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ESSAYS 
 
 TALES IN PROSE. 
 
 BY 
 
 BARRY CORNWALL 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 TICKNOR, REED, AND FIELDS. 
 
 M DCCCLIII. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by 
 
 TICKNOR, REED, AND FIELDS, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
 THURSTON', TOnnr, and EMERSOJf, PBISTEES. 
 
StacR 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The Author of the following Essays and Tales 
 has addressed a letter to us, part of which we ex- 
 tract, as an introduction to these volumes. 
 
 ' As far as I am able to invest you with 
 the exclusive right of publishing, in the United 
 States, an edition of these prose writings, I do 
 so, by this letter. Some of them, you will take 
 note, have never been printed in their present 
 state before. 
 
 ' You will find, amongst these selected pa- 
 pers, some which were written as early as 1820, 
 and one as late (I think) as 1848 or 1849; — 
 some which pretend to be " lively," and a few 
 
IV PEEFACE. 
 
 which are strictly " severe " ; — several essays, 
 chiefly on poetical subjects, none which are very 
 elaborate; — and a story or two, in which the 
 pathos perhaps predominates, while the moral 
 (like the light under the bushel) is hidden from 
 the careless observer. 
 
 ' One of the pieces I think had better be 
 omitted. I refer to an essay on English poetry, 
 — written hastily, many years ago, — very im- 
 perfect, — by no means coming up to my idea 
 of the subject at that time, — and very far 
 below it now. 
 
 * You have at present such admirable writers 
 of prose fiction in America, (amongst others, 
 Mr. Hawthorne, and Mr. Longfellow,) that I 
 might reasonably feel a little diffident as to the 
 reception which my little pieces of prose are 
 likely to encounter from your countrymen. But 
 my critics — English as well as American — 
 have for the most part been always so good- 
 natured to my efforts, that I have no hesitation 
 in throwing myself upon their kindness once 
 
 again.' 
 
 B. W. PROCTER. 
 London, October 13, 1352. 
 
PREFACE. V 
 
 We have taken the liberty of including in these 
 volumes, the ' Essay on English Poetry,' referred to 
 by Mr. Procter as a piece he thinks ' had better be 
 omitted,' as that article, on its appearance in the 
 Edinburgh Review, was very generally perused, and 
 highly commended by the public. 
 
 THE PUBLISHERS. 
 Boston, Nov. 1852. 
 
CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 Memoir and Essay on the Genius of Shakspeee . . 1 
 
 The Death of Friends 62 
 
 The Spanish Student 73 
 
 A Short Mystery 91 
 
 The Portrait On My Uncle's Snuff-Box . . . 105 
 
 A Day in Venice 127 
 
 The Stauntons 145 
 
 A Chapter on Portraits 162 
 
 The Prison-Breaker 169 
 
 The Planter 198 
 
 Vicissitudes in a Lawyer's Life 214 
 
 The Man-Hunter ....... 237 
 
 The Two Soldiers 255 
 
MEMOIR AND ESSAY ON THE GENIUS 
 OF SHAKSPERE. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 § L 
 
 Of the personal history of Shakspere — the great- 
 est genius, beyond doubt or cavil, that ever the vi'orld 
 produced — little now can with certainty be shown. 
 The registers of Stratford ; his own Sonnets ; a few 
 casual references to him, in the writings or sayings of 
 cotemporary authors ; and all the sources from which 
 materials for his life may be safely extracted, are 
 reckoned up. The public of his time had no curi- 
 osity on the subject, or the writers of his time had no 
 anxiety to collect or yield information, regarding him 5 
 and he himself — beyond, even, 
 
 ' That last infirmity of noble minds,' 
 
 the desire of fame — did not think it worth while to 
 place materials for his own history on record ; or, 
 secure of such immortality as earth can bestow, was 
 content that we should track him into the depths and 
 recesses of his being, by the light of his genius alone. 
 What he did, or thought, or suffered, in his own indi- 
 
 VOli. I. 1 
 
2 MEMOIR AND ESSAY ON 
 
 vidual person, is now mere matter for ingenious con- 
 jecture. We are sure that his mind was vast, liberal, 
 compassionate, generous ; — that he saw human nature 
 on every side, detecting it in its many masks and 
 changes ; — that he penetrated into the innermost 
 mysteries of man ; that 
 
 ' From this bank and shoal of time ' 
 
 his intellect soared upwards, and held commerce with 
 the stars ; with our dim ' Hereafter ; ' and with worlds 
 and agencies beyond our own ; and knowing all this, 
 our curiosity as to the possessor of faculties so varied 
 and wonderful, and our consequent disappointment on 
 being baffled at every point of inquiry, becomes pro- 
 portionably great. 
 
 It is not the least singular of the causes which have 
 cast obscurity upon the life of Shakspere, that so much 
 public apathy should have existed amongst his cotem- 
 poraries. History, indeed, which has hitherto dealt in 
 generals, or has labored only to rescue from oblivion 
 the lives of conquerors and kings, forbore, as was to 
 be expected, from recording the birth or death of a 
 poet, humbly born, and distinguished by no other 
 crown than a wreath of unfading laurel : but that the 
 man of whose writings 'rare Ben Jonson' had said 
 that they were such 
 
 ' As neither man nor muse can praise too much ; ' 
 
 whom he addressed as ' Soul of the Age,' celebrating 
 him above 
 
 ' All that insolent Greece or haughty Rome 
 Sent forth — ' 
 
THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPERE. 3 
 
 and predicting, in just and memorable verse, that 
 
 ' He was not of an age, but — for all time ! ' 
 
 — that he should have eluded all research, or should 
 not have stimulated some one of his coevals to give 
 forth to the world what could then have readily been 
 collected respecting him, requires still to be explained. 
 He was admitted, in his own time, to be the first 
 dramatist of his country ; and there can be no question 
 but that he was so. That Fletcher, Beaumont, or 
 other playwrights, may, during an interval of fashion 
 or popular caprice, have been greater favorites, is 
 probable enough. It is possible, even, that some 
 critics (now forgotten) may have preferred inferior 
 writers. But no other poet or dramatist of our coun- 
 try could, even for a moment, put forth such substan- 
 tial claims to enduring fame, as seem to have been 
 allowed, by the general voice, to Shakspere. Ben 
 Jonson, the only dramatist who could compete with 
 him, frankly and wisely yields the precedency ; and to 
 oppose any other writer, however respectable in his 
 way or extolled in his age, would be, to the last de- 
 gree, absurd and hopeless. 
 
 How is it that no letters of Shakspere, no memo- 
 randa respecting him, or his transactions with the 
 theatres, or with his brother actors, should have escap- 
 ed ? It is true that the fire, which occurred in 1613, 
 may have consumed his papers relating to the theatres, 
 when it consumed his playhouse, the Globe. But one 
 must still marvel that a writer on whom so many elegies 
 were showered, and whose reputation was such that, 
 in 1623, a monument was erected to his memory in 
 
4 MEMOIR AND ESSAY ON 
 
 his native town, should have passed away with so little 
 of cotemporaneous record or comment. Several 
 persons, including Betterton, the famous actor, visited 
 Stratford during the seventeenth century, and made 
 inquiries respecting Shakspere ; one of them interrogat- 
 ing an ancient inhabitant of that town, who was himself 
 born about the time of Shakspere's death ; but neither 
 history nor tradition had furnished him with more than 
 one or two circumstances, and even these are encoun- 
 tered by opposite statements. Under all these difficulties, 
 nothing remains but to take some things upon trust. 
 
 Without submitting to the reader, therefore, in 
 minute detail, the reasons that induce me to prefer one 
 hypothesis to another, and to accept one and reject 
 another statement, I shall take leave to adopt silently 
 those only which appear to me to approach nearest to 
 the truth. It would be painful, indeed, if, from too 
 fastidious a scepticism, we were to deprive ourselves 
 or others of the pleasure of supposing that we know 
 something, at least, of our great poet's origin. 
 
 §2. 
 
 To obtain strict legal proof of the birth or parentage 
 of Shakspere is now, apparently, beyond the power of 
 research. His identity with the ' William the son of 
 John Shakspere,' who was baptized in 1564, has not, 
 I imagine, been completely established. Sufficient is 
 known, however, to induce a belief that the ordinary 
 accounts of his parentage and birth are well founded. 
 
 William Shakspehe, then, was baptized on the 
 26th of April, 1564. The words • Gulielmus filius 
 
THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPERE. 5 
 
 Johannes Shakspere,' are on that day entered on the 
 baptismal register, of the parish church of Stratford- 
 upon-Avon, in Warwickshire. The John Shakspere, 
 from whom this great ' son ' descended, was apparently 
 a person of some property and importance at Stratford, 
 and traded as a glover or dealer in wool. 
 
 Of the ancestry of John Shakspere it is impossible to 
 speak with any certainty ; but it is known that he him- 
 self arrived at the dignity of bailiff of Stratford ; that 
 the title of * Master ' was prefixed to his name, and 
 that he married a lady of good family. The mother 
 of our dramatist bore, before her marriage with John 
 Shakspere, the name of Mary Arden. She was the 
 daughter of Robert Arden (a gentleman possessing a 
 landed estate at Willingcote, or Wylnecote, in War- 
 wickshire), whose father was groom of the chamber to 
 King Henry VII. A Sir John Arden, who held some 
 office of honor near the person of the same sovereign, 
 was the uncle of her before-mentioned grandfather, 
 and also son of one Eleanor Hampden, of Bucking- 
 hamshire ; who, herself, was a member of the family 
 from which the illustrious patriot John Hampden after- 
 wards descended. 
 
 Under the will of Robert Arden, which bears date 
 the 24th of November, 1556, his daughter Mary 
 derived considerable property in money and land. 
 This happened, in all probability, before her marriage 
 with John Shakspere, inasmuch as she is described in 
 the will merely as ' my youngest daughter Mary,' 
 without any additional distinction. 
 
 To this marriage between John Shakspere and 
 Mary Arden (a gentle name, as it has been truly 
 
6 MEMOIR AND ESSAY ON 
 
 called), we owe tlie birth of our great poet. He was 
 born in, or shortly previous to, the month of April, 
 1564, and, with all his family, providentially escaped 
 the plague, which broke out soon afterwards in the 
 town of Stratford, and committed extensive ravages 
 amongst the inhabitants of the place. 
 
 In 1568, John Shakspere became bailiff of Stratford. 
 In 1569, he obtained a grant of arms from Robert 
 Cooke, the Clarencieux of the time ; and this (having 
 been lost) was confirmed by Dethick, Garter-King-at- 
 Arms, and Camden (then Clarencieux), in 1599, All 
 these things speak for the respectability of position 
 occupied by our poet's father; and the circumstance 
 of his mortgaging his wife's estate, in the interval 
 between the two grants (1578), seems to detract little 
 or nothing from such an inference. 
 
 The arms thus granted had reference to the family 
 name, Shakspere ; and appear, indeed, rather to have 
 been confirmed than to have originated in the grant of 
 1569; for the preamble to the license of 1599, which 
 describes John Shakspere as a ' gentlemen ' of Strat- 
 ford, refers also to his 'parent and great-grandfather' 
 as having done ' faithful and approved service ' to King 
 Henry VII. ; and assigns that circumstance, together 
 with his marriage with the daughter, and one of the 
 heirs, of Robert Arden, and his production of ' this his 
 ancient coat of arms,' as so many reasons for the grant. 
 Thenceforward, the arms of Shakspere — ' Gould, on a 
 bend sable ; and a speare of the first, the point steeled, 
 proper,' — were quartered with the arms of Arden, 
 
 Beyond this, the paternal ancestry of Shakspere is 
 unknown. There is little doubt, however, but that he 
 
THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPERE. 7 
 
 had a martial origin. The name shows that it was, in 
 the first instance, won and worn by an able soldier; 
 perhaps by some obscure hero, who perilled his life, in 
 field or foray, for a king or chieftain now as obscure 
 as himself; one of the many millions who have had 
 courage, skill, and fidelity, for their portion ; but, 
 wanting an historian, have sunk, without mark, into 
 the oblivious abysses of Time. 
 
 § 3. 
 
 In 1574, some houses in Henley-street, Stratford, 
 were purchased by John Shakspere ; and in 1578, he 
 mortgaged his wife's estate, as has been stated. It 
 seems that the mortgagee was let into possession of the 
 land ; for, about twenty years afterwards, a suit in 
 equity was instituted by John Shakspere, for redemp- 
 tion or recovery of the mortgaged property. This 
 mortgage has been adduced as presumptive proof of 
 the distress of Shakspere's father, and, thence, of the 
 probability of a want of education in his son. To 
 persons acquainted with transactions of this nature, 
 nothing can seem more rash than such conclusions, 
 drawn from such imperfect premises. The purchase 
 of houses, in 1574, denotes — if it denotes anything — 
 a superfluity of money in the purchaser — money that, 
 probably, was not then required for the purposes of his 
 trade ; and the mortgage, in 1578, shows that the 
 money, which was invested four years before, was 
 again wanted. But, as the houses were retained, and 
 descended, with the other landed estate, to his son, it 
 seems quite unlikely that he should have been seriously 
 
8 MEMOIE AND ESSAY ON 
 
 impoverished. As to the allegations by John Shak- 
 spere (in the suit) of his own poverty, and of the frauds 
 practised by the person to whom he mortgaged his 
 wife's estate, they may be classed amongst the many 
 fictions of the law. If all the allegations contained in 
 bills in equity were to be taken for granted, the defend- 
 ants (who, according to the plaintiffs' statements, are 
 always in the wrong), would present such a body 
 of fraud, conspiracy, and oppression, as never was 
 equalled in any civilized country. 
 
 To reconcile all the doings of the person or persons 
 bearing the name of John Shakspere with each other — 
 for there were several John Shaksperes at Stratford 
 — would be a difficult task, and, as it appears to rne, 
 an unnecessary one. It is safer to proceed upon facts 
 which, to use a species of pleonasm, are well authenti' 
 cated. It is certain that John Shakspere, the poet's 
 father, was a person holding a respectable position in 
 society; that he married the daughter of an ancient 
 house ; that he was himself entitled to a coat of arms, 
 acquired originally by services to the country ; that 
 with his wife he obtained a landed estate ; that he 
 purchased other landed property out of his own money ; 
 that he rose to such dignities as his native town offer- 
 ed ; and, finally, that the estates which he purchased 
 and acquired by marriage became, after his death, the 
 property of his son. It is impossible, in the face of 
 these facts, to argue, with any chance of success, that 
 he was a pauper or insolvent. Both fact and probability 
 weigh strongly against such a presumption. It is more 
 wise, I think, to dismiss the little anecdotes and author- 
 ities which have been urged against the solvency of 
 
THE GENIUS OF SIIAKSPERE. 9 
 
 John Shakspere, as things which applied to another 
 person of his name ; or, if any of them applied to him, 
 that they could not have shaken his station in life, or 
 have affected him, otherwise than for a short time, and 
 then in a very trivial degree. 
 
 There can be small doubt but that our poet had 
 as good an education as the town of Stratford afforded ; 
 and that the learning or accomplishments, in Latin and 
 otherwise, which tradesmen in Stratford possessed, and 
 which they bestowed upon their children, were not 
 withheld from William Shakspere. It has been ascer- 
 tained, that the intercourse between children and their 
 parents (aldermen or tradesmen of Stratford), and also 
 between some of the tradesmen themselves, on matters 
 of business, was occasionally carried on by Latin letters 
 and communications. Is it in the least likely, that 
 Shakspere, the son of the principal officer of the town, 
 and the inheritor of a valuable estate, should be wanting 
 in an equal amount of learning ? Is it possible that, 
 with the same opportunities, the author of * Troiltjs 
 
 AND CrESSIDA,' of * AnTONY AND ClEOPATRA,' of 
 
 ' Julius Cjesar,' of ' Coriolanus,' should have passed 
 his youth in sloth and unlettered ignorance? To come 
 to such an opinion, we must suppose that the eager 
 aptitude of the man had never disclosed itself in the 
 boy ; and, in effect, that the great genius of Shakspere 
 had never felt the restlessness or impulses which are an 
 integral part of genius, but had slumbered in utter 
 idleness throughout the whole interval of boyhood. 
 Ben Jonson's reference to his ' little Latin and less 
 Greek,' shows that he knew both Latin and Greek; 
 and so far as it is disparaging, must be understood to 
 
10 MEMOIR AND ESSAY ON 
 
 speak by way of comparison, between the mere word- 
 learning of Shakspere, and that of himself (Jonson) 
 and other ripe scholars of the time. In all that was 
 essential, whether it related to the people of Rome or 
 Greece, Shakspere undoubtedly knew infinitely more 
 than 'rare Ben Jonson' himself, or probably arty of his 
 cotemporaries. 
 
 Leaving the question of our poet's education and 
 learning to be canvassed by the more curious, I pro- 
 ceed, and find that, towards the close of the year 1582, 
 being then about eighteen years and seven months old, 
 he intermarried with Ann Hathaway, a ' maiden of 
 Stratford,' who, if the inscription on her tomb be correct, 
 was his elder by eight years. Soon after the marriage, 
 namely, on the 26th of May, 1583, Susanna, their 
 eldest child, was baptized ; and on the 2d of February, 
 1585, their son and daughter, Hamnet and Judith. It 
 appears by the register that Hamnet was buried on 
 the 11th of August, 1596, and thereupon Susanna 
 and Judith, the poet's two daughters, became his co- 
 heiresses. 
 
 Susanna, the eldest child of Shakspere, married John 
 Hall, gentleman (who was a physician of Stratford), on 
 the 5th of June, 1607, she being then thirty-four years 
 of age ; and Judith, the younger daughter, married 
 Thomas Queeny on the 10th of February, 1616, about 
 two months only before the death of her fathel. The 
 wife of Shakspere, as it is supposed, survived him ; for 
 on the 6th of August, 1623, there appears on the regis- 
 
THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPERE. 11 
 
 ter the burial of ' Mrs. Sliakspere, widow,' who must 
 then have been sixty-seven years old, her illustrious 
 husband dying at the early age of fifty-two. His will, 
 a copy of which follows this introductory essay, ap- 
 pears to have been made about a month after his 
 daughter Judith's marriage, and to have preceded by a 
 month only his own death ; the approach of which, 
 in all probability, then became visible to him. 
 
 It does not appear that the poet's youngest daughter 
 left any issue ; but there was one child of Susanna, 
 named Elizabeth, who married Thomas Nash, Esq., 
 and who herself had a daughter, afterwards the wife of 
 Sir Reginald Forster ; from which last-mentioned mar- 
 riage there appears to have been a descent through two 
 generations. The family of Shakspere, however, in the 
 lineal direction, is now extinct. 
 
 Various conjectures have been formed as to the mode 
 in which Shakspere was employed, previously and sub- 
 sequently to his marriage ; as to how he was enabled to 
 maintain his wife and children; as to the motives that 
 induced him to quit Stratford for London, and other 
 circumstances very desirable to know ; but all which 
 have hitherto been diligently sought for in vain. He may 
 have been a schoolmaster or scrivener, as has been 
 suggested ; but I shall not add to the many ingenious 
 hypotheses that have been started, by any idle specula- 
 tions of my own. It is clear that it was his destiny. 
 Whether impelled, outwardly or ostensibly, by the 
 persecution of others, or by his own misfortunes or dis- 
 content, is an inquiry not very important. It was his 
 destiny ; the inner call of his genius, which bade him 
 seek its proper development ; which drew him, by its 
 
12 MEMOIR AND ESSAY ON 
 
 mysterious influence, from the solitudes where Nature 
 is dumb, into the teeming city, — into those crowds and 
 throngs of men from whom he learned so much ; and 
 to whom, and to whose posterity, he taught all that we 
 see written down in that volume which has no likeness, 
 called, ' The Works of Shakspere.' 
 
 The story of the deer-stealing, and of the prosecu- 
 tion of our poet by Sir Thomas Lucy, rests on too 
 uncertain a foundation to render it necessary to do more 
 than simply advert to it. That he may have taken part 
 in any of the ordinary frolics of the time, is likely 
 enough; but whether that was the cause which ' drove' 
 him to London, or whether, in fact, he was driven there 
 at all, is beyond the power of any one at present to 
 certify. It is generally thought that Shakspere quitted 
 Warwickshire for London about 1586 or 1587; but in 
 1589 he was one of the proprietors of the Blackfriars 
 Theatre, a fact that seems to indicate an earlier arrival 
 in the metropolis than is usually supposed. It is not 
 very probable that a youth who left Stratford in 1587 
 (whether to evade the pursuit of justice or not, but at 
 all events) with small or no pecuniary resources, and 
 with the burden of a wife and children upon him, 
 should, in the space of about a couple of years, become 
 a joint proprietor of one of the principal theatres in 
 London. 
 
 His position at the theatre, as proprietor, in 1589, 
 therefore, seems to indicate that he must then have been 
 a considerable period in London; and not only this, 
 but also that he must then have been, for a con- 
 siderable time, a writer for the stage. What, in fact, 
 could have renovated his fortunes, and raised him to 
 
THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPERE. 13 
 
 the dignity of proprietor, but the aid that be had given 
 to the drama ? His earliest work, according to his own 
 account ' the first heir of his invention,' was the poem 
 of ' Venits and Adonis.' That was printed for the 
 first time in 1593 : but he was then the friend of Lord 
 Southampton, who was the friend of genius. How had 
 he manifested his genius and acquired his friendship, 
 which did both so much honor, before 1593, unless by 
 the dramas which he had without doubt at that time 
 created ? The fact of there having been none of his 
 plays in print at that period proves nothing. There is, 
 according to the opinion of critics, an evident and a 
 very invidious allusion to him, as actor and dramatist, 
 in Robert Green's ' Groatsworth of Wit,' written in 
 or before the year 1592 ;, so that he was then well 
 known as a writer of plays. The omission of Shak- 
 spere's name in Harrington's ' Apologie for Poetry,' 
 published in 1590-1, proves not that Shakspere had not 
 then written, but simply that Harrington either pre- 
 ferred the plays of Lord Buckhurst and others, or that 
 he was unaware of the dramas of Shakspere, or of 
 their merit. If the plays of our author were not (as 
 they appear to have been) in print at that period, the 
 fact of Harrington having omitted to speak of the 
 excellence of works that he had had no opportunity of 
 reading, seems to be sufficiently accounted for. 
 
 On the arrival of Shakspere in London, it is gene- 
 rally supposed that he resorted to the stage for employ- 
 ment ; commencing, probably, as actor, for it is certain 
 
14 MEMOIR AND ESSAY ON 
 
 that he was an actor during part of his sojourn ; and 
 producing afterwards, from time to time, his marvel- 
 lous plays. 
 
 It has been discovered that, in 1596, he lived near 
 the Bear Garden, in Southwark, his residence being 
 also in the neighborhood of the theatre to which he was 
 attached, and that in 1609 he occupied a good house 
 within the liberty of the Clink. It would appear that 
 he remained in London till about the year 1611 ; not 
 longer, for in March, 1612, he is described as ' of 
 Stratford-upon-Avon, gentleman,' in a deed by which 
 a house in Blackfriars, which he had purchased, was 
 conveyed to him by one Henry Walker. During his 
 residence in London, however, he made occasional 
 visits to Stratford, in the course of which he was accus- 
 tomed to stop at the Crown Inn, at Oxford, at that time 
 kept by one John Davenant ; and it is tolerably certain 
 that he became, in 1606, the godfather of Davenant's 
 son, afterwards known as Sir William Davenant, the 
 poet. Previously to this, he had acquired the friend- 
 ship of Lord Southampton, and of Lord Pembroke; 
 had, in 1598, been admitted to an intimacy with Ben 
 Jonson ; and had associated generally with the wits and 
 writers of the age. It was at the Mermaid, then a tavern 
 of note in Fleet Street, that Shakspere, Jonson, Beau- 
 mont, Fletcher, and other social men of genius were 
 wont to congregate; and there* it was, that those lively 
 
 * The following is Fuller's account of Shakspere, in his 
 ' Worthies of England : ' ' He was an eminent instance of 
 the truth of that rule, ^ poeta non fit, sed nascitur : one is not 
 made but born a poet.' Many were the wit combats betwixt 
 him and Ben Jonson, which two I behold like a Spanish great 
 
THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPERE. 15 
 
 interchanges of wit and vivacity, those ' wit combats,' 
 which we are told of, occurred between Ben and Shak- 
 spere. Amongst other persons he was acquainted with 
 Alleyn, the founder of Dulwich College, and during 
 that person's absence in the country, was in the habit of 
 visiting his wife, who remained in London, In one of 
 her letters to her absent husband, she informs him that 
 a certain Mr. Francis Chaloner had endeavored to bor- 
 row ten pounds ; but that ' Mr. Shakspere, of the Globe, 
 who came * * * said he knew him not, only he herd 
 of him that he was a roge, so he was glad we did not 
 lend him the money.' This is the only real anecdote 
 that we possess of Shakspere during his London resi- 
 dence. Amongst other acquisitions of this period, not 
 to be forgotten, our poet obtained the approbation of 
 Queen Elizabeth, before whom some of his plays were 
 performed, and who is said to have ' appreciated his 
 genius.' There is no evidence that 
 
 ' She showered her bounties on him, like the Hours,* 
 
 or, in fact, that she rewarded him with anything more 
 solid than her smiles ; a cheap mode of remunerating 
 genius, but which, to the credit of that age, was not 
 then common with persons of illustrious rank. 
 
 That Shakspere was loved as well as admired by 
 many of his cotemporaries, is well authenticated. Ben 
 
 galleon and an English man of war. Master Jonson, like the 
 former, was built far higher in learning ; solid, but slow in his 
 performances. Shakspere, like an Englishman of war, lesser 
 in bulk but lighter in sailing, could turn with all tides, tack 
 about and take advantage of all winds, by the quickness of his 
 wit and invention.' 
 
16 MEMOIR AND ESSAY ON 
 
 Jonson (a warm hearted man, as well as a sterling 
 writer) declares, ' I do love the man and honor his 
 memory, on this side of idolatry, as much as any : he 
 was indeed honest, and of an open and free nature ;' 
 and the editors of the folio edition of .the plays, say 
 that they have collected them * to keep the memory of 
 so worthy a friend and fellow alive, as was our Shak- 
 spcre.' Whether the poet was beloved by any one of 
 the opposite sex, remains a mystery. From the tenof 
 of some of his sonnets, there is reason to suppose that 
 he attached himself to some female, and that he was ill 
 requited. 
 
 A few years ago some papers were written on this 
 obscure subject, entitled, if I remember rightly, * Th6 
 Confessions of Shakspere.' They were made out, with 
 great ingenuity, from the ' Sonnets' alone ; combining 
 and consolidating the several parts of each into one 
 (as it were) authentic narrative. And, indeed, as one 
 travels through these records of the great poet's feel- 
 ings, a dim and shadowy History seems to rise and dis- 
 close itself before us : an intimation not to be neglected, 
 seeing that such a man, however entangled amongst 
 the conceits and fancies of his age, would hardly, in 
 his own person, have wasted such sad and passionate 
 verses on any subject that had no foundation in truth. 
 
 On quitting London, Shakspere retired to his native 
 town of Stratford. He had previously purchased one of 
 the best houses there, called ' New Place,' and in this 
 house he lived and died. He was buried on the 25th 
 of April, 1616, on the north side of the chancel of thd 
 great church of Stratford* A monument was shortly 
 afterwards — certainly before the year 1623 — erected 
 
THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPERE. 17 
 
 to his memory. The artist has represented him in a 
 sitting posture, with a pen in his right hand, and his left 
 resting on a scroll of paper ; and on the cushion which 
 appears spread out before him, are engraved the fol- 
 lowing lines : 
 
 ' Judicio Pylium, genio Socratem, arte Maronem, 
 Terra tegit, populus moeret, Olympus habet.' 
 
 Not much can be said of this monument as a work 
 of art : it is poor enough. And yet to this tomb, and 
 to the house wherein he (is supposed to have) lived and 
 died, how many thousand pilgrims have since come ! 
 Here, people of all ages and all nations have re- 
 paired, for upwards of two hundred years. Walls 
 covered with inscriptions (each man eager to write 
 down his admiration) attest the worth and influence of 
 a great poet. It would have been creditable to this 
 country, or to its government, if some fit memorial, in 
 bronze or marble, had been built up in his honor. 
 For, although (as Milton sings) 
 
 ' What, needs my Shakspere for his honored bones, 
 The labor of an age in pil^d stones ? 
 Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid 
 Under a star-y pointing pyramid ? ' 
 
 yet that does not exonerate us from paying the tribute 
 due to his memory ; however it may account for the 
 abundance of statues which we have erected, in the 
 vain hope of immortalizing people who have shed 
 neither glory nor light of any sort upon the English 
 nation. 
 
 VOL. I. 2 
 
18 MEMOIR AND ESSAY ON 
 
 § 6. 
 
 As part of the biography of Shakspere, it would have 
 been very desirable to have ascertained the order in 
 which his plays were written. It would have exhibited 
 the gradations, and, perhaps, fluctuations, of his intel- 
 lect, and have cast light on many questions of great 
 interest relating to the works themselves ; but, unfortu- 
 nately, this must still remain doubtful. The subject has 
 been frequently discussed ; and trifling facts have from 
 time to time arisen, proving that certain plays had been 
 actually performed when, as was once supposed, they 
 existed only in the imagination of the author. But noth- 
 ing like satisfactory evidence has been produced to show 
 at what precise time any one play was written. We 
 know that some plays were printed, and that others 
 were represented, in certain years. But we do not 
 know how long before those years these dramas were 
 actually composed, nor whether other plays, which 
 were made public at a later date, were not then in 
 existence. 
 
 For my own part, I think that, in determining the 
 chronology as well as the authenticity of Shakspere's 
 plays, there is, after all, no evidence like the internal 
 evidence ; no proof like the plays themselves. Other 
 proofs may be, and have, in similar cases, repeatedly 
 been found fallacious. But there is no retrograding in 
 point of style ; no going back from the style of vigorous 
 manhood, or even the neatness and fastidiousness of 
 later life, to the loose, unsettled character which inva- 
 riably betrays the youthful writer. A date may be 
 incorrectly given ; a report may be without foundation ; 
 
THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPERE. 19 
 
 a second edition may be mistaken for a first; and the 
 work which is pubUshed to-day, may, in manuscript, 
 have many predecessors. In Shakspere's case, the 
 doubts are so strong and numerous, that we are thrown 
 back ahogether upon conjecture. Had the great author, 
 indeed, left anything which could have enabled us to 
 unravel the mystery, the question might have assumed 
 another aspect ; but, in the absence of all information 
 from himself, we cannot do better, as I have said, than 
 consult his works. 
 
 The principal point of interest is as to those plays 
 with which he commenced his labors ; for we have his 
 own acknowledgment, that ' the first fruit of his inven- 
 tion ' was the poem of ' Venus and Adonis.' If it 
 could be satisfactorily ascertained that ' Titus Andro- 
 Nicus ' and the First Part of ' Henry the Sixth ' were 
 written by him, I should be disposed to place them at 
 the commencement of the list. But I doubt their 
 authenticity ; and I altogether disbelieve all reports 
 and dissent from all opinions which aim at fathering 
 upon him ' Sir John Oldcastle,' * Thomas, Lord 
 Cromwell,' and ' The Yorkshire Tragedy.' They 
 are decidedly spurious : and the circumstance of 
 Schlcgel having pronounced his deliberate conviction 
 that those wretched performances ' unquestionably ' 
 belonged to Shakspere, — nay, that they ' are amongst 
 his best and maturest works,' — is almost enough to 
 beget a doubt as to the originality of some of his own 
 critical opinions. 
 
 ' TiTus Andronicus,' the First Part of ' Henry the 
 Sixth,' and ' Pericles,' are said to contain passages 
 which show, beyond all question, that Shakspere was 
 
20 MEMOIR AND ESSAY ON 
 
 their author. But short pasages, having the stamp of 
 Shakspere, prove no more than that he occasionally 
 retouched and invigorated the dramas that came before 
 him ; a circumstance which is by no means improbable. 
 In respect to ' Pericles,' I think, from a careful read- 
 ing of the play, that the three last acts were undoubtedly 
 written by Shakspere. No other man could write in 
 the same style, or in a style so good. The two first 
 .acts are, indeed, very unlike his composition ; and 
 there is something in the early part of the plot that, I 
 suspect, never originated in his invention. ' Titus 
 Andronicus ' and the First Part of ' Henry the 
 Sixth,' are in a different predicament. In the more 
 material qualities of a play, — in character, in plot, in 
 spirited intelligent dialogue, — these two dramas are 
 deficient. Talbot (in the latter play) is a bold sketch, 
 and the scene between him and the Countess of 
 Auvergne, is striking and dramatic ; but, in the main, 
 the dramatis persona differ but litde from each other, 
 whilst the level style of the verse, and the brutal treat- 
 ment of the Maid of Orleans at the close, betray, as it 
 seems to me, the hand of an inferior dramatist. How- 
 ever Shakspere may have yielded to the national 
 prejudices of his age, he was too noble and humane 
 to have attempted to justify upon the stage that most 
 atrocious tragedy, in which the English barbarians of 
 the time consummated their renown, by burning to death 
 an enemy who was at once a woman and their prisoner. 
 Amongst the ineradicable stains upon the arms of 
 England (small and few in number, I trust), this 
 diabolical act of the murder of the Maid of Orleans 
 stands out blackest and unparalleled. 
 
THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPERE. 21 
 
 In regard to ' Titas Andkonicus,' it has always 
 appeared to me to have issued from the same mint, 
 and to bear the same stamp as ' Lust's Dominion,' 
 which is known to have been produced by Marlowe. 
 With the exception of one beautiful passage, there is 
 the same style of verse (totally unlike that adopted in 
 Shakspere's known plays), the same exaggeration and 
 confusion of character, the same mock (with occasional 
 real) sublimity, which the tragedies of Marlowe present ; 
 and, above all, the same villanous ferocity and blood- 
 thirstiness which Marlowe delighted to indulge in, and 
 which Shakspere's far-sighted genius altogether dis- 
 dained. Marlowe (although he has fine and even 
 grand bursts of poetry) stands forth, the historian of 
 lust and villany, and the demonstrator of physical 
 power ; while Shakspere is ever the champion of 
 humanity and intellect. 
 
 If the two last mentioned plays may, contrary to my 
 expectation, claim Shakspere for their author, then I 
 think that they must have been the earliest of his 
 dramatic productions ; and, in all probability, the Sec- 
 ond and Third parts of ' Henry the Sixth ' speedily 
 followed ; for the style throughout is like that of Mar- 
 lowe, although those ' parts ' present more subtle and 
 numerous distinctions of character than that dramatist 
 has ever drawn. 
 
 About this time Shakspere must have begun to 
 assume an independent style in his plays ; and now, I 
 imagine, he composed the ' Tw^o Gentlemen of 
 Verona.' This play has, in all respects, a youthful 
 character, and it is undoubtedly his. Almost all the 
 similes and sentiments have reference to love, without 
 
22 MEMOIR AND ESSAY ON 
 
 the intermixture of weightier matter. The metre is 
 wanting in pliancy and sinew ; but the occasional 
 sententious lines, the play upon words, the style and 
 quality of the comedy, with its jokes dovetailed and 
 full of retorts, all point him out as the author. It is a 
 slight play compared with many others of later date ; 
 but there is a passion and freshness in it, as though it 
 had been breathed forth in that time of year when 
 April 
 
 ' Had put a spirit of youth in everything.' 
 
 Perhaps ' Love's Labor's Lost ' was played next. 
 It is a decided advance in power, in style, and even 
 in dramatic skill. With the exception of Launce (in 
 whom the germ of much that afterwards blossomed out 
 is obvious), and, perhaps, of Julia, there is little of 
 character in the ' Two Gentlemen of Verona.' But 
 Biron and Rosaline, Boyet, Armado and his page, 
 Moth ('that handful of wit'), Holofernes, and Costard, 
 are all clear outlines, although all of them may not be 
 very strong. And some of the poetry in this play is, 
 as mere poetry, equal to that of Shakspere's maturer 
 time. The aphorism 
 
 ' A jest's prosperity lies in the ear 
 Of him that hears it,' 
 
 is profound and Shaksperian. The play itself looks as 
 though it rested on some event in the history of 
 Provence, in times when the Troubadours figured in 
 the solemn masquerades of Love. The two principal 
 characters, Biron and Rosaline, were afterwards recast 
 by Shakspere, with some alterations, and appear under 
 the names of Benedick and Beatrice. 
 
THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPERE. 23 
 
 In what order the rest of the plays followed, at what 
 period the greatest dramas were produced, and what 
 was the final work of this unequalled poet, I will not 
 pretend to guess. As a general principle, however, I 
 would say, that the plays in which signs of imitation 
 (particularly imitation of style) are manifest, should be 
 accounted the earliest ; and that those wherein the 
 poetry is redundant and far exceeds the necessities and 
 purposes of the story, should be held to have preceded, 
 in point of time, the great and substantial dramas, in 
 which the business of the play is skilfully wrought out, 
 and where the poetry springs out of the passion or 
 humor of the characters, and serves to illustrate and 
 not to oppress them. In conformity with this view, I 
 think that the ' Winter's Tale,' although perhaps not 
 actually performed until the year 1611, can never have 
 been the last work of Shakspere. It is far more like 
 the labor of his youth. That the 'Tempest' should 
 have been the last play is far less unlikely; and I 
 would fain connect it, if possible, with his farewell to 
 the stage, were it only for those beautiful and melan- 
 choly words of Prospero, with which he (another 
 enchanter) abandons his ' so potent art : ' 
 
 ' This rough magic 
 I here abjure ; and, when I have required 
 Some heavenly music (which even now I do), 
 To work mine end upon their senses that 
 This airy charm is for, I '11 break my staff, 
 Bury it certain fathoms in the earth. 
 And, deeper than did ever plummet sound, 
 I '11 drown my book.' 
 
Si MEMOIR AND ESSAY ON 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Whatever doubts may exist concerning the parent- 
 age or education of Shakspere ; — concerning his 
 residence, his mode of life, his progress from poverty 
 to wealth ; or concerning the order of his dramas, 
 showing thereby his ascension from the immaturity of 
 boyhood, to that full perfection of mind which he after- 
 wards attained ; there can be none as to the quality of 
 his intellect, nor, in my opinion, as to the vast benefits 
 which he conferred upon the world. 
 
 Poetry, the material in which Shakspere dealt, has 
 been treated often as a superfluity — as a thing unim- 
 portant to mankind, and as a luxury against which 
 sumptuary laws might be fairly levelled. This is the 
 opinion of men of literal understanding, who, seeing no 
 merit in poetry because it differs from science, and over- 
 looking its logic, which is involved instead of being 
 demonstrated, pronounce at once against it. It is more 
 especially an opinion of the present age ; an age in 
 which the material world has been searched and 
 ransacked to supply new powers and luxuries to man ; 
 and in which the moral world has been too much 
 neglected. 
 
THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPERE. 25 
 
 We do not encourage the poet ; but we encourage 
 the chemist and the miner, the capitalist, the manufac- 
 turer. We encourage voyagers, who penetrate the 
 forests of Mexico, the South Indian pampas, and the 
 sterile tracts of Africa beyond the mountains of the 
 moon. These people tell us of new objects of com- 
 merce ; they bring us tidings of unknown lands. Yet, 
 what a vast unexplored world lies about us ! what a 
 dominion, beyond the reach of any traveller — beyond 
 the strength of the steam-engine — nay, even beyond 
 the power of material light itself to penetrate — is 
 there to be attained in that region of the brain ! Much 
 have the poets won, from time to time, out of that deep 
 obscure. Homer has bequeathed to us his discoveries, 
 and Dante also, and our greater Shakspere. They are 
 the same now, as valuable now, as on the day whereon 
 they were made. In our earth, all is for ever changing. 
 One traveller visits a near or a distant country ; he sees 
 traces (temples or monuments) of human power ; but 
 unforeseen events, earthquake or tempest, obliterate 
 them ; or the people who dwelt near them migrate ; 
 the eternal forest grows round and hides them ; or they 
 are left to perish, for the sake of a new artist, whose 
 labors are effaced in their turn. And so goes on the 
 continual change, the continual decay. Governments 
 and systems change ; codes of law, theories philosophi- 
 cal, arts in war, demonstrations in physics. Everything 
 perishes except Truth, and the worship of Truth, and 
 Poetry which is its enduring language. 
 
 And now, when I am about to speak of some of the 
 great qualities of Shakspere, I do not propose to be very 
 critical. It is better to approach him with, as I think 
 
26 MEMOIR AND ESSAY ON 
 
 Mr. Coleridge has suggested, an ' affectionate rever- 
 ence.' It is safer to err on the side of too much respect. 
 I am unwilling to discuss, at length, his (so called) want 
 of utility, or his morality, or his historical, geogra- 
 phical, or verbal errors ; some of which last may be 
 ascribed to the age he lived in, whilst others may be 
 safely placed to the account of interpolators or trans- 
 cribers of his plays. Besides, our poet deals with 
 subjects so many and so various, and he is of so high 
 an intellect, that I dare not venture to speak of him as 
 of any other writer. He has been denounced lately, 
 I hear, as an offender against letters ; stripped and 
 hacked and scarified, to satisfy the bad humor of some 
 very unenviable person. I have forborne to read this 
 libel against the greatest man that the world has pro- 
 duced, being already sufficiently acquainted with the 
 freedom of preceding critics. 
 
 The flattery or good-nature of these writers (now an 
 important body) has done but little harm. No book 
 can live and take its permanent place, unless it has in 
 itself the seeds of vitality. But the injury which lite- 
 rature suffers from dishonest, malignant criticism, is 
 very great. It is true that a commanding genius is not 
 to be repressed by malevolence or envy : and it is true, 
 perhaps, that merit of every order will make its way 
 in the end, and secure its due reputation. But, in the 
 meantime, we, the cotemporaries, are defrauded of the 
 fruits gathered in for us ; and the laborer is cheated of 
 his hire. Readers of books are for the most part an 
 indolent race. They prefer taking the opinions of 
 the present or last generation, to searching for those 
 which are a century old. In fact, men associate 
 
THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPERE. 27 
 
 themselves insensibly with the people of their age. 
 Their habits, including even the habit of thinking, 
 nm very much in the same current. An original 
 thinker will indeed accept nothing upon hearsay ; he 
 will investigate and judge for himself. But the rank 
 and file of men hug an error to their souls ; repeat and 
 propagate it, till even truth is for a time discomfited. 
 The fact is, that fame sometimes depends upon a happy 
 conjunction of influences. Not only Pallas and Apollo, 
 but Jove and Mercury also, must assemble and deter- 
 mine the point. The old dramatists of England lay 
 inhumed, without mark or epitaph, for 170 years. At 
 last, a clerk in the India House, whose taste led him 
 to ponder over ancient books, pierced the darkness in 
 which they lay, and saw their value. It was as though 
 a diver, suddenly let down in some remote spot of the 
 ocean, had beheld these ' sumless wrecks and sunken 
 treasuries,' and had brought up wealth inexhaustible, 
 rich gems, and gold, and antique ornaments, — for ages 
 neglected or forgotten. 
 
 Shakspere himself has suffered, in his time, from 
 commentators and critics, foreign and domestic. The 
 opinions of Voltaire, even now, interfere with the 
 progress of his fame in France. Our great poet, how- 
 ever, has, by dint of his irrepressible power, risen above 
 all ordinary impediments which beset the course of 
 authors, 
 
 ' Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot,' 
 
 and has taken his station at the head of all. In this 
 country, at least, he requires no defender ; scarcely, 
 indeed, an expounder of his meaning, notwithstanding 
 
28 MEMOIR AND ESSA? ON 
 
 the change that our language has undergone since his 
 tinne. All that is left is to have some discretion in our 
 worship ; to enumerate some of his qualities ; to reckon 
 up, as far as space and one own's ability will permit, 
 the good deeds that he has done : and thus leave him 
 — in a new shape — tended and decorated by a new 
 artist, his characters drawn out by the pencil, and many 
 of his delicate fancies (as I think) delicately handled, 
 to take his chance with the English public. 
 
 And here, it may be well to advert to some of the 
 points on which others have already spoken. Amongst 
 other titles to respect, Shakspere has been styled the 
 originator of our ' romantic Drama.' This phrase 
 conveys a very erroneous, for it conveys a very insuffi- 
 cient, idea of what he did, even for the Drama. The 
 word ' romantic,' either in its old signification (of 
 'wild,' or 'improbable'), or coupled with its recent 
 and more ludicrous associations, is, to the last degree, 
 disparaging and untrue, as applied to him. That he 
 pursued the lofty, the heroic, and the supernatural, and 
 subdued them to his use, is well known; but probability 
 and truth are the very qualities by which he is distin- 
 guishable, above all other writers. Taking the outline 
 of his stories for granted (a necessary postulate), his 
 plots are admirably managed ; and his characters are 
 absolutely living people ; true in the antique time, true 
 in his own, and true in ours : 
 
 ' Age cannot wither them, nor custom stale 
 Their infinite variety.' 
 
THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPERE. 29 
 
 To know what Shakspere achieved, it is only necessary 
 to look at the previous history of the stage. Before his 
 time, the drama was a narrow region. With the single 
 exception of the Greek drama, it bore no comparison, 
 in any country, with the other departments of national 
 literature. And even in Greece, as elsewhere, the 
 drama was cramped and limited in its very nature. It 
 did not extend beyond its own history, or superstitions ; 
 it dealt with a single event that was familiar to all, and 
 in which the whole course of the story was visible from 
 the outset to the end. It embodied the anger of Jove, 
 the power of remorse, the pains and penalties of sinful 
 or presumptuous men : or it reflected the distorted 
 humors or singularities of the time, after the fashion of 
 a farce or a satire. This was the case throughout all 
 antiquity. 
 
 In our own rude beginnings, the same meagreness of 
 outline and poverty of character prevailed ; without 
 any of the grandeur of thought, or beauty of language, 
 which distinguished the drama of Athens. As ^schylus 
 had given to the ancients, Diana and Apollo, Strength, 
 Force, and the Furies ; so the English Mysteries and 
 Moralities presented to our forefathers Knowledge, and 
 Good Council, and Death, and Sathan the Devil, and 
 the rest. The names of such personages sufficiently 
 announce their errands, and show that the object of 
 these little dramas was simply didactic. They con- 
 veyed moral and religious lessons to communities who 
 were unacquainted with books ; and possessed, we 
 may imagine, some extrinsic attractions, which drew 
 together spectators and auditors whom the homilies of 
 the ecclesiastics had failed to collect. 
 
30 MEMOIR AND ESSAY ON 
 
 The growing intelligence of the public could not, 
 however, long rest content with these inartificial dramas ; 
 and accordingly Tragedy and Comedy began, simulta- 
 neously, about the time of the birth of Shakspere, to 
 manifest themselves in more regular shapes upon the 
 English stage. This dawn announced a coming day. 
 Yet, there is nothing in this period, except the plays of 
 Marlowe, that need detain us ; although Peele has 
 sweet and flowing lines, and Lily some charming pas- 
 sages, in which he has revived all the romance and 
 more than the sentiment of the ancient Grecian fables. 
 Marlowe was the only great precursor of Shakspere. He 
 was far from a perfect dramatist. His characters are 
 defective in discrimination, in delicacy, and in truth. 
 Nevertheless, he was a daring and powerful writer, 
 and his ' mighty line' is known, by reputation at least, 
 to all readers of English literature. Some of his 
 thoughts and images are not unworthy of Shakspere 
 himself. The well-known lines — 
 
 ' Was this the face that launched a thousand ships, 
 And burned the topless towers of Ilium ? ' 
 
 may be referred to as a fine instance of imagination. 
 His bold, reckless heroes, however, are carried to the 
 very limits of extravagance, and his women are extrav- 
 agant also, or without mark. He is altogether of the 
 earth, earthy : he riots in the sensual and diabolical, and 
 tramples down all probabilities. And yet, amidst all 
 this, are interspersed proud and heroic thoughts, classi- 
 cal allusions, harmonious cadences, that elevate and 
 redeem his dramas from, otherwise, inevitable dis- 
 gust. For some of these faults Marlowe was himself 
 
THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPEEE. 31 
 
 answerable, but many of them may be fairly ascribed 
 to the barbarism of his age. 
 
 §3. 
 
 Such was the state of things when Shakspere came ; 
 the good Genius who brought health and truth, and 
 light and life, into the English drama; who extended 
 its limits to the extremity of the earth, nay, into the air 
 itself; and peopled the regions which he traversed, 
 with beings of every shape, and hue, and quality, that 
 experience or the imagination of a great poet could 
 suggest. 
 
 The benefits which Shakspere bestowed upon the 
 stage may possibly be readily admitted, although the 
 precise nature of those benefits must, by most readers, 
 be taken upon trust. But the full importance of his 
 writings to the land he lived in will never, perhaps, 
 be generally understood. Their effect can scarcely 
 be exaggerated. The national intellect is continually 
 recurring to them for renovation and increase of power: 
 
 ' As to their fountain, other stars 
 Repairing, in iheir golden urns draw light.' 
 
 They are a perpetual preservative against false taste 
 and false notions. Their great author is the true re- 
 former. He stands midway between the proud aristoc- 
 racy of rank and wealth, and that * fierce democratic ' 
 which would overwhelm all things in its whirl ; a true 
 philosopher ; a magician more potent than his own 
 Prospero, and never otherwise than beneficent and 
 wise. 
 
32 MEMOIR AND ESSAY ON 
 
 There is no part of the drama which he did not 
 amend. Until his time (for Marlowe's tragedy is 
 merely speckled and bespotted by vulgar farce) the 
 grave and the comic wore never permitted to unite. 
 Tragedy was barred out from Comedy by some tradi- 
 tional law. The picture presented was either gloomy 
 and without relief, or it was trivial and jocose, wanting 
 in depth and stability. The true aspect of human 
 nature, therefore, which is various and always chang- 
 ing, had never been seen upon the stage. Instead 
 thereof, a mask, hideous or grotesque, as the case 
 might be, but always inflexible, was exhibited for our 
 edification or amusement ; and we were taught to laugh 
 only with people who could never be serious, or to 
 sympathize with heroes to whom it would be deroga- 
 tory to smile. This defect, a defect under which the 
 great Athenian dramas labor, Shakspere remedied; 
 not by engrafting temporary jests or fleeting fashions 
 upon the enduring form of tragedy, but by blending 
 and interweaving humoi"s which are common to all men, 
 with the passions that are also common to all. The 
 humors and jealousies, and vanities of Illyria, of Egypt, 
 of Greece, of Rome, of the Isle of Prosper, of the 
 Forest of Arden, — are they not such as we encounter 
 in England every day } 
 
 The quality of Shakspere's mind was precisely such 
 as is required to form a great dramatist; for he was 
 not only absolutely free from egotism and vanity, but, 
 joined to an intellect of the very first order, he pos- 
 sessed an aflfection or sympathy that embraced all 
 things. 
 
