I, " but I heard 
 Steele talk of him the other night at Wills's. He 
 is an antiquarian, and a barber, is he not ?" 
 
 " Yes, a shaving virtuoso ; really a comical and 
 strange character, and has oddities enough to com- 
 pensate one for the debasement of talking with a 
 man in his rank." 
 
 " Let us go to him forthwith," said I, spurring 
 my horse into a canter. 
 
 " Quod petis hie est,''' cried Tarleton ; " there is 
 his house." And my companion pointed to a cof- 
 fee-house.
 
 210 DEVEHEUX. 
 
 " What," said I, " does he draw wine as well as 
 teeth ?" 
 
 " To be sure : Don Saltero is an universal ge- 
 nius. Let us dismount." 
 
 Consigning our horses to the care of our grooms, 
 we marched into the strangest looking place I ever 
 had the good fortune to behold. A long, narroAV 
 coffee-room, was furnished with all manner of 
 things that, belonging neither to heaven, earth, 
 nor the water under the earth, the redoubted Sal- 
 tero might well worship without incurring the 
 crime of idolatry. The first thing that greeted my 
 eyes was a bull's head, with a most ferocious pair 
 of vulture"'s wings on its neck. While I was sur- 
 veving this, I felt something touch my hat. I 
 looked up and discovered an immense alligator 
 swinging from the ceiling, and fixing a monstrous 
 pair of glass eyes upon me. A thing which seemed 
 to me like an immense shoe, vipon a nearer ap- 
 proach, expanded itself into an Indian canoe, and 
 a most hideous spectre, with mummy skin, and 
 glittering teeth, that made my blood run cold, was 
 labelled, " Beautiful Specimen of a Calmuc 
 Tartar." 
 
 While lost in wonder, I stood in the middle of 
 the apartment, up walks a little man, as lean as a 
 miser, and says to me^ rubbing his hands —
 
 DEVEREUX. 211 
 
 " Wonderful, Sir, is it not ?" 
 
 '* Wonderful, indeed, Don !" said Tarleton ; 
 " you look like a Chinese Adam, surrounded by a 
 Japanese creation." 
 
 " He, he, he, Sir, you have so pleasant a vein,"" 
 said the little Don, in a sharp shrill voice. " But 
 it has been all done. Sir, by one man ; all of it 
 collected by me, simple as I stand." 
 
 " Simple, indeed," quoth Tarleton ; " and how 
 srets on the fiddle .^" 
 
 Bravely, Sir, bravely ; shall I play you a 
 
 
 tune .!-" 
 
 " No, no, my good Don; another time." 
 . "Nay, Sir, nay," cried the antiquarian, " suffer 
 me to welcome your arrival properly." 
 
 And forthwith disappearing, he returned in an 
 instant with a mavellously ill-favoured old fiddle. 
 Throwing a penseroso air into his thin cheeks, our 
 Don then began a few preliminary thrummings, 
 which set my teeth on edge, and made Tarleton 
 put both hands to his ears. Three sober-looking 
 citizens, who had just sat themselves do^vn to 
 pipes and the journal, started to their feet like so 
 many pieces of clockwork ; but no sooner had 
 Don Saltero, Avith a degagce air of graceful melan- 
 choly, actually launched into what he was pleased 
 to term a tune, than an universal irritation of
 
 212 DEVEREUX. 
 
 nerves seized the whole company. At the first 
 overture, the tliree citizens swore and cursed, at 
 the second division of the tune, they seized their 
 hats, at the third, they vanished. As for me, I 
 found all my limbs twitching as if they were 
 dancing to St. Vitus's music ; the very drawers 
 disappeared ; the alligator itself twirled round, as 
 if revivified by so harsh an experiment on the 
 nervous system ; and I verily believe the whole 
 museum, bull, wings, Indian canoe, and Calmuc 
 Tartar, would have been set into motion by this 
 new Orpheus, had not Tarleton, in a paroxysm 
 of rage, seized him by the tail of the coat, and 
 whirled him round, fiddle and all, with such velo- 
 city, that the poor musician lost his equilibrium, 
 and falling against a row of Chinese monsters, 
 brought the whole set to the ground, where he lay 
 covered by the wrecks that accompanied his over- 
 throw, screaming, and struggling, and grasping 
 his fiddle, which every now and then, touched in- 
 voluntarily by his fingers, vittered a dismal squeak, 
 as if sympathizing in the disaster it had caused, 
 until the waiter ran in, and raising the unhappy 
 antiquarian, placed him on a great chair. 
 
 " O Lord !" groaned Don Saltero, " O Lord — 
 my monsters — my monsters — the pagoda — the
 
 DEVEEEUX. 213 
 
 IMandarin, and the idol — where are they ? — ^broken 
 — ruined — annihilated !" 
 
 " No, Sir — all safe, Sir," said the waiter, a 
 smart, small, smug, pert man ; " put 'em do^\^l in 
 the bill, nevertheless, Sir. Is it Alderman Atkins, 
 Sir, or Mr. Higgins .?" 
 
 " Pooh," said Tarleton, '* bring me some 
 lemonade — send the pagoda to the bricklayer — 
 the mandarin to the surgeon — and the idol to the 
 Bishop of London ! There's a guinea to pay for 
 their carriage. How are you, Don ?''"' 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Tarleton, Mr. Tarleton ! how could 
 you be so cruel ?''"' 
 
 " The nature of things demanded it, my good 
 Don. Did I not call you a Chinese Adam ? and 
 how could you bear that name without undergoing 
 the fall r 
 
 *' Oh, Sir, this is no jesting matter — ^broke the 
 railing on my pagoda — bruised my arm — cracked 
 my fiddle — and cut me off* in the middle of that 
 beautiful air ! — no jesting matter." 
 
 "Come, Mr. Salter," said I, "'tis very true ! 
 but cheer up. ' The gods,' says Seneca, ' look with 
 pleasure on a great man falling with the states- 
 men, the temples, and the divinities of his coun- 
 try ;' all of which, mandarin, pagoda, and idol, 
 accompanied your fall. Let us have a bottle of
 
 214 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 your best wine, and the honour of your company 
 to drink it." 
 
 " No, Count, no," said Tarleton, haughtily ; 
 " we can drink not with the Don ; but we'll have 
 the wine, and he shall drink it. INIeanwhile, Don, 
 tell us what possible combination of circumstances 
 made thee fiddler, barber, anatomist and vir- 
 tuoso ?" 
 
 Don Saltero loved fiddling better than anytliing 
 in the worlds but next to fiddlina; he loved talking. 
 So being satisfied that he should be reimbursed for 
 his pagoda, and fortifying himself with a glass or 
 two of his own wine, he yielded to Tarleton's 
 desire, and told us his history. I believe it Avas 
 very entertaining to the good barber, but Tarleton 
 and I saw nothing extraordinary in it ; and long 
 before it was over, we wished him an excellent 
 good day, and a new race of Chinese monsters. 
 
 That evening we were engaged at the Kit-Cat 
 Club ; for though I was opposed to the politics 
 of its members, they admitted me on account of 
 my literary pretensions. Halifax was there, and 
 I commended the poet to his protection. We were 
 very gay, and Halifax favoured us with three new 
 toasts by himself. OVenus! whatbeautieswemade, 
 and what characters Ave murdered ! Never was 
 there so important a synod to the female world, as
 
 DE VEREUX. 
 
 215 
 
 the gods of the Kit-Cat Club. Alas ! I am writing 
 for the children of an after age, to whom the very 
 names of those who made the blood of their ances- 
 tors leap within their veins, will be unknown. 
 What cheek will colour at the name of Carlisle ? 
 What hand will tremble as it touches the paper 
 inscribedby that of Brudenel ? The graceful G odol- 
 phin, the sparklingenchantmentofHarper, the divine 
 voice of Claverine, the gentle and bashful Bridge- 
 water, the damask cheek and ruby lips of the Hebe 
 Manchester — what will these be to the race for 
 whom alone these pages are penned ? This history 
 is a union of strange contrasts I like the tree of the 
 Sun, described by Marco Polo, which was green 
 when approached on one side, but white when 
 perceived on the other — to me it is clothed in the 
 verdure and spring of the existing time ; to the 
 reader it comes, covered with the hoariness and 
 wanness of the past.
 
 216 DEVEREUX. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A Dialogue of Sentiment succeeded by the Sketch of a Character, 
 in whose eyes Sentiment was to Wise RIen, what Religion is to 
 Fools, viz. — a subject of ridicule. 
 
 St. John was now in power, and in the full 
 flush of his many ambitious and restless schemes. 
 I saw as much of him as the high rank he held 
 in the state and the consequent business with which 
 he was oppressed, would suffer me — me who was 
 prevented by religion from actively embracing any 
 political party, and who therefore, though inclined 
 to toryism, associated pretty equally with all. 
 St. John and myself formed a great friendship for 
 each other, a friendship which no after change or 
 chance could efface, but which exists, strengthened 
 and mellowed by time, at the very hour in which I 
 now write. 
 
 One evening he sent to tell me he should be 
 alone, if I would sup with him ; accordingly I re-
 
 DEVEEEUX. 217 
 
 paired to his house. He was walking up and 
 dovm the room with uneven, and rapid steps, and 
 his countenance was flushed Avith an expression of 
 joy and triumph, very rare to the thoughtful and 
 earnest calm which it usually wore. " Congratu- 
 late me, Devereux,'' said he, seizing me eagerly 
 by the hand, " congratulate me !" 
 
 " For what ?" 
 
 " Ay, time — you are not yet a politician — you 
 cannot yet tell how dear — how inexpressibly dear 
 to one who is, is a momentarv and petty victory — 
 but — if I were prime minister of this country, what 
 would you say .''" 
 
 " That you could bear the duty better than any 
 man living — ^but remember, Harley is in the way."" 
 
 " Ah, there's the rub," said St. John, slowly, 
 and the expression of his face again changed from 
 triumph to thoughtfulness ; " but this is a subject 
 not to your taste — let us choose another." And 
 flinging himself into a chair, this singular man, 
 who prided himself on suiting his conversation to 
 every one, begari conversing with me upon the 
 lighter topics of the day ; these we soon exhausted, 
 and at last we settled upon that of love and 
 women." 
 
 " I own," said I, "that in this respect, pleasure 
 has disappointed as well as wearied me. I have 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 218 DEVEEEUX, 
 
 longed for some better object of worship than the 
 capricieuse of fashion, or the yet more ignoble 
 minion of the senses. I ask a vent for enthusiasm — 
 for devotion — for romance — for a thousand subtle 
 and secret streams of unuttered and unutterable 
 feeling. I often think that I bear within me the 
 desire and the sentiment of poetry, though I enjoy 
 not its faculty of expression ; and that that desire 
 and that sentiment denied legitimate egress, 
 centre and shrink into one absorbing passion — 
 which is the want of love. Where am I to satisfy 
 this want ? I look round these great circles of gaiety 
 which we term the world— I send forth my heart 
 as a wanderer over their regions and recesses, and 
 it returns sated, and palled, and languid to myself 
 again." 
 
 " You express a common want in every less 
 worldly or more morbid nature," said St. John, 
 " a want which I myself have experienced, and 
 which, if I had never felt, I should never, perhaps, 
 have turned to ambition, to console or to engross 
 me. But do not flatter yourself that the want 
 will ever be fulfilled. Nature places us alone in 
 this inhospitable world, and no heart is cast in a 
 similar mould to that which we bear within us. 
 We pine for sympathy ; we make to ourselves a 
 creation of ideal beauties, in which we expect to
 
 DEVEEEUX. 219 
 
 find it — but the creation has no reality— it is the 
 niind's phantasma which the mind adores — and it 
 is because the phantasma can have no actual being 
 that the mind despairs. Throughout life, from 
 the cradle to the grave, it is no real or living thing 
 which we demand, it is the realization of the idea 
 we have formed within us, and which, as we are 
 not gods, we can never call into existence. We 
 ai*e enamoured of the statue ourselves have graven ; 
 but unlike the statue of the Cyprian, it kindles not 
 to our homage, nor melts to our embraces." 
 
 '• I believe you," said I; " but it is hard to 
 undeceive ourselves. The heart is the most credu- 
 lous of all fanatics, and its ruling passion the most 
 enduring of all superstitions. Oh ! what can tear 
 from us to the last, the hope, the desire, the 
 yearning for some bosom which, while it mirrors 
 our own, parts not with the reflection. I have 
 read, that in the very hour and instant of our birth, 
 one exactly similar to ourselves, in spirit and form, 
 is bom also, and that a secret and unintelligible 
 sympathy preserves that likeness, even through the 
 vicissitudes of fortune and circumstance, until, in 
 the same point of time, the two beings are resolv- 
 ed once more into the elements of earth — confess 
 that there is something welcome, though unfound- 
 ed, in the fancy, and that there are few of the sub- 
 
 L 2
 
 220 DEVEREUX. 
 
 stances of worldly honour which one would not 
 renounce, to possess, in the closest and fondest of 
 all relations, this shadow of ourselves ?" 
 
 " Alas !" said St. John, " the possession, like 
 all earthly blessings, carries within it its own prin- 
 ciple of corruption. The deadliest foe to love is 
 not change, nor misfortune, nor jealousy, nor 
 wrath, nor any thing that flows from passion, 
 or emanates from fortune ; the deadliest foe to 
 it is custom .' With custom die away the delu- 
 sions and the mysteries which encircle it ; leaf 
 after leaf, in the green poetry on which its beauty 
 depends, droops and withers, till nothing but the 
 bare and rude trunk is left. With all passion the 
 soul demands something unexpressed, some vague 
 recess to explore or to marvel vipon — some veil 
 upon the mental as well as the corporeal deity. 
 Custom leaves nothing to romance, and often but 
 little to respect. The whole character is bared 
 before us like a plain, and the heart's eye grows 
 wearied with the sameness of the survey. And to 
 weariness succeeds distaste, and to distaste one of 
 the myriad shapes of the Proteus Aversion — so 
 that the passion we would make the rarest of trea- 
 sures, fritters down to a very instance of the com- 
 monest of proverbs — and out of familiarity cometh 
 indeed contempt !" 
 