 No vain man, and, as I believe, no bad man, can 
 
THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPEEE. 33 
 
 ever become a great dramatist. First, throughout the 
 entire play he must altogether forget himself. His 
 characters must have no taint or touch of his own 
 peculiar opinions. He must forgot his own humors ; 
 he must forbear to manifest his own weakness ; he 
 must banish his own sentiments on every subject 
 within the range of the play. He must understand 
 exactly how nature operates on every constitution of 
 mind, and under every accident ; and let his dramatis 
 persona speak and act accordingly. And, secondly, 
 he must have a heart capable of sympathizing with all; 
 with the hero and the coward ; with the jealous man 
 and the ambitious man ; the lover and the despiser of 
 love ; with the Roman matron, the budding Italian girl, 
 the tender and constant English wife ; with people of all 
 ranks, and ages, and humors, however widely they may 
 differ from himself. It has been said that this power of 
 depicting and appearing to sympathize with every pas- 
 sion, is, in fact, part of the intellect itself. If so, it has 
 surely its source in the affections. And, indeed, I have 
 always thought that a large portion of what we know and 
 what we are apt to ascribe solely to observation, is in 
 effect derived through the heart. The thousand little 
 weaknesses, and troubles, and fluctuations, which the 
 dramatic writer lays be fore us, are learned in great part 
 from his own nature. It is the sympathy he feels for 
 the character he creates, as well as the knowledge that 
 he gains from the observation of such character, that 
 enables him to paint human nature truly. No scrutiny, 
 however minute or extended, and no power oi mere 
 intellect (meaning thereby reasoning only, or the ima- 
 gination so far as it rests upon reason), could enable 
 
 ▼OL. I. 3 
 
34 MEMOIR AND ESSAY ON 
 
 any author to detect the many little processes of the 
 mind, the traits of humor and the affections, which Shak- 
 spere has set forth. It is certain that, till his time, no 
 man ever knew or could learn so much of the various 
 good qualities and infirmities of human nature, as one 
 may now learn from the mere study of his plays. No 
 writer before his time ever mingled and made common 
 cause, as it were, with people of all conditions. He 
 was * one of the many.' He did not set himself above 
 the herd, and deal out oracular maxims and apothegms; 
 but allowed and prompted every one to speak as Nature 
 dictated. In a word, he evidently sympathized with all 
 men ; and, showing this, he begat sympathy in his 
 hearers. It is not the display of intellect on abstract 
 subjects, nor the moral dogma, nor sententious wisdom 
 in any shape, nor even the cunning analysis of char- 
 acter, so much as the power of attracting the sympathy 
 of an audience, that commands success. 
 
 The judgment of Shakspere was on a level with his 
 intellect. There is no dramatist who approaches him 
 in this respect. Ben Jonson, one of the most scientific 
 of designers, is far below him in all that relates to the 
 more important parts and real constitution of a play. 
 The conduct of his plots is generally admirable, and 
 the conduct of his dramatis personcB absolutely fault- 
 less. There is no playing at cross purposes, no confu- 
 sion. Everything is in due order, in due subordination. 
 There are many voices, but they are ' matched in 
 mouth like bells,' each under each. In the construction 
 of a drama, the dovetailing of the scenes, or even the 
 probability of the story, is not of the highest moment. 
 It is the entire harmony of the play, its completeness 
 
THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPERE. 35 
 
 within itself (the story or premises being admitted), 
 that constitutes its main charm and merit : it is, in fact, 
 the relation which one character bears to another; the 
 due blending of thoughts and incidents; one voice 
 answering to another ; one thought or event following 
 another, like the consequence the cause ; no object 
 standing out, staring without meaning, disjointed, unal- 
 lied to the rest ; but all rounded off, classed, arranged : 
 the light deepening into shadow, the darkness gradually 
 emerging into light. 
 
 §4. 
 
 In regard to the characters drawn by Shakspere, I do 
 not recollect one in his undoubted dramas, that is not 
 at once true, consistent, and complete. Our great poet 
 never squares or clips a character to suit any precon- 
 ceived theory ; but permits each to do his best (or 
 worst) as nature or education may inspire. ' Accom- 
 modate,' he says, * is a good word; ' but to accommodate 
 or remould nature in order to fit a theory or demonstrate 
 a problem, is a sacrifice of truth to conjecture ; and 
 Shakspere in essentials never sacrificed truth. Fault 
 has been found with the construction of some of his 
 plays — as with the * Winter's Tale,' for instance, or 
 the fairy dramas — for doing violence to probability or 
 the unities ; but let the characters upon whom he has 
 set his stamp once appear, and I defy the critic not to 
 admit that every one is wrought out of the true metal. 
 Not one of them is a mask, or a voice, or a chorus ; 
 but a man complete. The words he utters belong to 
 himself, andj to no one besides. Even the change 
 
36 MEMOIR AND ESSAY ON 
 
 which we observe to take place in some of his dramatic 
 personages, is one of the strongest proofs of their com- 
 pleteness and truth. That fluctuation which to an 
 ordinary writer might seem to be a deviation from 
 character, he knew to be one of its constituent parts : 
 for the condition of man is complex and various. He 
 is not built up by nature as a case or sounding-board 
 for one particular note, grave or sharp ; but for the 
 whole diapason. To draw a character who shall stand 
 up as the stiff representative of a single virtue, is to 
 betray a woful ignorance of humanity. The virtues, 
 as well as the vices, of man never come singly, but in 
 troops. They abide with us, perhaps, but they are not 
 rigid or inflexible. On the contrary, they change and 
 are modified by many causes. The brave man of 
 to-day may, like Macbeth, be a coward to-morrow ; 
 and the nerves of a Richard, who was yesterday fore- 
 most in the battle, may to-day be shaken by a dream. 
 In the mechanical drama (so to speak) — in that 
 which is formed without flexibility or variety in the 
 characters or verse, like some of the French tragedies 
 — there is a regular progress of puppets from the 
 beginning to the end ; the same voice of the same ven- 
 triloquist guiding them on, without fluctuation or pause. 
 Nothing disturbs the monotony and weariness of the 
 scene ; nothing elevates or depresses the dialogue, 
 which is always in alt. One personage is a tyrant, 
 another a lover, a third a warrior, a fourth a friend ; 
 and each delivers himself duly of the maxims which 
 belong to the virtue or passion which he is thus engaged 
 to represent. They are all, in short, abstractions, and 
 not men. Now, Shakspere's characters are not abstrac- 
 
THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPEKE. OT 
 
 tions, nor are they mere sections of character. They 
 tire entire and complete. Neither are they mere 
 characters standing alone or aloof. Each shows the 
 relation he bears to others, and how he is operated upon 
 by them. So Coriolanus, Macbeth, and Othello, exhibit 
 the different phases of their character, according to the 
 light cast upon them by the presence of other persons, 
 or by the predominating passion of the scene. Yet 
 the physical courage and moral weakness of Macbeth, 
 the fierce pride and relenting affection of Coriolanus, 
 the calm command and stormy turbulence of Othello, 
 are qualities naturally linked to each other, and 
 harmonize with each other : as the different events of 
 human life are connected and reconciled by various 
 influences ; by time or age, the ingratitude of children, 
 the depression of fortune, or other causes. Sometimes, 
 the greater passions are more completely developed 
 ^d made manifest by the introduction of trivial objects. 
 ^d this, which perhaps originated in the wide sympathy 
 of Shakspere for all men, teaching him to despise none, 
 is at once evidence of his supreme skill. Observe 
 how the brutality of Caliban, and the drunken fooleriefi 
 of Trinculo and Stephano, throw out in grand relief the 
 grave majesty of Prospero, and contrast with the fresh 
 simplicity of Miranda. So the stilted verse of the 
 Players gives value to the natural words of Hamlet; 
 and the fripperies of Osrick are eflTective as a prologue 
 to the tragic duel. The loose lachimo and vulga^r 
 Cloten make us look with double respect on the chaste 
 and lonely Imogen ; and the idiotic merriment of the 
 Fool (strangely weighted and kept down by a sort of 
 instinctive wisdom or shrewdness) brings out the mad- 
 
38 MEMOIR AND ESSAY ON 
 
 ness and sublimity of Lear ; acting, by contrast, like a 
 little light, which develops the darkness of the region 
 around. 
 
 How Shakspere arrived at his conclusions, and 
 mastered the difficulties of character, is a subject that 
 has not yet been fathomed. Perhaps he could not 
 himself have explained it so as to make it intelligible to 
 all. Was it intuition, experience, or meditation, that 
 led to those happy creations which no one has equalled ? 
 He painted, seemingly, partly from individual nature, 
 but not wholly. His characters are not copies of 
 particular men or women, for they have the general 
 qualities which belong to their class. Neither are they 
 abstractions (as we have said) of any vice or virtue, 
 for they sometimes abound with humors and infirmities 
 not often found in company with it. Perhaps he may 
 have sketched from persons whom he had seen, and 
 made up what seemed to be wanting in them, or rather 
 what he had had no opportunity of discovering, out of 
 his knowledge of what belonged to human nature ; or 
 he illustrated certain qualities of the mind which are 
 usually or frequently found together, after studying 
 instances of individual nature. 
 
 If Shakspere ever selected a single passion as the 
 subject for tragedy (which I doubt), he at least qualified 
 it, and forced it to bend to circumstances, to tempera- 
 ment, to education, or other antagonist causes. More- 
 over, he surrounded its representative with personages 
 of a different order, opposite or subordinate ; and by 
 these means relieved his drama from the bareness and 
 monotony which would otherwise have been inevitable. 
 Thus, Othello is not simply a jealous man, nor is 
 
THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPERE. 39 
 
 Macbeth merely ambitious. The first is predisposed 
 for his fate by his tropical birth and his martial calling ; 
 the other is by nature easy, speculative, and infirm. 
 In each case, the master-passion is not in the com- 
 mencement obvious. It is dormant, but capable of 
 being awakened into a povi^er that becomes resistless. 
 
 The error of some writers of fiction has been that 
 they have taken a cardinal vice, and severing it from 
 all qualities that might have attended it, have left it 
 single and unsupported, the sole end and object of the 
 play. Others have smoothed down the inequalities of 
 character, for the sake of a noble outline. Sometimes 
 the historian has led the way, and the dramatist has 
 slavishly followed him. Such authors have seen nature 
 through books. Instead of this, they should have looked 
 directly at man himself, examined him, and studied 
 him, as they would a wonder never yet sufficiently 
 known. It is quite clear, that no one can ever become 
 a great dramatist who shall take the world * upon trust.' 
 
 As bearing upon this part of the subject, I may be 
 excused for devoting a paragraph to the question of 
 ' the learning of Shakspere.' Several writers have 
 perplexed themselves and their readers in endeavoring 
 to ascertain the amount of Shakspere's learning. In 
 itself, it is a matter inexpressibly unimportant. It is of 
 no importance to us, or to his own fame. Could the 
 precise amount of his learning be weighed out in critical 
 scales (a thing quite impossible), it would neither 
 diminish nor add to his merit. He must rest content, 
 crowned with bays, instead of the doctor's cap. 
 
 It is possible, I think, that a man may be encumbered 
 by too much learning : not that he is likely to know 
 
40 MEMOIR AND ESSAY ON 
 
 too much either of a language or a people ; but that, 
 together with the advantages which accompany learning, 
 there present themselves too many models for imitation. 
 One cannot read Homer, without admiring his grand 
 and masculine style ; nor Dante, without being im- 
 pressed by that deep, glowing, intense earnestness 
 which carried him on to the end of his extraordinary 
 task. It is necessary to the performance of an original 
 work that a man should be thrown upon his own 
 resources ; that he should not be beset by the tempta- 
 tion of following in the track of others, whom he cannot 
 but admire, and whom it is so much easier to imitate 
 than surpass. The indolence of human nature is 
 sometimes found allied to its ambition ; and the man 
 who desires fame, or wealth, or power, however he 
 may possess the active principle, sufficient to succeed 
 in any case, is yet ready enough to accomplish his 
 end with as little expense of thought or labor as he 
 can. 
 
 It is, I believe, this misfortune (namely, the multitude 
 of models), that impedes the advancement of modern 
 painters. They are oppressed and bewildered by the 
 abundance and magnificence of the Italian schools. 
 They stumble over the statues of antiquity, when they 
 should be taking their way apart, and seeking the true 
 road to the summit of the hill of Fame. Some of the 
 works of the Carracci, of Dominichino, and Guido, are 
 wonderful for color and effect. Yet they always force 
 upon us the conviction that they would not have been 
 what they were, but for the excellence of preceding 
 painters. They w^ould have been worse or better. 
 
 Luckily for Shakspere, although he had some pre- 
 
THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPERE. 41 
 
 decessors in the drama, there was no one sufficiently 
 great to induce him to follow in his track. His early 
 and casual imitations of Marlowe were soon abandoned. 
 This was to be expected ; for every poet has, 1 imagine, 
 begun his career by being in some degree an imitator. 
 The scale and alphabet of his art being already 
 existing, he consults and uses them for a short time ; 
 casting them away as the consciousness of his own 
 power becomes better known. Thus Shakspere's 
 genius speedily rose above all aids and entanglements, 
 and showed itself, strong, original, and triumphant. It 
 enabled him to look down upon the Roman times, and 
 upon the age of the Plantagenets, as from a pinnacle. 
 He did not become, as the more learned Jonson did, a 
 transcriber from Cicero or the Latin classics; but, 
 adopting all that was valuable in historians and orators, 
 he passed beyond them, and surveyed the whole 
 Roman people, from the wars of Coriolanus to the fall 
 of the triumvir, Antony, like one who had the world at 
 his feet, and who set down what he saw before him, 
 and not what he had read translated in books. 
 
 §5. 
 
 The plays of Shakspere appear to divide themselves 
 into certain classes, viz., the Historical Plays (compris- 
 ing therein the English and Roman histories, and also 
 * Troilus and Cressida,' which is allied to history) ; 
 the Comedies, and the Tragedies ; to which perhaps, 
 may be added a miscellaneous class, consisting of those 
 dramas which are founded on fairy mythology, and 
 
42 MEMOIR AND ESSAY ON 
 
 those in which neither tragedy nor comedy can be said 
 to prevail. 
 
 In the Historical Plays, one is first struck by the 
 fidelity which Shakspere has displayed throughout all 
 the scenes (many of them necessarily fictitious) which 
 constitute and complete the story, and the skill with 
 which he has disposed and managed a crowd of 
 characters. The Roman dramas seem to us even 
 more real than the English ; but this arises from the 
 circumstance of the former being founded on events 
 which happened in more remote times, thus preventing 
 us from comparing, with the same severity, the sayings 
 and doings of the personages of the play with the 
 manners of actual life. Of all these plays, ' Antony 
 AND Cleopatra ' appears to me to stand the first. 
 For variety of character, for grandeur of thought, for 
 pathos, and tragic situation, and for all the ' pride, 
 pomp, and circumstance,' which give effect to the 
 stage, this may challenge comparison with any other 
 drama. All is in the ' high Roman fashion ' — in the 
 most magnificent style of tragedy. Hazlitt has said 
 finely and characteristically (when speaking of it), that 
 Shakspere's genius has spread over the whole play a 
 richness like the overflowing of the Nile.' Amongst 
 the English historical plays, ' Richard the Third ' 
 exhibits the most intellectual and commanding charac- 
 ter, although it has less variety than some others, and 
 comprises few sentences of great poetical interest. 
 
 The Comedies are not mere comedies of manners, 
 which are fleeting, but transcripts of humors, which are 
 lasting and belong to human life. Foremost of these, 
 must be placed the two parts of ' Henry the Fourth,' 
 
THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPERE. 43 
 
 in which, however, there is an admixture of the heroic. 
 It is only necessary to refer to these matchless pro- 
 ductions, to show the abundance that Shakspere has 
 poured into them. In the ' Second Part ' there are not 
 less than twenty characters, all clearly marked out, 
 and kept entire and distinct throughout the play. It is 
 impossible to confound one with another. The wit of 
 FalstafF(the most remarkable comic creation on record) 
 illustrates both plays ; whilst the chivalrous characters 
 of Hotspur and Glendower, the gravity of Henry, the 
 alternate compunction and levity of his son, and the 
 whole bustle and incident of the story, render it, to all 
 classes of auditors, a performance at all times full of 
 interest. 
 
 There is no space here to go through the tragic and 
 comic plays seriatim, and show their manifold wonders. 
 They are each beyond rivalry in their way : although 
 the tragedy is superior to the comedy, by so much as 
 that which is serious is superior to that which is jocose. 
 This has been already insisted upon by other writers. 
 
 But let us not forget the fairy dramas. The 
 'Tempest' and the 'Midsummer Night's Dream' 
 deserve a better defender than I can hope to be. The 
 supernatural machinery which Shakspere has adopted 
 in these and other plays has been decried, as being 
 little better than that of nursery fables. This, as it 
 appears to me, is mistaking the quality and object of a 
 play. The supernatural is a legitimate portion of the 
 drama. It is as much so as any circumstance which 
 we are apt to call improbable or unnatural, but which 
 in every instance has been outdone by facts. All 
 depends on the mode of introducing the supernatural, 
 
44 MEMOIR AND ESSAY ON 
 
 and on the use made of it by the poet. \\'hatever 
 affects the imagination, and excites the sympathies of 
 an audience, may be pronounced fit for the stage. It 
 is only when the childish and ignorant are wrought 
 upon, leaving the mature mind unaffected, that the 
 supernatuml becomes absurd. It is, in short, the 
 quantity of intellect thrown into fictions of this order, 
 which determines their general fitness to appear before 
 the world. Taking into consideration the mechanism 
 and general exterior of a represented play, all plays 
 commence as improbabilities. No one begins by being 
 deluded. He knows at the outset that a wooden stage 
 is before him, and that actors are about to represent 
 a fiction. But if, with this indispensable disadvantage, 
 the poet succeeds in exciting the sympathy of the 
 spectator, and makes him for awhile forget the humble 
 appliances of his art, then the drama may be said to 
 be triumphant. In reference to this subject, it should 
 pot be forgotten that many characters and effects have 
 been brought upon the stage, which certainly never 
 had any existence in the history of human affairs. 
 These are as essentially opposed to fact as the fairies 
 and ghosts of Shakspere ; and yet we do not object to 
 them, because we say that they are ' natural.' But, are 
 not Titania and Oberon natural .'' Is not Ariel natural ? 
 Is nor Caliban natural ? nay, is he not a thousand times 
 more natural and more impressive than the pompous 
 perfections and inflated heroes of the French stage .? 
 
 I shall not attempt to classify the merits of Shak- 
 spere's tragedies ; but, as a comparison has frequently 
 been instituted between the four great tragedies, * Mac- 
 beth,' ' Hamlet,' * Othello,' and ' Lear,' I may 
 
THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPERE. 45 
 
 venture to recur to them. In ' Macbeth,' it is said, 
 there is an unity of interest, a rapidity of event, and a 
 combination of the human and supernatural, that place 
 it the first, in these respects, in point of excellence. 
 ' Lear' is more sublime, I think, all human and pas- 
 sionate as it is, and has meanings more profound than 
 the other, and exhibits greater variety and contrast of 
 character. 'Hamlet' beyond the rest developes and 
 lays bare the innermost thoughts and workings of a 
 single mind. But, to my thinking, ' Othello' is the 
 most substantial and complete of all his plays. Less 
 refined than ' Hamlet,' less imaginative than * Mac- 
 beth,' and less terrible and impressive than * Lear,' it 
 is, for variety and development of character, more 
 complete than the others. 'Macbeth' is chiefly a 
 tragedy of events. There are no characters, except 
 those of Macbeth and his awful wife. Macbeth himself, 
 indeed, is an entire biography; and the 'Lady' is 
 grandly drawn : but otherwise the play (with deep 
 respect be it said) is meagre in character. ' Lear' — 
 in which we are whirled about by the passion of the 
 scene, as the old discrowned heart-broken king is by 
 the fury of the elements, is more loosely hung together 
 than ' Othello ; ' and Hamlet, who at first sight ap- 
 pears to be more thoroughly portrayed than any other 
 personage of the stage, will be found, I think, to 
 exhibit his own thoughts, chiefly on abstract and indif- 
 ferent subjects, rather than to develope his character; 
 always the main object in dramatic fiction. In ' Othel- 
 lo,' on the other hand, there are seven characters 
 completely and thoroughly distinguished. There are 
 Brabantio (the model of Priuli), Cassio, Roderigo, laga, 
 
4S MEMOIR AND ESSAY ON 
 
 Emilia, Desdemona, 'the gentle lady married to the 
 Moor,' and finally Othello, the Moor, himself; and to 
 these must be superadded the most absorbing human in- 
 terest, remarkable variety in the characters, and the most 
 compact and natural story of any within the compass of 
 the English drama. Shakspere has drawn the Moor with 
 great magnanimity. He has disdained the ordinary notes 
 of preparation, and has gone at once to the main purpose 
 of the play. At first view, nothing appears more un- 
 skilful and hopeless than to attempt to extract great 
 interest from Othello. The qualities of the Moor seem 
 precisely those which are opposed to the results which 
 are afterwards so clearly derived from them. What is to 
 be done with a man of extreme simplicity ? one who is 
 brave, honest, tranquil, generous, confiding, free from 
 jealousy, ('not easily jealous'), and little else? one 
 whose perilous paths and romantic adventures are already 
 traversed > The period of his wooing (always a great 
 refuge for the dramatist) is over, and he comes quietly 
 before us, without any obvious impediment in his way, 
 from which we can foresee a tragic result. He has 
 been moderate in his attachment; and his love, crowned 
 with success, is a principle rather than a sentiment. It 
 is a manifestation of his opinion, the assent of his mind 
 to the high deserts of his bride, and not a humor, the 
 quality of which is determined by the ebb or flow of 
 his blood. He loved Desdemona, not for her beauty, 
 but for her gentleness, her pity, her virtues. She felt 
 compassion for his toils and dangers ; and he ' loved 
 her that she did pity them.' His love accordingly is 
 not like common love, which is a wilful passion, sub- 
 ject to all ' the skiey influences,' but is a tranquil, 
 
THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPERE. 47 
 
 contented affection. Apparently, it is quite secure ; 
 sheltered, by his own nature and her truth, from all 
 accidents. But wait ! there is still one point from which 
 it is assailable ; and there Shakspere, in his penetration, 
 has struck. He sees the seeds of trouble in Othello ; 
 the ' color burned upon him.' He sees that his tran- 
 quillity arises not from temperament but education. 
 He has been transplanted into the camp, and tamed, 
 ever since he was seven years old — 
 
 '(Since these arms of mine had seven years' pith),' 
 
 by the habits of military obedience. But he is still the 
 son of a burning soil. The Moor, indeed, is a person 
 of great energy ; not showing itself in impetuous sallies, 
 but in the grave and decisive conduct of a man accus- 
 tomed to command. It is only when he quits this 
 character, and loses all self-control, that his African 
 blood boils over and consumes him. It is then that his 
 passions rise up in rebellion against him. He has lost, 
 as he imagines, not a phantasm, conceived in imagina- 
 tion or a dream, but a wife unequalled, on whom his 
 soul was set, and whom his deliberate judgment entirely 
 approved. His admiration was not a fancy but a con- 
 viction, resting upon the intrinsic worth of her he loved. 
 All, therefore — affection, judgment, the grave opinion 
 of a cautious mind, the hopes and habits of a life now 
 settled down into happiness, — are torn up by the roots 
 and overset. We behold his mind utterly wrecked ; 
 and the spirit, which frctfulness and impatience never 
 weakened, now rages without check, and uncontrol- 
 lable. 
 One of the characteristic marks of Othello is his 
 
40 MEMOIR AND ESSAY ON 
 
 language. Shakspere forgot nothing. Othello is ex- 
 hibited not only as a soldier, a tender husband, and a 
 jealous man, but also as a Moor. As the drama 
 proceeds, we see the Moorish blood running through 
 and coloring everything he uttei-s ; as the red dawn 
 flows in upon and illuminates the eastern sky. His 
 words are as oriental as his dress, — ample, pictur- 
 esque, and magnificent. 
 
 In running over the many dramas of Shakspere, a thou- 
 sand things occur to me that appear to deserve remark. 
 There are his love of external nature, his graphic pic- 
 tures, his humor, his sense of beauty, his appreciation 
 of colors, of odors ('the air smells wooingly here'), 
 of sweet sounds, and of everything valuable which 
 the world affords. Observe how admirable his plays 
 commence. You always hear the true note of pre- 
 paration, — the key-stone at the beginning. Observe 
 the difference between his men and women : the men 
 embodying the active principle; the women (with a few 
 exceptions, such as Lady Macbeth and Beatrice) the 
 passive virtues. The men are restless and ambitious, 
 and cut their way to fortune ; the women seem moulded 
 to inhabit the circle in which they move. Observe the 
 difference between his poetry and that of Fletcher and 
 others. The latter are poetical in soliloquy or narra- 
 tion only. They cannot make their images bear upon 
 active life. But, look at Shakspere ! his passion springs 
 out of the passion or humor of the time : 
 
 ' Rouse thyself! and the weak wanton Capid 
 Shall from thy neck unloose his amorous fold, 
 And, like a dew-drop from the lion's mane, 
 Be shook to air.' 
 
THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPEEE. 49 
 
 But I should require a volume were I to reckon up his 
 minuter beauties, or to attempt to proceed seriatim 
 through his plays ; and I must, therefore, rest content 
 with having said a few of the many things that press 
 upon me for utterance. Saying what I have said, I 
 leave the rest to future writers. 
 
 §6. 
 
 If the judgment and general intellect of Shakspere 
 be great, so is his style worthy of the thoughts which 
 it enshrines. It is, beyond comparison, the most dra- 
 matic style extant. Some persons have insisted that 
 he had no style, and have elevated this — which, if it 
 existed, would be a defect — into a positive merit. To 
 my thinking, the hand of Shakspere can be traced more 
 readily than that of any other dramatic writer. The 
 style of Beaumont and Fletcher, or rather of Fletcher, 
 is also very distinguishable from that of others ; it is in 
 fact so peculiar, that it degenerates into mannerism. 
 But though the style of Shakspere is his own, it con- 
 tains a flexibility or variety — a power of adapting itself 
 to the different exigencies of the drama — that rescues 
 it from mannerism and monotony. With what incom- 
 parable skill his verse is fashioned; strong and firm 
 without harshness, musical without weakness. An author 
 and critic of great merit (Mr. Leigh Hunt) is disposed 
 to prefer the versification of Beaumont and Fletcher to 
 that of Shakspere ; who, he thinks, was led away by 
 the attractiveness of Marlowe's verse. This opinion has 
 been so ably and fairly encountered by Mr. George 
 
 VOL. I. 4 
 
50 MEMOIR AND ESSAY ON 
 
 Darley, in his preface to the works of Beaumont and 
 Fletcher, that it leaves me little to do beyond referring 
 to it. I may be permitted, however, to observe, that 
 the verse of almost all our early dramatists was con- 
 fined to ten syllables; and that the verse of Shakspere, 
 judging by his undoubted plays, cannot in fact be said 
 to have been founded on that of Marlowe. The verse 
 of Marlowe, like the verse of Peele, is wanting in 
 dramatic fitness. It is too much like that in which 
 narrative or epic poetry is conveyed. It is better, un- 
 doubtedly, than the verse of Peele, or of any other of 
 his cotemporaries, but in frequency, and especially in 
 variety, of its pauses, it is often deficient. If Shak- 
 spere indeed be (contrary to my surmise) the author 
 of ' Titus Anubonicus,' it must be admitted that he 
 was, at the outset of his career, an imitator of the verse 
 of Marlowe, but not otherwise. 
 
 In addition to the reasons urged by Mr. Darley 
 against the versification of Beaumont and Fletcher, 
 there is one other, namely, that the use of double and 
 triple endings (which in fact constitutes their pecu- 
 liarity) has a tendency to retard the dialogue, in all 
 cases ; and, therefore, should be very rarely used, ex- 
 cept in soliloquy or narrative passages. In those cases, 
 where the object is not to hurry on the interest, but in 
 fact to operate as a relief or pause from the excitement 
 of the play, these endings may be adopted with advan- 
 tage ; and accordingly we find that Shakspere, who 
 knew how to profit by all things, has recourse to this 
 species of verse, in the soliloquies of Hamlet and other 
 places. In those parts where events are rapidly pro- 
 ceeding, or where the carle and tierce of dialogue is 
 
THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPERE. 51 
 
 fiercely going on, these endings are abandoned as an 
 incumbrance. 
 
 In point of fitness, Shakspere's style surpasses that 
 of all other writers. Let it be observed, how to the 
 common people, as clowns, servants, &c., he allots 
 common prosaic speech, differing, however, in each 
 case, as the character to whom it is allotted differs from 
 others; and being grave or humorous, terse or loose, 
 accordingly. But to the greater personages of the 
 drama — whether raised by native heroism or intellect, 
 or bom to a high condition, he gives noble and imagi- 
 native language, always appropriate and always adapted 
 to sustain the purposes of the play. It is true that the 
 individual character of certain historical persons, such 
 as Richard the Second and Henry the Sixth, may seem 
 scarcely to justify the fine poetry which they sometimes 
 utter, but it is the condition of a king dethroned that 
 requires it. Not that kings or heroes are for ever in 
 the ' Ercles' ' vein. Shakspere knew that they jested 
 and became prosaic like other men. And these occa- 
 sional descents from high verse to familiar words, in 
 the same person, may be defended on various grounds ; 
 sometimes by the quality of the people addressed, 
 sometimes by the circumstance on which the dialogue 
 turns, sometimes by the elevation or tension of the 
 character being lowered or relaxed, in order to accom- 
 modate it to some exigency in the drama, or to produce 
 *some desirable effect. 
 
 The language of Richard the Third is that of a man 
 of the world, bold, practical, and to the point; while 
 that of Macbeth is speculative and imaginative. Yet both 
 are ambitious men, and both brave men ; only ambition 
 
52 MEMOIR AND ESSAY ON 
 
 in one case seems to advance upon an infirm and yield- 
 ing nature and to excite it, and in the other it is sought 
 by a resolute spirit, in whom the passion seems to have 
 existed from his birth. The language of Henry the 
 Eighth (a successful tyrant) differs from John, a tyrant 
 surrounded by trouble. The lover Romeo differs from 
 the lover Troilus : the capricious Cleopatra from the 
 wanton Cressld : Thersites from Aperaantus : and even 
 Richard the Second (although both are kings, both 
 weak, and both in the same state of adversity) from 
 the husband of Margaret of Anjou. The same differ- 
 ences might be shown'by analyzing the characters of 
 Shakspere separately, and tracing the gradations and 
 shades of language from the commencement to the 
 end of the play. In Lear alone, there is first the 
 generous kingly opening ; then the violent language 
 (degenerating into that awful curse) of a wilful monarch 
 thwarted in his humor and self-love ; then the bitter 
 language produced by ingratitude ; then the sublime 
 pathos ; then the babblings and wandering of mad- 
 ness ; and, finally, the recurrence of tenderness towards 
 his 'joy, although the last not least,' the true-hearted 
 Cordelia, which immediately precedes his death. 
 
 I have, upon a former occasion, alluded to two 
 distinguishing peculiarities in Shakspere's style. One 
 is that his speeches, instead of being directed or limited, 
 for the time, to one person or one subject only, radiate 
 (so to speak), or point on all sides, dealing with all 
 persons present, and with all subjects that can be sup- 
 posed to influence the speaker. The other distinction 
 is, that the most subtle and profound reflections fre- 
 
THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPERE. 53 
 
 quently enrich and are involved (parenthetically) in the 
 dialogue, without impeding h ; such as, in ' Antony 
 AND Cleopatra,' where Antony speaks of 
 
 ' Our slippery people 
 ( Whose love is never linked to the deserver, 
 Till his deserts be past) begin to thin ; ' 
 
 and, in ' Troilus and Cressida,' where Ulysses says, 
 
 ' Right and wrong 
 (Between whose endless jars justice resides) 
 Should lose their names : ' 
 
 and elsewhere in abundance. 
 
 Incomparison with that of Shakspere, Ben Jonson's 
 style is crabbed, Beaumont and Fletcher's weak, loose, 
 and disjointed, and Massinger's like that of a rhetorician. 
 There is not in these, or in any other dramatic author, 
 as far as I can recollect, a merit, be it of modulation or 
 language, that has not been surpassed over and over 
 again by Shakspere. 
 
 It has been said that there is something occult in the 
 language of true poetry : and, as there is something 
 mysterious in the source of poetry, it may be that there is 
 something mysterious and occult in its demonstrations ; 
 and that it is intelligible only, in its fullest extent, to per- 
 sons of an apprehensive or imaginative intellect (so to 
 speak), being themselves akin to poets. Yet perhaps, 
 after all, it may be only the exquisite propriety and 
 taste found in their words and phrases, that (in those 
 parts where there is an absence of any strong evidence 
 of imagination), determines the difference between the 
 true poet, and the mere copyist or compounder of 
 verse. 
 
54 MEMOIR AND ESSAY ON 
 
 §7. 
 
 I have already adverted to the benefits which 
 Shakspere conferred upon his country ; but I shall 
 indulge myself in a few words more upon the subject. 
 
 There have been three events in the literary history 
 of England, which, it is said, tended beyond others to 
 raise the public mind out of the barbarism and igno- 
 rance of our early times. These were the translation 
 of the Bible, the works of Bacon, and the dramas 
 of Shakspere. The first, whatever peril may have 
 attended it by severing the Christian church into many 
 sects, assuredly rescued our predecessors from much 
 idolatry and the domination of an ambitious priesthood, 
 and gave an impulse and independence to thought in 
 matters of infinite moment. In like manner, Bacon 
 dissipated the clouds which hung about science, and 
 liberated Reason from the thraldom of precedent and 
 custom. And, finally, Shakspere arose, like a sun, 
 scattering the darkness, and developing the shape and 
 life of all things ; a discoverer (beyond Cadmus or 
 Columbus) of all the varieties of the human race, of all 
 the good and evil, and power and weakness that belong 
 to man. He has left nothing untouched, from the king 
 dividing his dominions, to the insect ' that we tread 
 upon ; ' from the princely philosopher to the braggart 
 and the idiot. His light has shone upon all things, has 
 penetrated all things, and drawn from all things a 
 lesson and a moral, capable of invigorating the intellect 
 and expanding the affections of every being capable of 
 thought. Nor is it alone by what this great writer 
 teaches, but by what he suggests, that we are to estimate 
 
THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPERE. 55 
 
 his value. It is one of the unfailing signs of a true 
 poet, that the seeds of wisdom which he strews before 
 us should germinate and bring forth fruit. He does 
 not borrow, for our edification, the common-places 
 which have been familiar to us from our cradle, and 
 which have ceased to incite us ; he does not propound 
 to us barren truths (facts) ; but he bears us away to 
 * fresh fields ' and ' pastures,' fertile as well as ' neAv ; ' 
 and amidst the mysteries and startling objects of a 
 strange region, he leaves us to profit as best we 
 may. 
 
 If Bacon educated the reason, Shakspere educated 
 the heart ; yet not alone the heart, but the reason also. 
 He knew that by conquering the affections one great 
 road to the intellect would be won. Moreover, in letting 
 loose his imagination, he liberated at the same time 
 the imaginations of other men; lifting them, as it 
 were, to his own height and point of vision, and teach- 
 ing them how to soar, and think, and speculate, in a 
 manner never displayed before. He united the wisdom 
 of the historian and the moralist. To the subtlety of 
 a metaphysician he joined the acuteness of a writer 
 on dialectics. He surpassed ^schylus in grandeur, 
 Euripides in pathos, Aristophanes in wit. If the 
 dramas of Shakspere were resorted to as mere exer- 
 cises of the intellect, they would be beyond all value. 
 There is no school in which so much, or things so 
 various, may be taught. There is in them, it is true, 
 neither Latin nor Greek, neither hexameter nor pen- 
 tameter. We hear nothing of the steam-engine, nor of 
 the north-west passage (although sounds come to us 
 ' From the still vexed Bermoothes ') ; 
 
56 MEMOIR AND ESSAY ON 
 
 nothing of geometry or arithmetic, except that Michael 
 Cassio was 'an arithmetician.' But we behold the 
 living world before us, teeming with its hopes and 
 desires, its joy, and throes, and agonies ; the passions 
 in all their forms ; evil in its many shapes ; and good 
 intermixed with evil. We see the means and ends of 
 government ; the springs and effects of conduct ; faction 
 and loyalty ; slavery and independence ; confidence, 
 envy, mistrust; all (as they are called) the accidents of 
 life, mingled and interwoven with each other, and form- 
 ing, if rightly read, a rule of conduct, a profound 
 lesson, for every character and condition of life, from 
 the beggar up to the king. 
 
 Various opinions have been formed as to the 
 particular quality of mind for which Shakspere wa^ 
 most eminent. I think, however, as I have heretofore 
 said, that in all the cases where critics have attempted 
 to distinguish him by any one particular excellence of 
 intellect, they have failed. One writer has brought 
 forwtird his imagination ; another his sublimity or 
 humor ; whilst Mr. GifFord refers to his wit, — in which 
 he has surely been equalled. If I myself were desired 
 to point out any one quality as predominant above the 
 rest, I should be inclined to fix upon the infinite delicacy 
 of his mind, which (with equal subtlety and judgment) 
 defined the thousand shades and varieties of human 
 character, — all that lies between the good and the 
 bad, the strong and the weak, the lofty and the low ; 
 or I might, perhaps, rest on that marvellous freedom 
 from egotism, which enabled him to create so many 
 beings (all with the true stamp of humanity upon them) 
 without betraying a single touch of any humor or 
 
THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPERE. 57 
 
 infirmity peculiar to himself. But I should do neither. 
 For his great merit, as it appears to me, is, that he had 
 no peculiar or prominent merit. His mind was so well 
 constituted, so justly and admirably balanced, that it 
 had nothing in excess. It was the harmonious com- 
 bination, the well adjusted powers, aiding and answering 
 to each other as occasion required, that produced his 
 completeness, and constituted, as I think, the secret of 
 his great entire intellectual strength. 
 
 §8. 
 
 Something remains to be said, touching the moral 
 effect of Shakspere's writings. A few words must 
 suffice. 
 
 The critics, with illustrious exceptions, and the 
 sectarians of modern times, are continually striving to 
 exalt authors of the didactic class above the rest of 
 their brethren, by the distinguishing title of ' moral 
 writers.' In this category (which includes sometimes 
 the great name of Milton), Cowper and Young, 
 together with Mr. Pollock and some other inferior 
 writers, are ranked ; and none but these favored few 
 are admitted into the houses of the stricter sects. The 
 gates of those un-catholic temples are shut against the 
 large body of poets, who are excluded as a lost or 
 perilous race. And yet, between the (so called) pious 
 and profane, the interval is not extremely wide. Nay, 
 the object of each may be, and in fact often is, the 
 same. No healthy poet or sensible man, I apprehend, 
 ever meditated a story with a view of deducing from it 
 a pernicious moral. Instances have arisen, in which a 
 
58 MEMOIR AND ESSAY ON 
 
 book having a good and honest design, has been marred 
 in some degree by coarse and voluptuous passages; 
 but these are comparatively rare ; and after all, the 
 parts to be reprehended must be taken into account, 
 and balanced with the positive good which the works 
 contain, before such works can be fairly set aside, or 
 condemned as injurious to the general reader. The 
 writings of Shakspere himself, however, are singularly 
 free from these objections. There is occasionally a 
 coarseness of phrase which must be attributed to the 
 age in which he lived: but he never tampered with 
 truth, — never threw down the boundaries between vice 
 and virtue, — never strove by voluptuous images to 
 excite the passions, — nor by fallacious arguments to 
 ensnare the mind or confuse the intellect upon any 
 subject whatsoever. 
 
 The objections to the greater number of poets and 
 fabulists (and to the dramatists in particular) lie, I 
 imagine, not so much in their want of a good moral, as 
 in their mode of illustrating it, — not so much in the 
 end, as in their means of arriving at the end. The 
 bustling incidents of a story, the bright pictures of 
 human happiness, the terrible truths which escape with 
 throes out of our erring nature, and in a word the 
 passions and absorbing interests of life, with whatever 
 purpose presented, are all too real and stimulative to 
 be tolerated by any sect who are ' exclusives ' in their 
 own opinion, and in whose cold creed Charity (in its 
 extensive sense) does not prevail. Yet the beautiful 
 and touching parables of Scripture are surely as holy 
 and as pregnant with wisdom, as the most moral 
 proverb which the wisest of sages has bequeathed. It 
 
THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPEKE. 59 
 
 is well argued by Sir Philip Sidney — * Even our 
 Saviour, Christ, could as weW have given the moral 
 common-places of uncharitableness and humbleness, as 
 the divine narration of Dives and Lazarus; or of dis- 
 obedience and mercy, as the heavenly discourse of the 
 lost child and the gracious father ; but that his thorough- 
 searching wisdom knew the estate of Dives burning in 
 hell, and of Lazarus in Abraham's bosom, would more 
 constantly, as it were, inhabit both the memory and 
 judgment.' 
 
 Shakspere, like all other great imaginative writers, 
 thought thus, and is therefore seldom didactic. He 
 does not always paint even the virtues triumphant. It 
 is by enlisting our sympathies on the side of those who 
 are good, by exciting our pity for the injured, and our 
 hatred towards the knave and the oppressor, that his 
 moral effects are produced ; not by merely predicting 
 and insisting on a moral or consequence, as necessarily 
 flowing from certain premises ; for that may be insisted 
 on and elaborated without producing any effect at all. 
 
 For my own part, 1 have no doubt but that Shakspere 
 (banished as he may be from some good men's tables) 
 was right, — right in his philosophy, right in his exten- 
 sive charity, right in his morals, and right in his mode 
 of demonstrating all. Had he ventured upon any other 
 mode than the one he has chosen, he would have 
 slighted, unwisely, the impulse of his genius, and would 
 not have effected one-hundredth part of the good that 
 he has produced. The soundness as well as importance 
 of a writer may generally be learned from the number 
 and quality of his admirers, better than from any 
 labored analysis of his works, or any contrast drawn 
 
60 MEMOIR AND ESSAY ON 
 
 between him and others. A man who is at the head 
 of a small Sect, is probably a person of small and 
 eccentric mind, — influencing a few others, of a similar 
 mean and distorted intellect. But the founder of a 
 Religion must always be a mighty Spirit. No one 
 who is the theme of reverence with a million intelli- 
 gent minds, but must have propounded in his writings 
 or doctrines much both of the good and the true. 
 Throughout the language in which he wrote, Shakspere 
 is all supreme. There is not a sceptic or dissentient 
 whose arguments are worth refutation. 
 
 That our great author may be imperfect, as he is 
 said to be, is merely saying that he belonged to 
 imperfect humanity. The flaws and errors of his 
 dramas are few, however, and possibly owe their origin 
 to interpolators ; besides which, I must protest against 
 such a process of judging. It is not by what a man 
 occasionally fails or omits to do (for that may arise 
 from hurry or accident) but by what he has done, that 
 his capability and value must be decided. It is by the 
 profound wisdom of Shakspere, by his wonderful im- 
 agination, displayed in a thousand varieties of character, 
 by his subtle and delicate fancies, his grand thoughts, 
 his boundless charity, — nay, even by the music that 
 steals into our souls, with the countless changes and 
 fluctuations, from strength to sweetness, of his charm- 
 ing verse, that we must learn to regard him truly. 
 But all this eulogy would be superfluous, except for a 
 limited class of thinkers ; for Shakspere is now making 
 his way through foreign countries and distant regions ; 
 vanquishing race after race, like the great conquerors of 
 old ; in spite of ignorance and prejudice, and imperfect 
 
THE GENIUS OF SnAKSPEEE. 61 
 
 teachers ; and in the midst of dim and obscure interpre- 
 tations, that would check the progress of any Spirit 
 less potent and catholic than his own ! 
 
 In the summer time, when the world is cheerful and 
 full of life, let us regale ourselves with the laughing 
 scenes and merry songs of Shakspere. In the winter 
 evenings, when sadder thoughts come forth, let us rest 
 upon his grave, philosophic page, and tiy to gather 
 comfort as well as wisdom from the deep speculations 
 which may be found there. At all times, let his ' Book 
 of Miracles ' be near at hand : for, be sure that the 
 more we read therein, the greater must our reverence 
 be. And, if any intruder should tell us that all we 
 ponder on and admire is mere matter of imagination 
 and fancy ; is shadowy, unreal, without profit ; and 
 that the end is — nought : bid him show you the thing 
 that is eternal, — or any effort of the human mind 
 that has outlasted the dreams of Poetry. Have I said 
 that they are dreams ? Alas ! what is there here that 
 is so far beyond a dream } We ourselves (so our 
 great poet says) 
 
 ' Are of such stuff 
 
 As DREAMS ARE MADE OF J AND OUR LITTLE LIFE 
 Is ROCNDED WITH A SLEEP ! ' 
 
THE DEATH OF FRIENDS. 
 
 Death is the tyrant of the imagination. His reign 
 is in solitude and darkness ; in tombs and prisons ; 
 over weak hearts and seething brains. He lives, with- 
 out shape or sound, a phantasm ; inaccessible to sight 
 or touch ; a ghastly and terrible Apprehension. 
 
 The fear of death is common to all. There never 
 was a man of such hardihood of nerve, but he has, at 
 one time or other, shrunk from pain or peril, the result 
 of which might be death. Death is a certain evil, if 
 life be a good. Despair may welcome it, and phi- 
 losophy may affect to disregard its approach ; but our 
 instinct, which is always true, first commands us to 
 fear. It is not so much the pain of dying, nor even 
 the array of death, (though the ' pompa mortis ' is 
 sufficiently repelling;) but it is that vague and tremen- 
 dous thought, that vast impenetrable gloom, without 
 epth, or breadth, or bound, which no reason can 
 compass and no intellect pry into, that alarms us. Our 
 fancy is ripe with wonders, and it fills up the space 
 between us and Heaven. 
 
THE DEATH OF FRIENDS. * 63 
 
 There is something very sad in the death of friends. 
 We seem to provide for our own mortality, and to 
 make up our minds to die. We are warned by sick- 
 ness, — fever, and ague, and sleepless nights, and a 
 hundred dull infirmities; but when our friends pass 
 away, we lament them as though we had considered 
 them immortal. 
 
 It is wise, I suppose, that we should attach ourselves 
 to things which are transient; else it seems to be a 
 perilous trust when a man ties his hopes to so frail 
 a thing as woman. They are so gentle, so affectionate, 
 so true in sorrow, so untired and untiring ; but the leaf 
 withers not sooner, the tropic lights fade not more 
 abruptly into darkness. They die and are taken from 
 us ; and we weep ; and our friends tell us that it is not 
 wise to grieve, for that all which is mortal perisheth. 
 They do not know that 
 
 We grieve the more because we grieve in vain ! 
 
 If our grief could bring back the dead, it would be 
 stormy and loud ; we should disturb the sunny quiet of 
 day ; we should startle the dull night from her repose. 
 But our hearts would not grieve as they grieve now, 
 when hope is dead within us. 
 
 I remember, even as a gray-headed man remembers, 
 clearly and more distinctly than the things of yester- 
 day, that which happened long ago. I remember, 
 when I was about four years of age, how I learned to 
 spell, and was sent daily in the servant's hand to a 
 little day-school, to fight my way (amidst a score of 
 other urchins) through the perils of the alphabet. I 
 had no ambition then, no hatred, no uncharitableness. 
 
64 THE DEATH OF FRIENDS. 
 
 If these dfemons have possessed me since, they must 
 have been cast down upon me by the ' malice of my 
 stars,' I had no organs for such things : yet now I 
 can hate almost as strongly as I love, and am as con- 
 stant to my antipathies as to my affections. 
 
 Well, when my fifth was running into my sixth year, 
 and I was busied with parables and Scripture history 
 (the only food which nourished my infant mind), I was 
 much noticed by a young person, a female. I was at 
 
 that time living with an old relation in H shire, 
 
 and I still preserve the recollection of Miss R 's 
 
 tender condescension towards me. She was a pretty 
 delicate girl, and very amiable ; and I became — (yes, 
 it is true, for I remember the strong feelings of that 
 time) — enamored of her. My love had the fire of 
 passion, but not the clay which drags it downwards; it 
 partook of the innocence of my years, while it ethe- 
 realized me. Whether it was the divinity of beauty 
 that stung me, or rather that lifted me above the dark- 
 ness and immaturity of childhood, I know not ; but my 
 feelings were any thing but childish. By some strong 
 intuition I felt that there was a difference (I knew not 
 what) that called forth an extraordinary and impetuous 
 regard. 
 
 She was the first object (save my mother) that I ever 
 attached myself to. I had better have loved a flower, 
 a weed. For when I knew her she had the seeds of 
 death within her. Consumption had ' caught her ; ' his 
 sickly hand was upon her, like the canker on the rose, 
 and drew out a perilous, unearthly bloom. The hues 
 and vigor of life were flushing too quickly through her 
 cheek — (yet how pale she was at times !) She wasted 
 
THE DEATH OF FRIENDS. 65 
 
 a month in an hour — a year in a month; and at last 
 died in the stormy autumn time, when the breath of 
 summer had left her. 
 
 The last time I ever saw her was (as well as I can 
 recollect) in October, or late in September. I was told 
 
 that Miss R was ill, was very ill, and that perhaps 
 
 I might not see her again. Death I could not, of 
 course, comprehend ; but I understood perfectly what 
 was a perpetual absence from my pretty friend. 
 Whether I wept or raved, or how it was, I know not; 
 but I was taken to visit her. It was a cold day, and 
 the red and brown leaves were plentiful on the trees : 
 and it was afternoon when we arrived at an old- 
 fashioned country-house (something better than a farm- 
 house), which stood at some distance from the high 
 road. The sun was near his setting ; but the whole of 
 the wide west was illuminated, and threw crimson and 
 scarlet colors on the windows, over which hung a cloud 
 of vine-stalks and changing leaves that dropped by 
 scores on every summons of the blast. There she 
 sate — in a parlor full of flowers (herself the fairest) — 
 among China roses and glittering ice-plants, and myr- 
 tles which no longer blossomed. She was sitting (as I 
 entered) in a large arm-chair covered with white, like 
 a faded Flora, and was looking at the sun : but she 
 turned her bright and gentle looks on me, and the pink 
 bloom dimpled on her cheek as she smiled and bade 
 me welcome. I have often thought of her since. I 
 look on her, as it seems, even now — through what a 
 waste of years ! I see her cheek, at first like a lily, 
 just tinged, but afterwards deepening into the brightest 
 red, from the agitation perhaps of meeting with visitors. 
 
 VOL. X. 5 
 
66 THE DEATH OF FRIENDS. 
 
 The flowers that were around looked as fragile as 
 herself — summer companions. But the wild Autumn 
 was around her and them, and the Winter himself was 
 coming. He came, almost before his time, cold and 
 remorseless, and she shrank, and withered, and died. 
 The rose-blooms and the myrtles lived on, a little 
 longer ; but the crimson beauty of her cheeks faded 
 for ever. 
 
 The progress from infancy to boyhood is impercepti- 
 ble. In that long dawn of the mind we take but little 
 heed. The years pass by us, one by one, little dis- 
 tinguishable from each other. But when the intellectual 
 sun of our life is risen, we take due note of joy and 
 sorrow. Our days grow populous with events ; and 
 through our nights bright trains of thought run, illumi- 
 nating the airy future, and dazzling the days we live 
 in. We have the unalloyed fruition of hope ; and the 
 best is that the reality is still to come. 
 
 I went to a public school when I was about thirteen 
 years of age, and carried thither a modest eye and a 
 bashful spirit. I was stored with tales and fictions, 
 with the marvels of travel, many of them derived from 
 an old relation, a sort of great uncle, who had always 
 treated me with kindness. He used to place me upon 
 his knee, in the winter evenings, and tell me stories of 
 foreign countries, of Eastern and Western India ; of 
 buffaloes and serpents; of the crocodile and the tawny 
 lion, and how he bounded through the jungles; and 
 what the elephant with his almost human faculty could 
 do ; and how the shark would follow ships by a strange 
 instinct ; and how the whale could spout out his cata- 
 racts of water ; and a hundred other wonders which I 
 
THE DEATH OF FRIENDS. 67 
 
 listened to with a greedy air. He never failed, either 
 in his kindness or his stories, — at least towards me. 
 He was a weather-beaten man, could shoot, and hunt, 
 and in his youth had doubled the Cape, and traversed 
 the Indian ocean. 
 
 But he was doomed to die. He had been ill when I 
 last saw him, in the Christmas holidays; yet I little 
 thought that the grave was so near him. I was sum- 
 moned home, one day, to weep and wear mourning; 
 and I went to the house of his widow, where he lay — 
 dead. Oh what a visit was that ! It haunted me for 
 years. The servant said that he — (what ' he' 7 was it 
 the heap of dust?) — that he lay in the front drawing- 
 room. I shuddered and stopped ; but i. was assured 
 that he looked just as though he were asleep. Let 
 no one believe such things. There is nothing so un- 
 like sleep as death. It is a poet's lie. The one is a 
 gracious repose, a vital calm ; the other is a horrid 
 solemnity, no more like sleep than a mask of plaster; 
 stiff, rigid, white — beyond the whiteness of shrouds or 
 the paleness of stone. All parallels fail : we strain at 
 comparisons in vain. 
 
 I went up to see my old friend. There was silence 
 all about, and the stone steps of the staircase sent out 
 unusual echoes. The door was opened, — slowly, as 
 though we should disturb the corpse. The windows 
 were closed, and there were long wax candles burning 
 at the head and at the feet ; and over all a white sheet 
 was carefully thrown. The length — the prodigious 
 length that the body seemed to occupy, at once startled 
 me, and I recoiled. But the servant proceeded, and 
 uncovered the head of the coffin. After an effort I 
 
68 THE DEATH OF FRIENDS. 
 
 looked — Ah! would to God that I had never looked. 
 There he lay, like a stone. His mouth was bound up, 
 and his eyelids had been pressed down, and his nose 
 was pinched as though by famine. The white death 
 was upon him — the rioter, the ruler of graves. And 
 my old friend was swathed in fine linen, and pure 
 crape was cut and crimped about him, as though to 
 save him from the worm and the sapping earth. 'Twas 
 poor mockery of his humble state ; and yet perhaps it 
 was meant kindly. Three days after this he was borne 
 away in a hearse, and I let out my grief in tears, 
 
 I scarcely know how it is, but the deaths of children 
 seem to me always less premature than those of elder 
 persons. Not that they are in fact so ; but it is because 
 they themselves have little or no relation to time or 
 maturity. Life seems a race which they have yet to 
 run entirely. They have made no progress towards 
 the goal. They are born, — nothing further. But it 
 seems hard when a man has toiled high up the steep 
 hill of knowledge, that he should be cast, like Sisyphus, 
 downwards in a moment : that he who has worn the 
 day and wasted the night in gathering the gold of 
 science, should be — with all his wealth of learning, 
 all his accumulations — made bankrupt at once. What 
 becomes of all the riches of the soul, the piles and 
 pyramids of precious thoughts which men heap to- 
 gether ? Where are Shakspere's imagination. Bacon's 
 learning, Galileo's dream ? Where is the sweet fancy 
 of Sidney, the airy spirh of Fletcher, and Milton's 
 thought severe } Methinks such things should not die 
 and dissipate, when a hair can live for centuries, and 
 a brick of Egypt will last three thousand years ! I am 
 
THE DEATH OF FRIENDS. 69 
 
 content to believe that the muid of man survives (some- 
 where or other) his clay. 
 
 I was once present at the death of a little child. I 
 will not pain the reader by portraying its agonies ; but 
 when its breath was gone — its life — (nothing more 
 than a cloud of smoke !) and it lay like a waxen image 
 before me, I turned my eyes to its moaning mother, 
 and sighed out my few words of comfort. But I am 
 a beggar in grief. I can feel, and sigh, and look 
 kindly, I think ; but I have nothing to give. My tongue 
 deserts me. I know the inutility of too soon comfort- 
 ing. I know that I should weep, were I the loser; 
 and I let the tears have their way. Sometimes, a word 
 or two I can muster : a ' Sigh no more ! ' and * Dear 
 lady, do not grieve ! ' but further, I am mute and use- 
 less. 
 
 To pass from this, to another scene of a darker 
 
 color. It was in W shire that I heard a medical 
 
 friend tell of a death-bed which he had witnessed. 
 The man who died was a rich farmer. He was the 
 father of two natural children (females), whom he 
 made do all the drudgery of his house. He was a 
 hard landlord, a bad master, a libertine, and a miser, 
 a drunkard, a fighter at fairs and markets; and over 
 his children he used a tyranny which neither tears nor 
 labor could mitigate. But he was stopped in his head- 
 long course. A fierce pain came upon him : a fire 
 raged in his vitals. His strong linibs, which no wrestler 
 could twist, and no antagonist lay prostrate, shranic 
 before an unseen foe. Fever encompassed him, and 
 delirium; and in his frightful dreams he called aloud, 
 he shrieked, he wept like a child. He prayed for help. 
 
70 THE DEATH OF FRIENDS. 
 
 for case, for a little respite. It was all in vain. My 
 friend attended this man, and, though used to scenes 
 of death, this terrified even him. He said that the 
 raving of the sufferer was heyond belief — it was the 
 noise of a great animal, not of man. His eye glared, 
 and he swore perpetually, and said that Satan was in 
 wait for him, and pointed towards a corner of the 
 chamber. When he made an effort, it was like the 
 struggle of the tiger. And then he would listen, and 
 cry that he heard the dull roll of drums, and the stamp 
 of a war-horse, and the sounds of trumpets — call- 
 ing — calling ; and he answered and shrieked that ' he 
 was coming.' — And he v^ent ! 
 
 Most of my own friends have died calmly. One 
 wasted away for months and months ; and though 
 death came slowly, he came too soon. I was told that 
 
 Mr. ' wished to live.' On the very day on which 
 
 he died he tried to battle with the great king, to stand 
 up against the coldness and faintness which seized upon 
 him. But he died, notwithstanding, and though quietly, 
 reluctantly. Another friend (a female) died easily and 
 in old age, surviving her faculties. A third met death 
 smiling. A fourth was buried in Italian earth among 
 flowers and odorous herbs. A fifth, the nearest of all, 
 died gradually, and his children came about him, and 
 were sad ; but he was resigned to all fortunes, for he 
 
 believed in a long * hereafter ! ' And so time 
 
 passes. So 
 
 ' Labuntur anni : nee pietas moram 
 Rugis et instanti senectae 
 Afferet, indomilteque morti.' 
 
 There is somethmg inexpressively touching in an 
 
THE DEATH OF FRIENDS. 71 
 
 anecdote which I have heard of a foreign artist. He 
 was an American, and had come hither (he and his 
 young wife) to paint for fame and — a subsistence. 
 They were strangers in England : they had to fight 
 against prejudice and poverty ; but their affection for 
 each other solaced them under every privation, every 
 frown of fortune. They could think, at least, ' all the 
 way over ' the great Atlantic : and their fancy (little 
 cherished here) had leisure to be busy among the 
 friends and scenes which they had left behind. A 
 gentleman, who had not seen them for some time, went 
 one day to the artist's painting-room, and observing 
 him pale and worn, inquired about his health, and 
 afterwards regarding his wife. He answered, only, 
 'She has left me;' and proceeded in a hurried way 
 with his work. She was dead ! — and he was left 
 alone to toil, and get money, and mourn. The heart 
 in which he had hoarded all his secrets, all his hopes, 
 was cold ; and Fame itself was but a shadow. 
 
 And so it is, that all we love must wither; that we 
 ourselves must wither and die away. 'T is a trite 
 saying : yet a wholesome moral belongs to it. The 
 thread of our life is spun ; it is twisted firmly, and 
 looks as if it would last for ever. All colors are 
 there, — the gaudy yellow and the sanguine red, and 
 black — dark as death ; yet is it cut in twain by the 
 shears of Fate almost before we discern the peril. 
 
 All that has been, and is, and is to be, must die, and 
 the grave will possess all. Already the temple of 
 Death is stored with enormous treasures ; but it shall 
 he filed, till its sides shall crack and moulder, and its 
 gaunt king ' Death, the skeleton,' shall wither, like his 
 
72 THE DEATH OF FRIENDS. 
 
 prey. Oh ! if the dead may speak, by what rich 
 noises is that solemn temple haunted ! What a count- 
 less throng of shapes is there, — kings and poets, 
 philosophers and soldiers ! What a catalogue might 
 not be reckoned, from the founder of the towers of 
 Belus, to the Pefsian who encamped in the Babylonian 
 squares, to Alexander, and Socrates, and Plato, to 
 Csesar, to Alfred ! Fair names, too, might be strung 
 upon the list, like pearls or glancing diamonds, — 
 creatures who were once the grace and beauty of the 
 earth, queens and gentle women, — Antigone and 
 Sappho, — Corinna and the mother of the Gracchi, — 
 Portia and Agrippine. And the story might be ended 
 with him, who died an exile on his sea-surrounded 
 rock, the first emperor of France, the king and con- 
 queror of Italy, the Corsican soldier, Napoleon. 
 
 1822. 
 
THE SPANISH STUDENT. 
 
 AN ADVENTURE AT PADUA FOUNDED ON FACT. 
 
 The grass is now growing in the streets of Padua. 
 Ranges of houses are crumbling into dust. The mar- 
 ble palaces of its princes are silent ; and Learning has 
 fled, like a false friend ! 
 
 Yet, still its University remains : its doctors and pro- 
 fessors are still there ; and there still is the large clock, 
 which thunders the dull hour into the ears of its 
 straggling disciples. But where is the fame of Padua ? 
 Where is its learned splendor ? Where are its eigh- 
 teen thousand scholars, — Italian and Greek, Persian, 
 Frank, and Arabian ? They are gone, loaded with 
 the wealth of science : they cultivate the seeds of learn- 
 ing at home, and the school of Petrarch and Galileo 
 is deserted ! 
 
 It is now many years ago since a young Spanish 
 student was seen, one sultry afternoon, descending the 
 side of one of the Euganean hills on his return to 
 Padua. He had been at Arqua that morning to visit 
 the tomb of Petrarch, and was going back to the 
 University, in which he had lately been admitted a 
 
74 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 
 
 scholar. The youth was of a good family, and was a 
 native of Castile, and he had been sent to Padua, in 
 order to acquire a knowledge of languages, as well a 
 some of the latter discoveries in science, which were 
 not then known (or at least not taught) in the colleges 
 of Spain. He was a serious, graceful young man, with 
 a proud mouth and a large black eye that wanted noth- 
 ing but the illumination of love to make it altogether 
 irresistible. His name was Rodrigo Gomez; and, on 
 the afternoon of which we have spoken, had any lady 
 seen him treading firmly and lightly along (as though 
 all the blood of Castile were in his veins), and looked 
 for a moment at his expressive face, where the con- 
 stant olive was now mixed and dashed with dark red, 
 like the flush of a ruby brought out by the light, she 
 might have pleaded a beautiful excuse for inconstancy 
 or love. Rodrigo was not aware, however, of these 
 things, but pressed forward with a quick step to Padua. 
 He saw before him rich pastures stretching out into 
 misty distance, and the gay villages of Italy scattered 
 on each side. He passed Cataio, and the gloomy 
 castle of the Obizzi ; and keeping onwards by the 
 canal, continued to make the best of his way home- 
 wards. Having gone a mile or two further, however, 
 the intense heat of the day oppressed him, and he 
 resolved to rest himself at a small inn (which he had 
 perceived when he had passed that way before), and 
 to complete his journey in the evening. 
 
 He was now about five or six miles from Padua, and 
 he entered the village inn. It stood a little out of the 
 road, and was sheltered by some large chestnut-trees 
 from the heat of the sun. He called for refreshments, 
 
THE SPANISH STUDENT. i O 
 
 when bread and fruit and a bottle of light wine were 
 placed before him. In one corner of the room sate a 
 dark sullen-looking man, whose air appeared some- 
 what above that of a peasant, drinking ; another sang a 
 romance to a few listeners at the door of the house ; 
 and two noble-looking men, who appeared to e for- 
 eigners, were conversing at a table near him. 
 
 * Sing that song again, Stephano,' said one of the 
 party at the outside of the inn, * and I will give thee 
 some music to it : ' and upon this he took a violin out 
 of a small bag that he held in his hand, and proceeded 
 to draw from it some exquisite tones. ' That fellow has 
 a fine hand,' said one of the gentlemen near Rodrigo 
 in Spanish. ' By St. Jago he would beat the nightin- 
 gale. Listen ! ' — And the fellow played until the 
 hearing of Rodrigo was entranced. He had heard 
 fine music in Spain, and was painfully subject to its 
 power. Now he listened to the masterly capriccios of 
 the musician, and then to the tender symphony, till at 
 last the song commenced, and the words riveted his 
 attention. It told of * the Beauty of Padua,' — her 
 faults, her snares, her bewitching eyes, and her voice 
 sweeter than music, which none had been ever known 
 to resist. It spoke of her as a Calypso — a Circe — a 
 creature who outwent all sculpture, and painting, the 
 flights of passion, and the dreams of poets ; and then 
 some plaintive burthen followed, which it was difficult 
 to understand. But a second verse succeeding, the 
 student listened more attentively, and caught words like 
 these : — 
 
 ' Tell me where her beauty lies ! 
 In her lips, or in her eyes ? 
 
76 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 
 
 In her bosom white and deep, 
 Where her favor'd lovers sleep ; 
 In her love-enchaining smile ? 
 In her truth, or in her guile ? ' — 
 
 and then the burthen was repeated, and the ditty 
 closed. 
 
 * And, prythee, who is the beauty of Padua ? ' said 
 the elder Spaniard, when the song was over. 
 
 ' He means Cornelia,' replied the landlord of the 
 inn (a little stout humorous-looking man) who had 
 just entered the room. 
 
 'I do not know her, friend,' retorted the stranger — 
 * who is she ? I never heard of more than one of that 
 name, and she died long ago.' 
 
 * And pray who was she, if I may be so bold ?' 
 said the host. ' We have only one of that name who 
 has been remarkable.' 
 
 ' She was a famous woman, and mother of the 
 Gracchi ! ' 
 
 * Oh ! — a relation perhaps. But this lady has no 
 children : plenty of lovers, though.' 
 
 'And now, our good host,' said the Spaniard, 'sit 
 down (here, upon this bench,) and help us to drink 
 some of this excellent wine. Ha ! 't has a rare flavor, 
 i' faith. This is your true Montepulciano ' 
 
 ' You are a judge, Signior,' interrupted the landlord. 
 
 ' No, no ; I have tasted the true grape in my time, 
 though, I confess. This wine reminds me of some 
 
 which I drank at the Prince of C .'s, at Naples. 
 
 It must be of the same vintage. But, to leave that 
 subject — prythee sit down by me, friend, and tell us, 
 without more ado, who your Cornelia is." 
 
THE SPANISH STUDENT. 77 
 
 The host bowed, and obeyed. He tasted his own wine 
 like a landlord, and spoke to the following efTect : — 
 
 * About five-and-twenty years ago, Signiors ' said 
 he, ' the large palace, which you will see on entering 
 Padua, (you will know it by Uie fountain of lions,) be- 
 longed to a Cardinal of the family of th(? Minotti. He 
 was of a proud and tyrannous temper, Sirs, as your 
 high-born gentles frequently are ; but he possessed 
 large revenues, a wonderful stock of learning, and, as 
 it was said, expected one day or other to be Pope. He 
 had not always been a churchman, however; but, in 
 his early days, had followed the trade of fighting ; and 
 had, in fact, signalized himself a little in public battles, 
 and considerably in private disputes. In truth he was 
 of a quarrelsome nature ; and being an expert swords- 
 man, was much respected by gallants in general. He 
 had a friend however ; one — one ' 
 
 ' Antonio Zetti,' said the stranger in the peasant's 
 dress. 
 
 ' You are right Signior,' returned the host ; * Zetti 
 was the name, as I recollect, — Antonio Zetti. Well, 
 it so chanced that this gallant fell in love with the 
 same lady to whom the count Minotti was then at- 
 tached : for the great Cardinal, Sirs, was then only a 
 Coun .' 
 
 'By St. Jago ! only'' — said the Spaniard. 
 
 * Yes, Signior,' replied tlie landlord, * nothing more, 
 I assure you.' 
 
 ' And was not that enough ? ' 
 
 'Oh, no, Signior, — a mere nothing. We think 
 nothing of people here unless they belong to the 
 church.' 
 
78 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 
 
 'Why was my crown not shaven, Guzman?' said 
 the Spaniard, aside, to his countryman. ' Why, what 
 an ass was I to carve my dinner with a sword. I 
 might have been a scarlet king here, and poisoned the 
 ear of the old man of the mountains.' 
 
 * Well, Sir,* the Count Minotti and his friend quar- 
 relled (about the lady) and fought ; and Antonio - ' 
 
 ' Was killed. I see it to the end,' said the Spaniard. 
 
 * Yes, Sir, he was killed, as you say, and left a fine 
 spring morning behind him. They met in the out- 
 skirts of Rome, (where the Count then lived,) and the 
 first lunge cured the Signior Zetti of his passion.' 
 
 ' And the lady married the victor ? hey ! ' added the 
 Spaniard. ' The women are fond of laurels, I know, 
 and a little blood will never spoil a green leaf.' 
 
 ' No, Sir ; she was obstinate and refused the Count 
 altogether ; — an extraordinary case, Sir. He was rich, 
 six < feet high, and a soldier; but, somehow or other, 
 she rejected all. Upon her refusal, the Count threat- 
 ened extremely to kill himself. But he didn't. No, 
 Sir, he was too much of a soldier to die out of a brawl. 
 On the contrary, he lived on, and pretty freely too, as 
 report says ; and, in the course of time, he fell in love 
 again — I forget with whom — but the lady died, and 
 then he gave up his wild courses, and left the army, 
 and, finally, entered a convent of Dominican monks. 
 There he remained some years ; and his talents being 
 perceived, (and his penances noised about,) he eventu- 
 ally became its superior. From this height it was but 
 one step to a bishopric, and another to a cardinal's hat. 
 These things are not difficult, Signiors, when Fortune 
 is in the mood to serve us. About this time the chief 
 
THE SPANISH STUDENT. 79 
 
 of his family died, and his Eminence removed to the 
 great Leone palace near Padua, bringing with him a 
 female child. The girl was brought up in all man;;e ' 
 of luxury : she had foreign masters, was taught music, 
 and painting, and the languages, and, in short, came 
 to be considered quite a prodigy amongst the young 
 women here. She was beautiful, too, as I have heard 
 said, and was thought to resemble a celebrated picture 
 painted by Leonardo da Vinci, (a famous artist in his 
 time,) a Florentine. However, all this lasted only 
 eighteen or nineteen years, or thereabouts, when the 
 old Cardinal died, and left this girl — who was gene- 
 rally supposed to be his child — a beggar.' 
 
 * That was a beggarly action of my lord the Cardi- 
 nal,' said the elder Spaniard. ' But what became of 
 the girl ?' 
 
 ' Why, Signior, the people hereabouts, finding that 
 she could establish no claim as his daughter, began to 
 conjecture that she might have been his mistress, and 
 shunned her accordingly.' 
 
 ' 'Tis a good-natured world,' muttered the Spaniard. 
 
 * Yes, Signior,' returned the host, ' it takes care of 
 its morals. Well, — about this time, and while the 
 young girl, who was called Cornelia, was in great 
 distress, (for she had failed in procuring scholars in 
 music and painting and other arts of which she was 
 mistress, owing to the strict virtue of the families here,) 
 — about this time, comes a young gallant to the 
 University, a handsome spark, Signiors, (about my 
 height, or rather better,) who conquered her heart and 
 her person at once.' 
 
 ' So ! what was his name ? ' 
 
80 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 
 
 ' Antonio Zetti,' said the peasant-looking stranger 
 again. 
 
 ' Why, Signior ! ' exclaimed the landlord, * you seem 
 to know more about the matter than I do. I pray you 
 go on with the story.' 
 
 ' May I ask, Sir,' said the Spaniard, • who this 
 Antonio was ? I thought that his ' Eminence ' (as our 
 friend here calls him) had put an end to his pilgrim- 
 ages.' 
 
 * He was the son of that Antonio Zetti, Sir,' replied 
 the stranger. ' His father's life was cut off by the 
 bloody churchman, Minotti ; and the youth was sworn 
 (as Hannibal of old was) upon a flaming altar, to 
 revenge his father's murder — and he did ! ' 
 
 ' But not upon Minotti ! ' 
 
 * Ha, ha, ha ! ' laughed the stranger. ' I am not so 
 sure. 'T was whispered that he set off on the road to 
 Paradise somewhat suddenly.' 
 
 * And his daughter .'' ' 
 
 ' His daughter ! ' said the peasant, in a bitter voice, 
 * why she would be glad to die, but that she fears to do 
 so. Her fame is spotted like a leper's skin. Her life 
 is a lie — for she has virtue in her heart, if I must 
 speak truth, while she gives herself away to sin. Some 
 say that she gives to no one more than a smile ' 
 
 ' Why does she not quit her horrid ways } ' inter- 
 rupted the Spaniard. 
 
 ' Why, Signior .? — why, because she cannot starve, 
 and dare not die. Oh ! she's a rare riddle, worse even 
 than the Sphinx j for 'tis said that all who comprehend 
 her, perish.' 
 
 ' Yours is an odd story, Sir.' 
 
THE SPANISH STUDENT. 81 
 
 "Tis whispered that her lovers die, Sir, by some 
 means or other, as soon as she has begun to like them. 
 A score of them are gone. Some have destroyed 
 themselves, some are missing, and some have been 
 heard of fastened to the boats at Tripoli. She is a 
 perilous person, Sirs, and therefore — beware ! ' 
 
 And, so saying, he left the room. 
 
 Throughout the whole of this story the Student had 
 listened with an intense interest; and, during the latter 
 part of the dialogue, had kept his eyes fixed upon the 
 peasant's face until he departed. Rodrigo then rose 
 from his chair; and, after paying for his temperate 
 repast, followed the track of the stranger. 
 
 [Thus far the facts of this story were detailed by the 
 Senor Antonio Luis Gomez, who was, in fact, the 
 ' elder Spaniard ' of the preceding chapter. He, it 
 seems, had not seen his nephew since his childhood, 
 having been for some years before a resident in India. 
 He was then proceeding, as it was said, from Leghorn 
 to Padua and Venice, (having only touched upon his 
 native soil,) to settle some important private affairs. 
 The latter part of the story (such as it is) has been 
 collected partly from the lips of the woman at whose 
 house Rodrigo lodged, and partly from the Student's 
 own letters.] 
 
 The curiosity of Rodrigo had been raised to an ex- 
 treme pitch. It was his fauh, indeed, (if it be a fault) 
 to possess an inquisitive spirit. He was born in a 
 sunny country, and was gifted with a warm imagination. 
 His passions — those devils which lay waste the 
 elysium of young hearts — were now abroad, raging 
 and devouring, flushing his cheeks with scarlet, and 
 
 VOL. I. 6 
 
82 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 
 
 making his eye glitter and his pulse to tremble. He 
 was almost a stranger in Italy — young, fiery, curious, 
 and had never been in love. What more is required 
 to account for the most extravagant actions .? 
 , He followed the stranger, who had spoken in a tone 
 of bitterness towards Minotti and his daughter, and at 
 last overtook him in a hollow about a quarter of a mile 
 from the inn. ' You walk quick, Sir,' called he, when 
 he arrived near to the object of his search. The 
 stranger turned suddenly round, and put his hand into 
 his bosom ; but seeing who it was, only smiled. ' Ha ! 
 young Sir, is it you .'' What has tempted you to desert 
 your wine and olives before the red heat of the sun is 
 quite down ? You would have done more wisely to 
 have rested longer.' 
 
 ' No,' replied Rodrigo, ' I was enough refreshed ; 
 and, to speak truth, I was desirous of a companion to 
 cheat the weariness of the way.' 
 
 * Ay ! — are you a stranger here ? ' inquired his 
 companion. 
 
 ' Yes, Senor,' returned he, ' I am a Spaniard.' 
 
 * Yours is a brave country, Siguier,' said the stranger. 
 ' I love it. It is the land of gallantry and romance. 
 T7t is is a den of intrigue.' 
 
 ' I thought it had been the temple of study,' said the 
 youth. 
 
 ' It is,' retorted the stranger ; ' we study how to 
 gratify ourselves — how to sing, to fiddle, to idle, to 
 lie,.,to cheat, and — to revenge ! ' 
 
 * I came here only to learn Greek and Latin and the 
 sciences,' said the student ; ' I shall get more than I 
 reckoned upon.' 
 
THE SPANISH STUDENT. 83 
 
 * You will, Signior ; and of that you may be sure.' 
 The conversation now drooped into silence : for, 
 although Rodrigo had been impatient to learn some 
 more particulars of the daughter of Minotti, he had 
 not courage to make a direct inquiry. In the course 
 of half an hour more they approached the city. The 
 sun had, by this time, sunk, but he had gone down 
 blushing to the bed of Thetis his bride, and had left 
 all the west dyed in hot light. A long vast irregular 
 cloud stretched itself across the sky from south to 
 north, having one side tinged with the crimson lustre 
 of the sun, while the other presented a hard purple 
 outline, which the imagination might almost have im- 
 pregnated with life. And now came sighing through 
 the myrtle and almond trees the gentle voice of the 
 evening wind. The vines, which crept from tree to 
 tree, rustled and shook their fringed leaves : the unseen 
 brook, that had appeared to lie silent all through the 
 sultry day, awoke and ran along bubbling and spark- 
 ling amongst weeds and flowers ; while, in the dis- 
 tance, where the city lay, might be seen lights flashing, 
 and vanishing, and re-appearing, at a hundred different 
 points from the windows of Padua. It was now the 
 close of the day, and a long booming sound (it was 
 the evening gun) went rolling over the dusk meadows, 
 like the hollow echoes of thunder, and announced that 
 the city watch was set. 
 
 While Rodrigo was bathing his forehead (for he had 
 uncapped) in the cool odors of the breeze, and was 
 speculating on fifty things all beautiful and impossible, 
 he turned suddenly round from the west, (now grown 
 faint and obscure,) and beheld near him a stupendous 
 
84 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 
 
 object which had been hitherto concealed by the trees 
 and the windings of the road, but which now flung 
 down a vast black shadow on that part of the road 
 which he was soon about to traverse. When they had 
 arrived close at the place, the stranger said in a pecu- 
 liar voice, ' This is the Fountain of Lions.' Rodrigo 
 raised his eyes, and beheld an old overgrown palace 
 heaving up its huge square shoulder between him and 
 the rising moon. Every thing about it appeared utterly 
 deserted, and the ' Fountain of Lions ' itself seemed to 
 have become neglected. Four of those grand beasts, 
 larger than life, and cut in granite, lay there, with their 
 enormous paws stretched out and their stony jaws 
 open, but no sparkling water came forth ; and the 
 large circular basin below, over which ran (carved in 
 strong relief) the stories of poets, was dry and dusty 
 and useless. ' Ha, ha ! ' said the stranger again, ' This 
 is the house of Minotti ! ' — and, as he ceased, the 
 echoes took up the word, and uttered in a hoarse 
 and distended tone, ' Minotti ! — Minotti ! ' It was as 
 though the inanimate marbles had risen from their 
 stony sleep, and flung back the name of their dead 
 master upon the man who reviled him in his grave. 
 ' That was odd enough,' said Rodrigo ; and the stranger 
 assented in a suppressed tone, and then both walked on 
 in silence. At length, they recovered themselves, and 
 talked of various matters until they arrived at the gates 
 of the city. ' Here I must leave you, Signior,' said 
 the stranger, 'farewell!' — 'Farewell,' replied Rod- 
 rigo — ' yet, stay : — you told us a curious story about 
 a woman of Padua.' The stranger was silent. ' May 
 I ask,' resumed the student, * where she lives ? ' — 'In 
 
THE SPANISH STUDENT. 85 
 
 the western suburbs, young Sir; but be wise, and go 
 not thither. You have heard of Circe ? and Calypso ? ' 
 — ' Yes.' — ' Well ; she is of that family, and may 
 prove a perilous friend.' ' I thank you for your advice, 
 Siguier. I should like to know whom I may thank 
 
 hereafter. Your name is ' the student hesitated. 
 
 * Antonio Zetti ! ' was the reply. And Rodrigo and 
 the stranger parted. 
 
 That night the Spanish student never reached his 
 home. But when the first rays of the sun were stream- 
 ing over the plains of the Milanese, he returned to his 
 chamber, exceeding wearied, as though he had passed 
 the night in wandering. He came with a flushed yet 
 haggard countenance, and a slow step, and looked 
 thoughtful and even melancholy. ' Did you lose your 
 way from Arqua, Signior ? ' inquired the dame with 
 whom he lodged. ' Ay,' said he, ' I have been far 
 from the right path, but I shall know better another 
 time ; ' saying which he retired to his room, and passed 
 the whole of that day alone. 
 
 The next evening he was absent till past midnight, 
 and the next, — and the next; and so he continued 
 day after day. His social and gentle manners disap- 
 peared, his fresh look was gone, and his purse (repeat- 
 edly replenished and as often secretly exhausted) no 
 longer afforded him the means of being liberal or even 
 just. The letters of introduction which he liad brought 
 to Padua remained undelivered, and one or two friends 
 who had been requested to notice him, complained of 
 his having abandoned them. His landlady now (whose 
 bill was larger than she wished), grew curious and a 
 little impatient on the subject of her lodger. ' Our 
 
86 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 
 
 young gentleman grows thinner and thinner every day, 
 observed Lorenza to her mother. — * Ay girl, replied 
 his hostess, *he is as thin as his purse. I do not under- 
 stand his doings, not I.' ' He grows paler,' said the 
 daughter. — ' Ay, ay, and poorer too,' retorted the 
 dame. ' I must take some means to get my money 
 soon, or perhaps he'll die in my debt. I do not under- 
 stand it. Here, he eats and drinks at my cost — 
 ' Ah ! mother, he eats so little,' said the interceding 
 Lorenza. ' Why, to be sure, he hath grown sparing,' 
 answered the mother : — and here the conversation 
 ended. 
 
 Shortly after this, however, the hostess (having 
 made no further progress into the student's secret) 
 applied to him peremptorily for money. He blushed 
 and stammered out something about his remittances, 
 and soon after, in a sad and drooping condition, quitted 
 the house. He returned, however, and paid her, and 
 from that time afterwards was never heard of. The 
 landlady waited for him during that day, and expected 
 him throughout the night, and the next day also, — and 
 the next, — and the next. But he never came. At 
 last, she made known the circumstance of his disap- 
 pearance to his friends, who set on foot every inquiry, 
 but in vain. There was nothing which threw a light 
 on this mysterious subject : unless it was a passage or 
 two from some letters written by the student to a young 
 countryman of his, to whom it appears he was related. 
 These letters, which are for the most part penned in a 
 small tremulous hand, are addressed to ' The Senor 
 Juan Llanos, at Avila in Leon,' and contain among 
 other things, (not essential to this story,) the following 
 
THE SPANISH STUDENT. 87 
 
 curious extracts : — [After giving a brief account of the 
 dialogue at the inn, which we have been enabled to 
 state much more at length, he details the particulars of 
 his walk homewards, which have been already given ; 
 and then proceeds.] 
 
 'I felt — shall I say it? — an appetite, a passion, a burning 
 desire, an intense curiosity beyond all that possesses ordinary 
 men. My devil was an inquisitive spirit, which rode me like 
 a nightmare. I could no longer resolve to be incurious or con- 
 tent. I saw a hell open before me, and I resolved to cast 
 myself into its abyss. My love — but it was not love : It was 
 to true love like what a stove-heated room odorous with jas- 
 mine and roses is to the clear and bracing air. My limbs 
 trembled and were restless. My eye glanced about, yet noted 
 nothing. My mouth was dry, and I bit my lips till they ran 
 over with blood. I hurried on through the streets, past shops 
 and warehouses and blazing inns — and at last reached the 
 suburbs. Still I kept on with an unsubdued pace. The moon 
 had risen, and the evening star was straight above me. I looked 
 at it, and it threw down its small piercing eye, as though it 
 saw through my purpose. I had now reached the last house 
 of the town. Before me was a dark lane, whose hedges were 
 overgrown with honeysuckle and flaunting ivy. I plunged 
 into it in a moment, and gave my soul up to intoxication and 
 love.' 
 
 It appears, by another letter, that Rodrigo failed that 
 night in finding the idol of his imagination. She was 
 discovered by him afterwards, however, and he gave 
 himself to her society, utterly reckless of the world 
 around him. He made her magnificent presents, which 
 (to do her justice) she received somewhat unwillingly, 
 and she, in fact, appears to have been ignorant of the 
 amount of his resources. At last, the madness of a 
 boy prevailed with her, and she returned his love with 
 
88 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 
 
 a passion as intense as his own. At this period he 
 writes thus : — 
 
 ' You should see her, my friend, as I have seen her, more 
 beautiful than the summer rainbow. You should hear her 
 speak, so sweetly, so smilins:ly, and sing, like the pining 
 nightingale. For she, too, has no mate, and lives in a green 
 haunt, mysterious and alone, like that bird whom the poets 
 ■write of. Her breath is like the odor of flowers — her tread 
 like air — and her eyes as the starry nights of August are. 
 But, why do I fret thee with these trite smiles ? I have felt 
 her kisses ! do you hear .' — her hot, inticing, intoxicating 
 kisses. Her lips have burned love upon me, — and I live ! — . 
 Oh ! Juan, Juan ! that was no fable which tells of the witch 
 Circe and her crowd of brute slaves. / myself am transformed 
 in spirit, — prostrate and supine. How willingly would I lay 
 me down on the base ground and bid her trample me to dust ! 
 Juan, am I not lost ? I have gone from myself, surely. I 
 have left all study, all amusements, all conver.se of friends. 
 The intellect of past ages which opened upon me like a 
 Heaven, now looks dull and murky. I have abandoned all 
 things for one alone, and she may be at last — a woman ! ' 
 
 Some of his other letters are such a mere tissue of 
 extravagant sayings, that we cannot venture to tran- 
 scribe them. He seems to have been bewitched beyond 
 all chance of relief. He talks more rapturously than a 
 poet could do, and as fondly as a life-devoted lover. 
 
 ' I have just left her, and it is a relief to me to write to thee, 
 my dear friend Juan. Do not perplex me with thy advice ; it 
 is heartless, and cold, and useless. I am hers for ever. We 
 hear of menaces, and strange stories are told to us in secret, 
 and horrid forebodings haunt us ; but we are constant to each 
 other, and that makes amends for all. " Amends," do I say ? 
 Is it thus that the slave of Love can speak, who ought to be so 
 grateful, so devoted : — Juan, I have just left her. Oh! hers 
 are the gardens of enchantment. The fountains and fruit 
 
THE SPANISH STUDENT. 89 
 
 trees, — the waving whispering branches, the ground carpeted 
 with flowers, the marble hall, the Persian couches, the glitter- 
 ing wines, and the maddening kisses, — I feel them still. 
 Were I not thus to pour out my folly before thee, I should die 
 of excess of pleasure.' 
 
 ' And yet we are circled all round with peril. That horrible 
 Zeiii is near us, who wears his hand eternally on his dagger, 
 and feeds only upon blood and gold. His emissaries are upon 
 us. Every step that I tread is watched. I heard his laugh 
 last night from a thicket in her garden, as I pressed her to 
 escape from him and Padua. He is a very devil, whom 
 revenge and a coarse passion alternately sway. And yet we 
 live under this contemptible tyranny ! Juan. What shouldst 
 thou think of me, Juan, were I to leave thee and Spain for ever, 
 to dwell in some desert with this Circe of my love ? Wouldst 
 thou forgive me ? Would m)' father pardon me ? Yet why 
 do I speak of him, who never threw away a gentle word upon 
 the son of his dead Theresa ? He was an ingrate to love, an 
 apostate from his old affection, and I have still enough of my 
 proud mother's Castilian spirit in me, to assist me to this in- 
 dignant reproach. Farewell, Juan ! farewell ! Shouldst thou 
 not receive another letter soon from me, look to hear that I am 
 gone over to the Hesperian islands, where now no " unenchant- 
 ed ■' dragon watches ; or else that I have begun my pilgrimage 
 into the sunset wildernesses, where man has no enemy but the 
 snake and the panther, and love no termination but the grave ! ' 
 
 It was about the time of writing this letter, that the 
 student left his home at Padua, never to return. The 
 old landlady wondered, as I have said, and her daugh- 
 ter, the pretty Lorenza, sighed to think that so sweet 
 and noble a youth should leave her without a word at 
 parting. She had let her heart wander too often 
 towards him, and her pity would soon have risen into 
 love. But he disappeared, and she grieved like a 
 
90 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 
 
 gentle woman for him, through many and many a day, 
 and at last awoke from her love delusion as from a 
 dream. 
 
 Nothing certain was ever heard, after this period, of 
 Cornelia Minotti or the Spanish student. But the 
 captain of a Leghorn trader, who had been obliged to 
 malce a voyage to America, and had been up the 
 country as far as Montreuil, stated that a young couple, 
 answering their description, had some years before 
 arrived at that city, and had afterwards purchased a sec- 
 tion of land in the neighborhood. Upon this land they 
 had built a small house, where they lived very secluded, 
 never coming even to Montreuil except upon some very 
 urgent occasion. The man, he said, was about thirty 
 years of age, tall and of an olive complexion, with a 
 seriousness of aspect which seemed to denote constitu- 
 tional melancholy. The woman (who appeared about 
 the same age) wSs extremely pale, but possessed a 
 commanding figure, and a lustrous expression in her 
 eyes that he had never seen equalled. They were, he 
 understood, quite unoffending people, though resei-ved, 
 charitable to the poor settlers and people around them, 
 and, above all, appeared to entertain towards each other 
 the most romantic and extravagant affection. 
 
 1S23. 
 
A SHORT IVn'STERY. 
 
 In the village of Rubeland (which is situate in the 
 Lower Hartz, in the county of Reinstein) there are 
 superstitions enough to satisfy a poet or a monk. 
 There is not an old man who has not a goblin story to 
 tell for every white hair that is left on his foolish head ; 
 and there is not a village girl who will go to sleep, on 
 any night between Michaelmas and Easter, without 
 mumbling a prayer for protection against the elves and 
 dwarfs of the country. 
 
 I am ashamed to say it, (for it is my native place,) 
 but there is not perhaps a more ignorant and idle set 
 of people than is to be found in this same village of 
 Rubeland. It is like a spot on which the light of 
 Heaven has never shone ; dark, melancholy, and su- 
 perstitious. The inhabitants work a little (and lazily) 
 in the morning, in order to earn a miserable meal, and 
 at night they bewilder their weak brains with telling 
 and listening to stories about goblins and fairies, which 
 would make a man of the world absolutely die with 
 laughter to hear. The only excuse for them is, that 
 their fathers and grandfathers up to the flood have been 
 all as foolish as themselves. I never heard of a phi- 
 
92 A SHORT MYSTERY. 
 
 losopher having been born in Rubeland ; no, not one. 
 One fellow, indeed, who called himself an orator, and 
 who had tolerable success as a travelling tinker and 
 mountebank, claimed it as his native place : and a poor 
 youth, who slept all day for the purpose of writing 
 nonsense-verses at night, was certainly born there ; but 
 no one else who can be called even remarkable. 
 
 It is a singular fact that my great uncle Wilhelm 
 should have chosen the neighborhood of this village 
 to live in ; but so it was. My uncle Wilhelm (the 
 reader doubtless has often studied his learned produc- 
 tions) was professor of medicine in the colleges of 
 Gottingen. It was he who made such a noise through- 
 out all Germany, twenty years ago, by his famous 
 papers on the disease hypochondriasis, as every body 
 knows. During the winter months, and indeed during 
 those parts of spring and autumn which verge upon 
 winter, he dwelt at Gottingen in quality of professor ; 
 but in the full summer season he shut up his laboratory, 
 and came to enjoy quiet and breathe the fresh air of 
 the country, in the neighborhood of our village of 
 Rubeland. 
 
 My uncle was a sad sceptical fellow in some things. 
 He laughed at the great ghost of the Hartz mountains 
 r — the magic tower of Scharzfeld — the dwarf-holes of 
 Walkenried — the dancing pool — the devil's wall — 
 the copper kettles of the elves, and all the rest of the 
 infernal machinery of the little spirits ; and positively 
 roared himself into an asthma, and affronted three of 
 the richest burghers of Blankcnburg by the ridicule 
 which he cast upon the idol Puslrich or Spit-Jlre to 
 their faces. My uncle, moreover, cared nothing for 
 
A SHORT MYSTERY. 93 
 
 people only two inches and a half high. He had 
 enough to do, he protested, with the larger race of 
 fools : but the little ones he left to the pigmy doctors, 
 of whom he had no doubt but that there was a large 
 number. It was natural, he said, that it should be so: 
 it was as natural that there should be found doctors 
 where there was plenty of patients, as that in places 
 where there was a multitude of cabbages and fruit, 
 there should be (as there always is) a plentiful stock of 
 caterpillars and grubs. 
 
 But my purpose is not, at present, to give a detail 
 of my uncle Wilhelm's opinions, some of which might 
 shock the tender-minded reader ; but simply to rescue 
 an anecdote, which I have heard him relate, from 
 unmerited oblivion. ' I was going,' said he — but I 
 believe I must still keep him as the third person singu- 
 lar. I can manage the matter better in that way, and 
 the reader will excuse me. 
 
 It was on a wet evening, then, in the- month of Sep- 
 tember 17 — , that an elderly man, respectably dressed, 
 stopped at the little inn of the village of Rubeland. 
 On dismounting, he gave particular directions to the 
 ostler to be careful of his nag (a stout little roadster), 
 and proceeded straight to the kitchen fire, where he 
 disencumbered himself of his outer coat and boots, 
 and ordered the private room to be made ready for his 
 reception. The landlady bustled about to do his bid- 
 ding, while the stranger sat down quietly among the 
 boors who crowded round the great kitchen fire, some 
 of whom oifered him the civility of the better seats, but 
 he rejected all with a silent shake of the head, and in 
 fact appeared tp be occupied with any thing but what was 
 
94 A SHORT MTSTEHY. 
 
 going on around him. At last, his valise having been 
 unstrapped and brought in, some idea or other occurred 
 to his recollection, and he opened one of the ends of 
 the ' leathern convenience,' and took thereout a bulky 
 object, containing a variety of curious instruments. 
 These he examined, wiping some and breathing upon 
 others, and displaying all to the wondering eyes of the 
 peasants, who were not long in coming to the conclu- 
 sion that he was a conjuror of no common acquire- 
 ments. The stranger, however, did not observe their 
 astonishment. Indeed, it is very doubtful whether he 
 remembered that any one was near him ; for he quoted 
 once or twice a Latin sentence, pressed a concealed 
 spring or two in some of the instruments, which shot 
 out their steel talons at his touch, and in a word 
 performed such other marvels, as occasioned a consid- 
 erable sensation among his spectators. If the truth 
 must be told, they all huddled together more closely 
 than before, and avoided coming in contact even with 
 the tail of his coat. 
 
 All this could not last long, the more especially as 
 the little busy landlady had done her best in the mean 
 time to get the stranger's room in order, and which she 
 announced as being ready at the very moment that he 
 was in the midst of a Latin soliloquy. This he cut 
 short without ceremony on heanng the news, took up 
 his valise, instruments, &c., and quitted the kitchen for 
 the parlor. 
 
 And now came the time for conjecture. * WTiat 
 could the stranger be ? — a magician r — an ogre ? — 
 
 a ' but they waited to see whether or not he would 
 
 order two or three little children to be roasted for 
 
A SHORT MYSTERY. 95 
 
 supper before they resolved upon their conclusions. In 
 the course of a minute or two he rang his bell, and, to 
 their great disappointment, ordered a fowl and a bottle 
 of wine to be got ready ; — absolutely nothing more. 
 This perplexed the Rubelanders almost as much as the 
 curious instruments which he had exhibited. On con- 
 sideration, however, they thought that the stranger's 
 caution had probably put a rein upon his appetite, and 
 that he had contented himself for once with vulgar 
 fare. 
 
 But it is not my intention to speculate on all the 
 speculations which entered into the heads of the vil- 
 lagers of Rubeland. It is sufficient for my present 
 purpose to state, that by a natural turn of conversation 
 the villagers began to consider how they might best- 
 turn the visit of the stranger to account. Some pro- 
 posed that he should sow the great common with florins, 
 another that he should disclose where the great pots of 
 money lay that were hid by the elves, when a band of 
 those malicious wretches was dispersed by Saint Some- 
 body during the time of Henry the Fowler. At last 
 old Schwartz, the only man who had a glimmering of 
 common sense in the room, suggested that he should be 
 requested to visit the cottage of young Rudolph, who 
 lay tormented with visions and spirits, about a mile off 
 the village. And the reason why Schwartz proposed 
 this was, as he said, ' because he observed the old gen- 
 tleman put his hand upon the pulse of the landlady's 
 daughter, and keep it there as though he were in 
 count, at the time he left the kitchen. Although this 
 was a sad descent from the florins and pots of gold, 
 the influence of Schwartz was considerable among his 
 
96 A SHOKT MYSTERY. 
 
 fellows, and he finally prevailed. The stranger was 
 petitioned to visit the pillow of Rudolph, and the sick 
 man's state described to him. He immediately and 
 almost joyfully consented. He only stipulated for the 
 two wings and breast of the chicken, and half a dozen 
 glasses of Grafenburg, and then he said ' he should be 
 ready.' 
 
 I must now transport the reader from the little 
 inn of Rubeland to the cottage of Rudolph, the patient. 
 He will imagine the stranger recruited by a good sup- 
 per and some excellent Grafenburg wine, and see him 
 seated by the bedside of the young peasant, holding his 
 wrist gently in one hand, and inquiring cheerfully into 
 the nature of his ailment. Although he could get no 
 definite answer on this point, Rudolph was ready 
 enough to tell his story, and the stranger very wisely 
 let him proceed. If the reader can summon up as 
 much patience as the stranger did, he may listen to the 
 present narrative. These are the very words, — (for 
 the stranger, being a plain-spoken man, thought it well 
 to note down the particular words of the sufl^erer, in 
 order to show the strength of the impressions which had 
 been made upon his brain) : — 
 
 ' It was a stormy night on which I married Elfrid, 
 the widow's child. We had been made one by the 
 priest at the neighboring church, just before twilight ; 
 and during the ceremony my bride shivered and turned 
 aside from the holy water, and her eyes glistened like 
 the lights of the glow-worm, and when it was ended she 
 laughed aloud. The priest crossed himself; and I, 
 while my heart sank within me, took home the beauty 
 of the village. 
 
A SHORT MYSTERY. 97 
 
 ' No one knew how the mother of ETrid had lived. 
 She dwelt in a fair cottage, round which wild flowers 
 blossomed, and the grape-vines ran curling like green 
 serpents. She was waited on by an old Spanish woman, 
 but never went abroad. She paid regularly for every 
 article which she bought, and spent freely though not 
 prodigally. Some said that she received a pension- 
 
 from the Elector of ; others that strange noises 
 
 were heard on the quarter days in her house, and that 
 her money was paid at midnight ! 
 
 * She had only one child, — Elfrid ; a pale and mel- 
 ancholy girl, whose eyes were terribly lustrous, and 
 whose hair was dark as the plumage of the raven. She 
 walked with a slow majestic pace : she seldom spoke ; 
 but when she spoke, it was sweetly though gravely ; 
 and she sang sometimes, when the tempest was loudest, 
 in strange tones which seemed almost to belong to the 
 winds. Yet she was gentle, charitable, and, had she 
 frequented the village church, would have been univer- 
 sally beloved. I became the lover of the widow's child. 
 I loved her first one stormy autumn — I forget how 
 many moons ago — but it was soon after I received this 
 wound in the forehead by a fall in the Hartz. I was 
 dissuaded from marrying her, for I had deserted a 
 tender girl for her; but my mad passion prevailed, and 
 I took my young wife, Elfrid, home, to a cottage on 
 the banks of the solitaiy Lake of Erloch. 
 