 " And are we, then," said I, " for ever to fore-
 
 DEVEREUX. 221 
 
 eo the most delicious of our dreams ? Are -we to 
 consider love as an entire delusion, and to recon- 
 cile ourselves to an eternal loneliness and solitude 
 of heart ? What then shall fill the crying and un- 
 appeasable void of our souls ? What shall be- 
 come of those mighty sources of tenderness which 
 refused sdl channel in the rocky soil of the world, 
 must have an outlet elsewhere, or stagnate into 
 torpor ?" 
 
 " Our passions," said St. John, " are restless, and 
 will make each experiment in their power, thovigh 
 vanity be the result of all. Disappointed in love, 
 they yearn towards ambition ; and the object ofcun- 
 hit'wn, unlike that of love, never being loholly pos- 
 sessed, ambition is the more durable passion of the 
 two. But sooner or later even that, and all pas- 
 sions, are sated at last ; and when wearied of too 
 wide a flight, Ave limit our excursions, and looking 
 round us, discover the narrow bounds of our 
 proper end, we grow satisfied with the loss of 
 rapture, if we can partake of enjoyment : and the 
 experience which seemed at first so bitterly to be- 
 tray us, becomes our most real benefactor, and 
 ultimately leads us to content. For it is the 
 excess and not the nature of our passions M'hich is 
 perishable. Like the trees which grew by the 
 tomb of Protesilaus, the passions flourish till tliey
 
 222 DEVEREUX. 
 
 reach a certain height, but no sooner is that height 
 attained than they wither away." 
 
 Before I could reply, our conversation received 
 an abrupt and complete interruption for the night. 
 The door was thrown open, and a man, pushing 
 aside the servant with a rude and yet a dignified 
 air, entered the room unannounced, and with the 
 most perfect disregard to ceremony — 
 
 " How d'ye do, Mr. St. John," said he — " how 
 d"'ye do ? — Pretty sort of a day weVe had. — Lucky 
 to find you at home — that is to say, if you will 
 give me some boiled oysters and champagne for 
 supper." 
 
 " With all my heart. Doctor," said St. John, 
 changing his manner at once from the pensive to 
 an easy and somewhat brusque familiarity — " with 
 all my heart ; but I am glad to hear you are a 
 convert to champagne : you spent a whole even- 
 ing last week in endeavouring to dissuade me from 
 the sparkling sin." 
 
 " Pish! I had suffered the day before from it, 
 so, like a true Old Bailey penitent, I preached up 
 conversion to others, not from a desire of their wel- 
 fare, but a plaguey sore feeling for ray o\vn mis- 
 fortune. Where did you dine to-day ? At home ! 
 Oh ! the devil ! I starved on three courses at the 
 Duke of Ormond's."
 
 DEVEREUX. 223 
 
 " Aha ! Honest Matt was there ?" 
 
 " Yes, to my cost. He borrowed a shilling of 
 me for a chair. Hang this weather, it costs me 
 seven shillings a day for coach-fare, besides my 
 pa^-ing the fares of all my poor brother parsons 
 who come over from Ireland to solicit my 
 patronage for a bishoprick, and end bv bor- 
 rowing half a cro\vn in the meanwhile. But INIatt 
 Prior will pay me again, I suppose, out of the pub- 
 lic money."" 
 
 *' To be sure, if Chloe does not ruin him first." 
 
 " Hang the slut : don''t talk of her. How 
 Prior rails against his place.* He says the excise 
 spoils his wit, and that the only rhymes he ever 
 dreams of now-a-days are ' docket' and ' cocket.' "" 
 
 *' Ha, ha ! we must do something better for 
 Matt — make him a bishop or an ambassador. But 
 pardon me, Count, I have not yet made known to 
 you the most courted, authoritative, impertinent, 
 clever, independent, haughty, delightful, trouble- 
 some parson of the age : do homage to Dr. Swift. 
 Doctor, be merciful to my particular friend Count 
 Devereux." 
 
 Drawing himself up, ^vith a manner which con- 
 trasted his previous one strongly enough. Dr. Swift 
 saluted me with a dignity which might even be 
 
 • In the Customs.
 
 224 DEVEUEUX. 
 
 called polished, and which certainly showed, that 
 however he might prefer, as his usual demeanour, 
 an air of negligence, and semi-rudeness, he had 
 profited sufficiently by his acquaintance with the 
 great, to equal them in the external graces, sup- 
 posed to be peculiar to their order, whenever 
 it suited his inclination. In person Swift is 
 about the middle height, strongly built, and Avith 
 a remarkably fine outline of throat and chest ; his 
 front face is certainly displeasing, tiiough far 
 from uncomely ; but the clear chiselling of the 
 nose, the curved upper lip, the full round Roman 
 chin, the hanging brow, and the resolute decision, 
 stamped upon the whole expression of the large 
 forehead, and tlie clear blue eye, make his profile 
 one of the most striking I ever saw. He honoured 
 me, to my great surprise, with a fine speech and a 
 compliment ; and then, with a look, which me- 
 naced to St. John the retort that ensued, he added : 
 " And I shall always be glad to think that I owe 
 your acquaintance to Mr. Secretary St. John, who, 
 if he talked less about operas and singers — thought 
 less about Alcibiades and Pericles — if he never 
 complained of the load of business not being suited 
 to his temper, at the very moment he had been 
 working, like Gumdragon, to get the said load 
 upon his shoulders ; and if he persuaded one of
 
 DEVEREUX. 225 
 
 his sincerity being as great as his genius, would 
 appear to all time as adorned with the choicest 
 gifts that God has yet thought fit to bestow on the 
 children of men. Prithee now, Mr. Sec. when 
 shall we have the oysters.'* Will you be merry 
 to-night. Count .?" 
 
 " Certainly ; if one may find absolution for the 
 champagne." 
 
 " I'll absolve you, with a vengeance, on condition 
 that you'll walk home with me, and protect the 
 poor parson from the Mohawks. Faith, they ran 
 young Davenant's chair through with a sword, 
 t'other night. I hear they have sworn to make 
 daylight through my tory cassock — all whigs you 
 know, Count Devereux, nasty, dangerous animals 
 — how I hate them ; they cost me five and sixpence 
 a week in chairs to avoid tliem." 
 
 " Never mind, Doctor, I'll send my servants 
 home with you," said St. John. 
 
 " Ay, a nice way of mending the matter — that's 
 curing the itch by scratching the skin off. I 
 could not give your tall fellows less than a crown 
 a-piece, and I could buy off the bloodiest Mohawk 
 in the kingdom, if he's a whig, for half that sum. 
 But, thank Heaven, the supper is ready." 
 
 And to supper we went. The oysters and cham- 
 pagne seemed to exhilarate, if it did not refincj 
 
 L 3
 
 226 DEVEREUX. 
 
 the Doctor's wit. St. John was unusually bril- 
 liant. I myself caught the infection of their 
 humour, and contributed my quota to the common 
 stock of jest and repartee ; and that evening, spent 
 with the two soundest and most extraordinary men 
 of the age, had in it more of broad and familiar 
 mirth, than any I have ever wasted in the com- 
 pany of the youngest and noisiest disciples of the 
 bowl and its concomitants. Even amidst all the 
 coarse ore of Swift's conversation, the diamond 
 perpetually broke out ; his vulgarity was never that 
 of a vulgar mind. Pity that while he condemned 
 St. John's over affectation of the graces of life, he 
 never perceived that his own affectation of the 
 grossieretes of manner, was to the full as unworthy 
 of the simplicity of intellect ;* and that the aver- 
 
 * It has been said, that Swift was only coarse in his later years, 
 and, with a curious ignorance both of fact and of character, that 
 Pope was the cause of the Dean's grossness of taste. There is no 
 doubt that he grew coarser with age ; but there is also no doubt 
 that, graceful and dignified as that great genius could be when he 
 pleased, he affected, at a period earlier than the one in which he is 
 now introduced, to be coarse both in speech and manner. I seize 
 upon this opportunity, mal apropos as it is, to observe that Swift*s 
 preference of Harley to St. John, is by no means so certain as writers 
 have been pleased generally to assert. Warton has already noted a 
 passage in one of Swift's letters to BoUngbroke, to which I wiU beg 
 to call the reader's attention :
 
 DEVKREUX. 227 
 
 sion to cant, which was the strongest characteristic 
 of his mind, led him into the very faults he de- 
 spised, only through a more displeasing and 
 offensive road. That same aversion to cant is, by 
 the way, the greatest and most prevalent enemy to 
 the reputation of high and of strong minds ; and 
 in judging Swift's character in especial, we should 
 always bear it in recollection. This aversion — 
 the very antipodes to hypocrisy — leads men not 
 only to disclaim the virtues they have, but to 
 pretend to the vices they have not. Foolish trick 
 of disguised vanity ! the world readily believes 
 them. — Like Justice Overdo — in the garb of poor 
 Arthur of Bradley, they may deem it a virtue 
 
 '' It is you were my hero, but the other (Lord Oxford) never 
 was ; yet if he were, it was your own faiJt, who taught me to love 
 him, and often vindicated him in the beginning of your ministry, from 
 my accusations. But I granted he had the greatest inequalities of 
 any man alive ; and his whole scene was fifty times more a what- 
 d'ye-caU it than yours ; for I declare yours was «wic, and I wish 
 you would so order it that the world may be as wise as I upon 
 that article." 
 
 I have to apologize for introducing this quotation, which I have 
 done because (and I entreat the reader to remember this) I observe 
 that Count Devereux always speaks of Lord Bolingbroke as he was 
 spoken of by the great men of that day— not by the little historians 
 of this Ed.
 
 228 DEVEREUX. 
 
 to have assumed the disguise ; but they must not 
 wonder if the sham Arthur is taken for the real, 
 beaten as a vagabond, and set in the stocks as a 
 rogue.
 
 CEVEREUX. 
 
 229 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Lightly won— lightly lost A Dialogue of equal Instruction and 
 
 Amusement — A Visit to Sir Godfrey Kneller. 
 
 One morning, Tarleton breakfasted with me. 
 " I don't see the little page," said he, " who was 
 always in attendance in your anti-room — what the 
 deuce has become of him .''*''' 
 
 " You must ask his mistress ; she has quarrelled 
 with me, and withdrawn both her favour and her 
 
 '5 
 
 )1 
 
 messenger. 
 
 " Wliat, the Lady Hasselton quarrelled with 
 you ! Diable ! Wherefore T' 
 
 " Because I am not enough of the ' pretty 
 fellow,""— am tired of carrying hood and scarf, and 
 bitting behind her chair through five long acts of a 
 dull play— because I disappointed her in not 
 searching for her at every drum and quadrille
 
 230 DEVEBEUX. 
 
 party — because I admired not her monkey — and 
 because I broke a tea-pot, with a toad for a 
 cover." 
 
 " And is not that enough ?" cried Tarleton. 
 " Heavens I what a black beadroU of offences ; 
 Mrs. Merton would have discarded me for one of 
 them. However, thy account has removed my 
 surprise ; I heard her praise thee the other day — 
 now as long as she loved thee, she always abused 
 thee like a pickpocket." 
 
 " Ha ! — ^ha ! — ha ! — and what said she in my 
 favour .?" 
 
 " Why, that you were certainly very handsome, 
 though you were small ; that you were certainly a 
 great genius, though every one would not discover 
 it ; and that you certainly had quite the air of 
 high birth, though you were not near so well 
 dressed as Beau Tippetly. But entre nous, Deve- 
 reux, I think she hates you, and would play you a 
 trick of spite — ^revenge is too strong a word — if she 
 could find an opportunity." 
 
 " Likely enough Tarleton ; but a coquette's lover 
 is always on his guard : so she will not take me 
 
 unawares.*" 
 
 " So be it. But tell me, Devereux, who is to 
 be your next mistress — Mrs. Denton, or Lady
 
 DEVEREUX. 231 
 
 Clancathcart ? — the world gives them both to 
 you." 
 
 " The world is always as generous with what is 
 worthless, as a bishop with his blessing. Hoav- 
 ever, I promise thee, Tarleton, that I will not 
 interfere with thy claims, either upon ]Mrs. Den- 
 ton or Lady Clancathcart."'"' 
 
 " Nay,"""" said Tarleton, " I will own that you 
 are a very Scipio; but it must be confessed, even 
 by you, satirist as you are, that Lady Clancathcart 
 has a beautiful set of features." 
 
 " A handsome face, but so vilely made. She 
 would make a splendid picture if, like the goddess 
 Lavema, she could be painted as a head without a 
 body.^^ 
 
 " Ha ! — ha ! — ha ! — you have a bitter tongue, 
 Count; but Mrs. Denton, what have you to say 
 against her .'*" 
 
 *' Nothing ; slie has no pretensions for me to 
 contradict. She has a green eye, and a sharp 
 voice, a mincing gait, and a broad foot. What 
 friend of Mrs. Denton''s would not, therefore, 
 counsel her to a prudent obscurity .?" 
 
 " She never had but one lover in the world,"" 
 said Tarleton, " who was old, blind, lame, and 
 poor ; she accepted him, and became Mrs. Den- 
 ton."
 
 232 DEVEKEUX. 
 
 " Yes," said 1, " she was like the magnet, and 
 received her name from the very first person* sen- 
 sible of her attraction" 
 
 " Well, you have a shrewd way of saying sweet 
 things," said Tarleton ; " but I must owii that 
 you rarely or never direct it towards women indi- 
 vidually. What makes you break through your 
 ordinary custom ?" 
 
 " Because, in the first place, I am angry with 
 women collectively ; and must pour my spleen 
 through whatever channel presents itself. And, 
 in the second place; both the Denton and the Clan- 
 cathcart have been personally rude to me ; so that 
 my ill-humour receives from spite a more acrid 
 venom." 
 
 " I allow the latter reason," said Tarleton, 
 " but the first astonishes me. I despise women 
 myself — I always did — but you were their most 
 enthusiastic and chivalrous defender a month or 
 two ago. What makes thee change, my Sir 
 Amadis.?" 
 