 ' Come near me, my sweet bride,' I said ; but she 
 sate with her hands clasped upon her knees, and looked 
 upward, yet half aside, as though she were tiying to 
 distinguish some voice amidst the storm. "'Tis only 
 the raging of the wind, my love," said I. " Hush ! " 
 
 VOL. I. 7 
 
98 A SHORT MYSTERY. 
 
 answered she, " this is my wedding song. Why is my 
 brother's voice not amongst them ? " And she sate still, 
 like a shape of alabaster, and the black hair streamed 
 over her shoulders ; and methought she looked like that 
 famous Sibyl who offered to the proud Tarquin her 
 terrible books. And I began to fear lest I had married 
 a daemon of the air ; and sometimes I expected to see 
 her dissolve in smoke, or be borne off on the wings of 
 the loud blast. 
 
 ' And so she sate for a long time, pale and speechless ; 
 but still she seemed to listen, and sometimes turned a 
 quick ear round, as though she recognised a human 
 voice. At last the wind came sighing, and moaning, 
 and whining through the door and casements, and she 
 cried — " Ho, ho ! are you there, brother ? It was well 
 done, indeed, to leave my husband here, without a song 
 at his wedding." And she smiled, and clapped her 
 hands, and sang — oh ! it was like a dirge — low, hum- 
 ming, indistinct noises seemed to proceed from her 
 closed lips ; and her cheeks brightened, and her eyes 
 dilated, and she waved her white hand up and down, 
 and mimicked the rising and falling of the wind. 
 
 * We were alone in our lonely cottage. I know not 
 how it was, but we were alone. My brothers had not 
 come to me, and my sister lay at home ill. '"Tis a 
 wild night, my lovely Elfrid," said I ; and she smiled 
 and nodded, and I ran my fingers through her dark 
 hair ; and while I held up a massy ringlet, the wind 
 came and kissed it till it trembled. " Oh ! are you 
 there ? " said my bride ; and I told her I had lifted up 
 the black lock : but she said that it was not I, but 
 another. 
 
A SHORT MYSTERY. 99 
 
 * Then we heard the sobbing and swelling of the 
 lake, and the rushing of the great waves into the creeks, 
 and the collecting and breaking up of the billows upon 
 the loose pebbly shore. And sometimes they seemed 
 to spit their scorn upon the winds, and to lash the large 
 trunks of the forest trees. And I said, " I almost fear 
 for thee, my Elfrid, for the lake sounds as though it 
 would force its banks," — and she smiled. "The 
 spirits of the waiter are rebellious to-night," exclaimed 
 she : " their mistress, the moon, is away, and they 
 know not where to stop. Shall we blow them back to 
 their quiet places ? " I replied that it would be well, 
 were it possible ; and she lifted up her hand, and cried 
 " Do ye hear ? " — and the wind seemed to answer 
 submissively ; and then suddenly it grew loud, and 
 turned round and round like a hurricane, and we heard 
 the billows go back, and back — and the lake seemed 
 to recede, and the waters grew gentle, and then quiet ; 
 and at last there was deep and dark silence all around 
 me and my bride. 
 
 * And then it was that I lighted a torch, and our sup- 
 per was spread. The cold meats and dainties were laid 
 upon a snow-white cloth, and the bright wines sparkled 
 like the eyes of Elfrid. I took her hand and kissed 
 her, but her lips felt like the cold air. " Rudolph, my 
 fond husband," said she, "I am wholly thine ; but thou 
 hast not welcomed me hither with a song. It is the 
 custom where I was born, and I must not be wholly 
 thine without it." — " What shall I sing ? " inquired I. 
 " Oh ! " said she, " the matter may be what you please, 
 but the manner must be mine. Let it be free thus — 
 thus " — (and she sang a strange burial chant) — " thus, 
 
100 A SHORT MYSTERY. 
 
 — rising and falling like the unquiet tempest." I 
 essayed a few words — but they were troubled and 
 spiritless — 
 
 " My love, my love, so beautiful, so wise ! 
 I'll sing to thee, beneath the dawning moon, 
 And blow my pastoral reed 
 In the cold twilight, till thine eyes shine out 
 Like blue stars sparkling in thy forehead white. 
 I '11 sing to thee, until thy cloudy hair 
 Dissolve before my kisses pure and wrfTm. 
 Oh ! as the rose-fed bee doth sing in May, 
 To thee, my January flower, lUl sing 
 Many a winter melody. 
 
 Such as comes sighing through the bending pines, 
 Mournfully, — mournfully. 
 
 And through the pillar'd beeches stripped of leaves 
 Makes music, tin the shuddering water speaks 
 In ripples on the trembling forest's shores — " 
 
 " Away ! " said my bride, interrupting my song, — " Away ! 
 
 Thou hast wed the wind, thou hast wed the air — 
 
 Thy bride is as false as fair : — 
 
 As the dew of the dawn 
 
 Beneath the sun, 
 
 Is her life, which beginneth afresh 
 
 "When day is done. 
 
 I am fashion'd of water and night, 
 
 Of the vapor that haunts the brain — 
 
 I die at the dawn of light, 
 
 But at eve — I revive again! 
 
 Like a spirit who comes from the rolling river, 
 
 Changing for ever, — for ever, — ever ! " 
 
 And she muttered again, and again — "for ever," — 
 and "ever!" And even as she sang, methought her 
 long arms grew colder, and longer, and clasped me 
 round and round, like the twining of the snake or the 
 
A SHORT MYSTERY. 101 
 
 lizard. I shrank from her in terror, when she laughed 
 once more in her unearthly way, and showed her white 
 teeth in anger. "Dost thou not love me, Elfrid?" 
 said I ; — and she laughed again, and a thousand 
 voices, which then seemed to invest our cottage on 
 every side, laughed fiercely and loudly, till our dwell- 
 ing, shook to its centre. "Ah, ha! dost thou hear 
 them ? " said she — " Love thee ! Can the wind love 
 thee ? — or the air ? — or the water ? Can fire delight 
 in thee ? But, ay : that, with its flickering voice and 
 curling tongue, may embrace thee, as it clasps the 
 heretic martyrs; but no further. The elements are 
 above thee, thou youth of clay ! Why wouldst thou 
 tempt them, fond thing, by linking thy short life to 
 their immortality ? " And as she spoke, she kissed me 
 for the first time with her chilling lips, and whispered 
 over me, and I sank shivering into another life. 
 
 'And in this state I have seen more than ever 
 met the eye of man. 1 have seen the rack stoop 
 down, and the whirlwind pause, and the stars come 
 about me, by hundreds and thousands, hurrying and 
 glancing. Dumb nature has spoken before me, and 
 the strange language of animals has become clear. I 
 have looked (as the Dervise did) into the hollow earth, 
 and there beheld dull metals and flaming minerals, 
 gold and rubies, silver, and chrysolites, and amethysts, 
 all congregated in blazing heaps. I have seen the 
 earthquake struggling in his cavern like a beast. I 
 have communed with unknown natures, and sate by 
 the Dropsy and the awful Plague. And once me- 
 thought we went out — I and my bride — into some 
 forest which had no end, and walked among multitudes 
 
102 A SHORT MYSTERY. 
 
 — millions of trees. The broad great oak was there, 
 with his rugged trunk and ponderous arms, which he 
 stretched out over us : the witch elms waved and whis- 
 pered, and the willow fawned upon us and shook its 
 dishevelled hair : we^ heard the snake rustling in the 
 grass, and saw his glittering eyes and leper's coat ; 
 and he writhed and curled before us on our path, as 
 though some unseen dominion were upon him ; and 
 the owl laughed at us from his hole ; and the nightin- 
 gale sang in the pine : and some birds there were 
 which gave us welcome, and hundreds chattered in the 
 abundance of their joy. All this while my bride was 
 silent, and paced slowly beside me, upon the green- 
 sward. And she never lifted her pallid face from the 
 ground, though I asked earnestly, again and again, 
 how it was that the brute creatures had awakened from 
 their dumb trance, and stood up before us with the 
 intelligence of man ! 
 
 * Once, in every month, when the white moon grows 
 round, and casts down her floods of cold light upon 
 the fields and rivers, until the waters dance and the 
 branches quiver with intense delight. She comes to my 
 bedside, and still bends over me. Then, while I lie 
 motionless, though away, she kisses my lips with so 
 cold a kiss, that methinks I am frozen inwards to the 
 heart. And my head — my head is a burning ball — 
 ha, ha ! — you should come to me when the moon is 
 ripe. Then you shall see the gambols of the water- 
 elves — and the spirits who ride upon the storm-winds 
 
 — and the mermen, — and the unnatural sights of the 
 deep black ocean — and the hell that is always about 
 
A SHORT MYSTERY. 103 
 
 me ! Will you come, and look at the wonders 
 which I will show you ? Will you come — ' 
 
 * Let me look upon your forehead,' said the 
 stranger, when the faintness which here seized Ru- 
 dolph had put an end to his tale. ' Methinks the error 
 is here, rather than in the moon.' 
 
 ' Is there any hope that I shall be disenchanted .? ' 
 inquired the youth faintly. 
 
 ' W^e will see,' replied the stranger. 'You must have 
 patience and water-diet. You must be obedient, too, 
 to those whom I shall bid attend you ; and — but at 
 present we will tie a string round your arm and see of 
 what color is the blood of an elf.' 
 
 ' Shall I be free ? ' reiterated the youth ; * I have 
 cursed ' 
 
 * Have you prayed ? ' asked my uncle Wilhelm ; 
 (for he was, as will be remembered, the stranger of 
 the inn) — ' have you prayed ? ' 
 
 ' That never occurred to me,' said the young 
 peasant, as his blood ran freely upon the puncture 
 of my uncle's lancet — 'that certainly never occurred 
 to me ; but I will try.' 
 
 * In the mean time,' observed my uncle, ' I will do 
 my best ; and it shall go hard but we will conquer the 
 elves.' 
 
 And, in fact, my uncle Wilhelm did finally pre- 
 vail. The peasant Rudolph recovered, and wedded 
 the girl whose society he had once forsaken. What 
 became of Elfrid, or whether she existed at Rubeland, 
 or elsewhere, I never was able to learn. Perhaps, 
 after all, she was but a fiction — a distinct one, un- 
 
104 A SHORT MYSTERY. 
 
 doubtedly — but, probably, like many others of the 
 spirits of the Hartz : nay, it is not impossible, even, 
 but that she may have arisen from that very tumble 
 vk'hich our friend Rudolph had amongst those cele- 
 brated mountains. 
 
 ' A lancet, a blister, and a gallon or two of barley- 
 water,' my uncle Wilhelm used to assert, ' would 
 put to flight the most formidable band of elves or 
 spirits that ever infested a German district;' and, to 
 say truth, I begin almost to renounce my old faith in 
 those matters, and to come round to my uncle's 
 opinion. 
 
 1823. 
 
THE PORTRAIT ON MY UNCLE'S SNUFF- 
 BOX. 
 
 AN ANECDOTE. 
 
 We were sitting over our wine, one winter's evening, 
 about six or seven years ago, in the old oak parlor, at 
 my uncle's house in Cheshire. We had drawn our 
 chairs round the hearth, upon which some crackling 
 feggots were blazing ; and formed a semicircle of merry 
 hearts, as well disposed to enjoy ourselves and our 
 host's twenty-years-old port, as perhaps had ever met 
 together. The chestnuts were hot, the claret (true 
 Lafitte) was first uncorked, and breathed out its deli- 
 cious odors, like a liquid nosegay. The Madeira, which 
 had been tossed about in the Indian seas till it had 
 grown as old as a nabob, had made one circuit of the 
 company. In short, we had just settled ourselves com- 
 fortably, and were beginning to compliment the Colonel 
 upon the flavor of his mutton, (his own killing,) when 
 one of the party took notice of a portrait upon the 
 family snufT-box, that was performing the usual course 
 round the table. 
 
 ' 'T is the portrait of my grandfather, Walter Bethel,' 
 said my uncle. 
 
106 THE PORTRAIT ON 
 
 ' It wears a clever, lively look,' observed the other. 
 
 * True,' replied my uncle. ' Nevertheless, in his 
 youth, he was subject to great fluctuation of spirits ; 
 and indeed, at one time, was in a state of despondency. 
 This, as will readily be imagined, was owing to — love. 
 Love ! the Urchin ! the God ! the theme of poets ! 
 the scorn of philosophers ! after conquering Caesar and 
 Antony, and converting popes and priests to the re- 
 ligion of the laity, suddenly stooped from his altitudes, 
 and pounced upon the heart of Mr. Walter Bethel.' 
 
 ' There is a family story,' said I, ' connected with 
 the old gentleman's love-suit. You have once or twice 
 threatened to tell me the particulars, if you recollect, 
 and stopped only because there was a dearth of listen- 
 ers. Why not let us hear them now ? ' 
 
 The company seconded my suggestion as clamor- 
 ously as could be desired ; whereupon my uncle, after 
 the due number of excuses expected on such occasions, 
 detailed to us the following facts. I shall take the 
 liberty of using Colonel Bethel's own words ; so that 
 the reader will imagine that he hears him speaking. 
 
 ' The parents of my grandfather,' he began, ' were 
 stout Hanoverians. Their professions of loyalty and 
 Protestantism were not merely lip-deep matters. They 
 were loyal and Protestant to the backbone, — to the 
 core of the heart, — to wherever else the recess is, 
 where integrity (or rather falsehood) is supposed to 
 lurk. They drank the health of King George and the 
 Protestant ascendency in endless bumpers of stern 
 March beer. They propagated their principles among 
 their friends ; they whipped them into their children; 
 they taught them to their servants. Little tottering 
 
MY uncle's snuff BOX. 107 
 
 urchins, a foot high, who were learning " their duty to 
 their neighbor," learned, at the same time, to hate a 
 Jacobite with all their heart and with all their strength. 
 Their first lesson, when they got into three syllables, 
 was, " D — nat — n to the house of Stuart ! " in other 
 respects, their education was not conducted on a strict 
 plan. In regard to my grandfather, who was in his 
 later years (I am sorry to say) an occasional swearer, 
 — he always traced his infirmity to his having been 
 encouraged at three years old to bawl forth, " C — e the 
 Pretender ! " He derived this small accomplishment 
 from the stable-boy, and it was considered dangerous 
 to attempt to extinguish it by reproof. " We may pull 
 up the flower and the weed together," said his father : 
 so my grandfather remained somewhat of a swearer. 
 
 'In the year 1746, his parents dwelt and had dwelt 
 for some years near the small town of Calne, in Wilt- 
 shire. At present, this place is remarkable for little 
 else than certain clothiers' manufactories, which supply 
 fashionable tailors and ambitious beaux with the bluest 
 and best of cloth. A little puzzling, brawling rivulet, 
 called the Marden, intersects the town, and assists in 
 turning various fulling or clothing mills ; which, in 
 requital for its services, bestow upon it large quantities 
 of deep blue dye, putting to shame not only the skies 
 above but even the brilliant water-color drawings of 
 which young ladies, and their parents, are sometimes 
 so justly proud. The inhabitants of Calne are quiet, 
 industrious people. They talk politics but little, play 
 at whist capitally, and have the best strong beer in 
 the world. I do not know who is the parson, or the 
 doctor, or the lord of the manor ; but the lawyer (Mr. 
 
108 THE PORTRAIT ON 
 
 A n) is one of the best-hearted and clearest-headed 
 
 men that even the law can boast of. 
 
 ' Circumstances, which it is unnecessary to trouble 
 you with at present, transferred our family from Wilt- 
 shire to Cheshire, about fifty summers ago. But in 
 the year 1743,-4,-5, and 6, they dwelt on the banks 
 (as the novelists say) of the Marden, within the sub- 
 urbs of the town of Calne. At that day politics ran 
 high throughout the country ; and in Calne, they ran 
 higher than in other places. The tailor, the butcher, 
 the baker were afflicted with the epidemic. The less 
 people had to do with the matter, the more furious they 
 became. A leash of tailors, and a brace of bakers, 
 (stitched and kneaded up together and called "The 
 Club,") determined to settle the question in favor of the 
 house of Hanover. A bunch of gardeners opposed 
 them on the Stuart side. Each man was for " the 
 right," and for that reason they all neglected their 
 business, and in twelve months were supported at the 
 expense of the parish. This they called suffering for 
 their country. But the people on hoth sides suffered 
 for their country, which was odd enough. Yet their 
 country never knew it till this moment, when I un- 
 willingly proclaimed its ingratitude. However, there 
 were some more efficient adherents to the house of 
 Stuart and Hanover, as will be supposed. Among 
 these was a Mr. Campbell, a Scotchman by birth, an 
 advocate by education, (he had retired from the bar on 
 a small fortune,) and as completely cased in Jacobitism 
 as the king of Denmark was in steel, namely, " from 
 top to toe," 
 
 * It is a little singular, that this gentleman should 
 
MY uncle's snuff-box. 109 
 
 become the intimate friend of loyal Mr. Bethel, a 
 Protestant : but so it was. Matters of opinion, to be 
 sure, interfered occasionally with this intimacy, and 
 political jars sometimes even threatened to shake the 
 foundations of their friendship, but on the whole they 
 went on pretty smoothly, and had a most sincere 
 respect for each other, 
 
 ' As Mr. Bethel, the Hanoverian, had a son, (my 
 grandfather who was heir of his acres,) so Mr. Camp- 
 bell the Jacobite had a daughter, as fair as Eve, and 
 the sole stay and solace of his home. What was to be 
 expected in such a case ? My grandfather fell over 
 head and ears in love. He was at the mature age of 
 sixteen ; so he declared himself, and was — refused ! 
 If the river Marden had been deep enough, the line of 
 Bethel had perhaps been extinct. Fortunately, it is only 
 a little rippling stream, and being thereabouts not more 
 than four feet deep, was insufficient for the purposes 
 of the most desperate of lovers. My grandfather 
 probably felt this ; for after a week's deliberation, he 
 postponed his intended suicide to an indefinite period, 
 or, as the parliamentary reporters say, "sine die." In 
 the interim, he wisely set seriously to study, and after 
 two years of unflinching reading, he was sent abroad 
 to travel, and remained in foreign countries two or 
 three years more. Some time after his departure Mr. 
 Campbell was called suddenly to Scotland, upon some 
 private business, relating, as he intimated, to a small 
 patrimony which he possessed in that country. 
 
 * It was about this time (viz, in 1745) that the Cheva- 
 lier, Charles Edward, made his unsuccessful attempt 
 on the crown of England. I am not about to fatigue 
 
110 THE POETRAIT ON 
 
 you with the particulars of this expedition ; they are 
 kno\vn to every one now, since the publication of the 
 memoirs of Mr. Fergus Mac-Ivor and the celebrated 
 Baron of Bradwardine. I must tell you, however, 
 that among the adherents of the house of Hanover, 
 there was not one so indignant at this invasion of the 
 country, as the father of Mr. Walter Bethel. He 
 strapped his sword (a huge Toledo) round his loins, 
 furbished up a horrible, wide-mouthed blunderbuss; 
 stuck a brace of brass-mounted pistols in his belt, and 
 swore frightfully, both by St. George and the Dragon, 
 that he would cut off the ears of the first rebel who 
 dared to violate the sanctity of the county of Wilts. 
 Had he lived farther northward, there must have been 
 bloody noses between Mr. Stephen Bethel and the 
 Jacobites. As it was, his anger exhausted itself in 
 words ; a fortunate event for the heroes in phillibegs 
 and tartans, and not altogether unlucky perhaps for my 
 great-grandfather. 
 
 ' During the absence of Campbell, his daughter lived 
 in the house of Mr. Bethel. My grandfather being at 
 this time absent on his travels, there was no objection 
 to this arrangement on her part ; and the young lady 
 being a Protestant (the religion of her deceased mother), 
 Mr. Bethel felt no apprehension that his sober family 
 could be tainted by the scarlet principles of the woman 
 of Babylon. 
 
 ' When Mary Campbell rejected the hand of my 
 grandfather, he was, as I have said, some sixteen years 
 of age, and she herself, being as old within twelve 
 months, looked down naturally enough upon the pre- 
 tensions of so young a lover. Two or three years, 
 
MY itncle's snuff-box. Ill 
 
 however, spent in studying books at home, (during 
 which time he forbore to see her,) and more than two 
 years devoted to the study of man abroad, converted 
 Mr. Waher Bethel into a promising cavalier, and made 
 wonderful alterations in the opinions of the lady. At 
 the time of my grandfather's return, Mary Campbell 
 was a resident in his father's house, and when the old 
 gentleman, after embracing his son, led him up to his 
 fair guest, with "You remember my son Walter, my 
 dear Miss Campbell," Miss Campbell was ready to sink 
 with confusion. A little time, however, sufficed for her 
 recovery, and she received my grandfather's courtesies 
 as gracefully as any body could be expected to do who 
 had " never seen the Louvre." Walter Bethel felt this. 
 He saw a distinction, a shade mdeed between his former 
 favorite, and the pretty Madame la Comtesse de Frontac, 
 and La belle Marquise de Vaudrecour, but on the whole 
 he was well satisfied, and it must be added, not a little 
 surprised also. For Time, which had been so busy in 
 lavishing accomplishments on the head of Mr. Walter 
 Bethel, having had a little leisure to spare from that 
 agreeable occupation, had employed it very advantage- 
 ously in improving the mind and person of Mary 
 Campbell. Perhaps this might be for the purpose of 
 once more entrapping her lover's heart. Perhaps — 
 but it is not easy to speak as to this. The result of her 
 improvement, however, was very speedily seen. My 
 grandfather fell over head and ears again in love ; and 
 this time he was destined to be successful. 
 
 * He had not been four-and-twenty hours at home 
 before his " Miss Campbell " expanded into " My dear 
 Miss Campbell." This, in a week, dwindled into 
 
112 THE PORTRAIT ON 
 
 " Mary," which in its turn blossomed into half a dozen 
 little tender titles, such as are to be found in any page 
 of Cupid's calendar, with very expressive epithets 
 appended to each. I have heard him tell the story of 
 his offering his hand and heart to my grandmother, 
 while the good old lady sate with smiling shining eyes 
 at his side, listening to his rhapsodies, as pleased, I 
 verily believe, as she could have been when the offer 
 was actually made to her, forty or fifty years before. 
 
 * " When I was between sixteen and seventeen," he 
 would say, addressing my grandmother, " You would 
 not hear me attempt a single compliment." "Oh! 
 pardon me," replied she, laughing, " I heard many 
 attempts; the objection was, that you never suc- 
 ceeded." "Tut! Tut!" retorted the old gentleman; 
 " old age has injured your faculties. You must not 
 believe her, grandson," continued he, " for besides 
 composing two long sets of hexameters in her praise, 
 I turned at least half a dozen compliments (to as many 
 distinct perfections) in the manner of Ovidius and 
 Horatius Flaccus. But it all would not do. I verily 
 believe that I should have made no impression upon 
 her, had I actually proposed to her in Latin. Yet 
 observe, my dear Walter," said the old gentleman 
 impressively ; " when I returned from France and 
 Italy, things wore a different aspect. If I sighed, she 
 sighed too. If I spoke softly, she looked down and 
 answered piano. If I pronounced an opinion, she 
 acquiesced. In short, froifi the very hour of my 
 return, till the morning I kissed her behind the par- 
 lor door, and forced from her a confession that she 
 
MY uncle's snuff-box. 113 
 
 returned my regard, I was a happy, impudent, thriving 
 lover." 
 
 ' I could tell you fifty anecdotes of his wooing time ; 
 for he loved in his old age to dilate upon it, and in fact 
 sent me to sleep, times infinite, with his stories, seldom 
 perceiving, in his exultation, how indifferent a listener 
 he had, until he arrived at the conclusion of his tale. 
 I do not, however, mean to inflict even one of these 
 stories upon you. My grandfather had returned about 
 three months from his travels, and was absolutely 
 basking in the sunshine of Mary's eyes, when Camp- 
 bell (who had been long absent) returned suddenly 
 and unexpectedly from Scotland. He had formerly 
 been a tall, ruddy, athletic man, but he came back 
 worn to the bone, pale, attenuated, and drooping. He 
 had never given up the idea, that one day or other the 
 House of Stuart would be restored to what he called 
 " its rights ; " and when the invasion of Charles 
 Edward, which had excited such mad expectation, 
 ended in the utter discomfiture of himself and his 
 adherents, Campbell could scarcely bear up against 
 his great disappointment. It was asserted (and not 
 contradicted) that his journey to Scotland had been a 
 mere pretext; that he had been actually in the thick 
 of the fights of Preston, Falkirk, and CuUoden, and 
 had been forced to flee for his life and to hide in 
 caves, and brakes, and desert places, from the insatia- 
 ble fury of the English troopers. 
 
 ' He escaped at last, however, and arrived at Calne ; 
 not free from molestation, indeed, for within four and 
 twenty hours of his return, news arrived of the ap- 
 
 VOL. I. 8 
 
114 THE PORTRAIT ON 
 
 preach of a detachment, sent, as it was said, (o scoui 
 the country of rebels, and charged with particular 
 instructions to seize upon our unhappy Jacohite. The 
 soldiers were luckily less eager than their government 
 for the apprehension of rebels. They had already 
 made a glorious march from Oxford to Marlborough, 
 without opposition, not an enemy daring to show him- 
 self; and content with the bloodless victoiy, they 
 " sate down " before the Dolj)hin, at Marlborough, as 
 though they were to take it by regular siege. The 
 landlord, however, yielded up his barrels without a 
 parley. His beer ran like a river, the soldiei-s drank 
 it gallantly, and all thoughts of the Jacobites were 
 speedily dismissed. This could not last for ever; and, 
 indeed, so thought the government, for they dispatched 
 a peremptory mandate for their heroes to break up 
 their quarters and proceed to business, and the unwil- 
 ling heroes accordingly prepared to obey. 
 
 ' Meantime, the state of Calne was in commotion. 
 As soon as the news arrived that a file of red-coats 
 were about to quit the tap at Marlborough, where they 
 had been nourishing their valor for a week, by drink- 
 ing success to the Duke of Cumberland, (whose cam- 
 paigns were over,) all the good people of Calne were 
 presently in full debate. Some were indignant, because 
 tliey were Jacobites ; others, because they were Consti- 
 tutionalists ; some were indifferent because they were 
 ignorant, and some because they were philosophical. 
 The most of them were, however, what the govern- 
 ment circulars call " animated with the best inten- 
 tions," and all were inclined to talk. Mr. Stephen 
 Bethel would, no doubt, have been amongst the fore- 
 
JIT jmcu^s fsmrrV'Box, 115 
 
 roost and loudest of the place, had he not at that 
 instant been otherwise occupied. The news reached 
 Mis. Bediel, instead of himself, and the consequence 
 was what the lawyers call a " stoppa^ in transitu." 
 She was unlike other women. She had no care for 
 news, but was content widi being a fat, good-humored, 
 old-fiuiiioned lady, who made the best gooseberry wine 
 in die county. Her husiiand, Mr. Stephen Bediel, 
 derired die only joke that he was ever known to po»> 
 seas, from her Tirtues, " She was the only belle," he 
 said, "diat be had erer known without a clapper.** 
 So he talked enough for both. 
 
 ' But when die news actually did come to his ears, 
 nodnng could surpass his indignation. A rebel ! A 
 JacolMte ! He lesol^ed to make one in die chase, and 
 if possible, to be in at die death. He called to J<^ 
 and Thomas, to William and Harry, and the rest : be 
 loaded Iub great blunderbuss ; he strapped on his long 
 sword ; he eren went so far as to have bk bone's tail 
 clipped for the occasion, when my grandfather, who 
 bad taken things more quiedy, inquired of bim, in a 
 wiusper, if it were likely that the pemm whom the 
 red-coals were in search of could be, by ai^ poni> 
 Inlity, Mr. CampbelL Mr. Stefrfien Bediel actnaHy 
 bounded fiom the groond at the snddenneas of dm 
 qoesdon. Fat as he bad long heen, lie positirety 
 jumped vnf with alarm. "It is impOfl^Ue," said 
 he to niy grandfather. "What! Maiy*s.&dier ? It 
 ean*t le. Waiter!** But Waher though odierwise. 
 
 ' Mr. Stephea B^did and bis son were, dmefoie, at 
 imoe. This had h^^iened not nnfieqneady befigie ; 
 bitt m fiwmer cases Ae £idieralw;^« coDqnraed. If he 
 
116 THE PORTRAIT ON 
 
 were not the stoutest in argument, he was at least the 
 first in authority ; and he never failed to back his 
 words by some indications of his power. His com- 
 mands were added to his arguments, and his son (as 
 dutiful sons should do) generally acquiesced. Besides, 
 Mr. Stephen Bethel could be a little vituperative at 
 times. He did not excel in panegyric ; but in abuse he 
 was as strong as a tempest. His flowers of rhetoric 
 flew about on such occasions, with a violence that 
 nothing could equal, save the blast of anger that pro- 
 duced them. At present he was not inclined to be so 
 peremptory, or his son to be so obedient. In short, 
 notwithstanding the denial of the former, he felt that 
 his friend Campbell was in danger ; and now came the 
 question, how to act ? He could not betray his friend ? 
 No, his whole soul rejected such base treachery. 
 Neither could he betray his sovereign to Mr. Campbell .? 
 No, his loyalty cried out against that also. Neverthe- 
 less, if there was to be a struggle between these rival 
 feelings, he began for the first time to fear that friend- 
 ship might turn out predominant. 
 
 ' " Well, Walter, my boy, " said the father to his son, 
 after a long pause, and looking somewhat sheepishly, 
 " what is to be done ? " 
 
 * "I think,' replied Walter, " we had better send him 
 off to my aunt's, at Kilmarton. If he were well covered 
 with one of your wigs, Sir — " 
 
 ' "Eh! what? zounds!" exclaimed the other, "Do 
 you think. Sir, that I'll be accessary — do you think that 
 I (a Bethel !) will help to conceal any one of King 
 George's rascally enemies? Do you think — ?" Mr. 
 Stephen Bethel was lashing himself up with words as 
 
MY uncle's snuff-box. 117 
 
 the lion does with his tail; and there was no knowing 
 how long he would have gone on with his " Do you 
 thinks," or in fact, whether he ever would have 
 stopped, had not my grandfather very naturally, and 
 at the same time a little ingeniously exclaimed " Poor 
 Mary ! what will she not suffer ! " 
 
 * Mr. Stephen Bethel was calm in a moment. We 
 have heard how a cannon-ball will suddenly put an end 
 to the most violent discussion ; how the ducking-stool 
 will all at once quell the else untameable tongue of the 
 scold ; but " Poor Mary ! " — it was the oil upon the 
 ocean of his wrath. He was conquered and quiet in 
 an instant. 
 
 * " To sure," said he faltering, " Poor Mary ! — poor 
 girl," added he, almost whimpering, — " 'tis a pity, that 
 such a creature should suffer for the* errors of her 
 father. As to him, a foolish, obstinate, headstrong Jaco- 
 bite ! But King George is at his heels — King George 
 or King George's men, and now we shall hear whether 
 he'll sing * The Cammels are coming ;' or cry" King 
 James and Proud Preston ' again ! " 
 
 * And so the old gentleman veered about, from pity 
 to wrath, from loyalty to friendship and back again ; 
 friendship, however, got the better at last, and he set 
 about helping Campbell in good earnest. Walter was 
 allowed to convey to Campbell an intimation of his 
 danger ; not that the father desired this in so many 
 words, but, as he did not absolutely prohibit it, his son 
 interpreted his silence to his own purposes, and pro- 
 ceeded to the house of the unlucky rebel. 
 
 ' The first object that struck his sight on entering 
 Campbell's house, was Mary herself evidently in deep 
 
118 THE PORTRAIT ON 
 
 distress. " My dearest Mary," said he, putting his 
 arm gently round her waist. 
 
 ' " Oh, Walter," replied she, sobbing, " my father ! 
 my poor father! That unfortunate expedition of the 
 Prince " 
 
 ' " Of the Pretender ?" said Walter, inquiringly. 
 
 * " Do not carp at words," replied she. " What does 
 it matter whether he be Prince or Pretender, now that 
 the soldiers are coming for my dear father ? Oh ! he 
 will be taken ! he will be taken ! " continued she, 
 weeping and wringing her hands. 
 
 * " I came to save him," said Walter. " Be com- 
 forted ; where is he ? Is he within ?" 
 
 ' " He is gone," answered she. " He received the 
 news from a friend, and had just time to escape." 
 
 * " Tell me where ? " said my grandfather, hastily. 
 
 ' " I cannot ; I must not ! " said she. " He charged 
 me to keep his secret, and I must do so — even from 
 you;" 
 
 '■"Tie will be found," replied Walter, in great dis- 
 tress. " He will be hunted by these rascals, and 
 found. Let him trust himself to me. I know a place 
 where he may hide for a time, and our well known 
 principles will assure his final safety. If the storm 
 be once blown over, my father and uncle shall exert 
 their interest with the Duke, and all will be well. So 
 take heart, my dearest, and tell me, without more 
 ado, where your father is. Tell me as you value his 
 life:" 
 
 ' And she told, and she did well to tell ; for, besides 
 that Campbell's hiding-place was speedily searched, 
 and that nothing short of the character of the Bethels 
 
MY uncle's snuff-box. 119 
 
 would have been sufficient to ward off the strict 
 inquiries that were elsewhere made, it was well that 
 the honesty of love should not be rewarded with dis- 
 trust. Mary Campbell confided to her lover, not only 
 her heart, but her father's life ; and well was the con- 
 fidence repaid. 
 
 ' I must now give up the task of historian,' said 
 the colonel, ' and let my grandfather tell you the rest 
 of the story himself. It was one of his thousand and 
 one anecdotes, and it was in these words that he was 
 accustomed to tell the story : 
 
 '"The day" (he used to begin) "on which the 
 soldiers came on their man-hunt to Calne, was memor- 
 able for many a year. Both men and the elements 
 seemed quarrelling with each other. The scornful 
 Loyalist, the desperate Jacobite, stood front to front, 
 in flaming, open defiance. The thunder muttered ; the 
 winds went raving about; and the rains, which had 
 been falling heavily all night, and glittering in the 
 lightning, now came down in cataracts and sheets of 
 water. The little runnels had grown into brooks ; the 
 brooks were formidable rivers. The Marden itself, 
 usually so unimportant, had swollen and panted long in 
 its narrow bounds, till at last it burst over its banks, 
 and went flooding the country round. Notwithstanding 
 all this, the hunters prepared to pursue their prey. 
 
 ' " It is a fearful thing to chase even a beast that flies 
 for its life ; but to hunt the great animal, Man, must 
 surely thrill and strike an alarm into the heart of his 
 boldest pursuer. What ! he whom we have smiled 
 upon, whose hand we have clutched, whose cheer we 
 have enjoyed ! shall we, if he do a desperate deed 
 
120 THE PORTRAIT ON 
 
 which some law forbid, strip our hearts at once of all 
 sympathy, and track him from spot to spot — through 
 woods and lanes, and hollows and lonely places — till 
 he fall into the toil ? and then go home, and be con- 
 tent with the abstract principle of justice, and forget 
 that we have lost a friend for ever ! 
 
 * " I had got the start of the red-coats by almost half 
 an hour, when 1 found that I had to encounter impedi- 
 ments that I had not foreseen. I had set off with 
 scarcely any determined idea, except that of saving 
 Campbell at all events. I took the ordinary road to 
 the brake, where I knew that he lay concealed, striding 
 on at my best pace ; sometimes running, sometimes 
 toiling up slippery ascents, sometimes plunging along 
 the plashy meadows, till my breath grew short and 
 painful from excess of exertion. I still kept on my 
 course, however, and had contrived to attain a lofty 
 ridge of land, not very distant from the place of 
 refuge, when all at once my eyes fell upon a broad 
 waste of water, a vast turbid stream rushing at random 
 over the low country, and above which nothing ap- 
 peared but an occasional tree, and the long narrow 
 slip of wood and copse which crowned the elevated 
 piece of land, in which, as I concluded, my friend 
 was hid. 
 
 ' " If ever I felt real despair it was at that moment. 
 I stopped for an instant, a dreadful instant, to think. I 
 could not be said to deliberate. 1 thought quickly, 
 intensely, with a pain piercing the very centre of my 
 heart. In three or four seconds of time I had, with 
 the rapidity which fear produced, considered half a 
 dozen methods of passing the water. At last, I recol- 
 
MY uncle's snuff-box. 121 
 
 lected a sheep path, traversing a narrow neck of high 
 ground reaching to the opposite of the inundation, 
 which ahhough apparently quite covered by the 
 floods, might nevertheless still enable me to attain 
 the wood. To arrive at this path, it was necessary to 
 retrace three parts of the space which I had already 
 travelled. I turned my steps backward, therefore, 
 instantly, and with great efforts arrived at the bridge, 
 on the skirts of the town, just in time to hear the 
 roll of the drum hard by, calling the soldiers to duty. 
 I fancied that I could almost hear the click of their 
 firelocks, as they examined them, previously to their 
 setting out in pursuit of Campbell. 'Twas then I 
 forgot everything. My legs were no longer cramped ; 
 my breath, lately pent up and laboring in my breast, 
 seemed suddenly relieved ; and I ran forwards with 
 increased speed for almost a mile, when the footsteps 
 of a pei-son, (about the size of Campbell,) which had 
 made deep impressions on a piece of soft soil, arrested 
 my attention. I saw from the direction that this 
 person must have left the highroad at that spot, and 
 taken to the fields. I erased the few marks as well as 
 I could, and thrusting the spike of my leaping pole 
 into the gravel of the road, I cleared the hedge at a 
 bound, without leaving a single trace of my course, 
 and took my way across the fields in pursuit of 
 Campbell. 
 
 ' " For some time no steps were discernible, for ray 
 route lay over grass on which the rain was still inces- 
 santly falling. At last indications of a footmark en- 
 couraged me, and I continued to track it sometimes 
 readily, sometimes with difiiculty, (for it frequently dis- 
 
122 THE PORTRAIT ON 
 
 appeared) until it led me to the very edge of the flood. 
 The man, whoever he was, must have plunged right 
 through the waters. Perhaps he had been carried 
 away. But there was no time for guessing ; so feel- 
 ing my way with my pole, I took to the water myself. 
 To my surprise it was shallow enough, for a while, 
 scarcely reaching above my knees. I got on, therefore, 
 readily enough, till I had arrived within a few yards 
 of the wood, (the object of my labors,) when the land 
 suddenly dipped, and I found myself in upwards of 
 four feet of water. A few more steps would, I knew, 
 place me on dry ground ; so I strained onward across 
 the current, which now ran with great force, and after 
 a struggle or two reached the wood in safety. 
 
 * " I had just caught hold of some long grass to 
 secure my footing, when my attention was arrested by 
 a noise at some distance. I threw myself on the bank 
 for a single minute's rest, and heard distinctly the 
 withered leaves and brambles crackling under a heavy 
 tread, and the hoarse, thick breathing of some creature 
 apparently in the last stage of exhaustion. The horrid 
 guttural sounds, which it gave out in its agony (I heard 
 them at the distance of a hundred yards), ring in my 
 ears to this moment. I remembered to have heard, that 
 in Indian or African hunts, the enormous beasts which 
 they pursue will sometimes thus breathe out their distress 
 before they stand at bay and die. But no such crea- 
 ture could be here ; so I determined to follow. After 
 a few steps, I called out, ' Who goes ? ' All was still 
 in an instant. 
 
 ' " My way now lay across the middle of the wood, 
 to the dingle, where I hoped to find my friend. In my 
 
MY uncle's sntjff-box. 123 
 
 course I had to pass by a deep hollow, which was 
 usually filled with water, and which was the haunt of 
 the water rat, the lizard, and the frogs, who kept their 
 court among the flags and rushes there, I had reached 
 this place and was passing on, when a slight noise 
 induced me to turn my head. The sound was like the 
 cocking of a pistol ; so I made haste to proclaim my- 
 self. 'It is I — 'tis Walter Bethel!' called I out 
 loudly. The words were scarcely out of my mouth, 
 when up rose, from amidst the rushes and the green 
 stagnant water, a phantom more hideous than Triton or 
 Nereus in his most terrible mood. Covered to the chin 
 with the green mantle of the pool, his clothes soaked 
 and saturated with water, arose — with a cocked pistol 
 in each hand, and a mouth wide open and gasping for 
 breath — my father-in-law, Campbell ! He stared like a 
 man bewildered. * Well !' said he, at last, 'twas all he 
 could say. ' I am come to save you,' replied I : ' the 
 soldiers will be here in a few minutes. Come along 
 whh me.' ' No,' replied the other : * I'll go no further. 
 
 I can go no further. I may as well die here. * By ! ' 
 
 said I, * you shall not die. Rebel or not, you are 
 Mary Campbell's father, and while I have a sinew left 
 you shall not be taken.' With that I took him upon my 
 back (fori was a lusty fellow then) and carried him — 
 I know not how — but by several efforts, I believe, to 
 the extreme side. I was just congratulating myself on 
 my success, when suddenly I heard the measured tramp 
 of soldiers coming along a lane, which wound round the 
 skirt of the copse. I had mistaken the way. I stopped 
 immediately, and heard the word * Halt ' uttered in a 
 tone which struck to my heart. * They are upon us,' 
 
124 THE PORTRAIT ON 
 
 whispered Campbell, ' and the only thing is to die boldly ! 
 Go, therefore, my dear Walter ; and may God bless 
 you. Tell poor Mary — ' but here his voice faltered 
 and he could only sigh out deeply, ' God bless my dear 
 child ! ' 
 
 ' "■ There was no time for talking, as you will imagine. 
 I therefore motioned him to silence and drew him with 
 the least possible noise, away from the point of danger. 
 He was now able to walk slowly ; and that was fortu- 
 nately sufficient, for the soldiers had stopped to delibe- 
 rate. We kept on, at a steady quiet pace, along a 
 sharp angle of the wood, which terminated at a point 
 near the Bath road. Behind us the voices of the sol- 
 diers were occasionally heard, and once the report of 
 a musket-shot a little disturbed our tranquillity. We 
 succeeded, however, in obtaining the extreme point of 
 the wood and were just about to emerge into the road, 
 when a heavy plunge was heard near us like that of a 
 person jumping from an eminence ; and the whistle of a 
 pistol bullet through the leaves, which quickly followed, 
 reduced us to instant silence. Without uttering a sylla- 
 ble, I pulled Campbell down beside me, amongst the 
 fern and rank grass that grew all about, and there lay 
 for two or three dreadful minutes, till our enemy had 
 passed onwards. I had flung Campbell so completely 
 prostrate that, he averred, he was obliged to make no 
 inconsiderable meal of fern and dock leaves, before he 
 could breathe with comfort. However this was, we soon 
 rose up, as soon as prudently we could do so, con- 
 trived to drop a fragment of Campbell's dress on the 
 Chippenham road, and, after seeing our pursuers take 
 the bait and proceed southwards, we turned our backs 
 
MY uncle's snuff-box. 125 
 
 upon danger and the detachment, and reached Kilmar- 
 ton m safety." 
 
 My uncle now took up the conclusion of the tale, the 
 latter part of which he had told in the words of Walter 
 Bethel. 
 
 ' Campbell,' resumed the Colonel, was saved. A 
 little time sufficed, as my grandfather had predicted, to 
 put an end to the hanging of the Jacobites. General 
 Bethel, a firm and loyal friend of the existing govern- 
 ment, was won over, after some entreaty to petition for 
 the pardon of Campbell ; for he was one who had been 
 excepted out of the list of those forgiven.. 
 
 ' " He is a flaming, furious Jacobite," said General 
 Bethel, to his favorite, Walter, in reply to his request ; 
 " a troublesome fellow he is, Walter, and deserves to 
 suflTer." 
 
 ' " He is Mary's father, my dear uncle," said my 
 grandfather insinuatingly. 
 
 ' " You are a fool, Walter," replied the general, tartly; 
 " at your age you ought to be marching at the head of 
 a file of grenadiers, instead of wasting your time and 
 making love, and — Pshaw ! I am ashamed of you." 
 
 * " But my dear uncle " — Walter was proceeding in 
 extenuation. 
 
 ' " Why don't you come up to town, sir ? " inquired 
 the general, with some sternness. " I have no doubt 
 that I can get you a commission in a couple of months, 
 and a company before you deserve one." 
 
 ' " My dear general," said his nephew once more, 
 calmly, " I thank you for the interest that you take in 
 me ; but my ambition is for the toga — the gown. I 
 am for civil, while you are for military fame. In the 
 
126 THE PORTRAIT ON MY UNCLE's SNUFF-BOX. 
 
 former, perhaps, I may become the first of my house ; 
 but in the latter I must for ever remain echpsed by 
 your greater reputation." 
 
 ' " Vou are a goose, Walter," replied his uncle laugh- 
 ing, and pinched his ear : and Walter laughed merrily 
 too ; for by compliment he saw that Campbell would 
 obtain his pardon. 
 
 1828. 
 
A DAY IN VENICE. 
 
 It sometimes happens, that a circumstance which is 
 little better than trivial in itself, derives an interest from 
 the simple or earnest manner of the speaker. I have 
 
 heard the present Sir A C narrate a fact, 
 
 of no great moment, with such dramatic effect, as to 
 excite and maintain a thrilling interest in the mind of 
 every person present. He reanimates an old, dead, 
 unprofitable anecdote in a way that is really marvel- 
 lous ; throwing himself, as it were, into the story, and 
 giving it life, as the Arabian magician revived the 
 stricken fawn, to give pleasure to the Queen whom he 
 loved. 
 
 With something of the same talent, but with less 
 effect, the following account of a visit made, in times 
 past, to Venice, was related to me. The manner of 
 telling it excited in me, at the time, no inconsiderable 
 interest. 1 shall fail probably in communicating much 
 of this; but I will at all events not occupy any serious 
 portion of the reader's patience. And now, as Mark 
 Antony says, * Lend me your ear.' 
 
 It must be upwards of forty years ago, since a lady, 
 then rich and graceful, was travelling with her husband 
 
128 A DAY IN VENICE. 
 
 to Venice. She was very young, and had been but 
 lately married ; and she went abroad to gather happi- 
 ness in whatever place it might be found. Circum- 
 stances led her to the South, and it was with a light and 
 bounding spirit that she first trod upon the Italian 
 ground. She descended the Southern Alps, and trav- 
 ersed the Milanese, by Brescia, Vicenza, Verona, 
 Padua, and at last arrived at the famous city, Venice ! 
 
 But it will be better to tell the lady's story, as nearly 
 as may be, in her own words. Although many years 
 have passed since last she looked at a Venetian sky, and 
 although time may have written some marks upon a 
 forehead which once was as fair as marble, yet the 
 brightness of her eye and the powers of her memory 
 still remain unimpaired ; and her narrative derives no 
 little interest from the grace which has survived the 
 common and more perishable beauties of youth. And 
 indeed there is a matronly as well as a maiden beauty, 
 equally delightful, though in a different fashion. If 
 the reader can admit a distinction between two words 
 usually confounded, I would say that the one is a charm 
 and the other a spell ; the one attracts, while the other 
 commands our worship. But he should see the lady of 
 whom I speak. ' He should have the soft and distinct 
 tones in which she recounts her little story. He should 
 see * her white hand wave up and down as she tells of 
 light boats * dancing ' on the blue waves of the Adriatic, 
 and hear her voice droop into sad solemnity, while she 
 describes the hush of the watery streets, and the even- 
 
 * She died very lately (since the above was written) at an 
 advanced age. 
 
A DAY IN VENICE, 129 
 
 ing chant of the monks and sisters, sailing under her 
 balcony. He should — but, as he cannot by any possi- 
 bility do all this, I will try to recollect her words. It is 
 thus (or nearly thus) that I have heard her speak : — 
 
 ' Towards the afternoon of a bright day, we left 
 Padua, " leai'ned Padua," and embarked on the Brenta 
 for Venice. The sun was riding towards the west, 
 but he had not yet reached the point where he illumin- 
 ates the sky like an Iris ; he had not begun " to die like 
 the dolphin," but blazed out clear and glorious, and 
 threw his dazzling lights on the vineyards and orange- 
 groves and palladian structures which crown the banks 
 of the Brenta. Time passed, as we glided on, and on, 
 — meeting first a carriage boat, then a gondola, — 
 by fields and villas, by orange and laurel trees, — and 
 at last found ourselves on the open waters, sailing direct 
 for St. Mark's. The evening was now coming on, and 
 it was not until we had approached somewhat near the 
 city, that we saw, enveloped in a haze, and like a 
 mirage of the desert, the towers and turrets, the domes, 
 churches and palaces of the queenly Venice. She rose 
 before us more like a Moorish enchantment, than a real 
 positive Christian city. I thought first of the Fata 
 Morgana, and believed I beheld an illusion ; and then 
 of Gulnare's city of the sea ; and half expected to 
 meet, amongst pillars of green and gold, and fretwork 
 of ciystal, the fantastical shapes of the ocean. 
 
 ' Well, we arrived at the outskirts of Venice; gliding 
 up the road which was marked out by stakes, while, at 
 every stroke of the oar, the city seemed to swell, and 
 come forth and stand more palpably before us. To 
 
 VOL. I. 9 
 
130 A DAY IN VENICE. 
 
 me, it looked like one huge palace, with ranges and 
 avenues of buildings belonging to it, all cramped and 
 crowded together upon a rock. Independently of this, 
 there is something exceedingly imposing (as I found 
 afterwards) in the aspect of several parts of this famous 
 city. Its strange and mingled architecture, which is 
 neither Arabian nor Greek, nor Gothic ; the aspect and 
 manners of its people, so diflerent from the chattering 
 and noise that we had left at Paris ; its black gondolas 
 and silent canals, whose sides are walled by palaces, 
 fit for the habitation of kings, but half deserted, fill one 
 with solemn and even melancholy thoughts. We feel 
 oppressed, as we are oppressed by the power of antiquity, 
 or misfortune, and worship these apparitions of vanished 
 glory the more entirely, because they are neither exist- 
 ing nor substantial. 
 
 ' As we cajne to the first houses, (but before we enter- 
 ed into the deep shadow which they cast across the 
 water,) we looked once more upon the mountains of 
 Friuli, and saw them lifting up their huge shoulders 
 against the crimson light of the setting sun. Another 
 dash of the oar, and we were in — Venice ! 
 
 ' The first few days showed us nothing remarkable, 
 
 for Mr. fell suddenly ill, owing to travelling under 
 
 a hot sun, and I was too anxious to perform the duties 
 of a nurse towards my husband, to waste a thought 
 upon the wonders around us. Time and abstinence, 
 however, soon quelled the fever which had kept my 
 patient at home, and we then prepared to go through 
 the weary duties of the traveller, and to inspect every- 
 thing that strangers usually see. In the mean time, a 
 great change had taken place in the ducal city. The 
 
A DAY IN VENICE. 131 
 
 transition was like that from night to morning. We 
 came into a place where silence and melancholy 
 brooded, and we awoke in a world of rejoicing and 
 song. It was the Carnival ! 
 