 " Disappointment ! — they weary, vex, disgust 
 me — selfish, frivolous, mean, heartless — out on 
 them — 'tis a disgrace to have their love." 
 
 " O del! What a sensation the news of 
 thy misogyny will cause — the young, gay, rich, 
 
 * Magnes.
 
 DEVEREUX. 233 
 
 Count Devereux — whose wit, vivacity, splendour 
 of appearance, in equipage and dress, have thrown, 
 in the course of one season, all the most established 
 beaux and pretty fellows into the shade ; to whom 
 dedications, and odes, and billet-doux, are so much 
 waste paper — Avho has carried off the most general 
 envy and dislike that any man ever was blest with, 
 since St. John turned politician — what ! thou all 
 of a sudden to become a railer against the divine 
 sex that made thee what thou art ! Fly — fly — 
 unhappy apostate, or expect the fate of Orpheus, 
 at least !" 
 
 " None of your railleries, Tarleton, or I shall 
 speak to you of plebeians, and the canaille." 
 
 " Sacre ! my teeth are on edge already I Oh, 
 the base — base canaille, how I loatlie it ! Nay, 
 Devereux, joking apart, I love you twice as 
 well for your new humour. I despise the sex 
 heartily. Indeed, 5^/& ro.?a be it spoken, there are 
 few things that breathe which I do not despise. 
 Human nature seems to me a most pitiful bundle 
 of rags and scraps, which the gods threw out of 
 Heaven, as the dust and rubbish there." 
 
 A pleasant prospect of thy species," said I. 
 
 By my soul it is. Contempt is to me a lux- 
 ury. I would not lose the privilege of loatliing 
 
 (( 
 ((
 
 23i DEVEttEUX. 
 
 for all the objects which fools ever admired. 
 Wliat does old Persius say on the subject? 
 
 " ' Hoc ridere meum tam nil, nulla tibi vendo 
 
 Iliade.'" 
 
 " And yet, Tarleton," said I, "the littlest 
 feeling of all, is a delight in contemplating the 
 littleness of other people. Nothing is more con- 
 temptible than habitual contempt." 
 
 " Prithee now," answered the haughty aris- 
 tocrat, *' let us not talk of these matters so subtly 
 —leave me my enjoyment without refining upon 
 it. What is your first pursuit for the morning P" 
 
 " Why, I have promised my uncle a picture of 
 that invaluable countenance nhich Lady Hasselton 
 finds so handsome ; and I am going to give Kneller 
 my last sitting." 
 
 " So so, I will accompany you ; I like the old 
 vain dog, 'tis a pleasure to hear him admire himself 
 so wittily." 
 
 " Come, then !" said I, taking up my hat and 
 sword ; and entering Tarleton's carriage, we drove 
 to the painter's abode." 
 
 We found him employed in finishing a portrait 
 of Lady Godolphin. 
 
 " He — he !" cried he, when he beheld me 
 approach. " By Got, I am glad to see you. Count
 
 DEVEEEUX. 235 
 
 Tevereux, clis painting is tamned poor work by 
 oneself, widout any one to make des grands eiicc^ 
 and cry, ' O, Sir Godfrey Kneller, how fine dis 
 is ! " 
 
 " Very true, indeed," said I, "no great man 
 can be expected to waste his talents without his 
 proper reward of praise. But, Heavens, Tarleton, 
 did you ever see any thing so wonderful ? — that 
 hand — that arm — how exquisite ! If Apollo turned 
 painter, and borrowed colours from the rainbow, 
 and models from the goddesses, he would not be 
 fit to hold the pallet to Sir Godfrey Kneller." 
 
 " By Got, Count Tevereux, you are von grand 
 judge of painting," cried the artist, with sparkling 
 eyes, " and I vill paint you as von tamned hand- 
 some man." 
 
 " Nay, my Apelles, you might as well preserve 
 some likeness." 
 
 " Likeness, by Got ! I vill make you like, and 
 handsome both. By Got, if you make me von 
 Apelles, I vill make you von Alexander !" 
 
 " People in general," said Tarleton, gravely, 
 " believe that Alexander had a wry neck, and Avas 
 a very plain fellow ; but no one can know about 
 Alexander like Sir Godfrey Kneller, Avho has 
 studied military tactics so accurately, and who, if
 
 236 
 
 DEVEREUX. 
 
 he had taken up the sword instead of the pencil, 
 would have been at least an Alexander himself."" 
 
 " By Got, Meester Tarleton, you are as goot 
 a judge of de talents for de war as Count Tevereux 
 of de genie for de painting ! By Got, Meester 
 Tarleton, I vill paint your picture, and I vill 
 make your eyes von goot inch bigger than dey 
 are !" 
 
 '' Large or small," said I, (for Tarleton, who 
 had a haughty custom of contracting his orbs 
 till they were scarce perceptible, Avas so much 
 offended, that I thought it prudent to cut off his 
 reply,) " large or small. Sir Godfrey, Mr. Tarle- 
 ton's eyes are capable of admiring your genius ; 
 why, your painting is like lightning, and one flash 
 of your brush would be sufficient to restore even a 
 blind man to sight." 
 
 "It is tamned true," said Sir Godfrey, ear- 
 nestly ; " and it did restore von man to sight 
 once. By my shoul, it did ! but sit yourself 
 town. Count Tevereux, and look over your left 
 shoulder — ah, dat is it — and now, praise on. Count 
 Tevereux ; de thought of my genius gives you— 
 vat you call it — von animation — von fire, look 
 you — by Got, it does !" 
 
 And by dint of such moderate panegyric, the 
 worthy Sir Godfrey completed my picture, with
 
 DEVEREUX. 237 
 
 equal satisfaction to himself and the original. See 
 what a beautifier is flattery — a few sweet words 
 will send the Count Devereux down to posterity, 
 with at least three times as much beauty as he 
 could justly lay claim to. 
 
 * This picture, at present in my possession, represents the Count 
 in an unthess. The face is decidedly, though by no means remark- 
 ably, handsome ;^the nose is aquiline — the upper lip short and 
 chiselled — the eyes grey, and the forehead, which is by far tlie finest 
 feature in the countenance, is peculiarly high, broad, and massive. 
 The mouth has but little beauty : it is severe, caustic, and rather 
 displeasing, from the extreme compression of the lips. The great 
 and prevalent expression of the face is energy. The eye — the brow 
 — the turn of the head — the erect, penetrating aspect — are all strik- 
 ingly bold, animated, and even daring. And this expression makes 
 a singular contrast to tliat in another hkeness of the Count, also in 
 my possession, wliich was taken at a much later period of life. 
 The latter portrait represents him in a foreign uniform, decorated 
 with orders. The peculiar sarcasm of the mouth is hidden beneath 
 a very long and thick nmstachio, of a much darker colour than the 
 hair, (for in both portraits, as in Jervas's picture of Lord Bohng- 
 broke, the hair is left undisguised by the odious fashion of the day). 
 Across one cheek there is a slight scar, as of a sabre cut. The whole 
 character of this portrait is widely different from that in the earlier 
 one. Not a trace of the fire — the animation — which were so striking 
 in the physiognomy of the youth of twenty, — are discoverable in the 
 calm, sedate, stately, yet somewhat stern expression, wliich seems 
 immoveably spread over the paler hue, and the more prominent fea- 
 tures of the man of about four or five and thirty. Vet, upon the 
 whole, the face in the latter portrait, is handsomer ; and, from its 
 air of dignity and reflection, even more impressive than that in the 
 one I have first described. — Ed.
 
 238 DEVEREUX. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A Development of Character, and a long Letter— a Chapter, on 
 the whole, more important than it seems. 
 
 The scenes through which, of late, I have con- 
 ducted my reader, are by no means episodical ; 
 they illustrate far more than mere narration, the 
 career to which I was so honourably devoted. 
 Dissipation — women — wine — Tarleton, for a 
 friend, Lady Hasselton for a mistress. O terque 
 quaterque beatus ! Let me now throw aside the 
 mask. 
 
 To people who have naturally very intense and 
 very acute feelings, nothing is so fretting, so 
 wearing to the heart, as the commonplace liaisons 
 or curtailed affections, whicli are the properties 
 and offspring of the world. We have seen the 
 birds wliich, with wings unclipt, children fasten to 
 a stake. The birds seek to fly, and are pulled
 
 DEVEEEUX. 239 
 
 back before their wings are well spread ; till, 
 at last, they either perpetually strain at the 
 end of their short tether, exciting only ridicule 
 by their anguish, and their impotent impa- 
 tience ; or sullen and despondent, they remain 
 on the ground, without an attempt to fly, nor 
 creep, even to the full limit which their fetters 
 would allow. Thus is it with feelings of the 
 keen, wild nature I speak of; they are either striv- 
 ing for ever to pass the little circle of slavery to 
 which they are condemned, and so move laughter 
 by an excess of action, and a want of adequate 
 power ; or they rest motionless and moody, dis- 
 daining the petty indulgence they m'lght enjoy, 
 till suUenness is construed into resignation, and 
 despair seems the apathy of content. Time, how- 
 ever, cures what it does not kill : and both bird 
 and breast, if they pine not to the death at first, 
 grow tame and acquiescent at last. 
 
 What to me was the companionship of Tarle- 
 ton, or the attachment of Lady Hasselton ? I had 
 yielded to the one, and I had half eagerly, half 
 scornfully, sought the other. These, and the avo- 
 cations they brought with them consumed my time, 
 and of time murdered, there is a ghost, which we 
 term Ennui. The hauntings of this spectre are 
 the especial curse of the higher orders ; and hence
 
 iJ40 DEVEREUX. 
 
 springs a certain consequence to the passions : 
 persons in these ranks of society so exposed to 
 Ennui, are either rendered totally incapable of 
 real love, or they love far more intensely than those 
 in a Idwer station ; for the affections in them are 
 either utterly frittered away on a thousand petty 
 objects, (poor shifts to escape the persecuting 
 spectre), or else early disgusted with the worthless- 
 ness of these objects, the heart turns within and 
 languishes for something not found in the daily 
 routine of life. When this is the case, and when 
 the pining of the heart is once satisfied, and the 
 object of love is found, there are two mighty rea- 
 sons why the love should be most passionately 
 cherished. The first is the utter indolence in which 
 aristocratic life oozes away, and which allows full 
 good for that meditation which can nurse by sure 
 degrees the weakest desire into the strongest pas- 
 sion ; and the second reason is, that the insipidity 
 and hollowness of all patrician pursuits and plea- 
 sures, render the excitation of love more delicious 
 and more necessary to the " ignavi terrarum do- 
 mini,'''' than it is to those orders of society more 
 usefully, more constantly, and more engrossingly 
 engaged. 
 
 Wearied and sated with the pursuit of what 
 was worthless, my heart, at last, exhausted itself
 
 DEVEREUX. 241 
 
 in pining for what was pure. I recurred with a 
 tenderness which I strusgled with at first, and 
 which in yielding to, I blushed to acknowledge, 'to 
 the memory of Isora. And in the world, sur- 
 rounded by all which might be supposed to cause 
 me to forget her, my heart clung to her far more 
 endearingly than it had done in the rural solitudes 
 in which she had first allured it. The truth was 
 this ; at the time I first loved her, other passions — 
 passions almost equally powerful — shared her em- 
 ]}ire. Ambition and pleasure — vast whirlpools of 
 thought — had just opened themselves a channel in 
 my mind, and thither the tides of my desires were 
 hurried and lost. Now those whirlpools had lost 
 their power, and the channels being dammed up, 
 flowed back upon my breast. Pleasure had dis- 
 gusted me, and the only ambition I had yet 
 courted and pursued, had palled upon me still 
 more. I say, the only ambition — for as yet that 
 which is of the loftier and more lasting kind, had 
 not afforded me a temptation ; and the hope 
 which had borne the name and rank of ambition, 
 had been the hope rather to glitter than to rise. 
 
 These passions, not yet experienced when I lost 
 Isora, had afforded me at that period a ready com- 
 fort and a sure engrossment. And in satisfying 
 the hasty jealousies of my temper, in deeming 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 242 DEVEREUX. 
 
 Isora unworthy, and Gerald my rival, I naturally 
 aroused in my pride a dexterous orator as well as 
 a firm ally. Pride not only strengthened my pas- 
 sions, it also persuaded them by its voice ; and it 
 was not till the languid, yet deep stillness of sated 
 wishes and palled desires fell upon me, that the 
 low accent of a love still surviving at my heart, 
 made itself heard in answer. 
 
 I now beo;an to take a different view of Isora's con- 
 duct. I now began to doubt, where I had formerly 
 believed ; and the doubt first allied to fear, gra- 
 dually brightened into hope. Of Gerald's rivalry, 
 at least of his identity with Barnard, and, conse- 
 quently, of his power over Isora, there was, and 
 there could be, no feeling short of certainty. But 
 of what nature was that power .'' Had not Isora 
 assured me that it was not love ? Why should 
 I disbelieve her ? Nay, did she not love myself? 
 had not her cheek bluslied and her hand trembled 
 when I addressed her ? Were these signs the 
 counterfeits of love? Were they not rather of 
 that heart's dye which no skill ca7i counterfeit ? 
 She had declared that she could not, that she 
 could never, be mine : she had declared so with a 
 fearful earnestness which seemed to annihilate 
 hope ; but had she not also, in the same meeting, 
 confessed that I was dear to her ? Had not her
 
 D E V E R E U X. 243 
 
 lip given me a sweeter and a more eloquent assu- 
 rance of that confession than words ? — and could 
 hope perish while love existed ? She had left me 
 — she had hid me farewell for ever ; but that was 
 no proof of a want of love, or of her vm worthiness. 
 Gerald, or Barnard, evidently possessed an in- 
 fluence over father as well as child. Their depar- 
 ture from * * * *, might have been occasioned by 
 him, and she might have deplored, while she 
 could not resist it : or she might not even have 
 deplored ; nay, she might have desired, she 
 might have advised it, for my sake as well as 
 hers, were she thoroughly convinced that the union 
 of our loves was impossible. 
 