 ' I do not mean to fatigue you with a regular detail of 
 the ceremonies, which were observed when the Doge 
 of Venice used to celebrate his marriage with the 
 Ocean. You may read of these in books of travels, 
 told in a manner that I cannot aspire to rival. I must 
 be content with speaking of the general effect, as it 
 related to myself. 
 
 * I remember waking early in the morning, and from 
 my window, which looked over the Adriatic sea, I saw 
 the sun struggling onwards in a sea of vapor. His 
 track appeared nearly in the point of Trieste. The 
 "waters of the gulf lay silent, stretching away south 
 and north, a melancholy plain without life or motion. 
 I began to augur ill of the Venetian festival, but I was 
 agreeably disappointed. For in about an hour the god 
 of day threw off his cloudy bondage, and looked out 
 tipon us like, what he really is in southern climates, 
 the living wonder and paragon of the heavens. The 
 ■wind began to stir and freshen, and the waves curled 
 and broke along the shore. The distant mountains, 
 which had before looked cold and mournful, awoke to 
 a new life, and put on their richest colors. The peo- 
 ple opened their windows, there was a hum of voices 
 and laughing, and the splashing of water in the canals 
 below. One after one, the little boats and gondolas 
 shot out from creeks and corners, and shook their tiny 
 streamers to the breeze ; men and women, in new gay 
 dresses, were seen ; rowers and gondolieri, and holi- 
 
132 A DAY IN VENICE. 
 
 day-making girls from the neighboring continent, while 
 the servants seemed to go about blithely on their 
 morning errands. It was clear that the day would be 
 in our favor, and accordingly we prepared to do it 
 honor, by displaying before the curious Venetian ladies 
 some of the elegances of our English apparel. We 
 had ordered a gondola to be ready early, and after we 
 had taken our coffee, we descended to where it lay 
 waiting our arrival. 
 
 'The time ajjpointed for the procession not having 
 arrived, we bade the gondolieri row us through some of 
 the different streets of the city, to witness the prepara- 
 tions that were making in all quarters from the Doge 
 to the beggar. The English traveller who has not 
 visited this corner of Italy, cannot have any idea of 
 the delight of gliding along from street to street, by 
 churches and palaces and marble houses, without an 
 effort of his own. It is more like the motion which 
 we enjoy (or seem to enjoy) in a dream than anything 
 else. I lay on the soft cushions of the gondola, and 
 from underneath the pleasant shadow which the cur- 
 tains made, I looked up at the architectural splendors ; 
 at windows filled with eastern-looking women, some 
 gazing on the boats below, some glancing at the sky, 
 (to see if the day were likely to be overcast,) some 
 arranging their hair, and others listening to the cava- 
 liers who hung over them, telling tales probably as 
 sweet and as welcome as those which were listened to 
 in former days, in the romantic gardens of Boccaccio. 
 
 'After some time spent in this manner, we arrived 
 near the quay of Saint Mark's, and found that the 
 procession had commenced. The Doge, and senators 
 
A DAY IN VENICE. 133 
 
 and people of rank, were already in the vessel appro- 
 priated for their reception Thousands of persons 
 were on the water, thousands on the quays and steps, 
 at the corners of streets, and in the windows^ Every 
 spot of ground was alive with human creatures when 
 the signal was given, and then — but we must borrow 
 the pen of a friend to help us here — 
 
 " And then 
 Flamed forth the Bucentaur, whose amorous sails 
 Kissed the low whispering winds, which made reply 
 Softer than echo, whilst the vessel rode 
 Triumphant past the watery palaces ; 
 Proud of its ducal load it swam, and shook 
 Its streamers, flaunting, whilst crowds of Venetians 
 Swarmed in the az^iire air, and ladies bright 
 Showered their rare glances which outflashed the sun ; 
 And music, like a fountain of sweet sound, 
 Rose up and fell, and when it died there came 
 A noise of footsteps near, or dashing waves, 
 Or voices which the time made musical. 
 The Prince of Venice now went forth to wed 
 The Ocean, — a rich bride, whose dowry filled 
 His insular kingdom and made proud his name j 
 And in his train went thousands, following fast 
 In floating shells, galleys and gondolas. 
 While the fair Ocean her voluptuous breast 
 Laid bare in transport, and in waves all warm 
 Received her tribute, that fast-fettering ring 
 Which bound her bride of Venice ! " 
 
 *To my thinking, notwithstanding my friend's verses, 
 the marriage of the Doge was but a foolish ceremony. 
 It had not the common solemnity of a conjuror's spell. 
 But the world of bright eyes and happy faces, the 
 cheerful jubilee, the snatches and echoes of song 
 
134 A DAY IN VENICE. 
 
 which floated about and haunted us on every side, 
 were delightful. I was glad to return from the gorge- 
 ous Bucentaur and the grave looking senators, who 
 soon returned from their watery wedding, to the 
 dance, the musicians, and masquers of the carnival. 
 There was Pulcinello in all his glory, mimics, trage- 
 dians, venders of all fruits and luxuries, idlere, and 
 visitors from every nation. There was the Frenchman 
 in his formal silken dress, the Armenian in his flowing 
 robes, the Spaniard in his cloak of gravity, the Jew, 
 the Turk, the German, the Englishman, and samples 
 from every province and state of Italy. In truth, 
 there was a good deal that was spirit-stirring and 
 delightful, but, unluckily, there was nothing to recount. 
 Our only adventure — if adventure it may be called — 
 took place at night, and to that I will now hasten. I 
 may state, that after several hours of amusement and 
 fatigue, we quitted for a time the out-of-door gaiety of 
 the city, and took refuge in our apartments. There 
 we dined, as people who frequent carnivals should 
 dine, took our coffee, and spent the early part of the 
 evening quietly. 
 
 ' We had been told, however, that the festivities of 
 the time, which declined with the day, were resumed 
 with treble vigor at night. In consequence of this 
 intimation, we emerged once more from our habitation 
 (it was now late in the evening) and went, accom- 
 panied by an Italian gentleman with whom my hus- 
 band was acquainted, to a casino near Saint Mark's. 
 We found the company about to retire, and, in fact, 
 they soon after disappeared, one after another, until 
 we alone were left there. This was a disappointment 
 
A DAY IN VENICE. 135 
 
 to US, who had come so far to see the humors of 
 Venice; but we were speedily compensated by the 
 arrival of some itinerant musicians who stopped before 
 the door of the place, and began an air, in which a 
 female voice of rare quality and compass, and a mas- 
 terly hand on the violin, were conspicuous. The voice 
 was the richest I had ever heard, although I was accus- 
 tomed to Italian singing, and we all (even our Italian 
 friend) listened with breathless pleasure, while the 
 unseen musician warbled out one or two Venetian 
 ballads, and an air of, I think, Marcello. 
 
 'Some words, that dropped from our friends, induced 
 us to think that the singers might be amateurs, who had 
 come out to do honor to the Carnival. But on going to 
 the door, a single glance convinced us of the unfeigned 
 poverty of the party. They accepted, moreover, a few 
 small pieces of coin with great readiness, and thanked 
 us in the name of the Signer Pazzi, the master and 
 violinist of the company. This man had the marks of 
 having had a fine person formerly, but he was now 
 squalid in his appearance, and his look was dissipated 
 and ferocious. The other men were wrapped in coarse, 
 ragged cloaks, and the women in wretched clothes, with 
 the exception only of the young musician whom we had 
 heard, (the "prima donna" of this forlorn band,) who 
 wore some faded finery about her, and looked like a 
 strolling play-girl. To do her justice, she had a pic- 
 turesque air, and, I must confess, the very handsomest 
 face I ever saw. It was somewhat of the gipsy cast, 
 but less dark, and without the expression of fierceness 
 which belongs to that wandering tribe. She came for» 
 ward with a bewitching smile, and a courtesy that was 
 
136 A DAY IN VENICE. 
 
 not inelegant, to petition for reward, when I had an 
 opportunity of observing her. And certainly she was a 
 most attractive person, so rich in color, (like one of 
 Titian's pictures,) so full and flowing in shape, her dress 
 so simple, her manners — what is the word ? — alluring. 
 Yet she was evidently a woman of inferior education, 
 and when upon my husband paying her some compli- 
 ments, which she returned with a profusion of smiles and 
 thanks, the Signor Pazzi called her back in a rough, 
 sullen voice, she ran to him, laughing and chattering, 
 with an air that betrayed the peasant. 
 
 * The musicians now left us, and we prepared to return 
 homewards. In our way thither, we had to cross an 
 angle of the square of Saint Mark's, and we there over- 
 took our singers. They had made a halt, probably to 
 divide the amount of the day's earnings, and were all 
 huddled together ; the singing girl hanging upon the 
 arm of the violin player. As we approached, the party 
 separated, the two I have mentioned going one way 
 and the remainder of the band in an opposite direction. 
 They seemed to part with great glee, reminding each 
 other of the to-morrow ; and wishing their " good-nights " 
 very clamorously. When they were about fifty yards 
 distant, one of the larger group called out once more, 
 " Buona notte," upon which the girl sang out in return — 
 
 " Buona notte, Idolo mio ! 
 Buona notte, va a dormir." 
 
 in a voice of such superlative richness and sweetness, 
 that the very air seemed thrilled with her notes, and 
 rang like a piece of silver. 
 
 ' It so happened that our course lay in the same line 
 
A DAY IN VENICE. 137 
 
 as that of the itinerant pair, and we followed them 
 accordingly towards the spot where our gondola was 
 waiting. Silence and tranquillity were now resuming 
 their rule. The windows and jalousies were heard to 
 shut one after another ; a distant noise, or the voice of 
 a single gondolier, was only (and those rarely) heard, 
 till at last nothing was audible but our own footsteps on 
 the marble ground. We had by this time arrived very 
 near to our boat, and were thinking of the merriment 
 that we had witnessed, when we heard a low, sad 
 sound coming up out of the canals ; and a boat convey- 
 ing a light at its head, was seen approaching the place 
 of our destination. " It is a funeral," said our Italian 
 friend ; and we stopped accordingly, nearly opposite 
 
 the G i Palace, where the coming sounds or the light 
 
 seemed to have attracted attention. In a few minutes, 
 the voices were heard distinctly, singing some dirge 
 or melancholy song. We were observing upon its 
 beauty, when on a sudden, a great number of lights 
 
 appeared in and about the G i Palace, which before 
 
 had been wrapped in silence, and, amidst all the mad- 
 ness of the day of jubilee, had alone looked dark and 
 unrejoicing. 
 
 ' " Good God," exclaimed our friend aloud. "It is 
 
 the funeral of Olympia G i ! " The musician who 
 
 stood near us seemed to start at this intelligence, and 
 uttered a strange cry. We could only, however, hear 
 the word " dead ! " although he uttered something 
 more. 
 
 ' " Holy mother," said the girl, " is she dead indeed ? " 
 
 ' " Peace," returned the fellow in a rough tone ; and 
 
 the girl was instantly silent. The funeral procession 
 
1,S8 A DAY IN VENICE. 
 
 was now close to us, and every word of the chant 
 was audible. 
 
 ' How divine is such sweet, sad music, heard at night ! 
 The day is fit only for bustling noises, for war and 
 traffic and action ; for quarrels and loud complaints ; 
 all these should be finished with the day. But at night, 
 let us look at the sailing moon, or stand by the hushing 
 water ; let us hear words of love, or melancholy songs; 
 let us dream of pleasures that we have lost, or of 
 friends that have gone far away, for ever ! 
 
 ' I cannot repeat the very words of the dirge, which 
 was sung on that Carnival evening, but it was some- 
 thing very like what I am about to repeat : at all events 
 its purport was the same. You must imagine, how- 
 ever, the place, the time, the stillness, the solitude, 
 and the solemn feelings that had crept over our hearts, 
 in order to understand the effect which the music pro- 
 duced upon us ; and you must make some allowance 
 for my translation, also, which is almost an extempore 
 matter : — 
 
 " We bear her home ; we bear her home ! 
 Over the murmuring salt sea foam ; 
 One who has fled from the war of life, 
 From sorrow, pains, and the fever strife. 
 
 "Noble, and young, and fair was she, 
 Who saileth with us on the moonlight sea ; 
 How gentle she looked, how softly spoke ! 
 And loved so well, but her heart was broke ! 
 
 " So, we bear her along to her marble halls, 
 Where now no delicate footstep falls ; 
 To the bier where a thousand torches shine, — 
 The last of a proud and ducal line ! 
 
A DAY IN VENICE. 139 
 
 " The city is gay, and the laugh is loud ; 
 But the moon, she mourns in her silver shroud ! 
 And the revel is mad, — but we, — but we 
 Are alone with the dead on the lonely sea ! " 
 
 •The concluding verse, however, although it might 
 have been originally true, was by this time contra- 
 dicted by the silence around ; notwithstanding that in 
 some houses the gaiety of the revel still went on. 
 As the procession stopped at the palace, in order that 
 the boat should unload its freight, the Signer Pazzi, 
 seemed once more much disturbed ; and after one or 
 two attempts to stand his ground, finally retreated in 
 disorder, with his pretty companion. 
 
 ' " I think I recollect our violinist and his friend," said 
 our Italian associate, as we rowed along ; " and the 
 poor lady who is dead I knew intimately. There is a 
 little, not much to be sure, of a story respecting her," — 
 he hesitated. 
 
 ' " Pray let us hear it," said I. 
 
 ' " I will endeavor to tell it you to-morrow," replied he, 
 " and I will call on you about noon. In the mean time 
 I may glean some more particulars about her ; " and 
 with these words we parted for the night. 
 
 ' The next day our friend was punctual to the his ap- 
 pointment and gave us the following account of the 
 deceased lady : — 
 
 ' " You have heard of course of the G i family," 
 
 he began. " It has reckoned, amongst its members, 
 doges, illustrious warriors, senators without number, 
 besides many artists and learned men. The first who 
 
 made the name famous, was Jacomo G i who sank 
 
 the fleet of the Ottomans — in — I forgot the year— 
 
140 A DAY IN VENICE. 
 
 but centuries ago: the last was Olympia G i, 
 
 whom you saw taken to her grave last night. She 
 was the sole descendant of her house. One after 
 another, her family and relations had all disappeared. 
 They left her the survivor of them all ; and now — not 
 one remains ! 
 
 * " She was very beautiful — this poor Olympia G i. 
 
 She possessed great dignity, much grace, and a serious 
 sweetness that 1 have never seen equalled in any face. 
 With enough of pride, (as much as her rank and 
 talent seemed to justify,) she possessed something which 
 might be called genius. It was more than the ability 
 that results from industry ; and would, if it had been 
 called into action, have made her undoubtedly cele- 
 brated as a poetess or painter. But unfortunately, she 
 had enormous riches; and so she remained simply a 
 Venetian lady. When she was a child her father and 
 mother died, and left her to the care of a maternal rela- 
 tion, one of the Mancini family. He was an honorable, 
 but a very poor man, and the allowance for life which 
 the Avill of Olympia's father gave him, in requital for 
 the guardianship of his child, formed almost his only 
 support. 
 
 ' " You may imagine that the rank and wealth and 
 beauty of Olympia were not long without worshippers. 
 Her hand was in fact sought by many ; by nobles and 
 even by princes. But early in life, before she well 
 knew what love was, she had given away her heart to 
 the son of her guardian, a young man with whom she 
 had been brought up and who professed to return it with 
 his own. Camillo Mancini, however, was not a person 
 to be entrusted with hearts. He would have broken 
 
A DAY IN VENICE. 141 
 
 a hundred. He was a youth of some promise origi- 
 nally, but with strong passions and a wilful temper; and 
 he was utterly destitute of both principle and prudence. 
 Being caught by the glitter of arms, he suddenly re- 
 solved to become a soldier, and entered the Austrian 
 or some foreign service ; and there, amidst the bustle 
 and license of a military life, very speedily forgot 
 Olympia and his love engagements. She, however, 
 with the fine fidelity of a woman, never wavered. She 
 received accounts of his ill conduct, (for he himself soon 
 gave over writing,) she grieved for his excesses : re- 
 lieved him more than once from poverty and ruin ; went 
 to him when he was sick or wounded ; tried unwear- 
 iedly to restore him to respectability and comfort, and 
 was, in all respects, his better angel. She got tired, 
 indeed, at last, of striving in vain to serve a thankless 
 vagabond, and, ceasing her efforts, she immediately 
 acquired — a foe. 
 
 ' " Camillo Mancini was one of those careless spend- 
 thrifts of reputation, upon whom it is idle to waste a par- 
 ticle of charity. He lived solely for his own pleasure ; 
 but it was the pleasure always of to-day. No admoni- 
 tion of prudence, no prospect of advantage, could wean 
 him from present enjoyment. He wished ; and if the 
 wish was within the scope of possibility, he gratified it at 
 every risk. In a mad moment, and to please the whim 
 of the instant, he at length actually married a young 
 adventuress who had previously declined his offer of a 
 * philosophical intimacy.' She had, as was supposed, 
 led a free life enough before ; but a fit of prudence, 
 as sudden as that of her lover's folly, possessed her 
 then; and the consequence was that she became the 
 
142 A DAY IN VENICE. 
 
 wife of Camillo. This news travelled speedily to 
 Venice. It was whispered about, and justified by false- 
 hoods, which went so far as to defame the reputation 
 Olympia ; and these falsehoods were traced with- 
 out much difficulty to Camillo himself. Olympia 
 heard all that was said. But she suffered calmly and 
 silently ; until the slander, together with the benefits 
 which she had conferred, became the laugh of the day, 
 partly by the treachery of an agent and partly by 
 Camillo's drunken boasting, and then the pity of her 
 enemies and the 'advice' of her friends, roused her 
 from her apparent apathy to a state of perilous excite- 
 ment. It was this struggle in her mind that tended to 
 destroy her. 
 
 ' " You must not suppose, however, that our young 
 Venetian was a pining, sickly girl, who sank into the 
 grave without an effort. On the contrary, she stood 
 up bravely against disappointment, and looked proudly 
 on the extinction of her brightest hopes. There is no 
 knowing but that she might at last have conquered, 
 (for she had good sense as well as pride,) had not 
 sickness come in to the aid of sorrow, and completed 
 the ruin which the other had but began. The miasma 
 — the maV aria — whatever is its name, is a fatal 
 complaint when it attacks those who are already weak ; 
 and Olympia, when it attacked her, was as feverish 
 and weak as her worst foe could desire. The conse- 
 quence was — of what use is it protracting the story or 
 going into minute details — the consequence was, that 
 the malady was victorious ; and Death, to the long list 
 of his illustrious and lovely victims, has now added 
 
A DAT IN VENICE. 143 
 
 the heiress and last descendant of the once famous 
 house of G i ! 
 
 ' "I could tell you how she faded, and faded away; 
 how first she lost her strength, and then her beauty; 
 how she travelled from place to place ; how she con- 
 sulted infallible physicians, and tried one after the 
 other, ' amusement,' ' occupation,' ' change,' and 
 the fifty things which are recommended in hopeless 
 cases ; and how at last she retired to the house of a 
 friend near Verona, and there died uncomplaining. 
 But I do not desire to make my story more pathetic 
 than it is. I state little more than what the kind- 
 hearted monk, who attended her in her last moments, 
 detailed to me this morning. Poor old fellow ! he 
 wiped his eyes so often with the sleeve of his rough 
 dress, that I was enticed into bearing him company, 
 and cried also." 
 
 ' Was he that solemn voice,' inquired I, ' which 
 rose above the rest in the requiem ? ' 
 
 * Yes, truly,' replied our friend ; ' that was he. He 
 sang, if you remember, those deep tones which thrilled 
 you, you said, at the conclusion of the dirge — 
 
 ' But we — but wt 
 Art alone with the dead on the lonely sea '. ' 
 
 ' I remember, ' said I, ' both the voice and the 
 words. They were both well entitled to make an 
 impression. And now, Sir,' added I, ' I must thank 
 you for your story, although you have forgotten the 
 two persons who stood beside us when the funeral 
 procession passed. You promised to give some ac- 
 count of them, did you not ? ' 
 
144 A DAY IN VENICE. 
 
 * True,' answered our friend ; ' I had forgotten. 
 The female was the wife of the musician, her com- 
 panion ; and her companion was — Camillo Rlaa- 
 cini ! ' 
 
 Such was the lady's account of her ' Day in Venice,' 
 and such the narrative related to her. 
 
 ' It is all I remember,' said she, in conclusion ; ' not 
 much you will say, yet it was sufficient to interest me 
 at the time, although there are not materials enough in 
 it to constitute a story.' 
 
 1828. 
 
THE STAUNTONS. 
 
 It was nearly midnight when a person, whom, for 
 various reasons, we choose to call Sir Everard Staun- 
 ton, descended from the drawing-room of his country 
 mansion to his library, accompanied by a young man, 
 who was his relation. Until that day, Edward Staun- 
 ton (for that was the young man's name), had never 
 seen his titled cousin ; and he now came down to ' the 
 Priory ' by virtue of a pressing invitation from its 
 owner, to whom he had applied respecting some ar- 
 rears of an annuity or legacy that had been payable 
 to his father out of the family estates, and which 
 now. in truth, constituted nearly the whole of his little 
 fortune. 
 
 They took their way down the broad marble stairs, 
 and along carpeted passages ; their footsteps falling 
 so softly as scarcely to waken an echo. Sir Everard 
 led the way, and the young man followed, but neither 
 uttered a word. The first was apparently full of 
 serious meditation, while the latter occupied himself 
 partly with speculating on the strange character of his 
 great cousin, and partly with listening to the blustering 
 of a wild, hollow, moaning November wind, which 
 
 VOL. I. 10 
 
146 THE STAUNTONS. 
 
 was straining the branches of some old pine-trees, and 
 driving occasionally a few heavy drops of rain against 
 the windows of the house. 
 
 It was a situation, not for fear, but for that vague 
 sort of awe which comes over us when we are sur- 
 rounded by darkness and silence. And, indeed, the 
 character of Sir Everard Staunton himself, was well 
 calculated to deepen such an impression. He was, 
 or was reputed to be, of a stern, unsocial habit ; 
 mixing little with the business which the country gen- 
 tlemen were called upon to perform as magistrates or 
 landlords in the county, and never joining in their 
 amusements. At the age of twenty, he became the 
 undisputed master of twenty thousand pounds a year. 
 But his temperament was naturally proud and moody ; 
 and this, which solitude increased, was at least greatly 
 augmented by the death of a lady to whom he was 
 contracted in marriage. From that day, Sir Everard 
 Staunton became an altered man. 
 
 In his youth (and he was now scarcely more than 
 forty years of age), he had been remarkable for per- 
 sonal beauty. There were individuals, even ladies, to 
 attest this, who knew him before jaundice and sleepless 
 nights had tinged his face with an unhealthy color. 
 Noio, his skin was sallow : sickness and sorrow, bile 
 and opium, and marasma, seclusion, and the sadness 
 that springs from many lonely years, had attenuated 
 his figure, and stolen the lustre from his once black 
 and searching eyes. Still, however, the intellect 
 stamped upon his forehead, which rose up, broad and 
 upright, from his brows, and was lost in a cloud of 
 raven hair, commanded attention ; and his dark, long, 
 
THE STAUNTONS. 147 
 
 and finely-formed features — even the smile which 
 sarcasm brought to his mouth — his stern look, and his 
 haughty bearing, produced alternately admiration and 
 respect. With another name, one might have caught 
 oneself now and then detecting among his features the 
 patrician aspect of Surrey, or the chivalrous bearing 
 of Sir Philip Sidney; and at times, even a more 
 stirring and lofty character, such as might have be- 
 longed to a descendant of the houses of Plantaganet 
 or Tudor. 
 
 But we have no space to waste upon mere descrip- 
 tion. The reader will, therefore, imagine (while we 
 have been introducing him thus personally, as it were, 
 to Sir Everard Staunton), that both he and his young 
 relative had taken their station in the two arm-chairs 
 that were placed by the library fire. The room was 
 large and gloomy, notwithstanding the bright blaze 
 which issued from the grate, and a couple of large 
 lamps, which diffused a mild but melancholy light 
 throughout the room. The wainscoat, where it was 
 visible, appeared to be of black oak, deeply carved ; 
 although nearly the whole of the walls were covered 
 with books of all sorts, in all languages, which the 
 taste of one ancestor and the pride or industry of 
 others had collected during a long succession of 
 Stauntons. 
 
 Sir Everard put his hand upon the bell-rope. ' You 
 may go to bed, Darford,' said he to his servant, who 
 answered his summons. ' Yet, observe ! I have 
 something to do to-night, a matter of moment, with 
 which this gentleman, Mr. Edward Staunton, is alto- 
 gether unacquamted. You will remember this ? ' 
 
148 THE STAUNTONS. 
 
 ' I will, Sir Everard,' replied the man ; saying which 
 he bowed and retired. 
 
 During this brief dialogue, Edward had stood up to 
 contemplate a portrait that was suspended over the fire- 
 place. As far as could be judged by that light, it 
 represented a dark, middle-aged man, with a very 
 noble and expressive countenance. 
 
 ' It is Sir Edward Staunton, my father,' replied Sir 
 Everard, bringing forward one of the lamps in order 
 to render the painting more distinct. * It is my father. 
 How do you like his look ? He was an excellent, 
 learned, noble-minded man.' 
 
 ' The countenance is very striking,' replied Edward ; 
 ' but it wears a sad expression, to my thinking. Was 
 he unhappy. Sir ? ' 
 
 ' He ought not to have been so,' answered the other, 
 smiling grimly ; ' so at least the world would tell you : 
 for he had twenty-five thousand pounds a year, and 
 both his heart and his body were free from blemish.' 
 
 * And yet — ' Edward was proceeding, when tlie 
 other took up his words. 
 
 * And yet ! ' echoed he ; 'he was not a jovial, cham- 
 pagne drinking fellow. He scarcely •' enjoyed " himself, 
 as the phrase goes, seldom smiled, and was never 
 merry. He had courage, generosity, intellect, and 
 fifty other qualities which might be mentioned, were it 
 worth while to enumerate them ; and yet, he walked 
 through life — a melancholy man. I do not know 
 how it is,' continued Sir Everard, with compressed 
 lips, and speaking at intervals, ' but we Stauntons 
 seem to have foresworn merriment, even before we 
 could stammer out a jest. We are ourselves — a jest. 
 
THE STATTNTONS. 149 
 
 Here am I — I, scarcely any one to accuse, nothing 
 of which I may complain, nothing to dread, nothing to 
 wish for. And yet, I have seen a beggar who could 
 laugh more heartily, and a cripple with more buoyancy 
 in his gait.' 
 
 ' You should have some pursuit, Sir Everard,' ob- 
 served his companion, ' some — ' 
 
 * Cousin ! ' interrupted the other, almost fiercely, ' I 
 have tried everything ! Like those who are cursed 
 with sterility, there is nothing that I have not done — 
 no path that I have not traversed — no aid that I have 
 not sought — and all in vain ! My way of life is 
 barren — barren ! Is it not strange, is it nothard, that 
 we all, from sire to son, have come into this cold- 
 hearted world, and grown upwards, with this cloud 
 upon our mind, which neither travel, nor thought, nor 
 toil, can dissipate ? It seems as though that terrible 
 line of Dante, which was graven over Hell-gate — 
 
 " All Hope abandon, ye who enter here ! " 
 
 hung for ever over us ; following us from age to age, 
 and from land to land. It has spread its influence over 
 the proudest of our name. We are a care-worn, 
 hopeless, melancholy race, filled with dark doubts, 
 and oppressed by strange imaginations. So it has been 
 with my fathers, and so it must be with me, until I 
 tak$ my turn to go past the beech-wood, which you 
 saw this morning, to rest in our small mansion beyond 
 — the mausoleum of all the Stauntons ! ' 
 
 'This is wild; 'tis — ' Edward hesitated. 
 
 ' Out with the word, cousin,' said Sir Everard — 
 * madness ! That is what you would say. But you 
 
150 THE STAUNTONS. 
 
 are mistaken. We are free from tliat unhappy taint. 
 We are of a gloomy temperament only, and — we 
 cannot help it.' 
 
 ' Man may control his blood, Sir Everard,' said his 
 young companion, ' and may do with himself almost 
 whatever he desires.' 
 
 ' "Man," cousin ! ' responded Sir Everard. ' Tush? 
 tush ! when you have toiled through three-and-forty 
 years, you will find that man is no better than a weed. 
 Half, at least, of what he shows depends upon the soil 
 he grows in. This cloudy country, now, does not 
 agree with my temperament ; and hence I always 
 droop. ' Nevertheless,' added he somewhat sadly, 
 * one loves one's native land with a sort of natural 
 superstitition, which it is not easy to get rid of. So, I 
 shall take my chance even where I am. I shall live as 
 long as — is convenient ; and then I shall set off for the 
 Moon.' 
 
 * I hope you will live long, my dear Sir Everard, — 
 long and happily,' said Edward Staunton, with a sin- 
 cere emphasis, — * with silver haii's upon your head, 
 and children flourishing about you.' 
 
 The kindness which Sir Everard had shown him 
 during the day, and his unexpected generosity touching 
 some pecuniary question, had had its effect on the young 
 man. He spoke from his heart, and, as is then always 
 the case, produced a sudden and evident effect upon 
 his proud relative. Yet Sir Everard had been duped 
 repeatedly in his time, had found relatives who were 
 not friends, and seen friend after friend fail him ; and 
 he therefore scanned with a jealous eye, the open, 
 ingenuous countenance before him. There was nothing 
 
THE STAUNTONS. 151 
 
 concealed in it : all was fair, open, blushing and burn- 
 ing with the strong feeling which his cousin's depend- 
 ency had excited. Sir Everard saw this, and spoke at 
 last with a gloomy but friendly smile, — 
 
 ' You almost deserve that I should take you at your 
 word, my foolish cousin. Do you know, that by the 
 will of that same Sir Edward, who looks upon you 
 from the panel there, you are entitled to large estates, 
 in case I die childless or without a will ? ' 
 
 * I have heard something of this. Sir, yet imper- 
 fectly,' replied Edward ; * it never, however, dwelt 
 for an instant on my memory. Besides, Sir Everard 
 Staunton will not do such an act of injustice, as to 
 disinherit both his sister and his sister's son.' 
 
 * What 1 ' — said Sir Everard, — ' do you mean Julia 
 Fortescue ? and Julia's child ? Sir, added he sternly, 
 * she deceived her father first, and then she betrayed 
 me. And her son — oh ! he inherits his mother's 
 nature ; save that to the cunning of the fox, he has 
 added the viper's venom. No more of them. By my 
 father's soul, I swear to you, I will rather endow a 
 hospital, or scatter my possessions to the winds, than 
 waste them on those who are base and ungrateful. 
 But — once more,' added he, resuming his quiet man- 
 ner, ' let us speak no more of this. Tell me rather of 
 yourself. What are you doing, my young cousin ? and 
 what do you intend to do ? ' 
 
 'I — I scarcely know,' replied Edward ; * the death 
 of my father has thrown me suddenly on my own re- 
 sources. Yet, I think he wished me to study law.' 
 
 ' And your wish ? ' inquired Sir Everard. 
 
 ' My wishes lead me to the army,' was the reply. 
 
152 THE STAUNTONS. 
 
 "T is a bad school,' said the other, ' in which a scarlet 
 jacket and a clanking sword often stand a man in the 
 stead of virtue, knowledge, modesty, wit, and all 
 else that makes life tolerable to others, or becoming 
 in itself. Nevertheless there is one good about it; 
 you have your chance of being made immortal by 
 the first bayonet or bullet that comes athwart you ; and 
 then adieu to hope, to anxiety, and fear, and all 
 the ills, as our friend Shakspere has it, " which flesh is 
 heir to." ' 
 
 ' And have you felt so much of hope, or anxiety } ' 
 Edward ventured to inquire. 
 
 ' Yes, — once ; ' answered Sir Everard ; " once I 
 confess : and now as we have arrived at this point, I 
 will condemn myself to relate something of my history 
 to you. You are a Staunton, you know, and are bound 
 to stand up for the honor of the family. So, when I 
 am safe in my six-feet home, and turned to dust and 
 ashes, I leave you to fight as many battles as need 
 may be, for the purity of my reputation. I have a 
 touch of earth about me, you see, notwithstanding my 
 philosophy.' 
 
 ' I wish from my heart, that I could say or do 
 anything to serve you, Sir Everard,' said Edward 
 Staunton. 
 
 ' I am past service, my good boy,' said the other 
 sadly : ' but I have a something to do which shall be 
 prefaced by my confession. Look at me ! Why do 
 you think I select you, of whom I know so little, for 
 the confidant of my private history ? You cannot 
 guess ! Well, I will help you. Did you not, some 
 
THE STATTNTONS. 153 
 
 three months since, 'tis scarcely more, rescue a man 
 who was beset by robbers ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, said Edward, ' I was luckily of use to a 
 stranger, one night, in London. He was coming 
 from a house near St. James's Square ' 
 
 ' He was coming from the gaming-table, loaded 
 with money,' interrupted the other : ' he had won, that 
 night, five thousand guineas from sharpers, and they 
 wished for another transfer of their gold. To eifect 
 this, they bade him stand and deliver ; and one of 
 them struck him with his knife across the temple 
 — just here,' added he, and he thrust aside a cloud of 
 dark hair, and showed a huge cicatrice in evidence of 
 his assertion ; ' in a word,' said Sir Everard Staunton, 
 * I was the man ! ' 
 
 * How ! you } ' said Edward, in astonishment. 
 
 ' Even so,' replied Sir Everard ; ' I promised, if you 
 remember, that night, when I inquired your name, 
 that you should hear further of me, and you have 
 heard somewhat already. Now give me your atten- 
 tion. I am about to speak of a subject which I shall 
 have no opportunity to touch on again. I am about 
 to confess to you my weakness — my errors — in a 
 word, to tell you briefly the story of my life. Listen. 
 
 ' I was bom to great fortunes, and a noble name. I 
 was an only child. My father was proud of me ; my 
 mother doated on me. Whi/ this should be, I could 
 never learn ; certainly nqt for any qualities of my 
 heart or head. It had its origin, I suppose, simply in 
 that mysterious charm which links the parent to the 
 child, in spite of all human accidents, — in spite of 
 
154 THE STAUNTONS. 
 
 poverty, and sickness, and crime in the father, and of 
 all kinds of faults and follies in the son. 
 
 ' Well, my mother, this kind mother, died. She 
 was an accomplished lady — almost faultless ; one that 
 in other times might have stood as a pattern amongst 
 women — like a Portia among wives — amongst mat- 
 rons, like a mother of the Gracchi. But she died ; 
 and her husband, naturally sad, fell into irrecoverable 
 gloom. In the mean time I sprung up into manhood. 
 My father and I were the best friends in the world. 
 We read together, shot, hunted, wandered about to- 
 gether. We were brothers in intimacy ; without his 
 losing the affection of a father, or I the respect of a 
 child. He shared with me his thoughts, his inmost 
 secrets, his fortune, to the utmost farthing ; and 1 did 
 what I could to deserve them. I partook of his soli- 
 tude ; I tried with all my strength to dissipate his 
 sadness. But all would not do. He left me, as my 
 mother had left me before ; and I became the wealthy 
 Sir Everard Staunton. 
 
 ' It was about this time, that, not content with other 
 ills, I must needs love. I loved — God ! ' exclaimed 
 he, with uncontrollable emotion ; ' how much, how 
 deeply, how truly ! I loved an angel. I cannot call 
 her a woman, who had not one of woman's thousand 
 faults. From my soul I believe she was as pure in 
 thought, as lovely in her life, as the immaculate angels 
 are. I will not talk of her beauty, yet she was sur- 
 passingly beautiful ; I cannot analyze her person, and 
 spread out her perfections before you, one by one, in 
 petty Epicurean detail. She filled my whole heart. 
 She possessed every thought, every fancy, for a time ; 
 
THE STAUNTONS. 
 
 155 
 
 and then, she also died, and left me to despair for 
 ever ! Since she fled away, — the dove who brought 
 peace to my lonely life, — I have never known joy or 
 comfort. Yet I survived her, — as the base body will 
 live on, when the mind grows dark and perishes ; for 
 what purpose, except to sin and suffer, I know not. It 
 is time,' added he, gloomily, ' that this should end.' 
 
 He now paused for a minute, and seemed contend- 
 ing with some internal passion, which cost him a 
 struggle to vanquish. The muscles of his mouth were 
 strongly agitated, and there was an evident tremor in 
 his voice, a hesitation in his speech, as he proceeded. 
 
 * I have told you, how first one, and another, and 
 then another, was swept from the face of the world, in 
 order that I might go down to my grave alone. Would 
 that I had gone earlier ! But it was not to be. I was 
 to live as well as die alone, and I was to break out once 
 from my solitude and commit crimes, that to natural 
 sadness have added undying remorse. 
 
 ' I had one friend, who was, when I was a youth, like 
 a brother to me. He was a German nobleman, and 
 was called the Count Hardensteine. He had come to 
 England to complete his education, and he had then, 
 after some travel, returned home, and married a Span- 
 ish lady. This woman, the Countess Maria, was a 
 Phryne — a Circe — a Calypso — or what you will. 
 She had the talent of a man with the softness of her 
 sex, and all the attractions of the most dazzling beauty. 
 There was lightning in her eyes, music on her tongue, 
 grace and a voluptuous air in every motion, and a 
 devil in her heart. I cannot tell you how she tampered 
 with me, nor how or wherefore I yielded to her pas- 
 
156 THE STAUNTONS. 
 
 sion. Obsen'e, I seek to extenuate nothing. I played 
 the part of a villain. I forgot, in one moment, years 
 and acts of friendship, and returned the caresses of 
 a wanton, whom fifty lovers had wearied of before. 
 How my friend could have lived for years thus blindly, 
 in the wiles of an unprincipled woman, is still a mys- 
 tery. Yet, I believe that he was ignorant of her 
 iniquities, until the eyes of a jealous rival turned his 
 observation upon me. 
 
 ' But why do I dwell upon all this ? I sinned 
 against my brother, and stood up to expose myself 
 before his wrath, with a hearty wish that he might not 
 aim in vain. We met, and, after his bullet had sung 
 past my head, I fired my weapon in the air, and walked 
 towards him to explain, and entreat his pardon. He 
 struck me down, — me, who had thought never to 
 endure such ignominy from the hand of a created being. 
 He struck me, spurned me on the ground, showered 
 upon me opprobrious names, horrible maledictions, and 
 then dared me to meet him upon that fresh quarrel. 
 1 was mad. I stood again, and again received his fire, 
 which harmed me not. Then it was that I made a 
 movement towards him, without discharging my pistol; 
 he mistook me, and seizing another weapon was level- 
 ling it once more against me, when the impulse — I 
 know not what — the love of self, that in such cases 
 reasons not, and admits of no deliberation, spurred my 
 arm. I fired, and my friend lay, in a moment, dead 
 at my feet ! He was shot right through the heart. He 
 did not utter a single cry, so suddenly did he perish ; 
 but lay on the bloody ground before me paler than 
 stone, with his eyes half open, looking reproaches 
 
THE STATJNTONS. 157 
 
 that I deserved, and have never for one instant for- 
 gotten, 
 
 ' Those ghastly, dying eyes haunt me still, at morn, 
 and noon, and midnight ; in my dreams and rambles ; 
 and the consciousness of crime has placed a load upon 
 my life, that, come what will, I must now perforce 
 shake off.' 
 
 Edward was about to remonstrate. 
 
 * Speak not,' said Sir Everard, hurriedly. ' I have 
 thought, and have determined. Some day or other I 
 shall die ; whether from sickness, or remorse, or fear — 
 no, not fear ; whether from gradual decay or sudden 
 murder, I know not ; but let us stop. I can talk no 
 more at present. I cannot now detail the hundred 
 minor ills that beset me in every stage of my progress. 
 I could tell how, from this calamity that I have 
 recounted, a tale grew up, (my sister — ha, ha, — 
 knows its origin,) — grew up, that I had assassinated 
 the husband as I had seduced the wife ; how I was 
 shunned by my friends, acquaintances, who would not 
 take the trouble to investigate my story ; how I flew to 
 gaming and became the prey of sharpers ; and how I 
 grew clear-sighted in that honest profession; and at 
 last could overcome, by mere skill, the most ingenious 
 frauds. But my narrative is finished ; and I now wish 
 to be alone. Go, therefore, into the adjoining room, 
 for awhile, and leave me. I have some papers to pre- 
 pare which I must write alone. It is my wish, my 
 desire, that, when I die, you will read and not neglect 
 them. Promise me this ! ' 
 
 * I promise,' replied Edward, 'but — ' 
 
 * Fear not,' said the other. ' Fear not, 'tis well, and 
 
158 THE STAUNTONS. 
 
 I thank you.' He took the young man's hand in his 
 own, and grasped it cordially. ' Now leave me,' said 
 he, ' without more ado. You shall hear when I require 
 your presence.' 
 
 Edward left the room in obedience to his friend's 
 request, and proceeded into an adjoining apartment, 
 where he found a small lamp burning (it was the 
 closet adjoining Sir Everard's bed -room) ; and there, 
 excited and wearied with the interview that we have 
 endeavored to relate, he sat down to rest his nerves, 
 amidst the absolute stillness that prevailed. 
 
 There is nothing on earth more impressive than this 
 dark and unbroken night silence. There is, indeed, 
 something unutterably solemn in the tones wherein the 
 sea and mountains sometimes deign to speak. Even 
 the wind, which blows as it listeth, and the river which 
 wanders at its will, have tongues and whispers which 
 are unaccountably awful to those who brood over their 
 words. Yet we associate with these children of nature, 
 perhaps, a feeling which belongs solely to ourselves, 
 and mark in their several movements the reflection 
 only of our own wonder and delight. Who ever lis- 
 tened to the brook bubbling along the spring meadows, 
 without attributing to it the cheerfulness which it 
 infused into his mind ? Yet the torrent of Winter 
 bounds onward with as much glee as the river of 
 Spring. And who ever hearkened to the sound of 
 the earthquake or the disturbed ocean, without invest- 
 ing it with qualities bred only in his own sensations, 
 and attributing to it words and menaces written only 
 on the page of his own disturbed heart .'' To all these 
 things, tender or fearful as they may be, we affix the 
 
THE STATTNTONS. 159 
 
 idea of life, of strength, or youth, gladness or power. 
 But for Silence, the solemn starry Silence, who wraps 
 all the world at once as with a pall, and who, though 
 she speaks not and moves not, makes her awful way 
 into the innermost recesses of the human heart, there 
 is no similitude, no metaphor that links her to our 
 being ; or, if there be one, it is only that one which 
 talks to us of a dim 'hereafter' — that fear, which 
 stands like a ghostly dream before our fancy, the 
 shadowy and immeasurable phantom of — Death! 
 
 It was somewhat thus that the current of Edward 
 Staunton's thoughts ran, as he sate looking at the 
 flickering of the little lamp before him, when sud- 
 denly, without any previous noise or note of prepara- 
 tion, a thundering explosion was heard in the adjoining 
 room. It was as though several cases of fire-arms 
 had been discharged at once. Edward started up, and 
 in an instant — as soon, at least, as he could recover 
 his recollection — tore open the library door, and be- 
 held Sir Everard Staunton in his chair utterly dead ! 
 His neck was bent, his head lying useless on his 
 shoulder, while from his broad fine temples, through 
 which the blue veins once branched and wandered, 
 came spouting out a stream of blood and gore. A 
 bullet had penetrated his brain. 
 
 What young Staunton did, how he summoned the 
 servants, or whether they were roused by the noise 
 that had occurred, we are not able to detail. Nor is 
 it of any importance. It appeared, however, that the 
 unfortunate man had written several letters, one of 
 which was addressed to his servant Darford, and 
 another to Edward Staunton, to * Sir Edward Staun- 
 
160 THE STAUNTONS. 
 
 ton.' The youth was shocked at this first intimation 
 of his title, and with difficuUy deciphered his cousin's 
 writing. It ran, however, thus : — 
 
 * Cousin, — I leave you a large fortune and a noble 
 name. Take care of both, and do — what I could 
 never do — enjoy them ! 
 
 * As far as I may, I confirm to you the estates 
 which my father bequeathed to you in case I should 
 perish childless. While you are reading these my last 
 words, this will already have happened. I leave no 
 child, not even a friend, save yourself, behind me. 
 And this is well, for I would cause regret to no one. 
 
 ' Farewell, Sir Edward Staunton. If ever you think 
 of the last who owned that ancient name, pity him, 
 pray for him. He wished to live on and endure, but 
 he could not do this. There was nothing for him but 
 madness or the grave, and the last he hoped would 
 be at least a shelter. Pray for him that it may be 
 so! Pray from your heart ! Farewell! E. S.' 
 
 Edward fell on his knees involuntarily as he read this 
 last record of Sir Everard Staunton. He prayed fer- 
 Yently and ' from his heart,' that pardon might be 
 awarded to the mistaken man — turned round and 
 saw that the servant (Darford) was weeping over the 
 last testimony of his master's kindness, and himself 
 burst into a passion of tears. 
 
 Such is the account given by the late steward of the 
 
 family, of the manner in which the estates passed 
 
 into the hands of their possessor, in the year 1757. He 
 added, that the gentleman who is above designated as 
 
THE STAUNTONS. 161 
 
 Edward Staunton, took possession of the property 
 without opposition, and enjoyed it between thirty and 
 forty years, at the expiration of which time he died. 
 During his life he allowed a substantial annuity to the 
 sister of Sir Everard, and presented her son with a 
 considerable sum of money, but he would hold no 
 personal intercourse with either. It was never known 
 what had induced Sir Everard Staunton to commit 
 suicide so much more suddenly than he seemed origi- 
 nally to have contemplated. Probably, however, it 
 was from some impulse of despair which could not 
 bear suspense, or even its own weight any longer. 
 That he actually did what we have detailed is an 
 undoubted fact, and as all parties have died long since, 
 there can be no impropriety in now making the story 
 public. 
 
 1828. 
 
 11 
 
A CHAPTER ON PORTRAITS. 
 
 Of all the Souvenirs, and Keepsakes, and Bijoux — 
 of all the Christmas-boxes, Amulets, and Gems, Anni- 
 versaries, and Forget-me-nots, (flowers of cold weather) 
 — of all the presents with which we should choose to 
 commemorate a birthday, or a festival, or to offer to 
 one whom we regard, as an indication of good-will or 
 friendship, we think we should select a portrait ; a por- 
 trait, perhaps our own. It should not be cast in ginger- 
 bread, which would be too provocative ; nor in brass, 
 which would be out of character ; nor in paper, for we 
 are already but too inflammable ; neither should we 
 desire to ride on boys' shoulders, triumphant in pipe- 
 clay, smeared over with blue and scarlet, immortal as 
 plaister could make us, amongst Dukes of Wellington, 
 and Napoleons, amongst dumb Paul Prys, and silent 
 parrots. An humbler lot be ours. We should scarcely 
 choose to look out from a snuff-box, blazing with bril- 
 liants, for it would be too imperial, and we might, for 
 the first time, forget ourselves. 
 
 We have said that it should, perhaps, be a portrait of 
 ourself (selves) ; but we recall our words. We are 
 inclined to abandon that agreeable notion. At all 
 
A CHAPTER ON PORTRAITS. 163 
 
 events, it should not always represent our own features, 
 to the exclusion of philosophers and heroes. We 
 would not invariably usurp the place of Shakspere andi 
 Bacon. We do not love ourselves so immeasurably. 
 Some face, however, which we love or respect, it 
 should ever be; in preference even to a hamper of 
 Johannisberg or a case of Lafitte, or a haunch of the 
 bravest buck that ever nipped the grass of a Scottish 
 moor. 
 
 There is something delightful in the intercourse which 
 we hold with another's likeness. It is himself, only 
 once removed ; he is visible, not tangible : we have 
 his moiety. In a picture of history, there is often 
 indeed more to admire than on the mere face of one 
 individual, man or woman. There is more room for 
 the skill of the artist ; it is better adapted to exemplify 
 a moral. But the sentiment that chains us to the other, 
 is wanting ; we are noifamiUar with it. One is a brave 
 matter, a splendid thing; the other is a person, and 
 becomes our friend. We would never worship, as- 
 some do, the complicated strife of arms, and legs, and 
 shoulders ; or think only of the way in which each is 
 subdued by the painter, and made, by the wonders of 
 light and shade, to represent a great event. We would 
 rather look upon the eyes of some Italian 'Dama,' 
 whom Titian or Giorgione painted long ago without 
 a name, and catalogued only as ' Portrait of a lady ; ' 
 or face one of Titian's piercing heads, (a noble of 
 Venice or Rome,) than sit down before the most elabo- 
 rate composition of history, or see brought out in 
 dazzling array before us, all the battles of Alexander, 
 or all the triumphs or processions of the Cffisars. 
 
164 A CHAPTER ON PORTRAITS. 
 
 We were exceedingly struck by the delicacy of two 
 or three friends, who conspired lately to give an old 
 acquaintance pleasure on his return from a distant part 
 of India. His wife had been obliged to come to Eng- 
 land for her health, and his friends secretly caused her 
 portrait to be painted, in order that on his return to 
 Madras or Bengal he might find the likeness at least of 
 her who was dearest to him in the world. It is thus 
 that the form and features of the child are made known 
 to its pining parents afar off. It is thus that the places 
 which we loved to look upon, are redeemed from the 
 grave, and sent to us, across deserts, and woods, and 
 mountains, or over a thousand leagues of water. This 
 is the greatest boast of art, as well as the most delight- 
 ful victory. It annihilates space, if not time, and makes 
 the absent happy. 
 
 An historical scene is a fiction merely. Be it ever 
 so true to nature, it is still the fiction of the painter. 
 But a portrait is truth itself. No imagination can 
 compete with it ; it is either the very thing we desire, 
 or nothing ; all depends on its truth. Even in a 
 portrait, to use the term, of inanimate nature, what 
 assemblage of cataracts, and hills and forests ; what 
 glories of sunset or meridian may compete with the 
 little landscape, which restores to us the scene of our 
 own quiet home, which brings before us our childhood, 
 the tree under which we have played, the river beside 
 which we have slept or sported ? Art, which never 
 addresses itself, strictly speaking, to our reason, is 
 valuable only in proportion as it operates upon our 
 feelings ; these are seldom (and then but little) excited 
 by the mere invention of a painter ; we rather sympa- 
 
A CHAPTER ON PORTRAITS. 165 
 
 thize with Ms difficulties ; we congratulate him upon 
 his success; we say, ' How admirably has he grouped 
 those figures ! How finely are the light and shade 
 distributed ! what grand expression ! what dramatic 
 effect ! ' We look upon the artist as a hero ; he has 
 done so much — for his own fame. But he who gives 
 us the very smile which won or warms our hearts, the 
 frank or venerable aspect of our friend or father, the 
 dawning beauty of our child, or shows us the tender 
 eyes with which the wife or mother looks love upon us 
 from a distant region, he seems to have thought of us 
 rather than of his own renown, and becomes at once 
 our benefactor and our friend. 
 