 But, then, of what nature could be this mysterious 
 authority which Gerald possessed over her ? That 
 which he possessed over the sire, political schemes 
 might account for; but these, surely, could not have 
 much weight for the daughter. This, indeed, must 
 stillremain doubtful and unaccovmtedfor. One pre- 
 sumption, that Gerald was either no favoured lover, 
 or that he was unacquainted with her retreat, might 
 be drawn from the continuance of his residence at 
 Devereux Court. If he loved Isora, and knew 
 her present abode, would he not have sought her ? 
 Could he, I thought, live away from that bright 
 face, if once allowed to behold it ? — unless, 
 
 M 2
 
 244 DEVEREUX. 
 
 indeed, (terrible thought !) there hung over it the 
 dimness of guilty familiarity, and indifference had 
 been the offspring of possession. But was that 
 delicate and virgin face, where changes, with 
 every moment, coursed each other, harmonious to 
 the changes of the mind, as shadows in a valley 
 reflect the clouds of heaven! — was that face, so 
 ingenuous, so girlishly revelant of all, — even of the 
 slightest, the most transitory — emotion, the face of 
 one hardened in deceit and inured to shame ? 
 The covuitenance is, it is true, but a faithless 
 mirror : but what , man that has studied women 
 will not own that there is, at least while the down 
 of first youth is not brushed away, in the eye and 
 cheek of a zoned and untainted innocence, that 
 which survives not even the fruition of a lawful 
 love, and has no (nay, not even a shadowed and 
 imperfect) likeness in the face of guilt ? Then, 
 too, had any worldlier or mercenary sentiment en- 
 tered her breast respecting me, would Isora have 
 flown from the suit of the eldest scion of the rich 
 house of Devereux ? — and would she, poor and des- 
 titute, the daughter of an alien and an exile, would 
 she have spontaneously relinquished any hope of 
 obtaining that alliance which maidens of the lofti- 
 est houses of England had not disdained to desire ? 
 Thus confused and incoherent, but thus yearning
 
 DEVEREUX. 245 
 
 fondly towards her image and its imagined purity, 
 did my thoughts daily and hourly array them- 
 selves ; and, in proportion as I suffered common 
 ties to drop from me one by one, those thoughts 
 clung the more tenderly to that tie which, though 
 severed from the rich argosy of former love, was 
 still indissolubly attached to the anchor of its 
 hope. 
 
 It was during this period of revived affection that 
 I received the following letter from my uncle : — 
 
 " I thank thee for thy long letter, my dear 
 boy ; I read it over three times with great de- 
 light. Od'sfish, Morton, you are a sad Pickle, I 
 fear, and seem to know all the ways of the town as 
 well as your old uncle did some thirty years ago ! 
 'Tis a very pretty acquaintance with human na- 
 ture that your letters display. You put me in 
 mind of little Sid, who was just about your height, 
 and who had just such a pretty, shrewd way of ex- 
 pressing himself in simile and point. Ah, it is 
 easy to see that you have profited by your old 
 uncle's conversation, and that Farquhar and 
 Etherege were not studied for nothing. 
 
 " But I have sad news for thee, my child, or 
 rather, it is sad for me to tell thee my tidings. It 
 is sad for the old birds to linger in their nest when
 
 246 DEVEREUX. 
 
 the young ones take wing and leave them ; but it 
 is merry for the young birds to get away from the 
 dull old tree, and frisk it in the sunshine — merry 
 for them to get mates, and have young them- 
 selves. Now, do not think, Morton, that, by 
 speaking of mates and young, I am going to tell 
 thee thy brothers are already married ; nay, there 
 is time enough for those things, and I am not 
 friendly to early weddings, nor, to speak truly, a 
 marvellous great admirer of that holy ceremony at 
 any age ; for the which there may be private 
 reasons, too long to relate to thee now. Moreover, 
 I fear my young day was a wicked time — a 
 heinous wicked time — and we were wont to 
 laugh at the wedded state, until, body of me, 
 some of us found it no laughing matter. 
 
 " But to return, Morton — to return to thy 
 brothers — they have both left me ; and the house 
 seems to me not the good old house it did when 
 ye were all about me ; and, somehow or other, I 
 look now oftener at the church-yard than I was 
 wont to do. You are all gone now — all shot up, 
 and become men ; and when your old uncle sees 
 you no more, and recollects that all his own co- 
 temporaries are out of the world, he cannot help 
 saying, as William Temple, poor fellow, once 
 prettily enough said, ' Methinks it seems an im-
 
 DEVEREUX. 247 
 
 pertinence in me to be still alive.' You went 
 first, Morton ; and I missed you more than 1 
 cared to say : but you were always a kind boy to 
 tliose you loved, and you wrote the old knight 
 merry letters^ that made him laugh, and think he 
 was grown young again — (faith, boy, that was a 
 jolly story of the three Squires at Button's!) — 
 and, once a week comes your packet, well filled, as 
 if you did not think it a task to make me happy, 
 which your handwriting always does ; nor a shame 
 to my grey hairs that I take pleasure in the 
 same things that please thee ! So, thou seest, my 
 child, that I have got through thy absence pretty 
 well, save that I have had no one to read thy 
 letters to ; for Gerald and thou are still jealous of 
 each other — a great sin in thee, INIorton, which I 
 prithee to reform. And Aubrey, poor lad, is a 
 little too rigid, considering his years, and it looks 
 not well in the dear boy to shake his head at the 
 follies of his uncle. And as to thy mother, 
 Morton, I read her one of thy letters, and she 
 said thou wert a graceless reprobate to think so 
 much of this wicked world, and to write so fa- 
 miliarly to thine aged relative. Now, I am not a 
 young man, Morton ; but the word aged has a 
 sharp sound with it when it comes from a lady's 
 mouth. 
 
 " Well, after thou hadst been gone a month.
 
 248 ' DEVEEEUX. 
 
 Aubrey and Gerald, as I wrote thee word long 
 since, in the last letter I wrote thee with my own 
 hand, made a tour together for a little w^hile, 
 and that was a hard stroke on me. But after a 
 week or two Gerald returned ; and I went out 
 in my ehair to see the dear boy shoot — 'sdeath, 
 Morton, he handles the gun welL And then 
 Aubrey returned alone : but he looked pined, and 
 moping, and shut himself up, and as thou dost 
 love him so, I did not like to tell thee, till now 
 when he is quite well, that he alarmed me much 
 for him ; he is too much addicted to his devotions, 
 poor child, and seems to forget that the hope 
 of the next world, ought to make us happy in 
 this. Well, Morton, at last, two months ago, 
 Aubrey left us again, and Gerald last week set 
 off on a tour through the sister kingdom, as it 
 is called. Faith, boy, if Scotland and England 
 are sister kingdoms, 'tis a thousand pities for Scot- 
 land that they are not co-heiresses. 
 
 *' I should have told thee of this news before, 
 but I have had, as thou knowest, the gout so 
 villainously in my hand, that till t'other day, I 
 have not held a pen — and old Nicholls, my ama- 
 nuensis, is but a poor scribe ; and I did not love 
 to let the dog write to thee on all our family 
 affairs — especially as I have a secret to tell thee^ 
 which makes me plaguey uneasy. Thou must
 
 DEVEREUX. 249 
 
 know, ^Morton, that after thy departure, Gerald 
 asked me for thy rooms ; and though I did not 
 like that any one else should have what belonged 
 to thee, yet I have always had a foolish antipa- 
 thy to say ' No !" so thy brother had them, on 
 condition to leave them exactly as they were, and 
 to yield them to thee whenever thou should''st 
 return to claim them. Well, Morton, when Ge- 
 rald went on his tour with thy youngest brother, 
 old Nicholle — you know 'tis a garrulous fellow — 
 told me one night, that his son Hugh — you re- 
 member Hugh, a thin youth, and a tall — lingering 
 by the beach one evening, saw a man, Avrapped in a 
 cloak, come out of the castle cave, unmoor one 
 of the boats, and push off to the little island 
 opposite. Hugh swears by more than yea and 
 nay, that the man was Father Montreuil. Now, 
 Morton, this made me very uneasy, and I saw 
 why thy brother Gerald wanted thy rooms, which 
 communicate so snugly with the sea. So I told 
 NichoU slily, to have the great iron gate at the 
 mouth of the passage carefully locked ; and when 
 it was locked, I had an iron plate put over the 
 whole lock, that the lean Jesuit might not creep 
 even through that. Thy brother returned, and 
 I told him a tale of the smugglers, wlio have 
 really been too daring of late, and insisted on 
 
 M 3
 
 250 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 the door being left as I had ordered ; and I told 
 him moreover, though not as if I had suspected 
 his communication with the priest, that I inter- 
 dicted all further converse with that limb of the 
 church. Thy brother heard me with an indiffe- 
 rently bad grace : but I was peremptory, and the 
 thing was agreed on. 
 
 " Well, child, the day before Gerald last left us, 
 I went to take leave of him in his own room — to 
 tell thee the truth, I had forgotten his travelling 
 expenses ; — when I was on the ; tairs of the tower, 
 I heard — by the Lord I did— MontreuiFs voice 
 in the outer-room, as plainly as I ever heard it at 
 prayers. Od'sfish, Morton, I was an angered, 
 and I made so much haste to the door, that my 
 foot slipped by the way ; thy brother heard me 
 fall, and came out — but I looked at him, as I 
 never looked at thee, Morton, and entered the 
 room. Lo the priest was not there ; I searched 
 both chambers in vain ; so I made thy brother lift 
 up the trap-door, and kindle a lamp, and I searched 
 the room below, and the passage. The priest 
 was invisible. Thou knowest, Morton, that there 
 is only one egress in the passage, and that was 
 locked, as I said before, so where the devil — the 
 devil indeed —could thy tutor have escaped ? He 
 could not have passed me on the stairs without
 
 DEVEREUX. 251 
 
 my seeing him ; he could not have leapt the 
 window, without breaking his neck ; he could not 
 have got out of the passage, without making 
 himself a current of air ! Od'sfish, Morton, this 
 thing might puzzle a wiser man than thine uncle. 
 Gerald affected to be mighty indignant at my sus- 
 picions ; but God forgive him, I saw he was 
 playing a part. A man does not write plays, my 
 child, without being keen-sighted in these little 
 intrigues ; and moreover, it is impossible I could 
 have mistaken thy tutor''s voice, Avhich, to do it 
 justice, is musical enough, and is the most sin- 
 gular voice I ever heard — unless little Sid's be 
 excepted. 
 
 " A propos of little Sid . I remember that in 
 the Mall, when I was walking there alone, three 
 weeks after my marriage, De Grammont and 
 Sid joined me. I was in a melancholic mood — 
 ('sdeath, ]Morton, marriage tames a man, as water 
 tames mice) — ' Aha, Sir William,' cried Sed- 
 ley, ' thou hast a cloud on thee — prithee now 
 brighten it away : see, thy wife shines on thee, 
 from the other end of the Mall.' ' Ah, talk not to 
 a dying man of his physic ! ' said Grammont — 
 [that Grammont was a shocking rogue, Morton.] 
 ' Prithee, Sir William, what is the chief charac- 
 teristic of wedlock .'' is it a state of war or of
 
 252 DEVEREUX. 
 
 peace ?' ' Oh, peace to be sure !' cried Sedley, 
 
 * and Sir William and his lady carry with them the 
 emblem.'' ' How ?' cried I — for I do assure thee, 
 Morton, I was of a dijfferent turn of mind. 
 
 * How V said Sid gravely, ' why the emblem of 
 peace is the cornucopia, which your lady and you 
 equitably divide— she carries the copia, and you 
 the cor — ' Nay, Morton, nay, I cannot finish the 
 jest, for after all, it was a sorry thing in little 
 Sid, whom I had befriended like a brother, with 
 heart and purse, to wound me so cuttingly — ^but 
 'tis the way with your jesters. 
 
 " Od'sfish, now how I have got out of ray 
 story ! Well, I did not go back to my room, Mor- 
 ton, till I had looked to the outside of the iron 
 door, and seen that the plate was as firm as ever : 
 so now you have the whole of the matter. Ge- 
 rald went the next day, and I fear me much lest 
 he should already be caught in some Jacobite 
 trap. Write me thy advice on the subject. Mean- 
 while, I have taken the precaution to have the 
 trap-door removed, and the aperture strongly 
 boarded over. 
 
 "But 'tis time for me to give over. I have 
 been four days on this letter, for the gout comes 
 now to me oftener than it did, and I do not know 
 when I may again write to thee with my own
 
 DEVEEEUX. 253 
 
 hand : so I resolved I would e'en empty my 
 whole budget at once. Thy mother is well and 
 blooming ; she is, at the present, abstractedly 
 employed in a prodigious piece of tapestry, which 
 old Nicholls informs me, is the wonder of all 
 the women. 
 
 " Heaven bless thee, my child ! Take care of 
 thyself, and drink moderately. It is hurtful, at 
 thy age, to drink above a gallon or so at a sit- 
 ting. Heaven bless thee again, and when the 
 weather gets warmer, thou must come with thy 
 kind looks, to make me feel at home again. At 
 present the country wears a cheerless face, and 
 everything about us is harsh and frosty, except the 
 blunt, good-for-nothing heart of thine uncle, and 
 that, winter or summer, is always warm to thee. 
 
 " William Devereux." 
 
 *' P. S. I thank thee heartily for the little spa- 
 niel of the new breed thou gottest me from the 
 Duchess of INIarlborough. It has the prettiest 
 red and white, and the blackest eyes possible. 
 But poor Ponto is as jealous as a wife three years 
 married, and I cannot bear the old hound to be 
 vexed, so I shall transfer the little creature, its 
 rival, to thy mother."
 
 254 DEVEREUX. 
 
 This letter, tolerably characteristic of the 
 blended simplicity, penetration, and overflowing 
 kindness of the writer, occasioned me much cogi- 
 tation. There was no doubt in my mind but 
 tliat Gerald and Montreuil were enffacjed in some 
 intrigue for the exiled family. The disguised 
 name which the former assumed, the state reasons 
 which D' Alvarez confessed that Barnard, or 
 rather Gerald, had for concealment, and which 
 proved, at least, that some state plot in which 
 Gerald was engaged was known to the Spaniard, 
 joined to those expressions of Montreuil, which 
 did all but own a design for the restoration of the 
 deposed line, and the power which I knew he 
 possessed over Gerald, whose mind at once bold 
 and facile, would love the adventure of the in- 
 trigue, and yield to MontreuiFs suggestions on 
 its nature, — these combined circumstances left me 
 in no doubt upon a subject deeply interesting to 
 the honour of our house, and the very life of one 
 of its members. Nothing, however, for me to do, 
 calculated to prevent or impede the designs of 
 Montreuil and the danger of Gerald, occurred to 
 me. Eager alike in my hatred and my love, I 
 said, inly, " What matters it whether one whom 
 the ties of blood never softened towards me, with 
 whom from my childhood upwards, I have wrestled
 
 DEVEREUX. 255 
 
 as with an enemy, what matters it whether 
 he win fame or death in the perilous game he 
 has engaged in ?"" And turning from this most 
 generous, and most brotherly view of the subject, 
 I began only to think whether the search or the 
 societ)' of Isora, also influenced Gerald in his ab- 
 sence from home. After a fruitless and incon- 
 clusive meditation on that head, my thoughts took 
 a less selfish turn, and dwelt with all the softness 
 of pity and the anxiety of love upon the morbid 
 temperament and ascetic devotions of Aubrey. 
 What, for one already so abstractedTrom the en- 
 joyments of earth, so darkened by superstitious 
 misconceptions of the true nature of God and the 
 true objects of his creatures — what could be an- 
 ticipated, but wasted powers and a perverted life ? 
 Alas ! when will men perceive the difference 
 between religion and priestcraft ! when will they 
 perceive that reason, so far from extinguishing 
 religion by a more gaudy light, sheds on it all 
 its lustre ? when will they perceive that nothing 
 contrary to sense is pleasing to virtue, and that 
 virtue itself is only valuable because it is the road to 
 happiness ? It is fabled, that the first legislator of 
 the Peruvians received from the Deity a golden rod, 
 with which in' his wanderings he was to strike the 
 earth, until in some destined spot the earth en-
 
 256 D E V E R E U X. 
 
 tirely absorbed it, and there — and there aloi>e — was 
 he to ei'ect a temple to the Divinity. What is 
 this fable but the cloak of an inestimable moral ? 
 Our reason is the rod of gold ; the vast world of 
 Truth gives the soil, which it is perpetually to 
 sound ; and only where without resistance the soil 
 receives the rod which guided and supported us, 
 will our Altar be sacred and our worship be ac- 
 cepted. 
 
 It
 
 DEVEREUX. 257 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Being a short Chapter, containing a most important Event. 
 
 Sir William's letter was still fresh in my 
 mind, when for want of some less noble quarter 
 wherein to bestow my tediousness, I repaired to 
 St. John. As I crossed the hall to his apartment, 
 two men, just dismissed from his presence, passed 
 me rapidly ; one was unknown to me, but there 
 was no mistaking the other — it was Montreuil. I 
 was greatly startled : the priest not appearing to 
 notice me, and conversing in a whispered, yet 
 seemingly vehement tone, with his companion, 
 hurried on, and vanished through the street door. 
 I entered St. Johns's room : he was alone, and re- 
 ceived me with his usual gaiety.
 
 258 
 
 DE VEREUX. 
 
 " Pardon me, Mr. Secretary," said I ; " but if 
 not a question of state, do inform me what you 
 know respecting the taller one of those two gen- 
 tlemen who have just quitted you?" 
 
 " It is a question of state, my dear Devereux, 
 so my answer must be brief— very little." 
 
 " You know who he is .?" 
 
 " Yes, a Jesuit, and a marvellously shrewd one : 
 the Abbe Montreuil." 
 
 "He was my tutor." 
 
 " Ah, so I have heard." 
 
 " And your acquaintance with him is positively 
 ajid bond Jide of a state nature .?" 
 
 " Positively and bond Jide.'''' 
 
 " I could tell you something of him ; he is 
 certainly in the service of the Court at St. Ger- 
 mains, and a terrible plotter on this side the 
 channel." 
 
 " Possibly ; but I wish to have no information 
 respecting him." 
 
 One great virtue of business did St. John pos- 
 sess, and I have never known any statesman who 
 possessed it so eminently : it was the discretional 
 distinction between friends of the statesman and 
 friends of the man. Much and intimately as I 
 knew St. John, I could never glean from him a 
 single secret of a state nature, until, indeed, at a
 
 D E V E U E U X. 259 
 
 later period, I leagued myself to a portion of his 
 public schemes. Accordingly I found him, at the 
 present moment, perfectly impregnable to my 
 inquiries ; and it was not till I knew Montreuirs 
 companion was tliat celebrated intriguant, the 
 Abbe Gaultier, that I ascertained the exact 
 nature of the priest's business with St. John, and 
 the exact motive of the civilities he had received 
 from Abigail JNIasham.* Being at last forced, 
 despairingly, to give over the attempt on his dis- 
 cretion, I suffered St. John to turn the conver- 
 sation upon other topics, and as these were not 
 much to the existent humour of my mind, I soon 
 rose to depart. 
 
 • Viz. — That Count Devereux ascertained the priest's commu- 
 nications and overtures from the Chevalier. The precise extent of 
 Bolingbroke's secret negociations with the exiled prince, is still one 
 of the darkest portions of the history of that time. That nego- 
 ciations tvere carried on, both by Harley and by St. John, very 
 largely, and very closely, I need not say that there is no doubt. 
 Whether there was any guilt in the correspondence — viz., whether 
 sound policy and the good of the nation did not require as well 
 as justify it— is a matter to be left to the sound casuistry, and 
 enlightened, unbiassed, and profound penetration of historians, 
 like GaUiculus to decide ; — Galliculus, that defender of whiggism 
 and libeller of freedom, whose writings would so admirably fulfil the 
 true end of party — traduce the great and exalt the little — were not 
 the rancour of the advocate rendered venomless by the imbecility of 
 the man. — Ed.
 
 260 DEVEREUX. 
 
 " Stay, Count,"' said St. John ; " shall you ride 
 to day?" 
 
 " If you will bear me company." 
 
 " Volontiers — to say the truth I was about to 
 ask you to canter your bay horse with me first to 
 Spring Gardens,* where I have a promise to make 
 to the director ; and secondly, on a mission of cha- 
 rity to a poor foreigner of rank and birth, who, in 
 his profound ignorance of this country, thought it 
 right to enter into a plot Avith some wise heads, 
 and to reveal it to some foolish tongues, who 
 brought it to us with as much clatter as if it were 
 a second gunpowder project. I easily brought 
 him off that scrape, and I am now going to give 
 him a caution for the future. Poor gentleman, I 
 hear that he is grievously distressed in pecuniary 
 matters, and I always had a kindness for exiles. 
 Who knows but that a state of exile may be our 
 own fate ! and this alien is sprung from a race as 
 haughty as that of St. John, or of Devereux. The 
 res angusta domi, must gall him sorely !" 
 
 " True," said I, slowly. " Wliat may be the 
 name of the foreigner .'*" 
 
 " Why — complain not hereafter that I do not 
 trust you in state matters — I will divulge — 
 
 * Vauxhall.
 
 DEVEEEUX. 261 
 
 D' Alvarez — Don Dieo-o — an hidaloo of the best 
 blood of Andalusia ; and not unworthy of it, I 
 fancy, in the virtues of figliting, though he may- 
 be in those of council. But — Heavens ! Devereux 
 — you seem ill I" 
 
 " No, no ! Have you ever seen this man ?" 
 
 " Never." 
 
 At this Avord a thrill of joy shot across me, for 
 I knew St. John's fame for gallantry, and I was 
 suspicious of the motives of his visit. 
 
 " St. John, I know this Spaniard — I know him 
 well, and intimately. Could you not commission 
 me to do your errand, and deliver your caution .'' 
 Relief from me he might accept ; from you, 
 as a stranger,* pride might forbid it ; and you 
 would really confer on me a personal and an essen- 
 tial kindness, if you would give me so fair an op- 
 portunity to confer kindness upon him." 
 
 " Eh hien ! I am delighted to oblige you in 
 any way. Take his direction ; you see his abode 
 is in a very pitiful suburb. Tell him from me 
 that he is quite safe at present ; but tell him also 
 to avoid, henceforward, all imprudence, all con- 
 nexion with priests, plotters, et tons ces gens-la, as 
 he values his personal safety, or at least his con- 
 tinuance in this most hospitable country. It is 
 not from every wood that we make a Mercury, nor
 
 262 DEVEREUX. 
 
 from every brain that we can carve a Mercury's 
 genius of intrigue." 
 
 " Nobody ought to be better skilled in the ma- 
 terials requisite for such productions than Mr. 
 Secretary St. John !" said I ; " and now, adieu." 
 
 " Adieu, if you won't ride with me. We meet 
 at Sir William Wyndham's to-morrow." 
 
 Masking my agitation till I was alone, I rejoiced 
 when I found myself in the open streets. I sum- 
 moned a hackney coach, and drove as rapidly as 
 the vehicle would permit, to the petty and obscure 
 suburb to which St. John had directed me. The 
 coach stopped at the door of a very humble, but 
 not absolutely wretched abode. I knocked at the 
 door. A woman opened it, and in answer to my 
 inquiries, told me that the poor foreign gentleman 
 was very ill — very ill indeed — had suffered a pa- 
 ralytic stroke — not expected to live. His daughter 
 was with him now — would see no one — even Mr. 
 Barnard had been denied admission. 
 
 At that name my feelings, shocked and stunned 
 at first by the unexpected intelligence of the poor 
 Spaniard's danger, felt a sudden and fierce revul- 
 sion — I combated it. This is no time, I thought, 
 for any jealous, for any selfish emotion. If I can 
 serve her, if I can relieve her father, let me be 
 contented. " She will see me," I said aloud, and
 
 DEVEREUX. 263 
 
 I slipped some money in the woman's hand. " I 
 am an old friend of the family, and I shall not 
 be an unwelcome intruder on the sick room of the 
 sufferer." 
 
 " Intruder, Sir — bless you, the poor gentleman 
 is quite speechless and insensible." 
 
 At hearing this, I could refrain no longer. 
 Isora's disconsolate, solitary, destitute condition, 
 broke irresistibly upon me, and all scruple of more 
 delicate and formal nature vanished at once. I 
 ascended the stairs, followed by the old woman — 
 she stopped me by the threshold of a room on the 
 second floor, and whispered " There.'''' I paused 
 an instant — collected breath and courage, and en- 
 tered. The room was partially darkened. The 
 curtains were drawn closely around the bed. By 
 a table, on which stood two or three phials of me- 
 dicine, I beheld Isora, listening with an eager, a 
 most eager and intent face, to a man whose garb 
 betrayed his healing profession, and who, laying 
 a finger on the outstretched palm of his other 
 hand, appeared giving his precise instructions, and 
 uttering; that oracular breath which — mere human 
 words to him —was a message of fate itself — a fiat 
 on which hung all tliat makes life — ^life, to his 
 trembling and devout listener. Monarchs of earth, 
 ye have not so supreme a power over woe and hap-
 
 264 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 piness, as one village leech. As he turned to leave 
 her, she drew from a most slender purse a few 
 petty coins, and I saw that she muttered some 
 words indicative of the shame of poverty, as she 
 tremblingly tended them to the outstretched palm. 
 Twice did that palm close and open on the paltry 
 sum ; and the third time the native instinct of the 
 heart overcame the later instinct of the profession. 
 The limb of Galen drew back, and shaking with 
 a gentle oscillation his capitalian honours, he laid 
 the money softly on the table, and buttoning up 
 the pouch of his nether garment, as if to resist 
 temptation, he pressed the poor hand still extend- 
 ed towards him, and bowing over it with a kind 
 respect for which I did long to approach and kiss 
 his most withered and undainty cheek, he turned 
 quickly round, and almost fell against me in the 
 abstracted hurry of his exit. 
 
 " Hush !" said I, softly. " What hope of your 
 patient ?" 
 
 The leech glanced at me meaningly, and I whis- 
 pered to him to wait for me below. Isora had 
 not yet seen me. It is a notable distinction in the 
 feelings, that all but the solitary one of grief 
 quicken to a nerve-like quickness the keenness of 
 the senses, but grief blunts them to a most -dull 
 obtuseness. I hesitated now to come forward ;
 
 DEVEREUX. 265 
 
 and so I stood, hat in hand, by the door, and not 
 knowing that the tears streamed down my cheeks 
 as I fixed my gaze upon Isora. She too stood 
 still, just where the leech had left her, Avith her 
 eyes fixed upon the ground, and her head droop- 
 ing. The right hand which the man had pressed, 
 had sunk slowly and heavily by her side, with 
 the small snowy fingers half closed over the palm . 
 There is no describing the despondency which the 
 listless position of that hand spoke, and the left 
 hand lay with a like indolence of sorrow on the 
 table, witii one finger outstretched and pointing 
 towards the phials, just as it had, some moments 
 before, seconded the injunctions of the prim phy- 
 sician. Well, for my part, if I were a painter I 
 would come now and then to a sick cliamber for a 
 study. 
 
 At last Isora, with a verj- quiet gesture of self- 
 recovery, moved towards the bed, and the next 
 moment I was by her side. If my life depended 
 on it, I could not write one, no, not one syllable 
 more of this scene. 
 
 VOL. r. N
 
 266 DEVEREUX. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Containing more than any other Chapter in the Second Book of this 
 
 History. 
 