 It is very pleasant, to our thinking, to traverse some 
 country mansion, where the portraits of its former 
 owners hang up side by side with each other ; frail 
 records, it is true, of vanity and glory ! We love to 
 trace them upwards into absolute barbarism ; to mail- 
 ed, bearded, ferocious warriors, powerful, and — for- 
 gotten. And among them, it is hard if we cannot 
 detect one whom learning or science has honored — a 
 poet, a monk, or a philosopher ; perhaps one even, 
 whom Love has made immortal. We once saw such a 
 one. There he was, with nobility on his forehead, 
 and sadness in his eye, — the humbled inheritor of a 
 proud name, the impoverished master of thousands ! 
 Can we help pitying such a sufferer ? We see him, 
 and pass on — we see another — and another — and 
 another : but he still remains fixed in our memory ; 
 * hfBvet lateri lethalis arundo ; ' and we turn back 
 after viewing all the rest, once more to sympathize 
 with him alone. We say, ' Rich one ! are you there 
 
166 A CHAPTER ON PORTRAITS. 
 
 Still ? — still pale, and dumb, and melancholy ? Had 
 the foul fiend so seized upon you, that not even the 
 flattering painter could take the sorrow from your eye 
 — the sting that had ran piercing through your heart ? 
 ' Faith, you are fallen indeed. 
 
 Let not the reader suppose, from what we have said, 
 that we are wanting in a due respect for the illustrious 
 painters who have conferred honor upon art ; wc love 
 or admire them all. We can pore over a book of 
 prints, even, and forget ourselves among the old mas- 
 ters of the Italian school of painting. We can begin 
 with Giotto, and go on untired, to the last of the school 
 of the Carracci. There is great fervor, and (so to 
 speak) devotion of spirit in some of Giotto's works. 
 Did the reader ever see his two saintly heads, in the 
 possession of Mr. Rogers, the poet ? There is great 
 skill and some grandeur in Massaccio, and infinite 
 beauty in Perugino. Then, there are the quaint love- 
 liness of Leonardo da Vinci, — the frowning power of 
 Michael Angelo, — the splendors of Giorgione and 
 Titian, — the suavity of Correggio, — and the life, and 
 spirit, and beauty, — the grace, and intelligence, and 
 unequalled propriety of Raffaelle ! There too are 
 Guido's pale heads, and Domenichino's divine expres- 
 sions ! — the stern realities of Annibal, — the touch- 
 ing looks of Fra Bartolomeo, — the halcyon skies of 
 Claude, — and the stormy landscapes of Salvator Rosa! 
 In a word, all that beauty and power, or the spirit of 
 religion and love have dictated, — all that great Nature 
 herself has taught, are therein assembled, to delight 
 whomsover has the taste to value them. The most 
 radiant visions open themselves upon us ; — the gran- 
 
A CHAPTER ON PORTRAITS. 
 
 167 
 
 deur of the old world — the fantastic eloquence of the 
 new — the creation of Adam — the visage of Csesar — 
 Cleopatra and her asp — Roman temples, Egyptian 
 pyramids, — angels, and hierarchs, and prophets — 
 warriors of all times — women, lovelier and more amia- 
 ble than the rainbow, — all are brought back before us 
 by a power greater than that of Prospero's wand. 
 And can we refuse our homage ? No ; we gaze, 
 and acknowledge that, even in its degradation and 
 decline, Italy had still some spirits able to perpetuate 
 her glorj', and, in some degree, even to elevate her 
 name ! 
 
168 A CHAPTER ON POKTRAITS. 
 
 for a moment doubt but that they are the true repre- 
 sentations of those famous men. RafTaelle's life was 
 employed on works of imagination, such as no one 
 else has equalled ; but he could descend from the 
 
 * dignity of history,' as it is called, and submit to 
 transcribe a faithful lesson of nature, like one of a 
 less gifted intellect. 
 
 We can scarcely imagine, indeed, a thing much 
 more pleasant to an artist, than to be brought face to 
 face with some famous person, and permitted to 
 examine and scrutinize his features, with that careful 
 and intense curiosity that seems necessary to perfect- 
 ing a likeness. It must have been to Raffaelle at once 
 a relaxation from his ordinary study, and a circum- 
 stance interesting in itself, thus to look into faces so 
 full of meaning as those of Julius and Leo, and to say, 
 
 * That look, that glance which seems so transient, will 
 I fix for ever. Thus shall it be seen, with that exact 
 expression (although it lasted but for an instant), five 
 hundred years after he shall be dust and ashes ! ' 
 
 Shall we go on.-* No. All, or most of what we 
 had to say, is said ; and now — it is time to stop. 
 
 1829. 
 
THE PRISON-BREAKER. 
 
 It was a custom, some years ago, with a few young 
 men, to meet together once a week at each other's 
 houses, and to communicate their ideas in writing. 
 These productions were always read and left at the 
 house of the entertainer, who returned, with a cold 
 supper, a small portion of the good that he received in 
 the shape of imagination and wit. Every person, as I 
 have said, communicated his ideas, but no one was 
 bound to any particular subject. Each one was to do 
 his best. He who could not write prose was allowed 
 to take refuge in rhyme. He who could not be enter- 
 taining was permitted to be learned. * We can sleep, 
 at all events,' said one of the body, when a person of 
 indifferent merit was proposed. In a word, one or two 
 members of unknown talent were admitted into our 
 party (which was to consist of a dozen), and among 
 the rest an old gentleman in spectacles, of a some- 
 what saturnine aspect, from whom we expected to 
 receive at least an Essay on Optics, but who, to 
 our infinite surprise, presented us with the following 
 anecdote. (The circumstance of my being host of the 
 
170 THE PKISON-BREAKEE. 
 
 evening will account for my possession of the manu- 
 script.) 
 
 It was thus our sexagenarian began : — 
 * I am an old man, almost sixty. Some of my 
 vivacity is perhaps gone ; certainly all my sentimen- 
 tality has vanished. My " sallad days " are over ! 
 Instead of manufacturing bad rhymes and groaning at 
 the moon — instead of sighing, after a villainous 
 fashion, at every mantua-maker I meet — I set down 
 my thoughts in level prose ; I sun myself leisurely at 
 mid-day, and I care no more for a milliner than I do 
 for a mouse-trap. All this philosophy I have learned 
 in the great school of old age, where one gets wisdom 
 in return for giving up all one's enjoyments. Yet these 
 matters may be drawbacks with some persons, — and 
 if so I am willing to be silent. If, however, there be 
 any one who shall still desire " a touch of my quality," 
 let him proceed with the following narrative. It is, I 
 assure him, every tittle of it true : — 
 
 ' About five or six-and-twenty years ago I went to 
 reside at Charwood, a little village in the south-west 
 part of England. Charwood is a pretty spot — a green, 
 out-o'-the-way place, with a semicircular wood crown- 
 ing the high land above it, and a brisk, glittering trout 
 stream running away at its foot. The reader must 
 understand that I was not a recluse. I did not shut 
 myself up, like the Hermit of Tong, and let my beard 
 grow for a recompense of half a crown per week. I 
 did not even retreat to this seclusion from any lofty 
 misanthropy. I liked the world well enough — I had 
 no cause for dislike. My play had not been damned, 
 my wife had not run away, I had not been kicked or 
 
THE PRISON-BREAKER. 171 
 
 caned at Newmarket or Brookes's. In short, I was 
 very comfortable, and — a bachelor. 
 
 * And now to begin with my stoiy. It is to be 
 owned that I commence under some disadvantages. 
 My heroine is the last in the world that a novelist 
 would have selected. She had scarcely any of the 
 ordinary qualities which allure from the eyes of ladies' 
 maids and sempstresses such rivers of tears. She 
 was neither romantic nor mysterious, nor fond of 
 sighing ; she had no confidante, and was not devoured 
 by a "secret sorrow." I, scarcely know how, with 
 such defects, I can contrive to infuse any portion of 
 interest into her narrative. But I have undertaken her 
 little history, and must do the best I can. Little Sophy 
 Ellesmere (for that was her name) was the daughter 
 of a small landed proprietor in Charwood. She was 
 an only child — the offspring of a selfish, wilful father, 
 and a patient, housewife-like little woman, who, through 
 twenty years of her ill-assorted union, endured more 
 troubles than were ever borne by any one, except 
 those who have suffered under that most damnable of 
 human vices — domestic tyranny. Sophy had some- 
 thing of her father's wilfulness, and all her mother's 
 kindness of heart. She was, moreover, sufficiently 
 spoiled by both ; just enough to save her from the 
 disgrace of being a common heroine. She had her 
 full share of faults, and a few virtues. These things 
 grow up together in Charwood like weeds and flowers, 
 although, in the illuminated Leadenhall MSS. they are 
 kept carefully apart, lest human folly should be 
 mimicked too closely, and nature be pronounced a 
 libel. 
 
172 THE PRISON-BREAKER. 
 
 * Our little girl was lively, good-hearted, headstrong, 
 passionate ; as wild as a colt, and as brave as a lion. 
 In respect of her person, she was not perfectly beau- 
 tiful; on the contrary, she was almost as brown as a 
 gipsy, had irregular features, dark, piercing eyes, 
 and lips like a Moresco. These defects were, it is 
 true, redeemed by certain beauties ; for with piercing 
 eyes (whose intense expression amounted almost to 
 the painful,) a sweet smile, unblemished teeth, and 
 a figure that would have graced a Dryad, she could 
 not have been said to be utterly without beauty. Such 
 as she was, the reader (the " courteous reader") will, 
 I make no doubt, regard her with interest — if he 
 can. 
 
 ' When Sophy was about sixteen years of age she 
 became an orphan. Both her parents died in the same 
 week — the one through some fit (of apoplexy or 
 paralysis,) caused by violent passion ; the other by 
 incessant watching, by exposure and agitation, each 
 operating upon a constitution that had been previously 
 undermined by ill-treatment and disease. They died ; 
 and Sophy, to whose mind death had never occurred 
 before, found herself, for the first time in her life, 
 utterly alone. 
 
 ' It is at such times that the mind gives way or 
 matures itself. The weak one despairs and falls ; but 
 that which is strong collects its strength, and prepares 
 to struggle with adversity, and to run a race with 
 Fortune. Our heroine was of the stronger order ; but 
 she had loved her mother tenderly, although the gaiety 
 of her temperament had somewhat abated the show 
 of those filial attentions which quieter children love 
 
THE PRISON-BREAKEE. 173 
 
 to exhibit. Now, however, that both parents were 
 gone, her grief became for a time uncontrollable. 
 For a time, I say ; because her spirit, naturally firm 
 and aspiring, rose up from the sickliness of useless 
 sorrow, and put on once more a healthful aspect. In 
 her endeavors to regain serenity she was assisted by 
 the good counsel of a friend. This friend was a 
 female, a foreigner, a native of Padua, " learned 
 Padua," and under her auspices the little Sophy, who 
 had originally begun with her a course of French and 
 Italian, now took lessons in a more useful science — 
 namely, that of practical philosophy. Madame de 
 Mercet at first wept with her pupil, afterwards soothed 
 her, and finally reasoned her into tranquillity. I be- 
 lieve, indeed, that the relation of her own little history 
 had more effect in quieting the mind of the mourner 
 than any argument ; for she thus learned all that the 
 fair foreigner had suffered, and her own sorrows shrank 
 in importance. 
 
 * Madame de Mercet was a dutiful daughter, a happy 
 wife, and a fond mother, when she was suddenly made 
 an orphan and a motherless widow by the Liberado'rs 
 of St. Antoine, at the time that they sacrificed science, 
 and art, and knowledge of all sorts, to the unreasonable 
 Goddess of Reason. The mother of Madame de Mercet 
 died in a revolutionary prison, and she herself, and her 
 husband, were suspected of incivism, and invited to 
 attend at the Place de Greve. They went, accompa- 
 nied by great honors — a shining array of sabres and 
 sans-culottes — and must have both perished amidst the 
 execrations of regenerated France, but for one trifling 
 circumstance. M. de Mercet had luckily been of ser- 
 
174 THE PRISOX-BEEAKER, 
 
 vice once to Citoyen La Lanterne (formerly un cordon- 
 nier), and the citizen had committed great benefits on 
 the Republic. At his intercession, a reprieve was sent 
 when the De Mercets were at the scafTold. They were 
 declared innocent more suddenly than they had been 
 pronounced guilty ; they were hailed and wept over ; 
 and Madame de Mercet after having received the kiss 
 of fraternitv' about eleven hundred times, after hearing 
 her name screamed out and lauded till the tj'mpanum 
 of her ear was almost broken, was, with her husband 
 escorted back to their hotel with the same honors that 
 surrounded them in their progress. Indeed, the only 
 difference between the going and return was, that Mon- 
 sieur de Mercet left his head to grace the boards of the 
 scaffold, the reprieve having come, for him, just three 
 minutes too late. After this, Madame took an unac- 
 countable aversion to the good city of Paris, and her 
 child dying soon after, (from a mixture of terror and 
 distress,) she packed up her jewels secretly, obtained 
 by some interest a passport to Frankfort, and thence 
 proceeded to England, where she finally settled at the 
 village of Charwood, and became the tutoress of the 
 little Sophy ; to whom it is now time to return. 
 
 ' Six days after the death of her parents, Sophy Elles- 
 mere (now sixteen years of age) heard the will of her 
 father read, and found herself placed under the guar- 
 dianship of Mr. Dacre, a friend and occasional visitor of 
 her father, but with whom she had till then had but little 
 intercourse. ]\Ir. Dacre was the husband of a lady 
 whose good or bad qualities need not delay us, inas- 
 much as she has nothing to do with the present narra- 
 tive ; but he was also the father of Harry Dacre, who 
 
THE PRISON-BREAKER. 175 
 
 was a person of more importance to our story. Harry 
 Dacre it was who fell in love with our heroine. 
 
 ' We do not mean to wax tedious in detailing the 
 loves of young Dacre and Sophy EUesmere. We shall 
 cut the matter short, by saying simply that they fell over 
 head-and-ears in love according to the most approved 
 fashion. They sighed, and whispered, and languished, 
 and looked unutterable things. The young man swore 
 that he could not live without her ; she vowed on her 
 part to be eternally his; and, indeed, the girl had a 
 heart that was worth the winning — open, honest, and 
 constant. The youth was sincere enough in his profes- 
 sions, for he was furiously in love ; but his heart owned 
 more attractions than towards the one true magnet. It 
 was allured by a cockade and a scarlet jacket so 
 effectually, indeed, that at the age of twenty, his father 
 (persuaded that his son would turn out a hero) pur- 
 chased a cometcy for him, in order that he might bring 
 down fame upon himself and family. 
 
 ' Comet Dacre very speedily showed himself to be 
 an " altered man." With a sword by his side, and I 
 know not how many yards of gold lace upon his person, 
 he appeared to have forgotten all the whippings of his 
 school-days, and walked as though he had won the 
 victories both of Blenheim and Ramilies. Once, he 
 was as " modest as morning " towards strangers, 
 although a Hector with his inferiors; now, he was 
 " whiskered like a pard ; " spurred like a fighting-cock ; 
 "full of sound and fuiy," and, to justify the complete 
 quotation, he also, it must be owned, signified " noth- 
 ing!" 
 
 • It was not his fortune to remain unemployed. His 
 
176 THE PKISON-BHEAKEK. 
 
 country required his services. She invited him, his 
 sabre, his gold lace, his whiskers, and other append- 
 ages, to ride forward and strike terror into the French. 
 He yielded — not with alacrity, for some of his errors 
 were on the side of discretion — but obediently, be- 
 cause he did not dare to draw back. Shame is often 
 the spur to youthful minds. It sends forward the as yet 
 untempered spirit by its recoil, and transmutes mere 
 boys to heroes. It was not without its effect even on 
 Dacre, who, backed by a thousand or two of his com- 
 rades, plunged carelessly enough into the melee, and 
 was taken prisoner at the first charge, conducted in 
 due time to Verdun, and afterwards, on attempting to 
 escape, was finally lodged in the formidable fortress of 
 Bitche. 
 
 ' To this place it was that Sophy Ellesmere was des- 
 tined to go. She did not indeed know the precise spot 
 where her lover was confined ; but she knew that he 
 was a prisoner, and resolved to attempt his rescue. It 
 was in vain to contend or to reason. Like many 
 resolute spirits, she had a grain or too of the vice of 
 obstinacy mingled with her courage ; and after hearing 
 all that could be said against her enterprise, she equip- 
 ped herself secretly, and, at the age of twenty, set out 
 upon one of the most romantic expeditions that have 
 distinguished modern adventure. 
 
 ' It was a long journey for a yoimg girl to undertake, 
 — to go alone as far as Copenhagen, and thence through 
 many of the States of Germany, into France itself, 
 then a hostile country. Apparently it was a needless 
 circuit ; but at that time all the ports of the Continent 
 were shut against us, and Denmark alone remained 
 
THE PHISON-BEEAKEH. 177 
 
 neutral. To Denmark, therefore, it was necessary to 
 go. I do not mean to detain the reader with the 
 thousand difficulties that beset our heroine in passing 
 from Denmark, through Holstein, by Hamburg. Bre- 
 men, Minden, (once red Avith slaughter, although 
 then 
 
 " All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,") 
 
 Cassel, Frankfort, Heidelburg, (ten times renowned for 
 its tun of Rhenish,) until she set foot in the pretty^ 
 States of Baden. It is sufficient to say that she arrived 
 there, and found, without much difficulty, the house of 
 M. Yilleneuve, who had married the sister of her friencb 
 De Mercet, and who, with his wife, received her withi 
 distinguished kindness. M. Villeneuve lived at Baden 
 in great retirement ; free from all suspicion, however, 
 the names of himself and family having been erased 
 from the list of emigrants, and some portion of his 
 property restored; but not without anxiety regarding 
 their son Henri, whose imagination had taken fire at 
 the splendid exploits of Napoleon, and who himself 
 had rushed into the French ranks, and had already 
 risen to the dignity of serjeant. " He is not far from 
 us," said Madame Villeneuve, " which comforts^ me, 
 although he complains bitterly of being appointed to. 
 guard the English prisoners, which he calls a degrad- 
 ing service." It may be easily supposed that our hero- 
 ine's curiosity was stimulated by this piece of news. 
 She restrained her agitation, however, and made tlie 
 necessary inquiry with apparent indifference. "And 
 
 your son, Madame ? He is at .' " — " He is at the 
 
 fortress of Bitche," replied Madame Villeneuve, where 
 
 VOL. I. 12 
 
178 THE PRISOK-BBEASES. 
 
 refractory prisoners are sent- The principal depot is, 
 as yon know, at Verdun, which is farther from us." 
 
 • S<^hy treasured up the information thus acquired, 
 and resolved to take Bitche by stratagem or storm. 
 She continued for a day or two asking what the law- 
 yers call " leading questions ; " but at last the natural 
 candor of her spirit rejected this system of policy. 
 *' I cannot go on thus, my kind friends," said she ; " I 
 cannot, and I ought not to go cm thus. I am decehring 
 yoo, and it is fit that all be plain between us. I am 
 journeying to Verdun — to Bitche — to wherever else 
 h b likely that a friend of mine (a young English 
 crfBcer) is detained. He is imprisoned ; he is unhappy. 
 I will find him — I will traverse all France but I will 
 find and rescue him,** — and here the simpleton burst 
 into a passion of tears. M. VUleneuve lodked some- 
 what serious at this piece of information. He did not 
 wish, to say the truth, to implicate himself and his 
 family in an adventure which seemed to exceed radi- 
 ness Itself. He had been an exile <»ce, and strif^ied 
 of all his patrim<Miy, and be had no desire — with a 
 son to succeed him — to put himself and his estates in 
 jeopardy a^iin. He was under something like a tacit 
 promise, too, to a £nend who had promised to answer 
 for his good c(»duct ; and under the influence of all 
 these things he sbenuondy dissuaded our heroine from 
 proceeding farther on her travels. His persuasions, 
 however, were vain. The sole bc^ of many roooflis 
 \ras not to be flius abandoned ; and therefore, after 
 the delay of a few mcne days, which were occupied 
 , partly in obtaining a paa^KRt, and in purchasing a 
 Tsnely of small wares and trinkets, (in order to enable 
 
THE PRISON-BREAKER. 179 
 
 her to traverse the country in the character of an itine- 
 rant trader,) she bade adieu to her kind hosts, and set 
 off, by the public conveyance, to Kehl. 
 
 ' It was almost dusk when Sophy Ellesmere trod, 
 for the first time, upon the bridge of boats over which 
 the traveller enters Strasbourg. Strasbourg, famous 
 for its snuff, its bells, and its cathedral, had, however, 
 but few charms for our heroine. SHe accordingly, 
 after having answered the challenge of the sentinel, 
 (who patted her cheek, and let down the wiry muscles 
 of his face into a smile,) and delivered her passport, 
 which authorized Sophie Mercet to travel through vari- 
 ous places, enumerating among others, Bitche and 
 Verdun, took up her abode at a humble place of enter- 
 tainment, and dreamed of success till morning. 
 
 ' With the first blush of a September sun she quitted 
 Strasbourg, bade adieu to the beautiful Rhine, and 
 after travelling for a couple of days, arrived on the 
 second evening upon the high land which overlooks 
 the fortress and town of Bitche. 
 
 ' The town of Bitche is situate in the department of 
 the Moselle, about forty English miles (as the crow 
 flies) from Strasbourg. It is commanded by its gloomy 
 fortress, a place famous for its strength, as well as 
 remarkable for having been the prison of many Eng- 
 lishmen who had endeavored to escape from the con- 
 finement of Verdun. This fortress, which is half 
 buried in a dark looking wood, and which, with its 
 drawbridges and other securities, presents any thing 
 but a pleasant aspect, seemed to the poor way-worn 
 Sophy the haven where her weary voyage was at last 
 to end. She was, it must be owned, a little staggered 
 
180 THE PRISON-BHEAKER. 
 
 by the stern, strong appearance of the place ; and it 
 occurred to her that a fortress, which had opposed 
 successfully twenty thousand Prussian soldiers, would 
 scarcely yield to the attack of a single maiden. But 
 she considered, too, that things that had resisted a cowp 
 de main had at last been undermined by gold, or had 
 yielded to the persevering efforts of human ingenuity. 
 Above all, the 'desire of success rose up and flushed 
 her cheek, till bars, and bolts, and chains, and draw- 
 bridges, and strong holds, gave way one after another 
 before that unquenchable, irresistible spirit of Hope, 
 which burns without dying in the youthful heart. 
 
 ' In this state of mind she proceeded till she found 
 herself on the banks of the small lake which lies on 
 one side of the fortress, and in which the bastions and 
 turrets glass themselves, and seem to pore over their 
 own stern and imposing aspects with all the vanity of 
 unquestioned power. The lake — 1 do not know its 
 name — forms, I believe, the source of the little river 
 La Blise ; which falling into the Sarre, soon after swells 
 the current of the Moselle, and thus finally mingles 
 with the famous rapids of the Rhine. On this lake 
 Sophy found various persons casting their nets, (fish 
 forming an article of commerce with some of the 
 inhabitants of Bitche,) whilst others, chiefly females, 
 were waiting on its banks. The evening was closing, 
 and our heroine was without a lodging. She scrutinized, 
 therefore, the countenances of several of the women 
 near her ! and at last, fixing her eyes on a broad, open, 
 sunny-faced dame, who stood grinning at the approach 
 of a boat which contained (apparently) her husband, 
 she mentioned her forlorn situation. "I have no 
 
THE PEISON -BREAKER. 181 
 
 home," said she; "I am wandering — I know not 
 where — after one whom I love." — "Ciel!" ex- 
 claimed the other ; " no home ? no home ? You must 
 come with us. You shall come with us. You are 
 welcome. You shall have a dish of perch for your 
 supper — and we have a bed too, which is yours. 
 Come along, come along ! Here is our Bernard as 
 impatient as ever, although he has got his net full of 
 fish," Bernard the fisherman landed, and after some 
 good-natured peevish exclamations on the inattention 
 of his wife, he broke out into a loud laugh, kissed 
 both her cheeks, and confirmed the welcome which his 
 wife had previously given, with an alacrity, and even 
 grace, that would have done honor to a court. 
 
 ' Our heroine accompanied the old couple home, and 
 found that their hospitality did not content itself with 
 words. The best of their homely fare was offered — 
 was pressed upon her. She was invited to stay a 
 week — a month — a year ; why need she ever leave 
 them .? There was enough for all. They had no 
 children, and needle-work found many purchasers fn 
 the neighborhood of the town of Bitche. Sophy lis- 
 tened to all they said with a patient smile, but her 
 heart wandered away after the imprisoned soldier 
 whom she had travelled so many leagues to enfranchise. 
 It was her cue, however, to stay at present at the home 
 of the fisherman ; and she did not think it right indeed 
 to give an ungracious and sudden refusal to the proffers 
 of the good-natured couple. She would stay a short 
 time with them. She would consider. She could not 
 remain at Bitche for ever — but she would rest her 
 unquiet spirit a little, and would wait for a smile from 
 
182 THE PRISON-BREAKER. 
 
 Providence. And accordingly she remained with them 
 during several days, ripening into favor with both, and 
 obtaining, from time to time, amidst the desultory con- 
 versations which occurred between Bernard and his 
 neighbors, some little insight into the rules and secrets 
 of the fortress. Neither did she neglect other means 
 of obtaining information. She would take her little 
 basket of wares, and go her rounds amongst the trades- 
 men and cottagers of the town, and sometimes 
 ventured into the cabarets and other places where the 
 soldiers were allowed to resort, when not upon actual 
 duty. 
 
 ' It was on one of these occasions that she came 
 suddenly on a group of French soldiers, who stood 
 chattering together at the door of a small inn, about 
 half musket-shot distance from the fortress. One of 
 these heroes had just completed his harangue as our 
 little Quixote arrived. He was a good-humored look- 
 ing fellow, and bore marks of service upon him. A 
 gash across the nose, a medal, and the ornaments of a 
 ifon-commissioned officer, showed that he had made 
 one sturdy step up the hill of fortune. " Well, well, 
 Monsieur from Picardy," replied one of his compan- 
 ions, " we shall see, we shall see. It is your turn to 
 mount guard to-night." Sophy listened to these words 
 attentively. Madame de Mercet was a native of Pic- 
 ardy, and she had taught her one or two of her native 
 airs. Her presence of mind instantly suggested that 
 these might be of use. She began and threw all her 
 powers into a song and succeeded. Our Picardian 
 was captivated in a moment. He stood by her as she 
 sang, and tapped his fingers on his arm in accordance 
 
THE PRISON-BREAKER. 183 
 
 with the tune. Tears stood in his eyes, (for a French- 
 man is soon moved by these little national reminis- 
 cences,) and our heroine might have risen speedily 
 into his confidence and favor. 
 
 ' But it was desirable to preserve her trading charac- 
 ter, and she accordingly repressed her curiosity till a 
 better moment should arrive. She turned to his com- 
 panions, and accosted them. " Messieurs," said she, 
 curtseying, " will you not lay out a trifle with a poor 
 girl ? Gentlemen soldiers," continued she, " will not 
 you give me a sous piece for charity ? " 
 
 ' " Bah ! " said one, " we have enough to do with 
 our money. Give, too ! Sucre ! What are eight sous 
 a day to give with ? " He smoked on with a frowa 
 that was rigidly philosophical. 
 
 * " Come hither," said the Corporal, whose name 
 was Jouvet. " Come hither, my little girl, and tell me 
 what you want, and where you are going ? " 
 
 ' " I am going to see my — my lover, Sir," was the 
 reply. 
 
 ' " Ho, ho, ho ! " This was too much for the gravity 
 of the republican heroes ; even the smoker could not 
 contain a smile ; but the Picardian viewed her with 
 increased interest. 
 
 ' " Soh ! " said he, " and where is your lover, 
 Marie ? Is not your name Marie, my child .'' " 
 
 * " I am called Sophie, Sir," said our heroine, "and 
 I am going to Verdun, and afterwards to Tours. My 
 friend is a soldier, — poor fellow ! " 
 
 ' " Poor fellow ! " said the smoker, turning round. 
 *' Do you call a man poor fellow who fights under the 
 First Consul ? You are a fool." 
 
184 THE PRISON-BREAKER. 
 
 ' " A fond one, at all events," replied he of Picardy, 
 " and that is enough for me. Come along, my Demoi- 
 selle ; I must call at the house of Bernard the fisher- 
 man ; walk by me, I am old enough to save you from 
 scandal. Let us walk together to Bernard's, and you 
 shall tell me your story by the way." 
 
 * But let us hasten with our tale, or we shall become 
 (if we have not already become) tedious. Our heroine 
 used her time effectually in opening a correspondence 
 with Dacre, who she discovered was in the prisons of 
 Bitche, and in planning, in concert with him, his es- 
 cape. She made acquaintance with the soldiers, many 
 of whom bought of her some trifle as tokens of their 
 good-will, some purchasing cigars, others little buckles, 
 and pins, and ornaments, or casts and prints of the 
 First Consul and his coadjutors, besides various other 
 matters wherein she dealt. Some of these men ad- 
 mired her face, and some her songs, and all her cheer- 
 ful willing nature. Many, as I have said, laid out 
 money with her; but I must except one hero, M. 
 Blaise, who, as it chanced, was a Picardian, like our 
 friend Jouvet, but otherwise was his opposite in all 
 things, saving only in his love of songs. It is impos- 
 sible to say how many times our little patient girl sang, 
 for this rogue's pleasure, various airs of Picardy. She 
 sang, and was encored, and sang again, till the mus- 
 keteer was moved into mighty commendations ; but 
 still he would not part with his coin. One night, how- 
 ever, his desire for pleasure overcame this engrossing 
 love for money. 
 
 ' " If you will bring me a skin of wine to the north 
 rampart to-night," said he, (" I shall be on guard there, 
 
THE PRISON-BREAKER. 185 
 
 and will fasten it to a cord, which I will throw across 
 the moat,) I will lay out a double franc piece with you, 
 Mademoiselle. Come ! you shall bring it, and sing me 
 a Picardy air." 
 
 ' Sophy, who was by this time prepared to take ad- 
 vantage of any occasion, however sudden, of forward- 
 ing her lover's escape, gradually assented. 
 
 * " But your Governor will not allow wine at night .'"' 
 said she inquiringly. 
 
 * " NHmporte,^^ returned the valiant Blaise, " we will 
 drink his health, notwithstanding." 
 
 * No more objections were made by our heroine, who 
 immediately proceeded to the house of a woman who 
 did work for the fortress, and through whom she con- 
 trived to apprise Dacre that the time had arrived "for 
 attempting his liberation. To purchase a skin of wine, 
 and dissolve in it some opium which she had stored up 
 from time to time, was all the preparation that Sophy 
 required. Ropes and such things had been previously 
 purchased, and the route of escape arranged. 
 
 * It was hard upon midnight when our heroine, trem- 
 bling for the first time from head to foot, arrived at the 
 side of the moat, where it circles the northern rampart. 
 The skies were almost obscured by vast masses of 
 cloud, and the wailing winds, as they came over the 
 gloomy forest, dashed occasionally a few drops of rain 
 in her face. It was a night fit for such an adventure, 
 and Blaise was there ready (though he knew it not) to 
 forward it The signal agreed on was a Picardy song; 
 for the soldier's love of music more than rivalled his 
 love of wine. 
 
 * " You shall sing ' O Picardie ! ' said Blaise, when 
 
186 THE PRISON-BREAKER. 
 
 they were agreeing upon a signal, " and nobody will 
 dream about wine." 
 
 ' It was no easy matter, however, to sing under the 
 circumstances which agitated her ; indeed it was not 
 easy (although she had previously reconnoitered the 
 road) to find the way through the darkness to the pre- 
 cise spot where Blaise had asserted that he should be 
 waiting. Sophy, however, proceeded on her course 
 until she heard some of the little runnels of water, 
 which the rains had increased, gurgling and babbling 
 along, and at last falling into the moat. A sudden 
 survey of the fortress, its walls, and windings, and 
 projections, became necessary. This was speedily 
 made, and the north rampart decried without much 
 difficulty. Near this point, it so happened, that Dacre's 
 prison was situate, and it was from that rampart that 
 he and a companion (for one was necessary to the 
 other's escape) should let themselves down into the 
 water, in order to their liberation. The signal, there- 
 fore, that was to awaken the attention of Blaise was 
 sufficient for the prisoners also ; and it was resolved, 
 that, during the period that the heroic Blaise was occu- 
 pied with song and wine, the two prisoners should 
 become free men. 
 
 ' Sophy commenced her song in the lowest breath 
 that terror could produce, " Who goes ? " said a deep 
 harsh tongue. She recognised the tone of a soldier 
 whom she knew, but gave no reply, and passed on with 
 almost noiseless steps. She was now near the point 
 that Blaise had specified, and she sang once more in a 
 bolder key. " Ah, ha ! Picardie, are you there ? " asked 
 the voice of Blaise. *' Who calls t " said Sophy ; but 
 
THE PRISON-BREAKER. 187 
 
 she received no answer, for at that moment the tramp 
 of feet was heard above, and the answer, " All's well ! " 
 resounded through the silence. Blaise himself had 
 apparently departed at the first sound of footsteps, but 
 soon returning, he gave orders to the sentinels in a 
 loud voice, as though to assure Sophy that no discovery 
 had occurred. He placed all the sentinels at their 
 posts excepting one, whose post he volunteered to take ; 
 an offer that was willingly accepted. In a minute there 
 was no one within hearing except Sophy and the 
 soldier Blaise — save that within the walls of the 
 prison, Dacre, and his companion Carlton, were listen- 
 ing for a repetition of the signal song. This was 
 speedily given, and they then commenced their labors. 
 
 ' " Before we sing we must drink," said Blaise, and 
 threw over the wall a cord, to which he had fastened a 
 tolerably heavy stone. He threw scarcely far enough, 
 and the stone rolled back into the moat. A sec- 
 ond cast, however, and the exclamation, " Sacre ! " 
 made all right. Sophy tied the skin of wine to the 
 cord, and began singing like a thrush. At this moment 
 proceedings of a similar nature were going on at a little 
 distance, and the fall of some rope, or hook, into the 
 water, awakened the attention of Blaise. " What was 
 that ?" said he, " I heard something drop into the moat. 
 Wait here, and I will go my round and return." 
 
 '"Stop!" replied our heroine, " you are easily 
 frightened for a soldier. It was I — I was too careless ; 
 I threw the stone that was fastened to your cord into 
 the water, and Monsieur Blaise, who has faced the 
 Austrians, was alarmed." 
 
 ' This answer appeared satisfactory, for Blaise in a 
 
188 THE PRISON-BREAKER. 
 
 trice inserted a tube into the top of the skin, and took a 
 formidable draught of liquor. " That is a brave skin 
 of wine," said he ; "I have paid ten francs for no 
 better, and yet you charge me but two. You are a good 
 girl, and shall sing me a song as a reward." Sophy 
 thought for an instant — (how much we may recollect 
 in an instant of time !) — of her own perilous situation — 
 of her hopes — of her own native place — how desolate 
 indeed — but she recollected it as it was when the poor 
 Marie de Mercet was living, and she poured forth in 
 sweet low tones her little Picardian song. There is not 
 much in the words ; but the air is simple and beautiful. 
 
 *' Picardie ! O Picardie ! 
 No home for me like Picardie ! 
 
 The sun may rise 
 
 In other skies, 
 But nought like the sun of Picardie. 
 
 " The grape is bred in Picardie, 
 And the apple is red as e'er you'll see, 
 And the yellow corn 
 "Where I was born. 
 Is the richest in all dear Picardie ! 
 
 " And the girls dance light in Picardie ! 
 And their eyes are bright where I would be, 
 
 And the men are fleet. 
 
 And the songs are sweet, — 
 O, sweet, sweeet songs of Picardie ! 
 
 " But what is all else in Picardie, 
 Dear home of mine, compared with thee ? 
 When the wars are o'er 
 I '11 march no more, 
 But live and die in Picardie ! " 
 
THE PRISON-BREAKER. 189 
 
 ' The song was repeated at the urgent request of the 
 sentinel ; but, at the conclusion of the encore, the 
 quick ear of Sophy heard a gentle splash occasioned 
 by the immersion of some body in water, and she 
 hastened, after a few more words, to quit her military 
 acquaintance. 
 
 * " The rain is coming on," said she, " and I must bid 
 you good night." 
 
 * " Good night, my little Demoiselle," returned Blaise 
 in a dull tone, which announced that during the singing 
 he had employed himself in copious and effectual 
 libations ; " Good night, — you will come and sing me 
 Picardie again — eh ? " 
 
 ' " Never fear," answered Sophy, and left him to 
 certain slumber. 
 
 * She found that Dacre had arrived safely on the 
 other side of the moat, but that his companion was still 
 within the limits of the prison. The rope had somehow 
 become entangled, and he just reached the ground with 
 great diihculty. There was still another impediment, 
 and the moat also to ford. 
 
 ' " Come," said Dacre, when he saw her, " let us be 
 off. I should not have waited here a second, but that I 
 could not find the way without you." 
 
 '"But your friend?" inquired Sophy; "where is 
 Mr. Carlton ? " 
 
 ' " Oh, by Jupiter ! I can't wait for him; he must 
 take his chance," was the reply. 
 
 ' " He has risked his life to aid your escape ; and if 
 you leave him, you leave him to certain punishment — 
 perhaps to death." This was the language of her ap- 
 prehensions. 
 
190 THE PRISON-BREAKER. 
 
 '"Tush!" said Dacre hastily; " in these cases we 
 must not be too nice. Let us be gone. Every minute 
 is worth a thousand pounds to me, and I must proceed 
 accordingly. Allans!'''' 
 
 ' But Sophy still continued to look at the place 
 whence she expected Carlton to come, and did not 
 move, notwithstanding the urgent entreaties of her 
 lover. He was violent and impatient, but she re- 
 mained firm to her principle. " Stay, Sir, stay ! " 
 said she ; " this is not the way to do our duty. Your 
 friend must be saved. Ah! see — he comes — the 
 wall is scaled — he is in the moat — hush! gently — 
 he is over — is safe ! Now then, take up the port- 
 manteau, and let us begone, as you say." 
 
 ' They took their way for about a quarter of a mile 
 straight in the direction of Huinegen. At this point 
 they retired and clad themselves in dry habits, leaving 
 their wet clothes and some fragments of rope (as, 
 indeed, they had once or twice previously done) to 
 mislead pursuit. They then turned short round a path 
 pointed out by Sophy, and took a westward course 
 towards the forest. "Observe," said she to them, 
 " you will skirt the left bank of the lake ; then, take 
 the green path into the forest — keep on straight for 
 nearly half a mile, and at the cross-roads, where the 
 great chestnut-tree stands in the middle, wait for me 
 amongst the bushes by the road-side. I will call out 
 ' Venez,' and you will then know that it is I." At this 
 moment the roll of a drum, and a musket-shot from 
 the fortress, announced that their flight had been dis- 
 covered. "Come along, Carlton," said Dacre; "those 
 ropes which you left hanging on the window have 
 
THE PRISON-BREAKER. 191 
 
 betrayed us." " Farewell ! " said Carlton, approach- 
 ing our heroine and taking her hand, " if we meet no 
 more, God bless you, and farewell!" "We shall 
 meet," replied she ; "I shall be with you shortly; but 
 now, speed, and away!"_ There was no need for 
 entreaty ; for while Sophy was weighing the careless 
 words of Dacre, and the solemn farewell of his 
 friend, the quick walk (almost the run) of a small 
 body of men struck on their ears, and they turned 
 rapidly on their course towards the forest. Sophy 
 herself went home to the fisherman's cottage, for some 
 provision which she had been unable before to bring, 
 and also to answer any visit that the soldiers might 
 make there. " I shall be with you in half an hour, or 
 an hour," said she ; and the prisoners and their libera- 
 dor parted. 
 
 ' Harry Dacre and his companion reached, without 
 much diflSculty, the cross-roads in the forest of Bitche, 
 and there, concealing themselves amongst the fern and 
 brambles that skirted the green pathway, they awaited 
 the coming of their preserver. All was solitary and 
 still on their arrival, except that now and then the 
 winds broke upon the forest in huge gusts, and made 
 the cones of the pine-trees rattle, while overhead in 
 the sky large masses of cloud began to assemble, 
 threatening rain. Occasionally, the fall of a leaf dis- 
 turbed them ; or the willows or sycamores, sighing 
 with all their boughs, appeared to lament their desti- 
 nies forlorn. Dacre gave way to despair, and cursed 
 the unkindnesses of fortune ; while Carlton, of a more 
 steady temperament, collected all the energies of his 
 soul, and awaited the result with a brave patience. In 
 
192 THE PRISON-BREAKER. 
 
 this state they remained at least half an hour, when 
 suddenly Carlton exclaimed, in a quick whisper, 
 " Hark ! I hear footsteps." " She is come at last, 
 then," said Dacre, rising; "I never before so much 
 wished to see her." He was about to walk onwards 
 to meet her, when his companion pulled him down. 
 " Stop ! " said he, " drop down amongst the bushes, or 
 you will be lost: 'tis the tramp of a horse;" and he 
 pulled him down without ceremony, till the danger, if 
 such it were, had passed. Once or twice, after this 
 first alarm, the two freed men were compelled again 
 to hide, till at last, after an hour of terrible anxiety 
 and some peril, a light quick footstep was heard com- 
 ing along the path from Bitche. The person was 
 hurrying, and almost running onwards, and her short 
 and loudly-drawn breath showed that she was almost 
 spent with fatigue. " It is our little friend, at last," 
 said Carlton ; and our heroine stood before them. 
 
 * " I have had great difficulties," said she, after a 
 moment's pause for breath. " I am suspected, not- 
 withstanding all my pains ; and I fear that I too must 
 fly. At all events, however, I have brought you some- 
 thing necessary to your expedition." Saying which, 
 she took from her shoulders a bag containing some 
 small loaves of bread and cold meat, the amount of 
 the good dame Bernard's larder. Dacre seized the 
 provision. " We will divide the labor between us," 
 said he to Carlton ; " I will carry this for the first hour, 
 and then I will shift it upon you. Sophy, my girl, 
 good by t'ye : you're a devilish clever lass, and have 
 managed the matter famously. One kiss, and then 
 tell us which way our route lies out of the forest, and 
 
THE PRISON-BREAKER. 193 
 
 we will begone." He was proceeding to take his 
 farewell in the fashion he mentioned, when Sophy 
 once more spoke : it was with great hesitation and 
 evident pain. " I told you, if you remember, that I 
 must leave this place. I am suspected, and my life is 
 threatened. I am very unwilling to encumber your 
 flight, but — " " But, what ? " inquired Dacre impa- 
 tiently. " Why — I thought — that you would not 
 refuse, perhaps, to take me with you." " Impossible ! " 
 said Dacre, " we should be retaken in a couple of 
 hours. I know you would not wish us to be impris- 
 oned again. It is quite out of the question, believe 
 me." But Carlton could not brook this selfishness of 
 his associate. " Dacre," said he, " she must go with 
 us. What ! after having saved us both, shall we do 
 nothing for her 7'^ "I tell you she cannot go," re- 
 plied Harry. "Sophy, my dear," continued he, " you 
 must see that the thing is impossible. Depend on't, 
 the rascals wont harm you: 'tis only xis — 'tis men, 
 child, that they put in prison. Come, come, all will 
 be safe. Go back to your old fisherman and his wife, 
 and all will turn out well, I engage. Come along, 
 Carlton, we haven't a moment to lose." Sophy stood 
 in bitter wonder at the hard levity and detestable 
 ingratitude of her lover. Even love, if love can so 
 soon perish, seemed growing cold in her own bosom, 
 and receding. All that she had done and suffered for 
 him shot in a single instant through her brain, and 
 flashed despair upon her. " Will you not save me, 
 then ? " said she, timidly and slowly ; "I — I saved 
 yoM." Dacre turned on his heel, but his more mag- 
 nanimous companion took her hand tenderly, and with 
 
 VOL. I. 13 
 
194 THE PRISON-BREAKEK. 
 
 respect. " You have saved us both," said he, " and 
 may God desert me if I leave you till you are safe. 
 Mr. Dacre," he continued, "you may go — you may 
 do as you like ; but I and Miss Ellesmere go together. 
 If you choose to leave us — why be it ; but remember, 
 Sir, that the first person who attempts to betray her, or 
 impede her flight, shall have a bullet through his brain 
 — and so let us understand each other clearly." 
 
 ' By this time the rain, which had begun to fall 
 gently, came down in formidable showers. They set 
 off, however, Carlton and his friend, followed by the 
 glooming Dacre. The plashy and slippery ground 
 rendered their course difficult even at first, and finally 
 it became desperately fatiguing. The two men, al- 
 though accustomed to rougher exercise than their 
 companion, did not, however, stand up better against 
 the troubles of their progress than the little light-footed, 
 brave-hearted girl, who had come so many miles to 
 their rescue. She walked on stoutly, and with almost 
 a merry heart. Even the men caught a tone from her 
 courage, and seemed rising into hope and exhilaration, 
 when the short sharp whistle of a bullet amongst the 
 trees near them turned their attention to their own 
 safety. They stopped, but had not remained a minute 
 stationary, when the sound of heavy feet treading 
 amongst the brambles and leaves told them that some 
 one was close upon them. In an instant a figure stood 
 before them on the path. Their eyes had grown so 
 accustomed to the dim light about them, that they 
 could see it was an armed man who opposed their 
 progress. " Qui vive 7 " exclaimed a stern voice, 
 while at the same time the cocking of a pistol an- 
 
THE PRISON-BREAKER. 195 
 
 nounced a formidable foe. Carlton, who was a good 
 linguist, began a statement ;of their having lost their 
 way, when the soldier (for such the new comer was) 
 bade him be silent in an imperious tone, and lifting 
 something that looked like a bugle to his lips, was 
 about to call in a reinforcement. Not a moment was 
 to be lost, and not a moment was lost. The intrepid 
 Carlton plunged directly upon him. So sudden was 
 the onset, that the pistol was dashed from his hands, 
 and the horn or bugle instantly displaced from his 
 mouth. Neither spoke, but a short struggle was heard, 
 like that of two animals fighting for life amongst the 
 crackling leaves. Once or twice a blow resounded 
 amidst the panting and short-breathing of the com- 
 batants, whose strife was made doubly terrible by the 
 darkness about them. It was evident that the death of 
 one or the other must conclude the affray. Dacre and 
 the now agitated Sophy awaited the event in frightful 
 anxiety, when suddenly a short cry, a curse, and a 
 rattling of the voice in the throat, announced that the 
 victory was won — and lost ! A slight blow ensued, 
 and was itself followed by a sound like the bubbling 
 of blood or water. At last one of the men rose up, 
 with a deep sigh, and staggering to a tree, exclaimed, 
 in English, "He is dead ! I could not help it. It 
 was necessary that one should fall — or three. He is 
 dead. Let us leave this place at once — silently — 
 and quickly — quickly ! " His companions made no 
 reply, but followed him quickly and silently through 
 the melancholy forest darkness.' 
 
 Our sexagenarian could get no farther with his 
 
196 THE PRISON-BREAKER. 
 
 story : he would, indeed, have gone on telling every 
 minute and tedious particular of the escape, (for the 
 three people of his story did escape,) but that the 
 time limited for the evening's labor was exhausted, 
 and the old gentleman was obliged to pause. 
 
 * It is too bad to leave off before the story is con- 
 cluded,' said I, (desirous of paying the old gentleman 
 a compliment) ; * come ! we have still ten minutes left 
 before supper. Mr. ■ shall tell us the remainder 
 of his tale in half a dozen sentences, and then we 
 shall go to rest contentedly. Did your party escape, 
 
 Mr. ? or were they sent back to the prisons of 
 
 Bitche ? ' 
 
 ' They escaped,' replied Mr. , ' and are safe 
 
 enough, I' faith ! and two of them are merry enough, 
 also.' 
 
 ' I am sorry for that,' retorted I ; ' I like that there 
 should be poetical justice in all stories, and your lover 
 deserved rather to be hanged than married.' 
 
 ' He is not married,' was the answer, ' and he may 
 be hanged. Far more improbable things have occurred 
 in the history of the world,' 
 
 ' But what became of your heroine ? She is really 
 a heroine ; for she had a man's courage in her woman's 
 heart.' 
 
 * Oh ! ' said Mr. . * Why, Sir, it was impos- 
 sible, you sec, that she should link herself to such a 
 lump of selfishness as the scoundrel to whom she gave 
 her girl's heart away. Her travels had improved her 
 reason ; so she turned off the worthless lover, (if I may 
 profane that pretty word. Sir,) and took an excellent 
 
THE PEISON-BREAKER. 197 
 
 fellow to her arms, and is as happy as the day is long. 
 I do not know a more beautiful sight, indeed, than to 
 look at my friend Mrs. — Carlton, with all her children 
 about her ' 
 
 1829. 
 
THE PLANTER. 
 
 Fifty — sixty — seventy (any given number of) 
 years ago, the West Indies were not as they are now, 
 in these days of purity. The colonists were not then 
 meek, modest, humane, temperate, independent people, 
 and lovers of liberty. On the contrary, they were at 
 that time boastful, and luxurious ; loved scheidam and 
 pine-apple rum ; worshipped their superiors in station, 
 and despised everybody below themselves. Thus the 
 newly imported Englishmen held the regular colonists 
 in utter contempt ; the colonists (a white race) requited 
 themselves, by contemning the mustees and quadroons ; 
 these last, on their parts, heartily despised the half 
 castes; who, in turn, transmitted the scorn on to the 
 heads of the downright blacks. Whom the blacks 
 despised, I never could learn, but probably all the rest : 
 and, in fact, they seem to have had ample cause for 
 so doing, unless the base, beggarly, and cruel vanity 
 imputed to their ' superiors,' be at once a libel and a 
 fable. 
 
 Such was the state of things in the Colony of 
 Demerara in the year 17 — , when a young English- 
 man went there, in order to inspect his newly acquired 
 
THE PLANTER. 199 
 
 property. His name was John Vivian. He came of 
 
 a good family in D shire ; possessed (without being 
 
 at all handsome) a dark, keen, intelligent countenance; 
 and derived from his maternal uncle large estates in 
 Demerara, and from his father a small farm in his 
 own county, a strong constitution, and a resolute, 
 invincible spirit. Perhaps, he had too much obstinacy 
 of character; perhaps, also, an intrepidity of manner, 
 and carelessness of established forms, which would 
 have been unsuitable to society as now constituted. 
 All this we will not presume to determine. We do 
 not wish to extenuate his faults, of which he had as 
 handsome a share as usually falls to the lot of young 
 gentlemen who are under no control ; although not 
 precisely of the same character. In requital for these 
 defects, however, he was a man of firm mind, of a 
 generous spirit, and would face danger, and stand up 
 against oppression, as readily on behalf of others as of 
 himself; and, at the bottom of all, though it had lain 
 hid from his birth, (like some of those antediluvian 
 fossils which perplex our geologists and antiquaries,) he 
 had a tenderness and delicacy of feeling, which must 
 not be passed by, without, at least, our humble com- 
 mendation. 
 
 Exactly eight weeks from the day of his stepping on 
 board the good ship ' Wager,' at Bristol, Vivian found 
 himself standing on the shore of the river Demerara, 
 and in front of its capital, Stabroek. In that interval, 
 he had been tossed on the wild waters of the Atlantic ; 
 had passed from woollens to nankeens, from English 
 cold to tropic heat ; and he now stood eyeing the curi- 
 ous groups of the colony, where creatures of every 
 
200 THE PLANTER. 
 
 shade, from absolute sable to pallid white, might be 
 seen, for the trouble only of a journey. 
 
 But we have a letter of our hero on this subject, 
 written to a friend in England, on his landing, which 
 we will unfold for the reader's benefit. Considering 
 that the writer had the range of foolscap before him, 
 and was transmitting news from the torrid to the tem- 
 perate zone, it may at least lay claim to the virtue of 
 brevity. Thus it runs : — 
 
 * To Richard Clinton, Esq., &c., &c., Middle Tem- 
 ple, London, England. 
 
 ' Well, Dick ! — Here am I, thy friend, John Vivian, 
 safely arrived at the country of cotton and tobacco. 
 Six months ago, I would have ventured a grosschen 
 that nothing on this base earth could have tempted me 
 to leave foggy England ; but the unkennelling a knave 
 was a temptation not to be resisted, and accordingly I 
 am here, as you see. 
 
 * Since I shook your hand at Bristol, I have seen 
 somewhat of the world. The Cove of Cork, — the 
 Madeiras, — the Peak of Teneriffe, — the flying fish, — 
 the nautilus, — the golden-finned Dorado, — the deep 
 blue seas, — and the tropic skies, — are matters which 
 some would explain to you in a chapter. But I have 
 not the pen of a ready writer ; so you must be content 
 with a simple enumeration. 
 
 ' My voyage was, like all voyages, detestable. I 
 began with sea-sickness and piercing winds ; I ended 
 with headache and languor, and weather to which your 
 English dog-days are a jest. The burning, blazing 
 heat was so terrific, that I had well nigh oozed away 
 
THE PLANTER. 201 
 
 into a sea-god. Nothing but the valiant army of 
 bottles which your care provided could have saved me. 
 My mouth was wide open, like the seams of our vessel ; 
 but, unlike them, it would not be content with water. 
 I poured in draught after draught of the brave liquor. 
 I drank deep healths to you and other friends ; till, at 
 last, the Devil, who broils Europeans in these parts, took 
 to his wings and fled. Thus it was, Clinton, that I ar- 
 rived finally at Demerara. 
 
 * But now comes your question of " What sort of a 
 place is this same Demerara? " P faith, Dick, 'tis flat 
 and stupid enough. The run up the river is, indeed, 
 pretty ; and there are trees enough to satisfy even your 
 umbrageous taste. It is, in truth, a land of woods, — 
 at least, on one side ; and you may roam among 
 orange and lemon trees and guavas and mangoes, 
 amidst aloes and cocoa-nut and cotton and mahogany 
 trees, till you would wish yourself once more on a 
 Lancashire moor. Stabroek, our capital, is a place 
 where the houses are built of wood ; where melons, 
 and oranges, and pine-apples grew as wild as thyself, 
 Dick ; and where black, brown, white, and whity-brown 
 people, sangaree and cigars, abound. Of all these 
 marvels I shall know more shortly. I lodge here at 
 the house of a Dutch planter, where you must address 
 me under my travelling cognomen. John Vivian is 
 extinct for a season ; but your letter will find me, if it 
 be addressed to " Mr. John Vernon, to the care of 
 Mynheer Schlachenbriichen, Merchant, in Demerara." 
 That respectable individual would die the death of 
 shame, did he know that he held the great " pro- 
 prietor," Vivian, in his garret. At present, I am 
 
202 THE PLANTER. 
 
 nothing more than a poor protege of Messrs. Greffulhe, 
 come out to the hot latitudes for the sake of heaUh and 
 employment. 
 
 ' You shall hear from me again speedily ; in the 
 mean time, write to me at length. This letter is a pre- 
 face merely to the innumerable number of good things 
 which I design to scribble for your especial instruction. 
 It leaves for you only a certificate of my safe arrival, 
 and the assurance that I am, as ever, your true friend, 
 
 ' Vivian.' 
 
 Vivian was, in fact, tolerably pleased with the banks 
 of the river, fringed as it was with trees, and spotted 
 with cottages ; but when he actually trod upon the 
 ground of the new world, and found himself amidst a 
 crowd of black and tawny faces — amidst hats like 
 umbrellas, paroquets, and birds of every color of the 
 rainbow, and children, almost as various, plunging in 
 and out of the river like water-dogs or mud-larks, — 
 he could not conceal his admiration, but laughed out- 
 right. 
 
 He was not left long to his contemplations, however, 
 for the seaport of a West Indian Colony has as many 
 volunteers of all sorts as Dublin itself. A score of 
 blacks were ready to assist him with his luggage, and 
 at least a dozen of free negresses and mulattoes had 
 baskets of the best fruit in the world. He might have 
 had a wheelbarrow full for sixpence, and the aid of a 
 dozen Sambos for an insignificant compliment in cop- 
 per. Neglecting these advantages, Vivian made the 
 best of his way to the house of the Mynheer Schla- 
 chenbriJchen, the Fleming, which was well known to 
 
THE PLANTEK. 203 
 
 all the clamorous rogues on the quay. The merchant 
 was not at home ; having retired, as usual, to sleep at 
 his plantation-house, a few miles from town. Our hero, 
 however, was received, with slow and formal respect, 
 by his principal clerk, Hans Wassel, a strange figure, 
 somewhat in the shape of a cone, that had originally 
 sprung up (and almost struck root) somewhere near 
 Ghent or Bruges. Holding Vivian's credentials at 
 arms length, this 'shape' proceeded to decipher the 
 address of the letter through an enormous pair of iron 
 spectacles. In due time he appeared to detect the 
 handwriting of the London correspondent ; for he 
 snorted out ' Aw ! Mynheer Franz GrefTulhe ! ' and 
 proceeded to open a seal as big as a saucer, and inves- 
 tigate the contents. These were evidently satisfactory ; 
 for he put on a look of benevolence, and welcomed 
 the new comer (who was announced as Mr. Vernon) to 
 Stabroek. ' You will take a schnap ? ' inquired he 
 with a look which anticipated an affirmation. ' As 
 soon as you please,' replied Vivian; to which the other 
 retorted with another ' Aw ' and left the room with 
 something approaching to alertness, in order to give 
 the necessary orders. 
 
 The ordinary domestics of the Fleming were much 
 more rapid in their movements, for Vivian had scarcely 
 time to look round and admire the neatness of the 
 room, when a clatter at the door compelled him to turn 
 his eyes to that quarter. He saw a lively looking 
 black come in, with a large pipe of curious construc- 
 tion, and a leaden box containing tobacco, followed 
 close by his co-mate Sambo, (another * nigritude,') 
 who bore in both hands a huge glass, almost as big as 
 
204 THE PLANTER. 
 
 a punch-bowl, filled to the brim with tnje Nantz, 
 tempered, but not injured, by a small portion of water. 
 Sambo appeared justly proud of his burthen, which he 
 placed on the table in its original state of integrity; 
 for, after looking for a moment lovingly at the liquid, 
 he turned round to Vivian, and said exultingly, ' Dere, 
 Massa ! ' 
 
 But we need not detain the reader with any detail 
 of our hero's movements on his arrival in the colony, 
 excepting one or two, which have direct reference to 
 the present narrative. He was introduced to Mynheer 
 SchlachenbriJchen and his wife, each of whom, were 
 our limits larger, might fairly lay claim to commemo- 
 ration. As it is, we must pass them by, and content 
 oureelves with stating the fact of their (the merchant 
 at all events) treating Vivian with more consideration 
 than his ostensible rank demanded, and introducing 
 him to their family and friends. The person, however, 
 into whose society Vivian was more especially thrown, 
 was a young girl who performed the offices of gover- 
 ness, &c., &c., in the house of the Mynheer Schlach- 
 enbruchen. The visitors of the family avoided her as 
 though she had the plague, (even the Mynheer himself 
 preserved a distance) ; and the consequence was that 
 Vivian, himself rather looked down upon by the 
 colonial aristocracy, felt himself drawn nearer to the 
 friendless girl, and assiduously cultivated her good 
 opinion. This, however, was not a thing to be easily 
 attained. Sophie Halstein (for that was her name) 
 had few of the qualities commonly ascribed to thriving , 
 governesses. She was, indeed, an acute-minded and 
 even accomplished girl ; but she was as little supple. 
 
THE PLANTER. 205 
 
 demure, or humble, as Vivian himself. In fact, she 
 received our hero's advances with indifferent cordiality 
 at first ; but the magic of sincerity will win its way, 
 and they accordingly, at last, became excellent friends. 
 The thing which surprised our hero the most was, how 
 it was possible for the dull, gross, unenlightened block- 
 heads of the colony to feel, or even affect, a disdain 
 for one who was evidently so much their superior. At 
 last the truth came upon him — she was the child of a 
 quadroon ! She was lovely, graceful, virtuous, intel- 
 lectual, accomplished, modest — a model for women ; 
 but she had a particle — scarcely apparent, indeed, 
 but still there was a particle or two — a few drops 
 of blood of a warmer tinge than what loiters through 
 the pallid cheeks of an European : and hence she was 
 visited by universal contempt. 
 
 ' Ten thousand curses on their narrow souls ! ' was 
 Vivian's first exclamation. ' She shall be my friend, 
 my — my — sister. The senseless, brutal wretches ! 
 They little think that, under the mask of Vernon, the 
 wealthiest of their tribe is amongst them, and that he 
 respects the little Pariah beyond the whole of their 
 swollen and beggarly race.' A very short time was 
 sufficient for him to form a determination to rescue the 
 object of his admiration from her painful state of ser- 
 vitude. Not being accustomed, however, to deal with 
 the delicacies of ladies, he plunged at once into the 
 matter with headlong rashness. 
 
 ' You are badly off, Miss Halstein ? ' said Vivian to 
 her one morning, in his very bluntest tone. 
 
 * I do not complain. Sir,' replied she, coldly. 
 
206 THE PLANTER. 
 
 ' I am sorry for you,' said he, hesitatingly, * and 
 would help you.' 
 
 * Spare your pity ! ' returned the lady, ' we have 
 neither of us much to thank fortune for. Yet you are 
 content, or seem so ; and so also can I be. We will 
 talk on another subject.' 
 
 ' S'death ! ' exclaimed the other, recollecting his 
 incognito, ' I had forgot. Pardon me, I was a fool. 
 You will think me mad with my offers of help and my 
 show of pity, but it is not so. I am sane enough, and 
 some of these days you shall confess it. Come ; will 
 you not go with us up the river .-* We are to run up 
 almost as far as the Sandhills to-morrow, to visit the 
 Reynestein Estate and the Palm Groves which belong 
 to the rich Englishman, Vivian. Perhaps you were 
 never there ? ' 
 
 * I was born there,' was the reply ; and it was some- 
 what tremulously uttered. 
 
 ' Ha ! then you will be delighted to visit the spot, 
 no doubt. Did you know the late proprietor ? ' 
 
 * Too well,' said she ; ' he was — a villain.' 
 
 ' How, Madam ? ' Vivian was forgetting himself 
 again at this attack on his uncle's memory ; but he 
 hastened to recover. ' I mean the last owner,' he 
 resumed, * whose name was, I think, Morson.' 
 
 'I knew him, Sir; and, as I have said, too well. 
 Do you know by what luck it was that he obtained the 
 Palm Groves ? No > Then I will tell you. Sir. His 
 predecessor was a careless, easy, and very old man. 
 By a series of unforeseen reverses, by the failure of 
 correspondents, and the roguery of friends, he became 
 involved at last. All that he wanted, however, was 
 
THE PLANTER. 207 
 
 a little money for present exigencies ; with that, and a 
 course of economy for a few years, he might have 
 retrieved his broken fortunes. His most intimate 
 friend and neighbor was this Morson. Who, then, 
 more likely than he to help him with a loan of money ? 
 He was rich and childless ; but the old planter whom 
 I have spoken of had one single child — a girl. Pity, 
 therefore, as well as friendship, might move Morson to 
 aid him in his extremity. And he did aid him ; at 
 least he lent him money, at the instigation of his 
 manager — ' 
 
 * Seyton ? ' asked Vivian, interrupting her. 
 
 * Yes, Seyton,' replied she, ' who coveted the old 
 planter's daughter for a wife, and who thought that, if 
 the parent were ruined, his child would be glad of any 
 refuge. He dreamed that she, who had interfered 
 often between him and his victims, would forget all 
 her old abhorrence, and unite her fate with that of the 
 most barbarous tyrant that ever disgraced even a West 
 Indian colony. Well, Sir, to end this tedious story — ' 
 
 ' It is most interesting to me,' said Vivian — * deeply, 
 deeply interesting ; ' and his glowing eyes and earnest 
 attention were sufficient proofs that he spoke truly. 
 
 * Well, Sir, tlie end was that Morson advanced the 
 money ; that Seyton intrigued with the slaves, and 
 caused many of them to revolt and run away into the 
 woods ; and that the poor old man fell from trouble 
 into want, and from want into absolute despair. His 
 plantations were useless ; his crops perished on the 
 ground for want of slaves ; his mills and buildings 
 were burnt by unknown hands ; and finally, his hard 
 and avaricious creditor, the relentless Morson, came 
 
208 THE PLANTER. 
 
 upon him, and took possession of all his estates for 
 a debt amounting to one sixth of their value. The 
 old man ' — (Miss Halstein's voice shook at this part, 
 and betrayed great agitation,) — 'the old man soon 
 afterwards died, and his only child was cast upon the 
 world to earn her bitter bread. This is all. Sir. I 
 have given you the history of one half of Mr. Vivian's 
 property : perhaps the other ' (she spoke this with 
 some acrimony) ' is held upon a similar tenure.' 
 
 ' God forbid ! ' said Vivian. ' But Seyton ? — Did he 
 urge his suit ? ' 
 
 ' He did, and was refused. And therefore it is (for 
 he is a bad and revengeful man) that I am fearful of 
 coming upon an estate of which he is, essentially, the 
 master. In the absence of Mr. Vivian, his power is 
 uncontrolled ; and there is no knowing what claim he 
 might urge against me. He once hinted that I was 
 born a slave on the Palm Grove Estate, and, as such, 
 belonged to his master. I, who am the own daughter 
 of Wilhelm Halstein, to whom all, but a few years ago, 
 belonged.' 
 
 ' You ! ' exclaimed our hero. " Are you the person 
 whom Vivian intercepts ? He shall do it no more. 
 Rest content, Miss Halstein. Vivian is not the man to 
 injure any one, and least of all yourself. Go with us 
 to-morrow — I beg, I pray, that you will. I pledge my 
 honor — my soul, that you shall not be a sufferer.' 
 
 The lady still refused, however, and it was not until 
 the old merchant (SchlachenbriJchen, to whom Vivian 
 had spoken privately in the meantime) had also given 
 his solemn promise to protect her, that she consented to 
 go. She was a little surprised, indeed, at Vivian's 
 
THE PLANTER. 209 
 
 urging the matter so vehemently ; but as the merchant 
 seconded his requests, somewhat perhaps in the shape 
 of a command, she did not persist in refusing. 
 
 A row up the river Demerara, past Diamond Point 
 to the Sandhills, need not call for any particular de- 
 scription. We will suppose that the party had arrived at 
 the Palm Grove Estate, which the merchant (authorized 
 by a power transmitted by Vivian from England) had 
 come to overlook. 
 
 The party were introduced to Seyton, a ferocious 
 looking man, of middle age, who, with a mixture of 
 self-consequence and ambiguous civility, welcomed the 
 merchant and his companions. He took no notice of 
 Vivian, indeed, but when he saw Miss Halstein (who 
 leant on our hero's arm) his eyes sparkled and his 
 lips curled, and turning to the merchant, he said 
 hastily, ' Before you leave the estate, there is a point 
 of some consequence that I must take leave to mention, 
 respecting this young person ; ' and he touched her, as 
 he spoke, with the point of the cane. that he carried in 
 his hand. 
 
 ' Stand off, fellow ! ' said Vivian angrily, ' another 
 touch, or another insolent word, and I will lay you at 
 my feet.' 
 
 The other started, and examined our hero's ap- 
 pearance, cautiously and sullenly. He saw nothing, 
 however, except an athletic figure and a resolute coun- 
 tenance, and retreated from collision with so formidable 
 an opponent. He did not, however, retreat from his 
 demand. 
 
 * Observe, Mynheer,' said he, addressing the mer- 
 voi.. X. 14 
 
210 THE PLANTER. 
 
 chant once more, * I speak as the agent only of Mr. 
 Viviain. This gentleman will scarcely blame me for 
 insisting on the rights of my principal.' 
 
 ' By no means — by no means,' replied the merchant. 
 * All in good time. We will talk of that, presently. In 
 the mean time, we will look at the balances. After that 
 we will ask what your larder contains ; and then — for 
 tlie rights you speak of. Eh, Mr. Vernon, is not (tiat 
 the way ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly, certainly,' said Vivian. ' Miss Halstein 
 will leave all to you ; I am quite sure that she may do 
 so safely.' 
 
 Two or three hours were sufficient to overlook the 
 accounts, and to dispose of the refreshments, which 
 were offered with some degree of parade to the visitors, 
 at the expense of the estate. Vivian ate heartily, and 
 without scruple, of the produce of his own property ; 
 and everything unpleasant seemed forgotten, except 
 by Miss Halstein, when the party (which had been 
 augmented, as agreed upon, by the arrival of the 
 Syndic, from Stabroek,) prepared to go. 
 
 ' Now,' said Seyton, ' I must once more draw your 
 attention to my demand. I claim this — lady, if you 
 will, — as a slave. She was born on the estate, has 
 never been made free, and belongs of right to my 
 principal, Vivian.' 
 
 ' Bah ! man,' exclaimed the merchant ; * I thought 
 all that was past. Surely, good wine and excellent 
 nantz must have washed all such bad thoughts out of 
 your head. Come, let us go. Sophie, girl, take hold 
 of Mr. Vernon's aj'm, and — ' 
 
 'By your leave it must not be so,' said Seyton im- 
 
THE PLANTER. 211 
 
 peratively. He ning a bell, and eight or ten black 
 slaves appeared. * You are at liberty to go, gentle- 
 men ; but the lady remains with me. Have I not the 
 law with me ? ' added he, addressing the Syndic. 
 
 That officer assented, adding, however, that all 
 depended on the will of Vivian. The lady might, 
 indeed,' be entitled to her liberty ; but until she proved 
 her freedom, she must remain the property of the 
 planter. 
 
 ' That is sufficient,' said Seyton, ' I am Vivian's 
 representative.' 
 
 ' Then I am lost,' exclaimed Sophie. 
 
 ' Pardon me,' replied the Syndic, * Mr. Seyton is 
 superseded. Mynheer, here, has the power of appoint- 
 ing a manager over his property. Besides which, Mr. 
 Vivian himself has arrived at Stabroek — ' 
 
 * Ha ! ' — said Seyton, ' then no time is to be lost. 
 Superseded or not, Mr. Vivian shall not lose his prop- 
 erty. Do your duty, fellows,' added he, addressing 
 the slaves. * Seize upon that woman, in the name of 
 your master, Vivian.' 
 
 ' Back, I say,' said our hero, pulling out a brace of 
 pistols, and pointing them towards the advancing 
 negroes. ' Back, men, and be wise. And you, Mr. 
 Manager, or whatever you are, take heed how you 
 overstep your duty. Know, Sirrah, that your master 
 does not think your false accounts the worst part of 
 your bad history. Your cruelty to these poor slaves 
 beneath you has come to his ears; and for that he 
 dismisses you from his service. For your impudent 
 and unfounded claim upon this lady, whom your 
 master loves — ' 
 
212 THE PLANTER. 
 
 ' What ! ' exclaimed Sophie ; but the merchant 
 restrained her surprise. 
 
 ' Whom your master loves, wooes, and whom if 
 Heaven is propitious (he says this doubtingly and hum- 
 bly), he will wed. For this atrocious insult there is no 
 punishment great enough. Yet, if any attempt be 
 made upon her, you shall at least be chastised to your 
 heart's content. Be satisfied that I do not jest, and 
 remain quiet.' 
 
 * We are all armed, Mr. Seyton,' said the merchant; 
 ' you had better let us depart quietly.' 
 
 ' She shall not go,' replied Seyton, foaming with 
 rage. 'Once more, seize upon her, men; seize upon 
 her for your master, Vivian. Till he comes, I will be 
 dbeyed at least.' 
 
 ' He is here ! ' said Vivian, rushing between Sophie 
 and her adversaries — 'he is here : he overlooks you 
 and will punish you. Look, slaves, I am Vivian, — 
 your master ! Obey me as you value the liberty which 
 every man on my estate shall have, — if he deserves 
 it.' 
 
 * What he says is true. This is, indeed, Mr. Vivian,' 
 said the merchant; and the Syndic corroborated his 
 tale. 
 
 All was quiet in an instant. Yet Sophie Halstein 
 still looked overcome. 
 
 * What is this ? ' inquired the merchant : ' you ought 
 to be rejoiced.' 
 
 * I am,' she replied. ' But, Mr. Vivian, you have 
 something to forget. Can you forgive me ; ' 
 
 ' I cannot,' answered Vivian, ' unless with the Palm 
 
THE PLANTER. 213 
 
 Groves, (which from this moment is all your own) you 
 take an incumbrance with it.' 
 
 ' And that is — ? ' said Miss Halstein, inquiringly — 
 
 ' It is myself, Sophie,' replied Vivian, tenderly. 
 ' Prithee, be generous : and think what a way I have 
 wandered from home. Take pity on me, and give me 
 shelter with you at the Palm Groves.' 
 
 ' We will talk of this hereafter,' said Miss Halstein, 
 gently, and dropping her eyes upon the ground. 
 
 ' What a strange lover he is,' whispered the Syndic 
 to the merchant. 
 
 * That is true enough ; ' answered the other. ' Yet, 
 I would wager a grosschen that he succeeds. He is a 
 fine, intrepid, persevering young fellow ; and such 
 men seldom fail in anything they set their hearts 
 upon.' 
 
 The old merchant was a true prophet. For before 
 three months had elapsed, the pretty Sophie became 
 lawful mistress of the heart and household of Vivian. 
 The Reynestein flourished ; but the Palm Groves 
 became their home. In the course of time the blacks 
 on their estates emerged from the condition of bond- 
 men ; but remained as cultivators, attracted equally by 
 kind treatment, and an equitable share of the profits of 
 their labors. 
 
 ' After all, the greatest pleasure in the world,' 
 said Vivian one day to his wife, ' is conferring pleasure ; 
 and perhaps the greatest pleasure which one can 
 confer, is to give Freedom to one's fellow-man.' 
 
 1831. 
 
VICISSITUDES IN A LAWYER'S LIFE. 
 
 Some years ago, a friend of mine was called up to 
 London, as being the representative of a person that 
 had lately died intestate. The deceased had been a 
 barrister of some reputation with his class, but in 
 small practice : and, not having during his life been 
 very communicative respecting his affairs, it was 
 thought necessary that my friend (who was his cousin 
 and next to kin) should personally superintend the 
 opening of his desk and papers, and endeavor to 
 ascertain the amount of property to which he had 
 become heir. Being myself somewhat of a man of 
 business, although no lawyer, I accompanied him on 
 these occasions, and assisted him on all others with my 
 friendship and advice. After long and careful inves- 
 tigation, however, we could discover nothing in the 
 shape of money, beyond a sum of <£120 stock in the 
 Three per Cents., together with a few sovereigns and 
 some loose silver in his chambers. He had evidently 
 lived, from day to day, on what his profession brought 
 him. There was, indeed, an indifferent law library, 
 which we disposed of for forty or fifty pounds, and a 
 few precedents, (of conveyances, bills and answers in 
 
VICISSITUDES IN A LAWYER'S LIFE. 215 
 
 chancery, and such like things,) which we charitably- 
 presented to the clerk ; but nothing farther worthy of 
 mention, — excepting only the manuscript, of which 
 a copy is given below. This was found lying, with 
 other unimportant papers, in the drawer of his table, 
 and having been tied up with red tape, and written on 
 what the lawyers call draft paper, was at first mistaken 
 by us for a matter of business. Just, however, as my 
 friend was handing over the bundle to the clerk, a few 
 letters which wei*e on the back caught my attention, 
 and, on looking closer, I perceived the words, ' Some 
 account of my life.' Being curious in my reading, 
 (for which, however, I have but little time to spare 
 from my business,) I begged the manuscript from my 
 friend, who was delighted at an opportunity of making 
 some return for my exertions. I had no thoughts of 
 rendering the matter public, as will easily be believed ; 
 but a literary acquaintance having run his eye over it, 
 recommended me to print it. He offered, moreover, 
 to * polish it up,' and ' make it fit for the press ; ' but 
 (though I listened to his recommendation as to publish- 
 ing) I determined that it should appear in its natural 
 dress, if it appeared at all. I am one of those who 
 think that the feelings of an individual can be best 
 expressed in his own unstudied language. Indepen- 
 dently of this, I was desirous of exhibiting to the 
 world what Mr. Coleridge calls ' a psychological curi- 
 osity,' or, in other words, the autobiography of a 
 lawyer, who, after having dwelt in the midst of forms 
 and tautologies for twenty years, had courage to write 
 like a rational being, and to put down his thoughts in 
 common language. The parallel of ' the dyer's hand ' 
 
216 VICISSITUDES IX A LAWYER's LIFE. 
 
 (which the great poet, Shakspere, adverts to) does 
 not, as it appears to me, hold good upon all occasions. 
 But 1 will not detain the reader any longer from the 
 counsellor's manuscript. The following is a verbatim 
 copy of it, made by my own hand, and carefully 
 examined with the original : — 
 
 THE lawyer's STOKY. 
 
 * . . . Had I followed the example of my fathers, I 
 should now be a farmer of thirty acres, on the banks 
 of a little stream that runs into the Somersetshire 
 Avon. My ancestors had vegetated there for the 
 greater part of a couple of centuries ; few of them 
 having ever exceeded, during their lives, the limit of 
 twenty miles from the village church, and all of 
 them having been born and buried there. Even I 
 myself should probably have trod the same quiet and 
 confined course, had not a solitary spark of ambition 
 flamed up in my father's heart, and fired him to do 
 honor to the family name. For we descended origi- 
 nally from a noble and very ancient stock ; and we 
 
 never forgot it. " The s were knighted at the 
 
 Conquest ! " This was the sentence that kept the pride 
 and vanity boiling in our bloods. Like the secret 
 hoard of the miser, it cheered us in our poverty : 
 perhaps it also nourished a vague feeling of honor, 
 and saved us from committing unworthy actions ; but 
 this is doubtful. We had passed through eight or ten 
 generations since we could boast of unmixed nobility ; 
 and ever since that time we had been mingling our 
 blood, marriage after marriage, with the yeoman's and 
 the peasant's. Our wealth had been dissipated, our 
 
VICISSITUDES IN A LAWYER'S LIFE. 217 
 
 consequence humbled, our minds overgrown with igno- 
 rance ; but the pride, the "airy nothing" of our name, 
 survived all changes and disasters. Thus the human 
 taste (I mean the bodily sense) which appears to be so 
 oblivious, is known to retain its impressions longer 
 than any other faculty. The mind forgets a name or 
 an image, a peculiar touch, a note of music; but an 
 odor or a flavor is remembered in an instant, with all 
 its freshness and all its concurring circumstances, after 
 a lapse of thirty or forty years. So it was with us. 
 Our pride, which one would imagine would have been 
 of so frail and evanescent a nature as to have been 
 extinguished by the first brush of poverty, remained to 
 us, adhered to us like a canker or a disease, when all 
 our important distinctions had perished. 
 
 ' I was brought up somev,fhat roughly, and was suf- 
 fered to run about wild and idle enough until I attained 
 my tenth year, when I was committed to the manage- 
 ment of the village schoolmistress. With my satchel 
 and well-thumbed primer, my pockets half full of 
 marbles, and a couple of formidable slices of bread, 
 (with butter or bacon between,) for my dinner, I used 
 regularly every morning to take my way to the little 
 school. What progress I attained there has escaped 
 my memory ; but I think that lessons in three syllables 
 were the summit of my accomplishments. My father, 
 who was dissatisfied at my progress, wished anxiously 
 to remove me to a better school ; and at last a legacy 
 of £lWi enabled him to put his ambitious schemes 
 into execution. I was removed without loss of time to 
 the "classical academy" of Mr. , and after re- 
 maining there three or four years, was pronounced to 
 
218 VICISSITUDES IN A LAWVEr's LIFE. 
 
 be " fit for anything." But then came the question 
 — the serious and too often discussed question — What 
 course should I like to follow ? '* What shall we make 
 of you, John?" asked my father, with an inquisitive, 
 exulting look. He had evidendy visions of bishops, 
 and judges, and generals, floating before his eyes. All 
 the splendid accidents of fortune had been repeatedly 
 the subject of conversation between us. The stories 
 of men who had risen from a low beginninor, from the 
 most squalid servitude, from the poor-house and the 
 prison, and afterwards realized the wealth of CrcESUs, 
 were familiar to us. We lived in a dream of riches. 
 We surmounted obstacles ; we overtook rivals in the 
 race to power. No opposition deterred us. Fame, 
 and profit, and power, were at the end of every pros- 
 pect. The only question was, which was the best road 
 to pursue ? That problem, however, it was difiicult to 
 solve. 
 
 * " W^ill you study politics ? or law ? or physic ? " 
 asked my father, with an earnest face, ** or will you 
 
 become a soldier or a sailor ? " (He was stopped 
 
 here by my mother, who pronounced a rapid negative 
 on the two last professions ;) — "or will you turn your 
 
 mind to divinity r " — "I will not be a parson," 
 
 returned I, at once. " And why ? " was the question. 
 " Because I do not want to be a curate, ' passing poor 
 with forty pounds a-year.' I like to speculate and 
 think, even to the limits of orthodoxy. I cannot raise 
 myself to a living by flattery ; and could I do so, I 
 should fear to encounter the hate of every inhabitant 
 of my parish, by stripping them yearly for my tithes. 
 Let it be something else." — Thus it was that we 
 
VICISSITUDES IN A LAWYER'S LIFE. 219 
 
 discussed the hours away. Sometimes a red-coat was 
 most attractive to me ; sometimes a blue one. Then 
 the carriage and ruffles of the physician caught my 
 fancy ; and then the debates in Parliament, which the 
 " County Chronicle " regularly pared down to suit its 
 columns, inflamed my wishes, till I was absolutely 
 bewildered by the number of the avenues to fame. At 
 last, however, my father and I (my mother concurring) 
 determined upon — the Law! I remember the happy 
 evening whereon this resolution was formed. My father 
 was in high spirits. " We will drink a glass of wine, 
 for once in a way, to the future Judge," said he. "I 
 hope you will never hang anybody, John ? " said my 
 mother ; if I thought so, I would call back my consent." 
 " Never fear," replied my father ; " he will do what is 
 right, I know. If his country should require such a 
 painful act from him, he will not flinch from his duty." 
 " I will never hang a man for forgery, however," ex-' 
 claimed I, doggedly : " Blood for blood, is the old law, 
 but nothing farther for me." " My dear John," inter- 
 rupted my mother reprovingly, " do you not hear what 
 your father says ? If your duty should require it, &c., 
 &c." It will scarcely be believed that we could go 
 on quarrelling respecting so remote a contingency. 
 But so it was. I tried — I am almost ashamed to tell it 
 — I tried on my father's wig that very evening, in order 
 that I might see, before the matter was absolutely irre- 
 vokable, how a wig would become me, when I should 
 be advanced to the bench ! How near I arrived to that 
 point of ambition will be seen hereafter. 
 
 ' The law being resolved upon, the only question that 
 remained was, whether I should be sent to college, or 
 
220 VICISSITUDES IN A LAWYER's LIFE. 
 
 pass through the refining process of an attorney's office. 
 We were in considerable perplexity on this point, when 
 a friend of my father's happened to step in and deter- 
 mined the matter for us. He was a rough, eccentric 
 man, but had withal his share of sense ; and on the 
 difficulty being stated to him, he replied with a loud, 
 continuous whistle, that argued anything but an approval 
 of our projects. "College!" he exclaimed, looking 
 askant at me : " why he is half a fool already : if you 
 send him to college you'll make him a fool complete." 
 It must be owned in extenuation of the old man's rude- 
 ness, that my deportment at this time somewhat justified 
 his suspicions. I had so long been dreaming after the 
 fashion of Alnaschar, that I bore myself now and then 
 towards my old acquaintance and equals in a way that 
 not even the elevation I reckoned on could have justi- 
 fied. In truth, I had become a considerable coxcomb. 
 I was not, I think, naturally vain ; but my poor father's 
 hopes and my mother's smiles and prophecies, brought 
 out the germ of folly into sudden blossom. It was 
 well for me that it was timely checked. Our friend's 
 advice was taken. All notions of college were aban- 
 doned, and I was sent off", for five years, to the office 
 of an attorney in our county town. 
 
 ' The toil of an attoi-ney's life is much exaggerated. 
 It is held up as a sort of hideous spectrum to the imagi- 
 nations of youth, and has deterred many an intelligent 
 and diffident boy, and hundreds of doting mothers 
 from adding a victim to the shrine of law. In the 
 country, at least, there is little to do that need alarm an 
 ordinary student. A brain of very common strength is 
 sufficient to bear up against all the impediments that 
 
VICISSITUDES IN A LAWYER'S LIFE. 221 
 
 usually beset this period of probation. Even the fictions 
 of our jurisprudence (not the least vicious of its quali- 
 ties) may be mastered, though not admired. Admira- 
 tion demands a subtler scrutiny, a longer and closer 
 intimacy with law, than a youth — nay than even I, a 
 veteran of thirty years, have been able to contract with 
 it. In truth, its first aspect is rugged and severe 
 towards all. It was so with me, but habit reconciled 
 me to my labors ; and thus — with an occasional novel 
 in the evening, and a walk with a rustic belle on Sun- 
 day, a short half-yearly visit to my parents, and a dance 
 or two in the cold winter weather, — I managed to run 
 through my five years of clerkship, with considerable 
 satisfaction to myself, and not wholly without the appro- 
 bation of my employers. At the expiration of that 
 period I had the choice before me — whether to pursue 
 the humbler but safer course of an attorney, or to ven- 
 ture upon the dangerous but dazzling chances of the 
 bar. I preferred the latter; and, after a short sojourn 
 at home, I was at once let loose upon — London ! 
 
 ' The stride from the quiet of the country, from its 
 sleepy, stagnant current of existence, to the soil and 
 centre of intellectual, busy and ambitious life, is great 
 and fearful. I think of it with a shudder even now. 
 The sudden escape from all control is of itself perilous 
 enough. But when, in addition to this, one is thrown 
 amongst the struggling and vicious crowds of London, 
 into her noisy streets and abandoned haunts (arenas 
 more dangerous than even the bloody circuses of Eome, 
 where the wild beast and the gladiator fought and 
 mangled each other, for — what?) the wonder is, that 
 
222 vicissiTUUEs IN A lawyer's life. 
 
 so many of the young and inexperienced survive to 
 attain anything like a moral maturity. 
 
 ' I was told that I ought to see " the world ; " and I 
 was ready enough to behold it. " You should see 
 everything once, at least," said a new acquaintance : 
 ** take a glance at everything : sow your wild oats ; 
 and then sit down and fag steadily at law." This was 
 the advice of a man who was esteemed for his prudence, 
 and not a little respected for his knowledge of " the 
 town." It was impossible to reject such counsel ; and 
 accordingly I resolved to see and judge of everything. 
 What places this resolution led me into, it is unneces- 
 sary to detail. It is sufficient to say that the death of 
 my father and mother about this time by an infectious 
 fever, enabled me to see London to my heart's content. 
 I was the sole heir of their little property, which I 
 speedily disposed of; not, however, before I had given 
 an honest plumper at the county election to a candidate 
 who was hard beset, and made my maiden speech at 
 the hustings, wdiich, it was said, turned the contest in 
 his favor. A new member is always grateful ; and my 
 vote obtained for me a world of thanks, and a pressing 
 invitation to his metropolitan residence. 
 
 ' I was now pursuing my way professedly to the 
 bar. I had kept several terms, and had entered myself 
 as pupil of a special pleader, at whose chambers I 
 duly read the newspapers, peeled an orange, drank a 
 glass of soda-water, and now and then (but this was a 
 rare event) attempted to scrawl a declaration in trover 
 or assumpsit, in which my bad writing and legal in- 
 capacity were the only things conspicuous. " You 
 will never do for special pleading, nor the common 
 
VICISSITUDES IN A LAWYER'S LIFE. 223 
 
 law bar," said one of my co-pupils ; " you lake the 
 matter too leisurely. Suppose you were to try con- 
 veyancing .'' or see what figure you can make in a 
 court of equity ? " 1 caught at this suggestion. Six 
 months of pleading had satisfied me that my " genius" 
 lay another way. In other words, I heartily disliked 
 my employment, and was glad to escape from it under 
 
 any show or pretence. Mr. had no objection, 
 
 of course, to my quitting his office at the end of six^ 
 instead of twelve months, and leaving my desk open 
 for another pupil ; and accordingly I left him without 
 ceremony, and ti'ansferred my person to the chambers 
 of a celebrated conveyancer. This, from my country 
 education, suited me better than my previous tasks. I 
 had some glimmering notion of the law of real prop- 
 erty, and I was not unwilling to increase my know- 
 ledge. The rapid diminution of my funds, too, began 
 to make me think ; and after a few struggles with 
 Fearne and Preston, Sugden and Sanders, a few sighs 
 cast towards the distant theatres, and a month of severe 
 but wholesome illness, I cast off die trammels of idle- 
 ness, and sat down to work in earnest. 
 
 ' I had not been here more than a quarter of a year, 
 when I one day suddenly met in the street Sir Charles 
 
 L , our county member. He had not forgotten 
 
 my election services, and hastened to reproach me for 
 not having called upon him. I pleaded the usual 
 number of excuses — protested ihot he was "very 
 kind" — that he " ovei'rated my trifling exertions," 
 &c — and concluded by accepting his invitation to 
 dinner for the following Saturday. The interval was 
 spent in ordering a new and fashionable dress, and in 
 
224 VICISSITUDES IN A LAWYER'S LIFE. 
 
 getting up, for conversation, some of the ordinary 
 topics for discourse — the last poem or novel ; but 
 when the hour arrived, and I entered the member's 
 spacious mansion, and heard my name go sounding 
 up the marble staircase, I forgot all my late conversa- 
 tional acquisitions, my new dress, and even the applause 
 that followed my last speech at the club, and stumbled 
 into the drawing-room with a dizzy head and almost 
 trembling steps. The reception which Sir Charles 
 gave me, however, speedily reassured me. He was 
 a well-bred, polite man, and, it may be, was a little 
 pleased at the homage which I thus involuntarily paid 
 to his station. He introduced me to his wife ; to his 
 son (an only child, whom Nature seemed to have 
 constructed for the sole purpose of hanging one of 
 Stultz's or Weston's suits upon) ; and finally to a poor 
 relation of the family, whom the death of both parents, 
 and her own utter indigence, had cast upon the mem- 
 ber's charity. Mary S was, when I first knew 
 
 her, about nineteen years of age. I remember her as 
 though it were but yesterday. She had not that beauty 
 without fault, either in face or figure, nor that romantic 
 melancholy expression, which novelists delight to ex- 
 patiate on ; but she had a pleasing and intelligent 
 countenance, a little dashed by sorrow, but not injured 
 — an unaffected manner — and a voice more musical 
 than any sound I have ever heard. It was to me 
 
 " More tuneable than lark to shepherd's ear ; " 
 
 'twas sweeter than " the sweet South ; " richer than 
 Juliet's voice; softer than Ariel's song; and — I was 
 never weary of listening to it 1 
 
VICISSITUDES IN A LAWYER'S LIFE. 225 
 
 * Being both persons of small importance (for I was 
 
 no longer a freeholder of shire.) Mary and I were 
 
 generally left together to amuse ourselves whenever I 
 visited Sir Charles's house. I had a general invitation 
 there, for which I was, I believe, partly indebted to 
 some musical talent that I possessed, but which I 
 should have neglected, had not " attractive metal " 
 drawn me thither with a power that I could not resist. 
 That being the case, I became a visitor, sometimes at 
 
 the evening parties of Lady L , and always in the 
 
 mornings ; for then the masters of the mansion were 
 usually absent, and their protegee was left to the soli- 
 tude of her thoughts. The consequences of this 
 intimacy may easily be foreseen. I fell in love with 
 the excellent Mary, who returned my affection, but at 
 the same time resolutely refused to accept my hand, 
 and entail poverty on us both. I proposed to ask the 
 consent of Sir Charles. She dissuaded me, however, 
 from this ; assuring me that he would reject me, — 
 professedly upon some plea of family pride, but in 
 reality to save himself from the necessity of aiding 
 our slender means, as well as to preserve for his wife 
 a cheap and useful companion. For the condhion of 
 Mary was not that of a sinecurist. She was the chief 
 
 secretary of the house ; the writer of all Lady L 's 
 
 letters ; the copyist, and often the corrector, of Sir 
 Charles's speeches ; the milliner and dress-maker of 
 her lady cousin, sometimes on ordinary, and always 
 on extraordinary occasions. She filled, in short, one 
 of those thankless, nameless offices, where the ties of 
 blood are admitted solely for a sordid purpose — where 
 the victim has to endure, uncomplainingly, (or starve I) 
 
 VOL. I. 15 
 
226 VICISSITUDES IN A LAWYER'S LIFE. 
 
 all that the proud will sometimes dare to inflict — 
 where all the labors and hardships of servitude are 
 undergone, without even the wages of a menial. In 
 these cases, there is but too often no mercy on the one 
 hand, and no spirit of resistance on the other. The 
 first act of reluctant charity justifies every species 
 of after-tyranny. The value of the original benevo- 
 lence is exacted to the uttermost farthing — no abate- 
 ment, no relenting. " Do you remember who it was 
 that took you in ? and fed you ? and, «Slc." — 
 
 " Oh ! hither let soft Charity repair ! " 
 
 Let her repair to such melancholy places, and soften 
 the ungenerous heart, and sweeten, with her smiles, 
 the bitter, bitter bread of dependence ! 
 
 ' We married. The consent of Mary's " protectors " 
 had been asked, and immediately refused ; and upon 
 this, I tried repeatedly to induce her to fly with me, but 
 in vain. At last our situation made us desperate, and 
 some prospect of professional success opening at the 
 time, I wrung from her a slow consent to — elope. 
 We fled, and were, as may be imagined, never pur- 
 sued. The consequences of this step, however, were, 
 that my wife was cast off", and I discountenanced. But 
 I nevertheless plodded steadily on my way ; never 
 relaxing, never forgetting that on my success depended 
 the comforts, nay the existence, of one who was dearer 
 to me than myself. By the time I had arrived at the 
 bar, and was qualified to practise " in court," we had 
 one child born to us — a girl. It was the only one we 
 ever had, and we loved it in proportion. No one can 
 tell how entire and unselfish our love was. Men may 
 
VICISSITUDES IN A LAWYER's LIFE. 227 
 
 imagine and speculate on other things ; but this is 
 beyond all guess, all divining. It is, beyond compari- 
 son, the most painful, the most powerful, and mysterious 
 sympathy that ever warmed the human heart. Let 
 no one talk of it, who has not felt the care and anxiety 
 which beset a parent's mmd : — 
 
 " He talks to me who — never had a child." 
 
 (How wise is Shakspere in this, as in all other things !) 
 The single man knows no more of what we endure for 
 the child we love, than the blind or deaf know of sound 
 or color : his idea is a guess altogether, unfounded or 
 remote from reality. 
 
 ' I forgot how long it was that we continued under 
 
 the ban of Sir Charles and Lady L 's displeasure ; 
 
 but I recollect that the interdiction was taken off at the 
 request of a good-natured visitor of their house, to 
 whom I had once (for I used to carve occasionally 
 there) accidentally given the prime slice from a haunch 
 of venison. He recollected this with gratitude, and 
 was not easy till we were restored to favor. After 
 some discussion, some show of resentment, and an 
 intimation that we were to "expect nothing," except 
 
 the countenance of the family. Lady L signified 
 
 that she should " no longer object to receive Mr. and 
 
 Mrs. ." Her willingness to be reconciled was 
 
 communicated to us ; and we once more walked up 
 
 the marble staircase of the L 's, heard our names 
 
 thundered out by powdered lacqueys, and once more 
 underwent 
 
 " The proud man's contumely," 
 
 and all the ungracious and worthless favors which the 
 
228 VICISSITUDES IN A LAWYEr's LIFE. 
 
 poor but too frequently submit to receive from " the 
 great." It would be of little use to recount, one after 
 one, the numberless slights and stinging condescen- 
 sions which were showered upon our bare "unsheltered 
 heads." I myself would have fled into the forest, or 
 the poor-house, to avoid them : but we had — a child ! 
 and for her dear and tender sake, my poor Mary en- 
 treated that I would bear up against ill fortune a little 
 longer. 
 
 'Accordingly, a " little longer," and " a little longer," 
 we went on ; our situation never amending. Custom, 
 which reconciles us to all other things, never renders 
 caprice or tyranny the less difficult to be borne. We 
 endured, more than shall be told, and we felt that we 
 were descending, with swift and certain steps, from 
 one stage of discomfort to another, and with the pros- 
 pect of inevitable poverty full in our view. First, 
 trifling delicacies were abandoned, then the finer cloth- 
 ing common to our condition ; then the solid comforts 
 of life, meat, tea, firing, &c. passed out of our reach. 
 Our child suffered last : for we were daily guilty of 
 little pious frauds towards her, to conceal from her the 
 absolute poverty of our lot. 
 
 * During all this period, I was the visitor (on no 
 intimate footing, however, for I could not return the 
 substantial civilities offered me) at gentlemen's tables. 
 I dined off" plate and china, spread with all the delica- 
 cies of the seasons, when I had not a meal at home. 
 On these occasions, I have been compelled to restrain 
 myself (to an extent that it would be difficult to credit), 
 in order to conceal from the persons present the vora- 
 cious hunger that was devouring me. I have abstracted 
 
VICISSITUDES IN A LAWYER'S LIFE. 229 
 
 food (from the share, however, allotted to myself) — 
 bread, cake, or other substantial edibles — to carry 
 home for the next day's sustenance. In the course of 
 time, this foraging was calculated upon between us; 
 and my wife would see me depart almost with pleasure 
 upon one of these expeditions, knowing that I should 
 reserve for our domestic necessities a portion of the 
 superfluities of which I was expected to partake. I 
 have heard of a wealthy miser doing this to a great 
 extent. We, however, had a better excuse than he. 
 He abstracted what belonged to others ; whereas I 
 pilfered only from myself. 
 
 * But I am writing confusedly, and without order. I 
 should have mentioned that my funds were, for some 
 time, sufficient to furnish us with common comforts, 
 and even to appear suitably to our station. Our honey- 
 moon did not wane and disappear so very rapidly in 
 the chill atmosphere of poverty, as to call for that com- 
 miseration which a sudden accident alone excites. We 
 were exposed in the end, indeed, to the rigorous 
 seasons. We had our fill of calamity. But it de- 
 scended upon us, drop after drop, like the icy dew that 
 falls " upon the earth beneath." We retired from our 
 places gradually, and left our acquaintances an oppor- 
 tunity (and perhaps an excuse), for discovering and 
 attaching themselves to other friends. The common 
 intercourse and advantages of the world are not to be 
 had for nothing : we must pay for them with other 
 things. We must return favors for benefits, good 
 humor for vivacity, nay, almost meal for meal ; 
 otherwise, we shrink out of the circle of society and 
 our place is supplied by fresh comers. We were 
 
230 VICISSITUDES IN A LAWYER's LIFE. 
 
 willing to do all that could be done in this interchange, 
 but we found that money failed us at last, and with 
 money good spirits also vanished : we were, there- 
 fore, fairly dismissed. I made, indeed, a few efforts to 
 recover myself. A sudden influx of business gave a 
 temporary color to 'our fate, but it did not last long 
 enough, nor was it of sufficient amount, to give to our 
 prosperity even the appearance of stability. We fell 
 
 " In many an airj'^ wheel," 
 
 deeper and deeper still, till we touched the lowest level 
 of our destiny. 
 