 My first proposal was to remove the patient, 
 with all due care and gentleness, to a better lodg- 
 ing, and a district more convenient for the visits of 
 the most eminent physicians. When I expressed 
 this wish to Isora, she looked at me long and wist- 
 fully, and then burst into tears. " You will not 
 deceive us," said she, " and I accept your kind- 
 ness at once — from him I rejected the same offer." 
 
 " Him ? — of whom speak you ? — this Barnard, 
 or rather — ^but I know him !" A startling expres- 
 sion passed over Isora's speaking face. 
 
 " Know him !" she cried, interrupting me, 
 " You do not — you cannot !" 
 
 " Take courage, dearest Isora — if I may so
 
 DEVEREUX. 267 
 
 dare to call you — take courage ; it is fearful to 
 have a rival in that quarter — but I am prepared 
 for it. — This Barnard, tell me again, do you love 
 liim ?" 
 
 « Love— O God, no !" 
 
 " What then : do you still fear him ? — fear liim, 
 too, protected by the unsleeping eye, and the vigi- 
 lant hand of a love like mine ?" 
 
 " Yes !" she said falteringiy, " I fear for you 1 
 
 *' Me !" I cried, laughing scornfully, " me ! 
 nay, dearest, there breathes not tliat man whom 
 you need fear on my account. — But, answer me, is 
 not-" 
 
 ** For Heaven's sake — for mercy's sake !"" cried 
 Isora eagerly, "do not question me — I may not 
 tell you who, or what this man is — I am bound by 
 a most solemn oath, never to divulge that secret."" 
 
 " I care not," said I, calmly, " I want no con- 
 firmation of my knowledge — this masked rival is 
 my own brother !" 
 
 I fixed my eyes full on Isora while I said this, 
 and she quailed beneath my gaze : her cheek — her 
 lips — were utterly without colour, and an expres- 
 sion of sickening and keen anguish was graven 
 upon her face — She made no answer. 
 
 " Yes !" resumed I, bitterly, " it is my brother 
 
 VOL. I. N 2
 
 268 DEVEREUX. 
 
 — ^be it so — I am prepared — but if you can, Isora, 
 oh ! if you can, say one word to deny it."" 
 
 Isora''s tongue seemed literally to cleave to her 
 mouth ; at last, with a violent eifort, she muttered, 
 " I have told you, Morton, that I am bound by 
 oath not to divulge this secret ; nor may I breathe 
 a single syllable calculated to do so — if I deny 
 one name, you may question me on more — and, 
 therefore, to deny one is a breach of my oath. 
 But beware !" she added, vehemently, "oh ! beware 
 how your suspicions — mere vagvie, baseless sus- 
 picions—criminate a brother ; and above all, whom- 
 soever you believe to be the real being under this 
 disguised name — as you value your life, and there- 
 fore mine — breathe not to him a syllable of your 
 belief." 
 
 I was so struck with the energy with which this 
 was said, that after a short pause, I rejoined in an 
 altered tone, 
 
 " I cannot believe that I have aught against life 
 to fear from a brother''s hand — but I will promise 
 you to guard against latent danger. But is your 
 oath so peremptory, that you cannot deny even one 
 name ?— if not, and you can deny this, I swear to 
 you that I will never question you upon another.'" 
 
 Again a fierce convulsion wrung the lip and 
 distorted the perfect features of Isora. She re-
 
 DEVEREUX. 269 
 
 mained silent for some moments, and then mur- 
 mured, " jMy oath forbids me even that single 
 answer — tempt me no more — now, and for ever I 
 am mute upon this subject." 
 
 Perhaps some slight and momentary anger, or 
 doubt, or suspicion, betrayed itself upon my coun- 
 tenance, for Isora, after looking upon me long and 
 mournfully, said in a quiet, but melanclioly tone, 
 " I see your thoughts, and I do not reproach you 
 for them — it is natural that you should think ill of 
 one whom this mystery surrounds — one too placed 
 under such circumstances of humiliation and dis- 
 trust. I have lived long in your country — I have 
 seen for the last few months, much of its inha- 
 bitants ; I have studied too the works which pro- 
 fess to unfold its national and peculiar character ; 
 I know that you have a mistrust of the people of 
 other climates ; I know that you are cautious and 
 full of suspicious vigilance, even in your commerce 
 with each other ; I know too, (and Isora's heart 
 swelled visibly as she spoke) that poverty itself, 
 in the eyes of your commercial countrymen, is a 
 crime, and that they rarely feel confidence or place 
 faith in those who are unhappy ; — why. Count 
 Devereux, why should I require more of you than 
 of the rest of your nation .' Why should you think 
 better of the pennyless and friendless girl — the
 
 270 DEVEREUX. 
 
 degraded exile — the victim of doubt, which is so 
 often the disguise of guilt, than any other — any- 
 one even among my own people — would think of 
 one so mercilessly deprived of all the decent and 
 appropriate barriers by which a maiden should 
 be surrounded ? No — no — leave me as you found 
 me — leave my poor father where you see him — 
 any where will do for us to die in." 
 
 " Isora !" I said, clasping her in my arms, 
 " you do not know me yet ; had I found you in 
 prosperity, and in the world's honour — had I 
 wooed you in your father''s halls, and girt aroimd 
 with the friends and kinsmen of your race — I 
 might have pressed for more than you will now 
 tell me — I might have indulged suspicion where 
 I perceived mystery, and I might not have loved 
 as I love you now ! Now, Isora, in misfortune, in 
 destitution, I place without reserve my whole 
 heart — its trust, its zeal, its devotion — in your 
 keeping; come evil or good, storm or sunshine, I 
 am yours, wholly, and for ever. Reject me if 
 you will, I will return to you again ; and never- 
 never — save from my own eyes or your own lips — 
 will I receive a single evidence detracting from 
 your purity, or, Isora — mine own, own Isora— 
 may I not add also — from your love .p*" 
 
 " Too, too generous !" murmured Isora^ strug-
 
 DEVEREUX. 271 
 
 gling passionately with her tears, " may God 
 forsake me if ever I am ungrateful to thee ; and 
 believe — ^believe, that if love, more fond, more 
 true, more devoted than woman ever felt before, 
 can repay you, you shall be repaid V 
 
 Why, at that moment, did ray heart leap so 
 joyously within me ? — why did I say inly—" The 
 treasure I have so long yearned for, is found 
 at last : we have met, and through the waste of 
 years, we will walk together, and never part 
 again ?"" Why? at that moment of bliss, did / not 
 rather feel a foretaste of the coming woe ! Oh, 
 blind and capricious Fate, that gives us a presen- 
 timent at one while, and withholds it at another ! 
 Knowledge, and Prudence, and calculating Fore- 
 sight, what are ye? — warnings unto others, not our- 
 selves. Reason is a lamp which sheddeth afar a 
 glorious and general light, but leaveth all that is 
 around it in darkness and in gloom ! We foresee 
 and foretell the destiny of others — we marcli 
 credulous and benighted to our own; and like 
 Laocoon, from the very altars by which we stand 
 as the soothsayer and the priest, creep forth, un- 
 suspected and undreamt of, the serpents which 
 are fated to destroy us ! 
 
 That very day then, Alvarez was removed to 
 a lodging more wortliy of his birth, and more
 
 272 
 
 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 calculated to afford hope of his recovery. He 
 bore the removal witliout any evident sign of 
 fatigue ; but his dreadful malady had taken 
 away both speech and sense, and he was already 
 more than half the property of the grave. I sent, 
 however, for the best medical advice which 
 London could afford. They met — prescribed — 
 and left the patient just as they found him. I 
 know not, in the progress of science, what phy- 
 sicians may be to posterity, but in my time they 
 are false witnesses svibpoenaed against Death, 
 whose testimony always tells less in favour of 
 the plaintiff than the defendant. 
 
 Before we left the poor Spaniard's present 
 lodging, and when I was on the point of giving 
 some instructions to the landlady respectino- the 
 place to which the few articles of property belong- 
 ing to Don Diego and Isora were to be moved, 
 Isora made me a sign to be silent, which I obeyed. 
 " Pardon me," said she afterwards ; '< but I 
 confess that I am anxious our next residence 
 should not be known — should not be subject to 
 the intrusion of — of this — " 
 
 " Barnard, as you call him. I understand you ; 
 be it so !" and accordingly I enjoined the goods 
 to be sent to my own house, from whence they 
 were removed to Don Diego's new abode ; and
 
 DEVEREUX. 273 
 
 I took especial cai-e to leave with the good lady 
 no clue to discover Alvarez and his daughter, 
 otherwise than through me. The pleasvu*e af- 
 forded me of directino- Gerald's attention to 
 myself, I could not resist. " Tell Mr. Barnard, 
 when lie calls," said I, " that only through 
 Count INIorton Devereux, will he hear of Don 
 Diego D"" Alvarez, and the lady his daughter."" 
 
 "I will, your honour," said thelandlady ; and then 
 looking at me more attentively, she added : "Bless 
 me ! now when you speak, there is a very strong 
 likeness between yourself and Mr. Barnard."" 
 
 I recoiled as if an adder had stung me, and 
 hurried into the coach to support the patient, who 
 wa.s already placed there. 
 
 Now then my daily post was by the bed of 
 disease and suffering : in the chamber of death was 
 my vow of love ratified ; and in sadness and in 
 sorrow was it returned. But it is in such scenes 
 that the deepest, the most endearing, and the 
 most holy species of the passion is engendered. 
 As I heard Isora"'s low voice tremble with the 
 suspense of one who watches over the hourly 
 severing of the affection of Nature and of early 
 years : as I saw her light step flit by the pil- 
 low which she smoothed, and her cheek alter- 
 nately flush and fade, in watching the wants which 
 
 N 3
 
 27^ 
 
 DEVEREUX. 
 
 she relieved ; as I marked her mute, her unweary- 
 ing tenderness, breaking into a thousand nameless 
 but mighty cares, and pervading like an angel's 
 vigilance every — ^yea, the minutest — course into 
 which it flowed— did I not behold her in that 
 sphere in which woman is most lovely, and in 
 which love itself consecrates its admiration, and 
 purifies its most ardent desires ? That was not 
 a time for our hearts to speak avidibly to each 
 other ; but we felt that they grew closer and 
 closer, and we asked not for the poor eloquence 
 of 'words. But over this scene, let me not 
 linger. 
 
 One morning, as I was proceeding on foot to 
 Isora's, I perceived on the opposite side of the 
 way Montreuil and Gerald ; they were conversing 
 eagerly : they both saw me. Montreuil made a 
 slight, quiet, and dignified inclination of the head : 
 Gerald coloured, and hesitated. I thought he 
 was about to leave his companion and address me ; 
 but with a haughty and severe air, I passed on, 
 and Gerald, as if stung by my demeanour, bit his 
 lip vehemently, and followed my example. A few 
 minutes afterwards I felt an inclination to regret 
 that I had not afforded him an opportunity of 
 addressing me. " I might," thouglit I, " have 
 then taunted him with his persecution of Isora,
 
 D E V E R E U X. 275 
 
 and defied him to execute those threats against 
 me, in M'hich it is evident, from her apprehensions 
 for my safety, that he indulged." 
 
 I had not, however, much leisure for these 
 thoughts. When I arrived at the lodgings of 
 Alvarez, I found that a great change had taken 
 place in his condition ; he had recovered speech, 
 though imperfectly, and testified a return to sense. 
 I flew up stairs with a light step to congratulate 
 Isora : she met me at the door. " Hush !" she 
 whispered : " my father sleeps !" But she did not 
 speak witri the animation I had anticipated. 
 
 " What is the matter, dearest ?'''' said I, fol- 
 lowing her into another apartment : " you seem 
 sad, and your eyes are red with tears, which are 
 not, methinks, entirely the tears of joy at this 
 happy change in your father .'*" 
 
 " I am marked out for sufTering,"" returned 
 Isora, more keenly than she was wont to speak. 
 I pressed her to explain her meaning : she hesi- 
 tated at first, but at length confessed that her 
 father had always been anxious for her marriage 
 with this soi-disant Barnard, and that his first 
 words on his recovery had been to press her to 
 consent to his wishes. 
 
 " My poor father," said she, weepingly, " speaks 
 and thinks only for my fancied good ; but his
 
 276 DEVEREUX. 
 
 senses as yet are only recovered in part, and he 
 cannot even understand me when I speak of you. 
 ' I shall die,"* he said, ' I shall die, and you will 
 be left on the wide world !' I in vain endeavoured 
 to explain to him that I should have a protector — 
 he fell asleep muttering those words, and with 
 tears in his eyes." 
 
 " Does he know as much of this Barnard as you 
 do r said I. 
 
 " Heavens, no !— or he would never have pressed 
 me to marry one so wicked" 
 
 " Does he know even who he is ?"" 
 
 " Yes V said Isora, after a pause, " but he has 
 not known it long." 
 
 Here the physician joined us, and taking me 
 aside, informed me that, as he had foreboded, sleep 
 had been the harbinger of death, and that Don 
 Diego was no more. I broke the news as gently as 
 I could to Isora ; but her grief was far more violent 
 than I could have anticipated : and nothing seemed 
 to cut her so deeply to the heart, as the thought 
 that his last wish had been one with which she 
 Jiad not complied, and could never comply. 
 
 I pass over the first days of mourning — I come 
 to the one after Don Dieffo's funeral. I had been 
 
 -o 
 
 with Isora in the morning : I left her for a few 
 hours, and returned at the first dusk of evening
 
 DEVEEEUX. 277 
 
 with some books and music, wliich I vainly hoped 
 slie might recur to for a momentary abstraction 
 from her grief. I dismissed my carriage, with the 
 intention of walking home, and addressing the 
 Avoman-servant who admitted me, inquired, as was 
 my wont, after Isora. " She has been very ill," 
 replied the woman, " ever since the strange gen- 
 tleman left her." 
 
 " The strange gentleman ?"" 
 Yes, he had forced his way upstairs, despite 
 of the denial the servant had been ordered to give 
 to all strangers. He had entered Isora's room ; 
 and the woman, in answer to my urgent inquiries, 
 added that she had heai'd his voice raised to a 
 loud and harsh key in the apartment ; he had 
 stayed there about a quarter of an hour, and had 
 then hurried out, seemingly in great disorder and 
 agitation. 
 