 ' But let me return, for a short space, to our child. 
 We had, as I have said, one child — one only. To 
 give her the appearance of respectability, to afford her 
 the wholesome, and sometimes delicate food, which 
 her youth and infirm health required, was the struggle 
 of every day. We ourselves fared hardly, and were 
 content. My own expenses were trivial : those of my 
 wife were less. But even rent and the coarsest cloth- 
 ing are fearful things for those whose income is utterly 
 precarious. Sometimes we had nothing — not a shil- 
 ling, not a solitary farthing ; and then we were driven to 
 borrow trifling sums by depositing the few poor trinkets 
 of my wife, some books that were seldom in use, or a 
 portion of our clothes, with the pawnbroker. These 
 sometimes remained unredeemed for months. At such 
 times our distresses have been great indeed. I have 
 sought and petitioned for employment of any sort, and 
 my wife has shed tears of joy at having the commonest 
 labor offered to her. It produced bread ! I should 
 cause the visages of some of my bar acquaintance to 
 
VICISSITUDES m A LAWYER'S LIFE. 231 
 
 grow doubly supercilious were I to enumerate the shifts 
 and projects that I have been reduced to, to obtain a 
 shilling or two for the next morning's meal. But what 
 will not the father and the husband do ! It may be 
 well enough for the single man to go to his bed and 
 sleep, careless of the next day's fortune ; but he who 
 has creatures whom he loves dependent on him, must 
 be busy, and anxious, and provident. I have (thank 
 God) never yet lain down at night without knowing 
 that my wife and child would the next morning have 
 bread before them — sometimes, indeed, scanty fare, 
 but always something. What have I undergone, more 
 than once, to procure this, shall remain locked in my 
 own heart. 1 have never provoked the generosity of 
 my professional brethren, nor the contempt or compas- 
 sion of strangers by an open exposure of my wants : 
 for I had a character and station to preserve by day, 
 on which all the hope that was left depended. But 
 secretly, and by night, and where I was unknown, I 
 have shrunk from nothing. The labor of the porter, 
 the hack writer's midnight toil, the work of the com- 
 mon copyist, BEGGARY, have all been familiar to me. 
 I look back on these occupations without shame or 
 regret, and, indeed, at times, when my pulse of pride 
 beats — as it will beat feebly even now — I recur to 
 some of them with a smile. 
 
 * In our sunny seasons we had one apparent luxury 
 — music. It was in truth a great enjoyment ; although 
 the real object of its introduction among us (to whom 
 luxury of any sort was necessarily a stranger) was that 
 our child, who inherited her mother's sweet voice, 
 should find it a means of livelihood. When we grew 
 
232 VICISSITTJDES IN A LAWYEu's LIFE. 
 
 much poorer than usual, our little borrowed piano-forte 
 was dismissed ; but, in other times we struggled hard to 
 keep it for our daughter's sake. I remember still our 
 evening concerts, my flute or voice accompanying her 
 instrument, and our sole dear auditor standing beside us 
 with glistening eyes. We almost forgot our poverty, 
 and turned aside from the dark face of futurity, to 
 listen to gentle airs and solemn movements. We 
 wandered with Handel, " by hedgerow elms on hil- 
 locks green," — with Kent, and Boyce, and Purcell. 
 Haydn and Beethoven were our friends ; the learning 
 of Sebastian Bach was familiar to us ; the divine mel- 
 odies of Mozart were our perpetual delight. 
 
 ' Music, however, could afl^ord no help, farther than 
 to enable us occasionally to forget misfortune. It did 
 not purchase for us bread or meat, nor revive my coat 
 of rustic black, which the malice of several winters 
 and of as many summers had conspired to injure. 
 My wife's clothes faded, while she hearkened to har- 
 monies that were ever fresh. In a word our miserable 
 wardrobe became so flagrantly bare, that our " friends " 
 at L house announced the fact to us in unmiti- 
 gated terms, and desired that, unless it could be 
 renewed, we might straight become better strangers. 
 " We will leave them, my dear Mary," said I, " to 
 their poor pride. They are lower than we are, after 
 all." She sighed and made no answer ; for she saw, 
 notwithstanding all her humility, that we could never 
 return there again. We never did return ! 
 
 ' One of the most painful and irksome things to my- 
 self was the necessity of appearing " in Court " during 
 the period of our extreme poverty. It is supposed 
 
VICISSITUDES IN A LAWYEE's LIFE. 233 
 
 necessary, with what reason I know not, that the bar- 
 risters should appear in Court at all events, whether 
 allured there by business or not. In compliance with 
 this custom I have sate out many a weary morning, 
 with my blue bag before me, (its sole ballast a quire or 
 two of paper, or an old volume of reports,) some- 
 times listening to arguments on matters of no interest, 
 but generally meditating on my own mournful pros- 
 pects, and forming hundreds of projects to retrieve 
 our fallen fortunes. How little have the frequenters of 
 the Court of Chancery imagined that, under the im- 
 posing though grotesque dress of "the bar," one man 
 has sat there as poor and friendless as I have been. 
 There is a sort of equality in the costume and in the 
 rank which rejects the idea of any great diversity of 
 condition. Yet have I sate there more than once, 
 utterly pennyless, whilst Mr. Romilly or Mr. Bell, Mr. 
 Hart or Mr. Leach, &c. have been " winning golden 
 opinions from all sorts of men." At these times I 
 have sometimes thought that, had I fair opportunhies, I 
 might have taken my stand by the side of those cele- 
 brated advocates ; but, alas ! when some casual 
 opportunity came, I found that I was tongue-tied, and 
 that all the faculties that I gave myself credit for were 
 either not there, or were in a moment dispersed and 
 put to flight. Self-possession, confidence in one's 
 own strength, is scarcely a secondary requisite at the 
 bar. The learning and even ingenuity of man are 
 nothing without it. The course of the advocate should 
 
 ever be 
 
 " As confident as is the falcon's flight," 
 
 if he hopes to conquer. For myself, I never could 
 
234 VICISSITITDES IN A LAWYER'S LIFE. 
 
 attain this self-possession. I have dreamed, indeed, of 
 Bacon and Coke, and Hardwicke and Holt, and Thur- 
 low and Mansfield, (" silver-tongued Murray,") and all 
 who have made a name, and I have vowed that I too 
 would win the same airy and substantial glory that had 
 encircled the heads of famous lawyers. I have read, 
 and read, and written, early and late, morning, noon, 
 and night ; I have compiled and digested, speculated 
 and invented. All branches of law, all sorts of litera- 
 ture have I tried : but my writings accumulated, my 
 information increased — in vain ! My labors were 
 fruitless. My piles of manuscripts were destined only 
 to feed the worm or the moth, or to afford a habitation 
 to the spider. 
 
 ' I know not why I should pursue farther this down- 
 ward path. It would be easy to go on recounting fact 
 after fact, feeling after feeling, 
 
 " Facilis descensus Averni." 
 
 * But, having thus far traced the narrative of my 
 calamities, I am content to stop. If any one should 
 ever read over what is written, he will probably find it 
 even now sufficiently irksome. There is too little of 
 incident or adventure to stir up the blood, to make 
 " the hair to stand on end," to force from the eyes of 
 readers deluges of tears. Mine, is not an " eventful 
 history." It is a melancholy one ; and, I fear too, 
 that it is not a solitary instance of misplaced ambition. 
 But it is dull, and dark, and uniform. It is without a 
 spot of pleasantness : sterile in all its aspects, unless, 
 indeed, it prove (and it may well prove) a timely and 
 
VICISSITTJDES IN A LAWYEr's LIFE. 235 
 
 valuable warning for those who have yet the race of 
 life to run. That it may be useful in this sort, I will 
 complete it. I will not, by publishing it now, encounter 
 the jeers or the sympathy of critics; but I will leave it 
 for the edification of those who come after me. It will 
 be of little moment then what becomes of my poor 
 memoirs. Wit, rancor, praise, compassion, — what 
 will they avail to the ear that is deaf ? to the eye that 
 is blind ? to the sense — the intellect that has soared, 
 or sunk, or fled — whither ? 
 
 ' . . . A few more sentences, and I have done. 
 They comprehend, notwithstanding all I have already 
 said, the bitter sum of my existence. But I cannot 
 linger over them. I cannot, like the beggar by the 
 way-side, exhibit and grow garrulous over my holier 
 sorrows. Let it be sufficient to say that I have fol- 
 lowed my wife and my only child to their graves, and 
 that I am now utterly — alone! My misery needs no 
 exaggeration, and it asks for no sympathy. I go on, 
 as I have always done, struggling and toiling to-day 
 for the food of to-morrow. But I no longer feel ap- 
 prehensive of the future. It is even some alleviation 
 when my own insignificant personal wants obtrude 
 upon me, and call me away for a moment from sub- 
 stantial grief. It was with this view, with this hope, 
 that I sate down to pen this story of my disappoint- 
 ments ; and, in truth, the task has now and then 
 beguiled me — not into forgetfulness, indeed — but it 
 has mingled with the almost intolerable pain of the 
 present, recollections of the comparatively trivial sor- 
 rows of the past. I have all my life been pursuing 
 a phantom — professional success. I have been 
 
236 VICISSITUDES IN A LAWYER'S LIFE. 
 
 " chasing the rainbow " for fifty years. I have failed 
 in every undertaking. I have striven my best ! have 
 been honest, industrious, and constant to my calling, 
 yet nothing has prospered with me. I do not seek to 
 inquire into the reasons for all this; but it may be 
 worth the while of another person to do so. The 
 causes of success in life deserve a minute scrutiny. 
 Whether they be owing to accident, to impudence, to 
 genius, to perseverance, it will be well to know. It 
 will then be seen why my learning has been useless, 
 my honesty of no account, my daily, nightly, unceas- 
 ing toil unavailing. Let me not be understood as 
 being now querulous or indignant. The time for those 
 feelings has passed away. I have no motives now to 
 desire rank or professional success. I would not pos- 
 sess them if I could.' 
 
 Such is the counsellor's story. I have nothing to 
 add to it, except that we heard he had thriven in his 
 business somewhat better latterly. His health, how- 
 ever, (his clerk said,) became very indifferent ; he did 
 not attend Court so regularly as usual, and never 
 walked out as formerly, except to visit a little church- 
 yard in the suburbs of London, where his wife and 
 child lay buried. To this place he went regularly 
 every Saturday evening, about sunset, and sometimes, 
 when his spirits were more than usually depressed, he 
 would wander there every afternoon for a week or a 
 fortnight successively. 
 
 1833. 
 
THE MAN-HUNTER. 
 
 It can scarcely be more than eighteen months ago, 
 that two Englishmen met together unexpectedly at the 
 little town or city of Dessau. The elder was a grave 
 person, in no way remarkable ; but the younger forced 
 observation upon him. He was a tall, gaunt, bony 
 figure, presenting the relics of a formidable man, but 
 seemingly worn with travel and oppressed by weighty 
 thoughts. He must once have been handsome ; and 
 he was even now imposing. But poverty and toil are 
 sad enemies to human beauty; and he had endured 
 both. Nevertheless the black and ragged elf-locks 
 which fell about his face could not quite conceal its 
 noble proportions ; and, although his cheek was ghastly 
 and macerated, (perhaps by famine,) there was a 
 wild, deep-seated splendor glowing in his eye, such as 
 we are apt to ascribe to the poet when his frenzy is 
 full upon him, or to the madman when he dreams of 
 vengeance. 
 
 The usual salutations of friends passed between 
 them, and they conversed for a short time on indifferent 
 subjects ; the elder, as he spoke, scrutinizing the con- 
 dition of his acquaintance, and the other glancing 
 
238 THE MAN-HUNTER. 
 
 about from time to time, with restless, watchful eyes, 
 as though he feared some one might escape his obser- 
 vation, or else might detect himself. The name of the 
 elder of these men was Denbigh : that of the younger 
 has not reached me. We will call him Gordon. It 
 was the curiosity of the first-mentioned that, after a 
 reasonable period, broke out into inquiry. (They were 
 just entering the public room of the Black Eagle at 
 Dessau.) 
 
 ' But what has brought you here ? ' said he. ' I left 
 you plodding at a merchant's desk, with barely the 
 means of living. Though a friend, you would never 
 let me please myself by lending you money ; nor 
 would you be my companion down the Rhine, some 
 three years ago. You professed to hate travelling. 
 Yet I find you here — a traveller evidently, with kw 
 comforts. Come, be plain with me. Tell me — what 
 has brought you hither .'' Or rather what has withered 
 and wasted you, and made your hair so grey ? You 
 are grown quite an old man.' 
 
 ' Ay,' replied Gordon ; ' I am old, as you say, old 
 enough. Winter is upon me, on my head, on my 
 heart ; both are frozen up. Do you wish to know what 
 brought me here ? Well, you have a right to know; 
 and you shall be told. You shall hear — a tale.' 
 
 * A true one ? ' inquired Denbigh, smilingly. 
 
 * True ! ' echoed the other ; ' ay, as true as hell, as 
 dark, as damnable — but peace, peace ! ' said he, 
 checking himself for a moment, and then proceeding 
 in a hoarse, whispering, vehement voice — ' all that in 
 time. We must begin quietly — quietly. Come, let 
 
THE MAN-HUNTER. 239 
 
 US drink some wine, and you shall see presently what 
 a calm historian I am.' 
 
 Wine, together with some more solid refreshments, 
 were accordingly ordered. Gordon did not taste the 
 latter, but swallowed a draught or two of the bold 
 liquid, which seemed to still his nerves like an opiate. 
 He composed himself, and indeed appeared disposed 
 to forget that there was such a thing as trouble in the 
 world, until the impatience of his friend (which vented 
 itself in the shape of various leading questions) in- 
 duced him to summon up his recollections. He com- 
 pressed his lips together for a moment, and drew a 
 short, deep breath, through his inflated nostrils ; but 
 otherwise there was no preface or introduction to his 
 story, which commenced nearly, if not precisely, in 
 the following words : — 
 
 ' About three years ago, a young girl was brought 
 to one of those charitable institutions in the neighbor- 
 hood of London, where- the wretched (the sinful and 
 the destitute) find refuge and consolation. She was, 
 you may believe me, beautiful ; so beautiful, so deli- 
 cate, and, as 1 have said, so young, that she extorted a 
 burst of pity and admiration from people long inured 
 to look upon calamity. 
 
 ' She was attended by her mother — a widow. 
 This woman differed from her child ; ^not merely in 
 age or feature. She was, in comparison, masculine ; 
 her face was stern ; her frame strong and enduring ; 
 she looked as though hunger and shame had been busy 
 with her — as though she had survived the loss of all 
 things, and passed the extreme limits of human woe. 
 Once — for I knew her — she would have disdained to 
 
34H) THE MAN-HXTNTEH. 
 
 ask even for pity. Oh ! what she must have borne, in 
 body, in mind, before she could have brought herself 
 to become a suppliant there ! Yet there she was — 
 she, and her youngest born in her hand, beggars. 
 She presented her child to the patronesses of the insti- 
 tution ; and, with an unbroken voice, prayed them to 
 take her in for refuge. 
 
 ' The common questions were asked, the who, the 
 whence, the wherefore, &c. Even something more 
 than common curiosity displayed itself in the inquiries, 
 and all was answered with an unflinching spirit. The 
 mother's story was sad enough. Let us hope that such 
 things are rare in England. She was the widow of a 
 military man, an officer of courage and conduct, who 
 died in battle. If we could live upon laurels, his 
 family need not have starved. But the laurel is a 
 poisonous tree. It is gay and shining, and undccaying ; 
 but whoso tasteth it, dies ! No matter now. The 
 widow and three children were left almost without 
 money. The father had indeed possessed some little 
 property ; but it consisted of bonds, or notes, or securi- 
 ties of a transferable nature ; and was intrusted (with- 
 out receipt or acknowledgment) to — a villain. The 
 depositary used it for his own purposes ; denied his 
 trust ; and, with the coldness of a modern philosopher, 
 saw his victims thrust out of doors, to starve ! A good 
 Samaritan gave them bread and employment for a few 
 weeks ; but he died suddenly, and they were again at 
 the mercy of fortune. 
 
 ' It was now that the mother felt that her children 
 looked up to her for life. And she answered the appeal 
 as a mother only can. She toiled to the very utmost 
 
THE MAN-HUNTER. 241 
 
 of her strength : nothing was too much, nothing too 
 base or menial for her. She worked, and watched, 
 and endured all things, from all persons ; and thus it 
 was that she obtained coarse food for her young ones 
 — sometimes even enough to satisfy their hunger ; till 
 ' at last the eldest boy became useful, and began to earn 
 money also ; and then they were able almost daily to 
 taste — bread ! It is a wonder how they lived — how 
 they shunned the vices and squalid evils which beset 
 the poor. But they did so. They withstood all temp- 
 tations. They felt no envy nor hatred for the great 
 and fortunate. The sordid errors of their station never 
 fastened on them. They grew up honest, liberal- 
 minded, courageous. They wanted not even for 
 learning, or at least knowledge. For, after a time, a 
 few cheap books were bought or borrowed, and the 
 ambition which the mother taught them to feel, served 
 the boys in place of instructors. They read and 
 studied. After working all day, (running on errands, 
 hewing wood, and drawing water,) these children of a 
 noble mother sat down to gather learning ; never dis- 
 obeying, never murmuring to do what she, to whom 
 they owed all things, commanded them to achieve. 
 Yet, little merit is due to them. It was she, the incom- 
 parable mother, who did all ; saved, supported, endured 
 all for her children's sake, for her dead husband's sake, 
 and for the disinterested love of virtue ! 
 
 ' I know not what frightful crimes some progenitor 
 might have committed, what curse he might have 
 brought upon this race ; but, if no7ie, in the name of 
 God's mercy, why, (when they had been steeped in 
 baseness and poverty to the lips,) why was a curse 
 
 VOL, 1. 16 
 
242 THE MAN-HUNTER. 
 
 more horrible than all to come upon them ? Poor 
 creatures ! had they not endured enough ? What is 
 the axe or the gibbet to the daily never-dying pain 
 which a mother feels who sees her children famishing 
 away before her ? Sickness, cold, hunger, the con- 
 tempt of friends, the hate or indifference of all the 
 world besides, the perpetual heart-breaking toil and 
 struggle to live ! to get bread, yet often want it ! Was 
 not all enough? I suppose not; for a curse greater 
 than all fell upon them. 
 
 ' A friend — ha, ha, ha ! — let me use common words 
 — a friend of the elder son, (who had, by degrees, risen 
 to be a manufacturer's clerk,) visited them at their hum- 
 ble abode. He was rich, he was, moreover, a specious 
 youth, fair and florid — such as young girls fancy; 
 but as ;itterly hard and impenetrable to every touch of 
 honor or pity, as the stone we tread upon. He — I 
 must make short work of this part of my story — he 
 loved the young sister of his friend, or rather he sought 
 her with the brutal appetite of an animal. He talked, 
 and smiled, and flattered her — (she was a weak thing, 
 and his mummery pleased her) : he brought presents 
 to her mother, and, at last ruin and shame upon herself. 
 She was so young — not fifteen years of age ! But 
 this base and hellish slave had no mercy on her innocent 
 youth, no respect for her desolate condition. He 
 ruined her — oh ! there were horrid circumstances — 
 force, and fraud, and cruelty of all kinds, that I will 
 not touch upon. It is sufficient to say that her de- 
 struction was achieved, and all her family in his power. 
 The child, (herself now about to be a mother,) medi- 
 tated death. She was timid, however, and shrank from 
 
THE MAN-HTTNTER. 243 
 
 the vague and gloomy terrors of the grave. So she 
 lived on, pale and humbled, uttering no complaint, and 
 disclosing no disgrace, until her mother noticed her 
 despondency, and reproached her for it. With a trem- 
 bling heart — trembling at she knew not what — she 
 inquired solemnly the cause of all this woe. The girl 
 could not stand those piercing looks. The mother 
 whom she had obeyed, not only with love but in fear 
 also, commanded a disclosure, and the poor victim 
 sunk on her knees before her. She told her sad story 
 with sobs and streaming eyes, and with her figure 
 abased to absolute prostration. Her parent listened 
 (she would rather have listened to her own death- 
 warrant) — looked ghastly at her for a minute, and 
 reproached her no more! Some accident — some in- 
 termission of employment, (I forget what,) made it 
 impossible to support the poor fallen child with proper 
 care. This inability it was, joined to a wish to keep her 
 shame secret, that carried the mother and daughter to 
 the charitable place of which I have spoken. And 
 there the child was deposited, under a feigned name, 
 to undergo the pangs of child-birth. 
 
 ' But the sons ! Do you not ask, where are they 7 
 Ha, ha ! I am coming to that. They knew nothing — 
 suspected nothing, till all the mother's plans were 
 effected ; and then with a gloomy countenance, and a 
 voice troubled to its depths with many griefs, she told 
 them — ALL.' 
 
 ' How did they bear it ? What did they say or do } ' 
 inquired Denbigh, breaking silence for the first time 
 since the commencement of the story. Gordon an- 
 swered : — 
 
844 THE MAN-HUNTEK. 
 
 * Her communication was, at first, absolutely unin- 
 telligible. It was so sudden, and so utterly unsuspected, 
 that it bore the character of a dream or a fable. They 
 stood bewildered. But when the truth — the real, bad, 
 terrible truth became plain — when it was repeated 
 with more particulars, and made frightfully distinct, 
 
 — the eldest son burst into a rage of words. The 
 younger, a youth of more concentrated passions, 
 started up, opened his mouth as though he would utter 
 some curse ; but instantly fell dead on the floor.' 
 
 * Good G — d ! ' interrupted Denbigh again, ' and did 
 he die } ' 
 
 ' No,' replied the other, ' he but appeared to die. 
 Did I say " dead ? " No j I was wrong. He was not 
 irrecoverably dead. By prompt help he was revived. 
 In the struggle between life and death, blood burst 
 from his mouth and from his nose, and he felt easier. 
 Perhaps the oath which he, at that moment, was pre- 
 scribing to himself — the fierce, implacable, unalter- 
 able determination which his soul was forming, tran- 
 quillized his spirit ; for he awoke to apparent calmness, 
 and expressed himself resigned. But he was not so 
 to be satisfied. Patience — resignation — forgiveness 
 
 — these are good words : they are virtues, perhaps ; 
 but they were not his. He was of a fiery spirit ' 
 
 * Like yourself,' said Denbigh, tiying to smile away 
 the painful impression which the story was producing 
 on his mind. 
 
 ' Aye, like myself. Sir,' was the fierce answer. 
 * He thought that vengeance, where punishment was 
 manifestly due, was scarcely the shadow of a crime ; 
 and / think so too. He swore, silently, but solemnly, 
 
THE MAN-HTJNTER. 245 
 
 (and invoked all Heaven and Hell to attest his oath,) 
 that he would thenceforward have but one object, one 
 ambition ; and this was — revenge ! He swore to 
 take the blood of the betrayer, and — he did.' 
 
 ' When ? where ? ' asked Denbigh, quickly. 
 
 ' Let us take some wine,' said Gordon ; ' I am 
 speaking now,' continued he, after he had drunk, ' of 
 what must be. The future is not yet come. But as 
 sure as I see you before me, so surely do I see the 
 consummation of this revenge. There is a fate in 
 some things : there is one in this. Do you remember 
 the story of the Spaniard Aguirra } ' 
 
 ' No ! ' answered the other. 
 
 * Yet, it is well known — it is true — it is memorable, 
 and it deserves to be remembered ; for (except in the 
 one instance of which I now speak) it stands alone in 
 the catalogue of extraordinary events. You shall hear 
 it presently, if it be only to rescue, by a parallel case, 
 my story from the character of a fiction. At present, 
 let it suffice to say, that sure as was Aguirra's ven- 
 geance, so sure shall be — mine ! ' 
 
 * Yours ! ' exclaimed Denbigh, * do I hear aright ! ' 
 ' Aye, open your ears wide. I am the Revenger ! 
 
 ikfy family it is who owe Fortune so little — to whom 
 vengeance owes so much ! My mother and her fam- 
 ished brood it was of whose sufferings, I have spoken, 
 and whose injuries I am destined to revenge.' 
 
 * But the villain — } ' inquired Denbigh. 
 
 * You do well to bring me back to him. You think 
 not that I for a moment forget him. He fled when he 
 knew — nay, before he knew — when he but surmised 
 that we had discovered his villany. He collected 
 
S^ THE MAN-nUNTEE. 
 
 money together, and left his country. But I was soon 
 upon his track. I too had gathered some hard earn- 
 ings, and my brother more ; and with these united, 
 I commenced a desperate pursuit, I will not weary 
 you by recounting the many difficulties of my task ; 
 how many thousand miles I have journeyed barefoot, 
 with little clothing, with less food, (for I was forced 
 to economize my poor means ;) how for three years 
 I have been generally a beggar for my bread, a com- 
 panion with the unsheltered dog ; how I have been 
 wounded, robbed, and even once imprisoned. That 
 fortunately was but for a day, or it might have over- 
 thrown my plans of vengeance. Thanks to the 
 furies, it did not; I followed him^ — over all coun- 
 tries, from Moscow to Madrid, from the Baltic to the 
 Carpathians. He fled with a sense, with a knowledge 
 that I was for ever on his track. He slept trebly 
 armed, locked in and barred from all access. He has 
 been known to rise at night, and take flight for a 
 distant land. But, with the unerring sense of a blood- 
 hound, I was always after him. I was sure of him. 
 He never escaped me. No disguise, no swiftness of 
 journeying, no digressions from the ordinary path, no 
 doubles, nor turnings, nor common feints, such as the 
 hunted beast resorts to in his despair, availed him. 
 Wherever he was — there was I ! not so soon perhaps, 
 but quite as surely. 
 
 ' Twenty times I have been near meeting him alone, 
 and consummating my purpose. But one thing or other 
 perpetually intervened. A casual blow, without the 
 certainty of its being fatal, would have been nothing. 
 He might have recovered — he might have lived to 
 
THE MAN-HUNTER. 247 
 
 see me proclaimed a malefactor, and have borne 
 evidence against me ; and then he would have 
 triumphed, and not I. I resolved to make surer work ; 
 to see that he should die ; and for myself, I determined 
 to live, for some time at least, in order to enjoy the 
 remembrance of having accomplished one deed of 
 justice. 
 
 * I said that I would not weary you with a narrative 
 of my travels and a repetition of my failures. But 
 one adventure amongst many, occurs to me, somewhat 
 differing from the rest, and you shall hear it. One of 
 my transits was across the whole face of Europe ; 
 from an obscure town in Flanders to the Porte. I had 
 scarcely reached the Fanar, (where I was housed by a 
 Greek, whom I had served in an accidental affray,) 
 when I fell sick of a fiery distemper — some plague 
 or fever begot in those burning regions, which some- 
 times destroys the native and almost always the luck- 
 less stranger. In my extremity, my kind hosts sent 
 for a physician — a converted Jew. He came and 
 heard my ravings, and let the sickness deal with me 
 as it chose. Some words, however, which I threw out 
 in my delirium (at his second visit) excited his curi- 
 osity ; and coming, as they did, from a Frank, he was 
 induced to communicate them to an Englishman who 
 lodged in his house. This Englishman was — the 
 fiend, the fugitive, whom I had chased so long in vain. 
 A few words and a lump of gold concluded a bargain;, 
 and the next time the scowling Issachar came to my 
 bedside, he ordered a cup of coffee for his patient. I 
 had at that time recovered my senses, and became 
 suddenly and sensitively awake to every thing about 
 
248 THE MAN-HUNTER. 
 
 me. I saw the renegade take a powder from his vest ; 
 and, after lookmg round to see that all was clear, put 
 it, with a peculiar look, into the cup. " It is poison,^' 
 I said to myself; and by a sudden effort (while the 
 Israelite's back was turned,) I forced myself upwards, 
 and sate, like a corpse revived, awaiting his attention. 
 After he had drugged the draught, he turned round 
 suddenly and beheld me. There I was, unable to 
 speak indeed, but ghastly and as white as stone, 
 threatening and grinning, and chattering unintelligible 
 sounds. He was staggered ; but recovering himself 
 with a smile, he tendered the detestable potion. I had 
 just strength enough to dash it out of his hand, and 
 sank on the bed exhausted. When I recovered I 
 found myself alone ; nor did I ever again see my 
 physician. 
 
 ' I do not complain of this. Life for life is an equal 
 stake. I knew the game which I was playing. Death 
 for one or both of us — that was certain. Quiet for 
 him, at all events, (upon the earth or within it) ; per- 
 haps revenge for me. I was not angry at this attempt 
 on my life. I liked it better, in truth, than hunting day 
 after day, week after week, a flying, timorous, unre- 
 sisting wretch. The opposition — the determination he 
 evinced to strike again spurred me on. It afforded a 
 relief to my perpetual disappointment : it chequered the 
 miserable monotony of my life. Sometimes I had 
 almost felt compassion for my harassed and terrified 
 enemy, and generally contempt. But now — an adder 
 was before me. It rose up, and strove to use its fangs, 
 and was no longer to be trod on without peril. These 
 thoughts, strange as it may seem, contributed to my 
 
THE MAN-HITNTER. 249 
 
 recovery. I grew tranquil and well apace ; and when 
 I was fit to travel, I found that my foe had quitted pre- 
 cipitately the banks of the Bosphorus. 
 
 'I had little difficulty in learning his route; for my 
 Greek had his national subtilty, and did not spare money 
 to set me on the track. The Jew doctor (he had a second 
 bribe) said that he had overheard my victim bargaining 
 with a Tartar courier to conduct him to Vienna. Upon 
 this hint, I set off on my dreary journey through the 
 Ottoman empire and its huge provinces — Roumelia, 
 Wallachia, Transylvania. I traversed the great uncul- 
 tivated plains of Turkey ; I crossed the Balkan and the 
 muddy Danube ; escaped the quarantine of the Cra- 
 paks ; and finally dismounted at Vienna, just as a car- 
 riage was heard thundering along the Presburg road, 
 containing a traveller to whom haste was evidently of 
 the last importance. 'Twas he ! I saw him ; and he 
 saw me. He saw me and knew in a moment that all 
 his toilsome journey was once more in vain. I saw him 
 grow pale before me, and I triumphed. Ha ! ha ! — 
 that night I was joyful. late, and drank, and dreamt, 
 as though I had no care or injury upon me. The next 
 morning I looked to see that my dagger was sharp, and 
 my pistols primed, and set out on foot to decoy my foe 
 into a quiet place, fit for the completion of my purpose. 
 But I failed, as I had failed often before. I beset him, 
 I tried to surprise him ; I kept him in incessant alarm ; 
 but the end was still the same. He was still destined to 
 escape me, and I to remain his pursuer. 
 
 ' How it was that he retained his senses, that he had 
 still spring of mind to fly, and hope to escape pursuit, 
 is a mystery to me. I have often wondered that he 
 
250 THE MAN-HFNTER. 
 
 did not bare his throat before me, and end his misery ; 
 as those who grow dizzy on a precipice, cast themselves 
 from it, and find refuge from their intolerable fears — 
 in death. But no ; his love of life, his fear (caused by 
 that love of life) were so great, so insuperable, that they 
 never seemed capable, as in ordinary cases, of sinking 
 into indifference or despair. He had no moral, no 
 intellectual qualities ; no courage of any sort. Yet by 
 his /ear alone, he became at times absolutely terrific. 
 His struggles, his holding on to life, (when nothing was 
 left worth living for,) his sleepless, ceaseless activity in 
 flight assumed a serious, and even awful character. 
 He pursued his purpose as steadily and as unflinchingly 
 as I pursued mine. Terror never stopped him ; hope 
 never forsook him. From one end of the world to the 
 other he fled — backwards and forwards, this way and 
 that — he fled, and fled; not dropping from apprehen- 
 sion, like the dove or the wren ; but still keeping on 
 his way like some fierce bird of prey, who, driven 
 from one region, will still seek another, and another, 
 and fight it out to the last extremity. So frightful have 
 been his struggles, so wild and fantastic the character 
 of his fears, that once or twice, I — (his destroyer) — 
 I, who was watching him with an ever-deadly purpose, 
 became absolutely daunted and oppressed. I resumed 
 my strength, however, speedily, as you will suppose ; 
 for what his fear was to him, hate or revenge was to 
 me — the sole stirring principle of life. Oh ! this 
 accursed wretch ! does he ever dream that I relax ? — 
 that toil, and destitution, and danger, have any effect 
 upon me 7 He shall live to find himself in error. I 
 am the fate — the blood-hound that will follow, and 
 
THE MAN-HUNTER. 251 
 
 must find him at last. Let him give up the contest at 
 once, and all will be quiet — no more fear for him — 
 no more sad labors for me ! Of what value is life to 
 either of us ? But yes — to me, it is of value ; for I 
 have a deed to do, an act of justice to perform on the 
 most reckless and heartless villain that ever disgraced 
 the human name.' 
 
 ' And his name, what is that ? ' asked Denbigh. 
 
 ' Warne — Warne — the brand of hell be on him ! ' 
 
 * Hush ! do not speak so loud ! Look ! there is 
 some one in yonder box who has heard you,' said 
 Denbigh again, in a suppressed tone. 
 
 ' I care not,' replied the other. ' This devil who 
 walks in human shape, and under the name of Warne, 
 is now in this city. He has eluded me for a short — a 
 very short time — by shifting his course and changing 
 his disguises. But I am here, and shall find him, 
 wherever he lurks. Be sure of it.' 
 
 At this moment a stranger was seen stealing from a 
 box, where he had been taking refreshment. He 
 appeared by his walk (for the two speakers saw only 
 his back) to be an old man. He said nothing ; but, 
 walking up towards the end of the room, where a 
 person attached to the inn was standing, put a piece of 
 money in his hand, (evidently more than sufficient to 
 discharge his bill,) and left the house. 
 
 From the first movement of the stranger, the atten- 
 tion of Gordon was upon him — his neck was stretched 
 out, his eyes strained and wide open ; he even seemed 
 to listen to his tread. 
 
 * What is the matter ? ' said Denbigh. * There is 
 nothing but an old man there, who is tottering home to 
 bed.' 
 
252 THE MAN-HTJNTER. 
 
 Gordon made no reply, but followed the person 
 alluded to stealthily from the house. After a minute's 
 space, Denbigh saw him again hiding behind the 
 buttress of a building on the opposite side of the street. 
 He was evidently watching the stranger. He did not 
 continue long, however, in this situation ; but stole 
 forwards cautiously. After proceeding a short distance 
 he turned, and followed the windings of a street or 
 road that intersected the principal street of the town, 
 and finally disappeared ! 
 
 Denbigh never saw him again. Three or four days 
 afterwards, the body of an unknown man was found 
 in a copse near the city of Dessau. It was pierced 
 with wounds, and disfigured ; and the clothes were 
 much torn, as in a struggle. From one hand (which 
 remained clasped) some fragments of dress, coarser 
 than what belonged to the body, were forced with 
 difficulty ; but they did not lead to detection. The 
 stranger was buried, and as much inquiry made re- 
 specting him as is usual for persons for whom no one 
 feels an interest. His murderer never was discovered. 
 Denbigh left the place immediately that the inquisition 
 was over. He did not volunteer his evidence upon 
 the occasion. His natural love of justice, and percep- 
 tions of right, were perhaps obscured by his affection 
 for his friend ; besides which, nothing that he could 
 have said upon the occasion would have exceeded a 
 vague suspicion of the fact. At all events, he kept 
 Gordon's secret, until he deemed that it was not dan- 
 gerous to disclose it. 
 
 In regard to Gordon himself — he was never more 
 heard of. A man, indeed, bearing somewhat of his 
 
THE MAN-HUNTER. 253 
 
 appearance, was afterwards seen in the newly cleared 
 country near the Ohio ; but, excepting the resemblance 
 that he bore to Denbigh's friend, and a certain intelli- 
 gence beyond his situation, (which was that of a com- 
 mon laborer,) there was nothing to induce a belief that 
 it was the same person. Whoever he might be, how- 
 ever, even he too now has disappeared. He was killed 
 accidentally, while felling one of those enormous hem- 
 lock trees, with which some parts of the great continent 
 abound. A shallow grave was scooped for him ; a 
 fellow-laborer's prayer was his only requiem ; and, 
 whatever may have been his intellect, whatever his 
 passions or strength of purpose, the frail body which 
 once contained them now merely fertilizes the glade of 
 an American forest, or else has become food for the 
 bear or the jackall. 
 
 [The story of Aguirra, referred to in the foregoing , 
 narrative, occurs in one of our early periodical works, 
 and is to the following effect : Aguirra was a Spanish 
 soldier, under the command of Esquivel, governor of 
 Lima or Potosi. For some small cause, or for no cause, 
 (to make an example, or to wreak his spite,) this gov- 
 ernor caused Aguirra to be stripped and flogged. He 
 received some hundred stripes ; his remonstrances (that 
 he was a gentleman, and as such exempt by law from 
 such disgrace, and that what he had done was unimpor- 
 tant, and justified by common usage,) being treated with 
 contempt. He endured the punishment in the presence 
 of a crowd, of comrades and strangers, and swore 
 (with a Spaniard's spirit) never to be satisfied but with 
 his tyrant's blood. He waited patiently, until Esquivel 
 
254 THE MAN-HUNTER. 
 
 was no longer governor; refusing consolation, and 
 declining from fancied unworthiness, all honorable em- 
 ployment. But, when the governor put off his authority, 
 then Aguirra commenced his revenge. He followed 
 his victim from place to place — haunted him like a 
 ghost — and filled him (though surrounded by friends 
 and servants) with perpetual dread. No place, no dis- 
 tance could stop him. He has been known to track 
 his enemy for three, four, five hundred leagues at a 
 time ! He continued pursuing him for three years and 
 four months ; and at last, after a journey of five 
 hundred leagues, came upon him suddenly at Cuzco; 
 found him, for the first time, without his guards; and 
 instantly — stabbed him to the heart ! 
 
 Such is the story of Aguirra. It is believed to be 
 ^ fact ; and so is the story which I have recounted 
 above. The circumstances are not only curious as 
 showing a strange coincidence, but they show also 
 what a powerful effect a narrative of this kind may 
 produce. For, there is little doubt, but that the South 
 American tale, although it may not absolutely have 
 generated the spirit of vengeance in Gordon's mind, 
 so shaped and modified it, as to stimulate his flagging 
 animosity ; carried him through all impediments and 
 reverses to the catastrophe ; and enabled him to exhibit 
 a perseverence, that is to be paralleled no where, except 
 perhaps in the history of fanatics or martyrs.] 
 
 1833. 
 
THE TWO SOLDIERS. 
 
 AN APOLOGUE. 
 
 To his son, Wilhelm, fresh from college, and proud 
 of his learning, obtained from Greek and Roman 
 writers, the merchant Singelhart related the following 
 story : — 
 
 ' Two soldiers, who had been taken prisoners in 
 battle, contrived, after a long slavery, to escape. The 
 elder of the two, whose name was Platow, had a mild 
 and thoughtful nature. In the younger, Ulric, appeared 
 a mixture of boldness and vivacity, such as may be 
 seen in garrison towns, and such as (ladies say) should 
 belong to soldiers. 
 
 ' There was nothing in common between the two men, 
 save their common danger. This produced a partial 
 alliance of offence and defence, between them ; and on 
 this subject they held occasional conferences. But for 
 the most part, they travelled silently by each other's 
 side, or shared the fruit and berries and chance ears of 
 rice or wild corn which they discovered on their way. 
 
 ' They had to pass through strange countries, as yet 
 scarcely guessed at by geographers. They beheld 
 
256 THE TWO SOLDIERS. 
 
 extensive prairies which the buffalo haunts, and track- 
 less savannas where the wild horse and the zebra enjoy 
 boundless liberty. They penetrated savage regions, 
 where even man preys upon his fellow, and lands 
 debateable and arid deserts, where shepherds, armed 
 to the teeth, overlook their flocks, or where roving 
 bands settle for a time, but have no permanent home. 
 At last, after many days' toil, they left a rich alluvial 
 flat, where they for some time had been travelling, and 
 began to ascend a bleak and mountainous country 
 which appeared never to have been subjected to the 
 hand of man. The snow (though it was almost sum- 
 mer) lay upon the higher peaks, whilst through the 
 passes, where their road lay, fierce rain and howling 
 winds kept up incessant clamor. It was nearly night 
 when they arrived at a spot somewhat sheltered. Yet 
 even there it was wild and gloomy, without fruits and 
 without flowers ; tlie black pine-trees, together with 
 scanty grasses and a few ears of shrunken corn, being 
 all that redeemed it from utter barrenness. Fatigue 
 was stronger than hunger, and they slept. 
 
 ' In the morning, just as the sun began to throw a 
 cold light over the eastern mountains, the travellers 
 awoke. 
 
 *"Ha! what is this .? " inquired Ulric. It was too 
 plain. They were each bound fast to a rugged tree, 
 " We are in the toils," continued the speaker. 
 
 ' " Yes," answered Platow, " our strength of mind 
 which we discoursed upon so long yesterday has now 
 an opportunity of showing itself." 
 
 ' " Ah! " replied Ulric, " if I were not so hungry 
 you would soon see — " 
 
THE TWO SOLDIERS. 257 
 
 * At this moment a young girl, six or seven years 
 of age, of a rough but pleasant aspect, came smiling 
 towards them; she bore in her hands a large bowl of 
 milk, and under her arm was a wrapper composed of 
 strips of bark or tough grass, which being opened 
 displayed some large pieces of barley bread. 
 
 '"Eat! drink!" — said she ; and her orders were 
 obeyed with alacrity. She waited till they had finished 
 their meal, and then said, "My father will come and 
 judge you presently ; but don't be afraid, he is not so 
 terrible as he looks ; " and with these words she left 
 them. 
 
 ' It was an anxious moment. Platow summoned up 
 his resolution to bear the worst with calmness ; and 
 Ulric was inventing some ingenious falsehood to ex- 
 cuse himself for intruding within their host's very unin- 
 viting territory, when a loud rough voice was heard at 
 a distance, and presently a giant of vast size walked 
 sturdily towards them, carrying in his hand a young 
 pine, plucked up by the roots. 
 
 * " What have you come here for?" quoth he, when 
 he was close to them. His voice sounded like thunder. 
 " Speak ! you are spies from the plains. What is it 
 you want .'' Is not your land fat enough, that you must 
 come here and spy out the poverty of my home }■ 
 Will you steal the few goats that give food to me and 
 my children .? Will you rob me of my little hoard of 
 dry corn ? This is the second time that you have come 
 to pilfer from me ;• and now, villains, you shall die !." 
 
 *"Ah, sir!" exclaimed Ulric — he could utter no 
 more. 
 
 ' " We are poor travellers," said Platow ; " and 
 
 VOL. I. 17 
 
258 THE TWO SOLDIERS. 
 
 were passing, by accident, through your country. Our 
 ohly wish is to reach once more the land where we 
 were born." 
 
 ' " We will give you gold," interrupted Ulric ; and 
 he tendered some coins for the giant's acceptance, who 
 looked contemptuously upon them. 
 
 ' " What stutf is here ? " quoth he ; and whirled the 
 useless metal over a mountain summit some hundreds 
 of feet high. " Do you think to bribe me with dirt 
 like this ? Of what use is it to me .? Will it give me 
 food or clothing .? will it teach me — " 
 
 * " We will teach you wisdom," joyfully cried Ulric. 
 
 * " Ha ! " said the giant, " that, indeed, is some- 
 thing. Come, let us begin." 
 
 ' Ulric, who belonged to several societies for diffusing 
 useful (and a little useless) knowledge, and who out- 
 talked every member at the annual meetings of the 
 philosophers, eagerly commenced. " I shall first ex- 
 plain to you the latest theories respecting meteorolites, 
 or stones thrown from the moon." 
 
 '"The what?" cried the other angrily ; but recol- 
 lecting himself, he muttered aside, " I perceive that 
 this is a jackass, or talking idiot." 
 
 ' " Well," pursued Ulric, " if you have no interest in 
 that subject, I will show you how to unroll a mummy." 
 
 ' Platow smiled, and explained the nature of mum- 
 mies, when the giant observed, " but we have no 
 mummies here ! " 
 
 ' Ulric admitted that this was an objection, and said, 
 " Then I will unfold to you the mysteries of storms." 
 
 * " That sounds well," said his host ; " you can tell 
 mc when a storm i& coming ? " 
 
THE TWO SOLDIERS. 259 
 
 * " No, not that," answered Ulric. 
 ' " Nor how to avert it ? " 
 
 ' " No." 
 
 ' " Well then, you know, by certain signs, how long 
 it will last ! " 
 
 * " No." 
 
 ' " What is it you are about to disclose, then ? " 
 inquired the other, impatiently. 
 
 ' " I will show you how storms are generated and 
 impelled through the atmosphere, and how they some- 
 times revolve or proceed in circles, and how — " 
 
 ' " Bah ! " exclaimed the giant ; "all this is for the 
 people of the air." 
 
 ' " It is really difficult to hit on a subject," said 
 Ulric, now a little perplexed. At last a bright thought 
 suddenly illumined his countenance, and he said — " I 
 will explain to you the theory of rent, and show you 
 how to hold a just balance between the manufacturing 
 and the agricultural interests." 
 
 ' " Hark ye, fellow!" said the giant, now thoroughly 
 incensed, " you are laughing at my ignorance. You 
 wish me to nail you against that rock, to furnish dinner 
 for the eagles ! " 
 
 ' Ulric protested quickly that, although self was 
 generally below his thoughts, yet that such a modo 
 of proceeding would be particularly disagreeable to 
 him. 
 
 * His host now assumed the interrogator. " You 
 appear to be a silly fellow," said he ; " but I may be 
 mistaken. I will, therefore, put a question or two to 
 ascertain the value of your accomplishments. Can 
 you wrestle with a bear } " 
 
260 THE TWO SOLDIERS. 
 
 ' Ulric confessed that he could not, with • any pros- 
 pect of success. * 
 
 ' " Or come close upon the chamois ? " 
 
 ' " No." 
 
 ' " Or shoot dead a panther ? " 
 
 ' " No." 
 
 ' " Can you build your own house ? or weave your 
 clothes or bed coverings from long grasses or the barks 
 of trees .? " 
 
 ' " Can you choose the best ears of com ? and sow 
 them ? and weed them ? and water them ? and reap 
 them ? and grind them, and turn them into bread ? " 
 
 ♦ "No — no — no." 
 
 ' " Yet we consider these things important in our 
 country, and even in yours they cannot be entirely 
 without use." 
 
 * The dialogue which we have endeavored thus far 
 to repeat, was extended to considerable length. At 
 the end of it the giant retired, saying that he should 
 now take some rest, and that he would determine on 
 their fate in the evening. He left them with a grim 
 smile upon his countenance. Ulric's spirit fell, and he 
 announced to his brother prisoner that one or both of 
 them would, in all probability, be cooked for supper. 
 
 ' After the lapse of an hour or two, the little girl, 
 who had before brought them food for their breakfast, 
 was seen again coming towards them with a supply for 
 their noon-day meal. By this time, Ulric, after pro- 
 digious etTorts, had contrived to free himself from his 
 bonds, and with his knife, which he then was able to 
 unsheath, he had also severed the bonds of his com- 
 
THE TWO SOLDIERS. 261 
 
 panion, whom he was urging to escape. As soon as 
 he saw the child approaching, he exclaimed — 
 
 ' " Ha ! here is the monster's cub again. She will 
 cry, and alarm tlie brute who keeps us here. Come 
 hither, young devil ! " said he, seizing the child. 
 " Your father has made us suffer, and we will now 
 give him something to remember us by." He raised 
 his knife for a sacrifice. 
 
 '"Stop ! It shall not be so, Ulric," cried Platow, 
 interposing ; " you shall not kill the child. It has not 
 harmed us." 
 
 ' " It shall die ! " cried the other, furiously. 
 
 * " It shall live ! " said Platow, firmly. " I swear 
 that you shall not harm it. What ! did it not give us 
 milk this morning, and will you pay it back in blood at 
 noon .? " 
 
 ' He spoke in vain. Ulric seized the child by the 
 throat. At that instant, a laugh that made the moun- 
 tains ring, sounded close behind them. The giant was 
 there. He held a mighty club, which he brandished 
 threateningly on high. A moment more, and as it 
 seemed, they would be smashed into a jelly. 
 
 * " Soh, rascals ! this is the way you pay me for my 
 milk and corn," cried their host. " Come, let me see 
 which I shall kill first. Ha ! this is the fattest." And 
 with one hand he seized Ulric by the waist, and turned 
 him round carelessly in the air, as one would turn a 
 rat. After satisfying himself as to 'his victim's condi- 
 tion, he tossed him gently down and said, " Now 
 villain ! strip and be quick. I can't roast you with 
 these rags on. But, first, have you anything to say 
 why you should not die ? I will give you a fair trial. 
 You have two minutes to make your defence." 
 
262 THE TWO SOLDIERS. 
 
 ' Ulric stammered out some unintelligible words in 
 his extremity : but in the end he gave in^ and answered 
 simply, " Nothing." 
 
 * " Well," said the giant, " that is good at least. 
 And you?" he asked, addressing himself to Platow, 
 who replied, 
 
 ' "I had your child in my power, and — I did not 
 kill her." 
 
 '"Kill her!" echoed the other. "What! kill a 
 child ! Is that what they teach ye to do in your coun- 
 try.?" 
 
 ' " Well, then, I saved her from death." 
 
 * " That's better ; " returned the other ; " and for 
 that, — mark ! I will spare you." 
 
 ' " And my companion, too.? " said Platow. 
 
 * " No ; he must die." 
 
 ' " Spare him for my sake," urged Platow, again. 
 
 ' The giant looked gravely, but kindly, upon him 
 and said : " For your sake } — Well, I will spare him 
 too. And now, know, men, that I have listened to 
 your talk. You have never been out of my grasp ; — 
 no, not for a moment. Had you harmed my poor, 
 sickly child, death instantly should have been your 
 fate. But one of you was merciful, — and mercy 
 begets mercy. A good deed should be returned two- 
 fold. And it is thus that I endeavor to repay one. 
 Strangers ! we are poor and wild people ; but we have 
 heads and hearts, fashioned after the same model as 
 your own. And we wish, when you return to your 
 rich and pleasant country, that you should be able to 
 say, that there is no spot, however savage, where men 
 may not learn something, — no spot where human 
 
THE TWO SOLDIERS. 263 
 
 gratitude does not flourish, and where the wisdom of 
 kindness may not be taught." 
 
 * A few evenings afterwards, as the two soldiers, 
 well supplied with food, were travelling quietly towards 
 their home, Ulric observed an unusual silence. At 
 length, he said to his companion, " I have been thinking 
 that the giant's heart — perhaps his mind — was almost 
 as large as his body." 
 
 * " I have thought so all along," replied the other. 
 'By this time they had reached their native land; 
 
 and when they arrived at the gates of the principal 
 city, Sapienza, they parted ; each taking his way to 
 his own home. It is said that the seeds sown by the 
 mountain giant were not thrown away, even on the 
 rocky bosom of Ulric. He became a wiser and a 
 better man. In Platow they produced a less obvious 
 benefit, the change within him being less ; but the 
 events of his journey were ever afterwards gratefully 
 remembered. And when, in later years, his children 
 clustered round him, he would often amuse and instruct 
 them on summer evenings, by relating to them the 
 fruitful lesson of wisdom which in his youth he had 
 heard amongst the barren mountains.' 
 
 1837. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
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