 "What description of man was he.^" I asked. 
 The woman answered that he was mantled from 
 head to foot in liis cloak, which was richly laced, 
 and his hat was looped with diamonds, but slouched 
 over that part of his face which the collar of his 
 cloak did not hide, so that she could not further 
 describe him than as one of a haughty and abrupt 
 Ijearing, and evidently belonging to the higher 
 ranks.
 
 278 DEVEREUX. 
 
 Convinced that Gerald had been the intruder, 
 I hastened up the stairs to Isora. She received 
 me with a sickly and faint smile, and endeavoured 
 to conceal the traces of her tears. 
 
 " So !" said I, " this insolent persecutor of 
 your's has discovered your abode, and again in- 
 sulted or intimidated you. He shall do so no 
 more! — I will seek him to-morrow — and no affinity 
 of blood shall prevent — " 
 
 " INIorton, dear Morton !" cried Isora, in great 
 alarm, and yet with a certain determination stamped 
 upon her features, " hear me ! — it is true this 
 man has been here — it is true that fearful and 
 terrible as he is, he has agitated and alarmed 
 me ; but it was only for you, jNIorton— by the 
 Holy Virgin, it was only for you ! ' The moment,' 
 said he, and his voice ran shiveringly through my 
 heart like a dao-orer, ' the moment IMorton De- 
 vereux discovers who is his rival, that moment his 
 death-warrant is irrevocably sealed !'" 
 
 " Arrogant boaster !" I cried, and my blood 
 burnt Avith the intense rage which a much slighter 
 cause would have kindled from the natural fierce- 
 ness of my temper. " Does he think my life is 
 at his bidding, to allow or to withhold .?— Unhand 
 me, Isora, unhand me ! I tell you I will seek him 
 this moment, and dare him to do his worst !"
 
 DEVEREUX. 279 
 
 " Do so,'' said Isora, calmly, and releasing her 
 hold ; " do so ; but hear me first : the moment 
 you breathe to him your suspicions, you place an 
 eternal barrier betwixt yourself and me ! Pledge 
 me your faith that you will never, while I live at 
 least, reveal to him — to any one — whom you sus- 
 pect—your reproach, your defiance, your know- 
 ledge — nay, not even your lightest suspicion of 
 his identity with my persecutor — promise me this, 
 IMorton Devereux, or, I, in my turn, before that 
 crucifix, whose sanctity we both acknowledge and 
 adore — that crucifix which has descended to my 
 race for three unbroken centuries — which, for my 
 departed fathers in the solemn vow, and in the 
 death agony, has still been a witness, a consola- 
 tion, and a pledge, between the soul and its Crea- 
 tor — by that crucifix which my dying mother 
 clasped to her bosom, when she committed me, 
 an infant, to the care of that Heaven which hears 
 and records for ever our lightest word — I swear 
 that I Avill never be yours !" 
 
 " Isora !" said I, awed and startled, yet 
 struggling against the impression her energy 
 made upon me, " you know not to what you 
 jolcdge yourself, or what you require of me. If 
 I do not seek out this man — if I do not expose
 
 280 DEVEUEUX. 
 
 to kim my knowledge of his pursuit and un- 
 hallowed persecution of you — if I do not effec- 
 tually prohibit and prevent their continuance — 
 think well, what security have I for your future 
 peace of mind— nay, even for the safety of your 
 honour or your life. A man thus bold, daring, 
 and unbaffled in his pursuit, thus vigilant and 
 skilful in his selection of time and occasion — so 
 that, despite my constant and anxious endeavour 
 to meet him in your presence, I have never been 
 able to do so — from a man, I say, thus pertinacious 
 in resolution, thus crafty in disguise, what may 
 you not dread when you have made him utterly 
 fearless by the licence of impunity ? Think too, 
 again, Isora, that the mystery dishonours as much 
 as the danger menaces. Is it meet that my be- 
 trothed and my future bride should be subjected 
 to these secret and terrible visitations — visitations 
 of a man professing himself her lover, and evincing 
 the vehemence of his passion by that of his pur- 
 suit ? Isora — Isora — you have weighed not these 
 things — ^you know not what you demand of me.'"" 
 
 " I do !" answered Isora, " I do know all that 
 I demand of you — I demand of you only to pre- 
 serve your life." 
 
 " How," said I, impatiently, " cannot my hand 
 preserve my life ? and is it for you, the daughter
 
 devf.heux. 
 
 281 
 
 of a line of warriors, to ask your lover and your 
 husband to shrink from a single foe ?"" 
 
 " No, INIorton," answered Isora. " Were you 
 going to battle, I would gird on your sword myself 
 — were, too, this man other than he is, and you 
 were about to meet him in open contest, I would 
 not wrong you, nor degrade your betrothed, by a 
 fear. But I know my persecutor well — fierce, 
 unrelenting — dreadful in his dark and ungovern- 
 able passions as he is, he has not the courage to 
 confront you : I fear not the open foe, but the 
 lurking, and sure assassin. His very earnestness 
 to avoid you ; the precautions he has taken — ^nay, 
 from me, the certainty he has obtained to that 
 effect — are alone sufficient to convince you that he 
 dreads personally to oppose your claim, or to vin- 
 dicate himself." 
 
 " Then what have I to fear ?'" 
 
 " Every thing ! Do you not know that from 
 men, at once fierce, crafty, and shrinking from bold 
 violence, the stuff for assassins is always made ? 
 And if I wanted surer proof of his designs than 
 inference, his oath — it rings in my ears now — is 
 sufficient : ' The moment Morton Devereux dis- 
 covers who is his rival, that moment his death- 
 warrant is irrevocably sealed.' Morton, I demand
 
 282 DEVEREUX. 
 
 your promise ; or, though my heart break, I will 
 record my own vow." 
 
 " Stay — stay," I said, in anger, and in sorrow : 
 " were I to promise this, and for my own safety 
 hazard yours, what could you deem me ?" 
 
 " Fear not for me, Morton," answered Isora ; 
 " you have no cause. I tell you that this man, 
 villain as he is, ever leaves me, humbled and 
 abased. Do not think, that in all times, and all 
 scenes, I am the foolish and weak creature you 
 behold me now. Remember, that you said rightly 
 I was the daughter of a line of warriors ; and I 
 have that within me which will not shame my 
 descent." 
 
 " But, dearest, your resolution may avail you 
 for a time ; but it cannot for ever baffle the hard- 
 ened nature of a man. I know my own sex, and 
 I know my own ferocity, were it once aroused." 
 
 " But, Morton, you do not know me," said 
 Isora, proudly, and her face, as she spoke, was set, 
 and even stern, " I am only the coward when I 
 think of you ; a word — a look of mine — can abash 
 this man ; or, if it could not, I am never without 
 
 a weapon to defend myself, or — or " Isora's 
 
 voice, before firm and collected, now faltered, and 
 a deep blush flowed over the marble paleness of 
 her face.
 
 DEVEREUX. 283 
 
 " Or what ?" said I, anxiously. 
 
 " Or thee, INIorton !" murmured Isora, tenderly, 
 and withdrawing her eyes from mine. 
 
 The tone, the look that accompanied these 
 words, melted me at once. I rose — I clasped 
 Isora to my heart — and, pouring my kisses upon 
 her soft lips, I said, — 
 
 " You are a strange compound, my own fairy 
 queen ; but these lips — this cheek — those eyes — 
 are not fit features for a heroine." 
 
 " INIorton, if I had less determination in my 
 heart, I could not love you so well." 
 
 " But tell me," I whispered, with a smile, 
 " where is this weapon on which you rely so 
 strongly ?" 
 
 " Here !" answered Isora, blushingly ; and, ex- 
 tricating herself from me, she shewed me a small 
 two-edged dagger, which she wore carefully con- 
 cealed Avithin the folds of her dress. I looked 
 over the bright, keen blade with surprise, and yet 
 ynth pleasure, at the latent resolution of a cha- 
 racter seemingly so soft. I say with pleasure, for 
 it suited well Avith my oavti fierce and wild temper. 
 I returned the weapon to her, with a smile and a 
 jest. 
 
 " Ah !" said Isora^ shrinking from my kiss, " I
 
 284 DEVEREUX. 
 
 should not have been so bold, if I only feared 
 danger for myself." 
 
 But if, for a moment, we forgot, in the gushings 
 of our affection, the object of our converse and 
 dispute, we soon returned to it again. Isora was 
 the first to recur to it. She reminded me of the 
 promise she required ; and she spoke with a seri- 
 ousness and a solemnity which I found myself 
 scai'cely able to resist. 
 
 " But," I said, " if he ever molests you here- 
 after ; if again I find that bright cheek blanched, 
 and those dear eves dimmed with tears, and I 
 know that, in my own house, some one has dared 
 thus to insvilt its queen, am I to be still torpid and 
 inactive, lest a dastard and craven hand should 
 avenge my assertion of your honour and mine .''" 
 
 " No, Morton : after our marriage, Avhenever 
 that be, you will have nothing to apprehend from 
 him on the same ground as before ; my fear for 
 you, too, will not be what it is now ; your honour 
 will be bound in mine, and nothing shall 
 induce me to hazard it — ^no, not even your safety. 
 I have every reason to believe that, after that 
 event, he will subject me no longer to his insults — 
 how, indeed, can he, under your perpetual protec- 
 tion ? or, for what cause should he attempt it, if 
 he could .'' I shall be then yours — only and ever
 
 DEVEEEUX. 28-5 
 
 yours — what hope could, therefore, then nerve his 
 hardihood, or instigate his intrusions ? Trust to 
 me at that time, and suffer me to — nay, I repeat, 
 promise me that I may — trust in you now !" 
 
 What could I do? I still combated her wish, 
 and her request ; but her steadiness and rigidity 
 of purpose made me, though reluctantly, yield to 
 them at last. So sincere, and so stern, indeed, 
 appeared her resolution, that I feared, by refusal, 
 that she would take the rash oath that would 
 separate us for ever. Added to this, I felt in her 
 that confidence which, I am apt to believe, is far 
 more akin to the latter stages of a real love, than 
 jealousy and mistrust ; and I could not believe 
 that either now, or, still less after our nuptials, 
 she would risk aught of honour, or the seemings of 
 honour, from a visionary and superstitious fear. 
 Despite, therefore, of my keen and deep interest in 
 the thorough discovery of this mysterious per- 
 secutor ; and, still more, in the prevention of all 
 future designs from his audacity, I constrained 
 myself to promise her, that I would on no account 
 seek out the person I suspected, or wilfully betray 
 to him, by word or deed, my belief of his identity 
 with Barnard. 
 
 Though greatly dissatisfied with my self-com- 
 pulsion, I strove to reconcile myself to its idea.
 
 286 DEVEREUX. 
 
 Indeed, there was much in the peculiar circum- 
 stances of Isora — much in the freshness of her 
 present affliction — much in the unfriended and utter 
 destitution of her situation — tha 1; while, on the one 
 hand, it called forth her pride, and made stubborn 
 that temper, which was naturally so gentle and so 
 soft ; on the other hand, made me yield even to 
 wishes that I thought unreasonable, and consider 
 rather the delicacy and deference due to her con- 
 dition, than insist upon the sacrifices which, in 
 more fortunate circumstances, I might have ima- 
 gined due to myself. Still more indisposed to 
 resist her wish and expose myself to its penalty 
 was I, when I considered her desire was the mere 
 excess and caution of her love, and when I felt 
 that she spoke sincerely, when she declared that it 
 was only for me that she was the coward. Never- 
 theless, and despite of all these considerations, it 
 was with a secret discontent that I took my leave 
 of her, and departed homeward. 
 
 I had just reached the end of the street where 
 the house was situated, when I saw there, very 
 imperfectly — for the night was extremely dark — 
 the figure of a man entirely enveloped in a long 
 cloak, such as was commonly worn by gallants, in 
 affairs of secrecy or intrigue ; and in the pale light 
 of a single lamp near which he stood, something
 
 D E V E II E U X. 287 
 
 like the brilliance of gems glittered on the large 
 Spanish hat which overhimg his brow. I imme- 
 diately recalled the description the woman had 
 given me of Barnard's dress, and the thought 
 flashed across me that it was he whom I beheld. 
 " At all events," thought I, " I may confirm my 
 doubts, if I may not communicate them, and I 
 may watch over her safety, if I may not avenge 
 her injuries ?"" I therefore took advantage of my 
 knowledge of the surrounding quarfier, passed 
 the stranger with a quick step, and then, run- 
 ning rapidly, returned by a circuitous route to 
 the mouth of a narrow and dark street, which 
 was exactly opposite to Isora''s house. Here I 
 concealed myself by a projecting porch, and I had 
 not waited long before I saw the dim form of the 
 stranger walk slowly by the house. He passed it 
 three or four times, and each time I thought — 
 though the darkness might well deceive me — that 
 he looked up to the windows. He made, how- 
 ever, no attempt at admission, and appeared as if 
 he had no other object than that of watching by 
 the house. Wearied and impatient at last, I came 
 from my concealment. " I may confirm my 
 suspicions," I repeated, recurring to my oath, and 
 I walked straight towards the stranger. 
 
 " Sir ! "" I said, very calmly, " I am the last
 
 288 DEVEEEUX. 
 
 person in the world to interfere with the amuse- 
 ments of any other gentleman ; but I humbly 
 opine, that no man can parade by this house upon so 
 veiy cold a night, without giving just ground for 
 suspicion to the friends of its inhabitants. I hap- 
 pen to be among that happy number : and I there- 
 fore, with all due humility and respect, venture to 
 request you to seek some other spot for your noc- 
 turnal perambulations." 
 
 I made this speech purposely prolix, in order to 
 have time fully to reconnoitre the person of the 
 one I addressed. The dusk of the night, and the 
 loose garb of the stranger, certainly forbade any 
 decided success to this scrutiny ; but methought 
 the figure seemed, despite of my prepossessions, to 
 want the stately height and grand proportions of 
 Gerald Devereux. I must own, however, that the 
 necessary inexactitude of my survey, rendered this 
 idea without just fovmdation, and did not by any 
 means diminish my firm impression that it was 
 Gerald Avhom I beheld. AVhile I spoke, he re- 
 treated Avith a quick step, but made no answer — 1 
 pressed upon him — he backed with a still quicker 
 step ; and when I had ended, he fairly turned 
 round, and made at full speed along the dark 
 street in which I had fixed my previous post of 
 watch. I fled after him, with a step as fleet as his
 
 DEVEREUX. _ 289 
 
 own — his cloak encumbered his flight — I gained 
 upon him sensibly — he turned a sharp corner — 
 threw me out, and entered into a broad thorough- 
 fai-e. As I sped after him, Bacchanalian voices 
 burst upon my ear, and presently a large band of 
 those young men, who, under the name of Mohawks, 
 were wont to scour the toAni nightly, and, sword in 
 hand, to exercise their love of riot, under the dis- 
 guise of party zeal, became visible in the middle of 
 the street. Through them my fugitive dashed 
 headlong, and, profiting by their surprise, escaped 
 unmolested. I attempted to follow with equal 
 speed, but was less successful. " Halloo !" cried the 
 foremost of the group, placing himself in my way. 
 " No such haste ! Art Whig or Tory .? — Under 
 which king — Bezonian, speak or die .''" 
 
 " If ave a care, Sir," said I fiercely, drawing my 
 sword. 
 
 *' Treason, treason !" cried the speaker, con- 
 fronting me with equal readiness. " Have a care, 
 indeed — have at thee.''* 
 
 " Ha !" cried another, " 'tis a Tory ; 'tis the 
 Secretary's popish friend, Devereux — pike him, 
 pike him." 
 
 I had already ran my opponent through the 
 sword arm, and was in hopes that this aet would 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 290 DEVEREUX. 
 
 intimidate the rest, and allow my escape ; but at 
 the sound of my name and political bias, coupled 
 with the drawn blood of their confederate, the 
 patriots rushed upon me with that amiable fury 
 generally characteristic of all true lovers of their 
 country. Two swords passed through my body 
 simultaneously, and I fell bleeding and insensible 
 to the ground. When I recovered I was in my 
 own apartments, whither two of the gentler Mo- 
 hawks had conveyed me ; the surgeons were by 
 my bed-side ; I groaned audibly when I saw them. 
 If there is a thing in the world I hate, it is in any 
 shape the disciples of Hermes ; they always re- 
 mind me of that Indian people (the Padsei, I 
 think) mentioned by Herodotus, who sustained 
 themselves by devouring the sick. " All is Avell," 
 said one, Avhen my groan Avas heard. " He will 
 not die," said another. " At least not till we 
 have had more fees," said a third, more candid 
 than the rest. And thereupon they seized me, 
 and began torturing my wounds anew, till I faint- 
 ed away with the pain. However, the next day 
 I was declared out of immediate danger ; and the 
 first proof I gave of my convalescence was to make 
 Desmarais discharge four surgeons out of five: the 
 remaining one I thought my youth and constitu- 
 tion might enable me to endure.
 
 DEVEREUX. 291 
 
 That very evening, as I was turning restlessly 
 in my bed, and muttering, with parched lips, the 
 name of " Isora,' I saw by my side a figure co- 
 vered from head to foot in a long veil, and a voice 
 low, soft, but thrilling through my heart like a 
 new existence, murmured, " She is here." 
 
 I forgot my wounds, I forgot my pain and my 
 debility — I sprung upwards — the stranger drew 
 aside the veil from her countenance, and I beheld 
 Isora ! 
 
 " Yes !" said she, in her owa liquid and honied 
 accents, which fell like balm upon my wound, 
 and my spirit, " yes, she Avhom yoic have hither- 
 to tended, is come, in her turn, to render some 
 slight but woman's services to you. She has come 
 to nurse, and to soothe, and to pray for you, and 
 to be, till you yourself discard her, your liand- 
 maid and your slave." 
 
 I would have answered, but raising her finger 
 to her lips, she rose and vanished ; but from that 
 hour my wound healed, my fever slaked, and 
 whenever I beheld her flitting round my bed, or 
 watching over me, or felt her cool fingers wiping 
 the dew from my brow, or took from her hand 
 my medicine, or my food, in those moments the 
 blood seemed to make a new struggle through my 
 veins, and I felt palpably within me a fresh and
 
 292 DEVEREUX. 
 
 delicious life — a life full of youth, and passion, 
 and hope, replace the vaguer and duller being 
 which I had hitherto borne. 
 
 There are some extraordinary incongruities in 
 that very mysterious thing sympathy. One would 
 imagine that in a description of things most gene- 
 rally interesting to all men, the most general inte- 
 rest would be found ; nevertheless, I believe few 
 persons would hang breathless over the progres- 
 sive history of a sick bed. Yet those gradual stages 
 from danger to recovery, how delightfully inter- 
 esting they are to all who have crawled from 
 one to the other ! and who, at some time or other, 
 in his journey through that land erf diseases — civi- 
 lized life — has not taken that gentle excursion ? " I 
 would be ill any day for the pleasure of getting 
 well," said Fontenelle to me one morning with his 
 usual naivete ; but who would not be ill for the 
 mere pleasure of being ill, if he could be tended 
 by her whom he most loves ? 
 
 I shall not therefore dwell upon that most deli- 
 cious period of my life — my sick bed, and my reco- 
 very from it. I pass on to a certain evening in 
 which I heard from Isora's lips the whole of her 
 history, save what related to her knowledge of 
 the real name of one whose persecution constituted 
 the little of romance which had yet mingled with
 
 DEVEREUX. 293 
 
 her innocent and pure life. That evening — how 
 well I remember it ! we were alone — still weak 
 and reduced, I lay upon the sofa beside the 
 window, which was partially open, and the still 
 air of an evening in the first infancy of spring, 
 came fresh, and fraught, as it were, with a pre- 
 diction of the glowing woods, and the reviving 
 verdure, to my cheek. The stars, one by one 
 kindled, as if born of Heaven and Twilight, into 
 their nightly being ; and through the vapour 
 and thick ether of the dense city, streamed their 
 most silent light, holy and pure, and resembling 
 that which the Divine INIercy sheds upon the gross 
 nature of mankind. But shadowy and calm, their 
 rays fell full upon the face of Isora, as she lay on 
 the ground beside my couch, and with one hand 
 surrendered to my clasp, looked upward till, as 
 she felt my gaze, she turned her cheek blushingly 
 away. There was quiet around and above us ; but 
 beneath the window we heard at times the sounds 
 of the common earth, and then insensibly our 
 hands knit into a closer clasp, and we felt them 
 thrill more palpably to our hearts ; for those 
 sounds reminded us both of our existence, and of 
 our separation from the great herd of our race. 
 
 What is love but a division from the world, and 
 a blending of two souls, two immortalities divested 
 
 o2
 
 294< DEVEREUX. 
 
 of clay and ashes, into one ? it is a severing of a 
 thousand ties from whatever is harsh and selfish, 
 in order to knit them into a single and sacred 
 bond ! Who loves, hath attained the anchorite's 
 secret ; and the hermitage has become dearer than 
 the world. O respite from the toil and the curse 
 of our social and banded state, a little interval 
 art thou, suspended between two eternities — the 
 past and the future — a star that hovers between 
 the morning and the night, sending through the 
 vast abyss one solitary ray from heaven, but too 
 far and faint to illumine while it hallows the 
 earth ! 
 
 There was nothing in Isora's tale which the 
 reader has not already learnt, or conjectured. 
 She had left her Andalusian home in her early 
 childhood, but she remembered it well, and 
 lingeringly dwelt over it, in description. It 
 was evident that little, in our colder and less 
 genial isle, had attracted her sympathy, or wound 
 itself into her affection. Nevertheless, I conceive 
 that her naturally dreamy and abstracted charac- 
 ter had received from her residence and her trials 
 here, much of the vigour and the heroism which 
 it now possessed. Brought up alone, music, and 
 books — few, though not ill-chosen, for Shakspeare 
 was one, and the one which had made upon her
 
 DEVEREUX. 295 
 
 the most permanent impression, and perhaps had 
 coloured her temperament with its latent but rich 
 hues of poetry — constituted her amusement and 
 her studies. 
 
 But who knows not that a woman's heart finds 
 its fullest occupation within itself? There lies 
 its real study, and within that narrow orbit, the 
 mirror of enchanted thought reflects tlie wliole 
 rano-e of earth. There was it, that loneliness and 
 
 » 
 
 meditation nursed the mood which afterwards, with 
 Isora, became love itself. But 1 do not wish now 
 so much to describe her character, as to abridge her 
 brief history. The first English stranger, of the 
 male sex, whom her father admitted to her ac- 
 quaintance, was Barnard. This man was, as I 
 had surmised, connected with him in certain poli- 
 tical intrigues, the exact nature of which she did 
 not know. I continue to call him by a name which 
 Isora acknowledged was fictitious. He had never, 
 by actual declaration, betrayed to her his affections : 
 though, accompanied by a sort of fierceness which 
 early revolted her, they soon became visible. On 
 the evening in which I had found her stretched 
 insensible in the garden, and had myself made 
 my first confession of love, I learnt that he liad 
 divulged to her his passion and real name ; that 
 her rejection had thrown him into a fierce despair
 
 296 DEVEREUX. 
 
 — that he had accompanied his disclosure with 
 the most terrible threats against me, for whom 
 he supposed himself rejected, and against the 
 safety of her father, whom he said a word of his 
 could betray ; that her knowledge of his power to 
 injure vis — us — yes, Isora then loved me, and then 
 trembled for my safety — had terrified and over- 
 come her — and that in the very moment in which 
 my horse^s hoofs were heard, and as the alter- 
 native of her non compliance, the rude suitor 
 swore deadly and sore vengeance against Alvarez 
 and myself, she yielded to the oath he prescribed 
 to her — an oath that she would never reveal the 
 secret he had betrayed to her, or suffer me to 
 know who was my real rival. 
 
 This was all that I covild gather from her 
 guarded confidence ; he heard the oath, and 
 vanished, and she felt no more till she was in my 
 arms ; then it was that she saw in the love and 
 vengeance of my rival, a barrier against our union ; 
 and then it was that her generous fear for me 
 conquered her attachment, and she renounced me. 
 Their departure from the cottage so shortly after- 
 wards^ was at her father''s choice and at the insti- 
 gation of Barnard, for the furtherance of their 
 political projects ; and it was from Barnard that 
 the money came, which repaid my loan to Alvarez.
 
 DEVEREUX. 297 
 
 The same person, no doubt, poisoned her father 
 against me, for henceforth Alvarez never spoke 
 of me with that partiality he had done before. 
 They repaired to London ; her father was often 
 absent, and often engaged with men whom she had 
 never seen before ; he was absorbed and uncom- 
 municative, and she was still ignorant of the nature 
 of his schemings and designs. 
 
 At length, after an absence of several weeks, 
 Barnard reappeared, and his visits became con- 
 stant ; he renewed his suit to her father as well 
 as herself. Then commenced that domestic perse- 
 cution, so common in this very tyrannical world, 
 which makes us sicken to hear, and which, had 
 Isora been wholly a Spanish girl, she, in all pro- 
 bability would never have resisted : so much of 
 custom is there in the very air of a climate. But 
 she did resist it, partly because she loved me — and 
 loved me more and more for our separation — and 
 partly because she dreaded and abhorred the 
 ferocious and malignant passions of my rival, far 
 beyond any other misery with whicli fortune 
 could threaten her. " Your father then shall 
 hang or starve V said Barnard, one day in un- 
 controllable frenzy, and left her. He did not 
 appear again at the house. The Spaniard's re- 
 sources, fed, probably, alone by Barnard, failed.
 
 298 DEVEREUX. 
 
 From house to house they removed, till they were 
 reduced to that humble one in which I had found 
 them. There Barnard again sought them ; there, 
 backed by the powerful advocate of want, he again 
 pressed his suit, and at that exact moment, her 
 father was struck with the numbing curse of his 
 disease. " There and then," said Isora candidly, 
 *' I might have yielded at last, for my poor fa- 
 ther's sake, if you had not saved me." 
 
 Once only, (I have before recorded the time,) 
 did Barnard visit her in the new abode I had pro- 
 vided for her, and the day after our conversation 
 on that event, Isora watched and watched for me, 
 and I did not come. From the woman of the 
 house she at last learned the cause. " I forgot,'' 
 she said timidly — and in conclusion, " I forgot 
 womanhood, and modesty, and reserve ; I forgot 
 the customs of your country, the decencies of my 
 own ; I ^rgot every thing in this world, but you — 
 you suffering and in danger ; my very sense of 
 existence seemed to pass from me, and to be sup- 
 plied by a breathless, confused, and overwhelming 
 sense of impatient agony, which ceased not, till 
 I was in your chamber, and by your side ! And — 
 and now, Morton, do not despise me for not having 
 considered more, and loved you less." 
 
 " Despise you !" I murmured, and I threw my
 
 DEVEUEUX. 299 
 
 arras around her, and drew her to my breast. I 
 felt her heart beat against my ovm : those hearts 
 spoke tliough our lips were silent, and their lan- 
 guage seemed to say : " We are united now, and 
 we will not part." 
 
 The star-light, shining with a mellow and deep 
 stillness, was the only light by which we beheld 
 each other — it shone, the witness and the sanction 
 of that internal voice, which we oAvaied but heard 
 not. Our lips di-ew closer and closer together, 
 till they met ! and in that kiss, was the type and 
 promise of the after ritual wliich knit two spirits 
 into one. Silence fell ai'ound us like a curtain, 
 and the eternal Night, with her fresh dews and 
 unclouded stars, looked alone upon the compact 
 of our hearts — an emblem of the eternity, the 
 freshness, and the unearthl}-, though awful bright- 
 ness of the love which it hallowed and beheld. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. AND BOOK IT. 
 
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